The White City

by Grace Hitchcock

  “I’m so glad you could make it on a Sunday.” She reclined on a wingback chair and motioned for him to take a seat on the settee. “I do hope my father’s request didn’t ruin any plans you may have had with your family.”

  He blinked against the light falling on her golden hair. She was entirely too pretty for him to concentrate on much of anything. “I’ll miss the family luncheon after church, but my mother and sister will be fine without me for a few hours.”

  “No lunch?” She frowned, crossed the room, and called out into the hallway. “Clara?”

  “Yes, Miss Wylde?” A short, rotund woman with mousy-brown hair appeared at the threshold in a serviceable gray gown and stained white apron.

  “Would you be a dear and fetch a tray of sandwiches to the parlor?”

  “Tilda has already prepared them, miss.” Clara gave her a smile and a pat on the arm. “I’ll fetch them right away and bring a couple of glasses of fresh lemonade to help with this heat.”

  Thanking the maid, Miss Wylde took a seat next to Jude on the settee, her nearness unsettling him. “Thank you, though I hate to be a bother,” he said, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.

  “Nonsense. You heard Clara, and besides, who can work on an empty stomach?” She tucked a golden strand behind her ear, her eyes sparking with excitement. “So, where shall we start?”

  “Start?” He gave a short laugh. “I honestly still can’t believe your father agreed to allow you into the home of a suspect. Didn’t you read the article in the Chicago Tribune about Holmes’s secret rooms? Didn’t your father read the copy I left on his desk? Holmes is a swindler at the very least with all the supposed ‘hotel’ supplies hidden between floors in the secret compartments that the creditors found.”

  She pressed her lips into a firm line. “Yes. I suppose most readers think that it is only an interesting design to his house for hiding objects, but I’m happy we agree that there is more to it than having a place to hide creditors’ furniture. He is up to something, and we will find out what.”

  The scent of Miss Wylde’s delicate, alluring gardenia perfume distracted him. Jude rose and, clearing his throat, strode to the mantel and leaned his elbow against the wood, looking back at her. “I was thinking that we should start by composing your background. What name did you give Mr. Holmes?”

  “Cordelia Swan.”

  His brows rose at the name. “Miss Swan? As in the heroine from His Secret Wife?”

  Her jaw dropped. “You are familiar with Mr. Valentine’s work? What did you think of it? Miss Montgomery only just returned it, and I finished it last night. I could hardly sleep after the climax. I had no idea his secret wife was—” She pressed her hand to her chest and laughed. “But I won’t ruin the ending for you if you haven’t finished it. Quite the suspenseful novel.”

  He gave her a smile to soften his response and tilted his head toward the end table. “I saw the title in that stack of books and flipped through the novel before you came.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth twisted in disappointment as her cheeks tinged with a bit of pink. “Well, Cordelia Swan was all I could think of off the top of my head. Anyway, I figured that if I could pick any name I wanted, I might as well pick something elegant.”

  “Very well, Miss Swan. Let’s talk about your childhood, your parents, your siblings, and then move on to your professional background.”

  She grinned and pulled a writing pad out from behind the cushion. “I thought of a few things already.” She arched her brow at him, an impish smile playing at the corner of her lips as if she enjoyed surprising him by being two steps ahead.

  He chuckled. “I guess I keep forgetting that I’m working with the daughter of an inspector, don’t I?”

  “You’ll remember, given time.” She gave a small laugh as she rose and, taking the pencil from between the pages, flipped through her notes before clearing her throat. “Ah, here they are. Are you ready to hear my ideas?”

  “Ready.”

  “As you know, my name is Cordelia Swan. My father died when I was only a tender child and my mother this past year. Alas, I have no siblings or relatives to call my own.” She pressed her hand to her heart, lifting her gaze to the small chandelier.

  “All alone in the world?” He nodded with approval. “Basically, you are making yourself the perfect potential victim.”

  She pointed her pencil at him. “Exactly. If Mr. Holmes is indeed our kidnapper, he won’t be able to resist me.” She tapped her pencil against her full bottom lip. “Now, as for my past position, I figured it might be best if I had some kind of experience as a secretary since I am interviewing for that position? Say three years?”

  He drummed his fingers on the mantel. “That would be too coincidental. I think it might be more realistic if you had, say, a teacher’s position in Michigan and came to the Windy City for an opportunity as a tutor to a high society family, which inevitably fell through.”

  “Oh, I like that.” She wrote, murmuring to herself. “Tutor. Fell through. Dire need.”

  “And what about your personal life? While you do not have family, surely you have friends or a beau?” Jude clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the width of the small parlor.

  The color in her cheeks heightened. “Friends, yes, but no beau, which is why Aunt Lillian keeps pushing suitors on me.” She dropped her gaze to her blue skirts. “But I haven’t found one worth keeping around yet.”

  “I was asking on behalf of Cordelia,” Jude clarified, finding himself relieved that she didn’t have a beau. The realization stopped him in his tracks. Why would I care whether she has a beau or not?

  Her cheeks brightened to the hue of the ripening cherries in her painting. “Oh, of course. I suppose my character should have a beau in Michigan? That might keep me a bit safer than if I had no connections whatsoever.” She paused. “And by safer, I mean that Holmes won’t think I’m available and try anything beyond kidnapping me.”

  The thought of the man touching her made his fists curl, but before she could notice his reaction to her musings, Jude replied, “He won’t hurt you, Miss Wylde. You have your pistol, and should he try to take you out of that building against your will, I’ll be there to stop him.” He gritted his teeth. “I would like to be on the inside, protecting you, but your father insists that you know how to use your weapon should the need arise, which the inspector thinks is as likely as you giving up reading.”

  “Thank you.” She rewarded his promise with a wavering smile, flickering between her bravery and visible nerves. “And please, won’t you call me Winnifred? Or even Winnie, if you prefer. It seems rather silly to remain so formal when we will be working together for the foreseeable future.”

  “If that would please you.” Jude cleared his throat, feeling as if he were doing something wrong by allowing himself the familiarity of calling her by her Christian name. He extended his hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Winnifred. I’m Jude.”

  She accepted his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “Jude.”

  He loved the way his name sounded on her lips, endearing her further. At the squeak of wheels in the hall, he released her hand. The maid brought in the teacart with sandwiches, chocolate-covered fruit, and lemonade, causing his mouth to water at the thought of the tart treat.

  “Thank you, Clara,” Winnifred called after the retreating maid. She held up a plate for Jude to take and fill for himself with whatever he liked from the veritable feast for two.

  He accepted the plate, his fingers brushing hers before he turned his attention to the fare. He placed a turkey sandwich on the pink floral china. “So, how well do you wield your pistol?”

  She selected two cucumber sandwiches and a chocolate-dipped strawberry, forgoing the tongs and using her fingers before licking away a bit of the chocolate stuck to her thumb. Her eyes widened as if realizing what she had done in front of him. “Oh, uh, quite well. My father insists that I go every year with him out to the country to practice. He sa
ys there’s no sense in my owning a pistol if I don’t know how to use it properly. It would be more of a danger to myself and other civilians if that were the case.”

  “Your father is exactly right. After a few lessons focusing solely on developing your alias, we will take an afternoon to refresh your skills with a firearm.” What can’t this woman do? Well, besides painting, what can’t she do? Fighting his urge to grin, he bit into his sandwich.

  Winnifred was enjoying her time with Jude far too much. She was here to learn from him and nothing more. Standing in front of the mantel, she couldn’t help but glance into the looking glass to ensure that her curls were still tucked neatly away in her coiffure. She spied a stray hair sticking wildly out of place and her hands twitched to adjust it, but instead, she fought the urge and folded her hands, waiting for the moment when his beautiful gaze moved from her own and she could pounce on it.

  She took her seat and concentrated on his directions on what to say, do, and wear while working as a potential secretary to H. H. Holmes, all the while taking notes. She couldn’t help but admire him for his extensive knowledge of going undercover, and it gave her a little thrill knowing that the next morning, she, Winnifred Wylde, would no longer be only reading or hearing about being a detective, but would be the one going undercover, preventing crimes.

  “Excuse me, Miss Wylde?” Clara appeared at the door. “There is a Mr. Percival Covington at the front door asking to see you. Do you know a Mr. Covington?”

  Percival Covington …? “I don’t know—blast,” Winnifred murmured under her breath. She had forgotten that before Aunt Lillian left, she had informed Winnifred to expect one last caller, who was returning from an extended business trip in London. At the time, she had tried to get out of it, but Aunt Lillian insisted, and if she insisted, there was little Winnifred could do but humor her. Rising, she shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Detective Thorpe, but I have to receive him. It shouldn’t take long. Show him in, Clara.”

  The maid curtsied and hurried off to do Winnifred’s bidding.

  “But weren’t you just seeing Mr. Saunders?” Jude asked. He seemed amused, but she sensed an undertone of censure that made her want to crawl under the settee.

  She shrugged, hoping to negate any perception of being fickle. “I suppose that since I’m about to turn twenty, Aunt Lillian sees me as an old maid who should be desperate to marry. It’s her goal to see me engaged or married by the time the next season starts.”

  “My, that’s a quick turnaround.” He tucked away his notepad. “Shall I leave you and return in the morning?”

  “We haven’t much time to waste, as my interview is tomorrow.” She smoothed down her dress, pinched her cheeks, pulled her curl over her shoulder, and patted back that flyaway hair, giving him a smile. “I’m going to practice my undercover skills as Miss Wylde, the potential bride, who is exuberant to receive a suitor yet will find a way of dismissing him within fifteen minutes.”

  Mr. Covington stepped into the parlor, his tall form and brilliant smile capturing her attention at once. She studied him discreetly under her lashes, finding him a great deal more muscular than she would have imagined a rich gentleman could be, and in spite of the massive, furry blond caterpillar under his nose, she had to admit to herself that he was far handsomer than any of the other prospects she had been forced to see. If she looked beyond his mustache, she could tell that Mr. Covington possessed a charming, boyish face while his tanned complexion and white-blond hair bespoke a love of the outdoors. First a handsome detective and now a suitor that looks like he has been chiseled by Michelangelo. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’d fallen asleep in the middle of a Valentine novel.

  “Mr. Covington.” She dipped into a curtsy as he bowed to her, his eye roving to Jude, who rose from the settee with a clenched jaw. “Allow me to introduce Detective Jude Thorpe.”

  “Ah yes, your aunt mentioned that someone was acting as your bodyguard during this tumultuous time.” He extended his hand toward Jude, who grasped it, and they nodded to each other. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Realizing that she was staring at them both, Winnifred cleared her throat and attempted to calm herself as the maid rolled in the teacart again, but this time laden with hot tea and pastries. She pressed a hand to her straining corset, still full from their luncheon. She didn’t know how she’d manage to eat one more bite. “Please, have a seat, gentlemen.”

  Mr. Covington looked to Jude as if expecting him to leave, but she ignored any hint of a desired dismissal. She glanced at Jude from the corner of her eye and found him watching her as if trying to gauge her reaction. Well, she wouldn’t give him any clues. She rustled to the cart and poured each of them a cup of tea. She straightened her shoulders and arranged her features into those of a china doll, frozen in a smile that was neither cold nor overeager. “Detective Thorpe has been so kind to see me on his day off,” she began, dispersing the refreshments.

  “Well, it is a relief to hear that you are being so well guarded. I read in the Chicago Tribune that the world’s fair was going to be a beacon to every thief far and wide, so I understand why your father insists that Detective Thorpe stay by your side, even on a Sunday … inside your parlor.” He lifted his teacup to Jude. “Thank you for your service.”

  Jude shifted in his seat and bit into a dainty puffed pastry. “It’s my job.”

  Winnifred kept the flinch in her heart from spreading to her face. Of course he thinks of you as an assignment. Why did you ever think he was interested in anything more than his task? Because he is kind? Friendly? She dipped her head and gathered herself before turning her smile to her caller. “So, I heard you were in London. Have you had a chance yet to visit our world’s fair?”

  “I have. I went the day before yesterday, not even twenty-four hours after my return. I have to admit that I was so enchanted that I purchased a season pass, which Inspector Wylde tells me you too have acquired as you quite enjoy the fair as well.” Mr. Covington grinned conspiratorially as if he were sharing some daring secret with her. “I am quite enthralled with the Fine Arts building. What is your favorite exhibit?”

  “I adored my time on the Ferris wheel,” she said, thinking that it may have had more to do with Jude’s arms protecting her than the actual ride. She turned to Jude, half expecting him to join in the conversation, but instead of adding to the exchange, he popped the rest of his pastry into his mouth and stood, brushing his hands free from invisible crumbs.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wylde, I must return to my post. Thank you for the refreshments.” Grabbing his hat from atop the piano, he bowed to them and made for the door.

  “Oh? Must you?” she asked boldly, rising and snatching her napkin before it fell to the rug. While she did wish to spend time with him, the thought of entering her interview tomorrow with only three hours of training almost made her want to give up the whole scheme … if not for those missing women. She ran her fingers over the length of the napkin, her eyes wide. Lord, give me the strength to go through with this and not create a complete disaster in the first ten minutes of the interview.

  Jude’s gaze flicked toward Mr. Covington and back to her. “It is for the best. I will be here first thing in the morning.” He turned on the heel of his black boot, not waiting for her to show him out.

  With a sigh, she returned her attention to Mr. Covington, praying that he would start speaking on the gloriousness of the orange towers and set her world to rights, for no man could be this attractive and rich and remain unattached as long as Mr. Covington had for no reason.

  Chapter Six

  “No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.”

  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

  Winnifred’s hands shook as the grip car halted in Englewood. Dear Lord, help me. She looked over at her companion, hoping for an encouraging word, but he was staring off into s
pace with a deep scowl pressing his brows together. “Jude?” she ventured, waving her hand in front of his face. “We are two blocks from South Wallace Street. Are you ready?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He hopped off the car first, lifting his hand to help her down.

  At the sight of the street sign, she paused and gripped about for a scripture to steady herself, but she was so nervous only jumbled pieces of verses came to her. Dear Lord, please protect me and calm my soul, she prayed to keep her panic at bay. Then the scripture from Isaiah she had long held onto since those dark days after her mother’s death, when her father had been so consumed with grief he had nearly forgotten her, flooded her being. Her grandmother had embroidered it on a sampler for her as a reminder that she was never alone, never unprotected. Those verses gave her the courage she lacked. Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned.

  She paused on the sidewalk and drew a deep breath. I am Yours, Lord. I am Yours. I am never alone. She straightened her shoulders and focused on the plan, finding further comfort that Jude would be within earshot of a scream. Even though she knew she wasn’t alone, she couldn’t help the tremors that began to overtake her. Clearing her throat, she clutched her plainest reticule, comforted by the scripture in her heart and the hard thump of her pistol against her unassuming navy skirt. “I guess this is it.”

  Jude grabbed her by the shoulders. “Winnifred, you don’t have to do this.”

  “I must.” She squeezed his hand and whispered, “Pray for me?”

  “I won’t stop praying until you leave that building,” he returned, a grim color washing over him that did nothing to calm her frazzled nerves as she turned away from him, the distance chilling her even in the warm morning.