by Lynn Austin
“Did my father—?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Violet Rose, but you need to ask him these questions, not me… .Now, you wanted to know what some of my other work projects are. I’m also involved with the Temperance Union. Our goal is to have all alcoholic beverages banned and all of the saloons closed for good. We want to put an end to drunkenness and to the lawlessness that goes hand in hand with it.We’re trying to have the alcohol removed from patent medicines as well—or else have them banned outright. Most people don’t even know that these so-called ‘medicines’ contain alcohol, but many of them do. They have caused untold sorrow when people unknowingly become addicted to them.”
I wondered if Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder contained alcohol. If so, Silas McClure better not try to peddle any of it to my grandmother.
“But I spend most of my time working at Jane Addams’ settlement house,” Grandmother continued. “Louis Decker works there too. He’s wonderful with the children and very handy at repairing things.”
“What’s a settlement house?”
“It’s not something I can explain easily—you should come down and see it for yourself. In fact, you’re welcome to come with me tomorrow, if you’d like. We can always use an extra pair of hands. And Louis will be there too,” she added with a smile.
I could hardly say no. I’d gone to the suffrage rally with Aunt Matt and to parties and social events with Aunt Agnes. How could I refuse my grandmother? And when I remembered the pitiful children I’d seen today, I knew I couldn’t turn my back on them.
“I would like that,” I replied.
I lay in bed that night, trying to imagine my father going into saloons and talking to drunken patrons about God. I couldn’t do it. I found it impossible to imagine that he’d ever been as intensely passionate about religion as Louis Decker was. In fact, it was hard to imagine my staid, unemotional father being passionate about anything. Had all of his feelings died when my mother left us?
My father rescued my mother from the fire.
I imagined him running down the street, flames licking at his heels as he carried a load of Bibles in his arms. Suddenly he heard desperate cries. He looked up, and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood before an open second-story window, trapped inside the burning building, choking on thick clouds of smoke. He dropped the Bibles, knowing that God would surely understand, and urged—no, begged—the beautiful maiden to leap from the window, promising to catch her …
Or maybe my mother had been running in terror through the flaming, smoke-filled streets—barefooted, fear-crazed, as burning buildings fell into piles of rubble all around her. Suddenly she twisted her ankle and fell to the ground. No one would help her. People trampled over her. And as the flames raced toward her along with billows of hot, choking smoke, my father suddenly heard her desperate cries for help. He dropped the Bibles he had been trying to save—certain that God valued life more than mere paper, regardless of how holy it was. Giving no thought to his own safety, he ran back through the flaming debris to rescue her, heedless of the heat and smoke. He swooped her up into his arms and carried her to safety, falling in love with her the moment he looked into her fear-filled eyes. In fact, they both fell passionately in love… .
What would it feel like to fall passionately in love?
I fell asleep thinking about Louis Decker and Herman Beckett and Nelson Kent and wondering if I would ever know true love.
Chapter
10
Monday, June 12, 1893
I hadn’t risen early enough to eat breakfast since coming to Chicago a week ago, but I crawled out of bed on Monday morning determined to work at the settlement house with my grandmother and Louis Decker. I staggered downstairs and found her and my two aunts seated at the table, feasting on bacon and eggs.
“Good morning, Violet,” Grandmother said. She was one of those perennially cheerful people who managed to rise from her bed with a smile on her face. I, on the other hand, was not one to rise early—and certainly not cheerfully. At school, I considered myself fortunate if I made it to my first class on time, let alone to the breakfast table.
“Morning,” I rasped. Grandmother sprang from her seat, bouncing around the kitchen like an overfilled tennis ball.
“Come in and sit down, Violet dear. I’ll fix you a plate.”
“I’m really not hungry. I don’t usually eat breakfast… .” She ignored my words and heaped a plate with scrambled eggs, several rashers of bacon, and two thick slices of toast.
My eyes weren’t quite open yet, and everything looked blurry, but I saw that my Aunt Matt was engrossed in reading a newspaper, her face hidden behind it. Madame Beauchamps would not have approved. In the first place, it was very rude to ignore the rest of us who were seated at the table with her, and in the second place, proper ladies weren’t supposed to take an interest in such a masculine thing as a newspaper.
“What’s the latest news on the war, Matilda?” Aunt Birdie asked her. “Has General McClellan conquered Richmond, yet?”
In the short time that I’d lived here, I’d changed my mind about telling poor Aunt Birdie the truth. She had such a gentle, loving heart that I could see how discovering the truth about her beloved Gilbert might cause her deep anguish. But I had also learned that Aunt Matt was very forthright and direct. I couldn’t imagine her lying to Birdie about the war, anymore than I could imagine my grandmother lying. I held my breath, wondering what Aunt Matt would say. She lowered the paper and faced her sister.
“I didn’t see any articles about General McClellan or Richmond, Bertha. But you’re welcome to read the paper for yourself when I’m finished with it.”
“The print is too small,” Birdie said. “It hurts my eyes to read it.”
“There is one article, however, that I think we all should pay attention to.” The pages rattled as Aunt Matt folded the paper into a smaller square. She cleared her throat as if about to make an important announcement. “From now on we need to be very cautious about opening the door to strangers. It says here in the paper that ever since the Exposition came to Chicago, thieves have been roaming around posing as traveling salesmen. The phony drummer comes to the door, selling all manner of things from household brushes to patent medicines. He is friendly and amusing as he charms his way into the house, but whether or not he makes a sale is immaterial… . Are you listening to this, Bertha?” She tapped her finger against the page for emphasis.
Aunt Birdie focused on Aunt Matt once again instead of gazing into the air above her head. She nodded solemnly. But in truth, not only would Birdie let a thief inside, she probably would give him a hug.
“If the drummer does make a sale,” Aunt Matt continued, “he uses the opportunity to make note of where the lady of the house keeps her cash. But the salesman’s real objective is to observe the home’s layout and the whereabouts of any valuables. He later relays the information to his partners, and they break into the house when no one is home and steal all of the family’s silver and other valuables.”
“Oh, I do hope they don’t take our silver tray,” Aunt Birdie said. “I worked so hard to polish it.”
“I doubt if robbers would bother with our house,” Grandmother said, patting Birdie’s hand. “We really don’t have much worth stealing.”
I couldn’t help wondering about the drummer I’d met on the train. Could Silas McClure be one of the thieves the newspaper warned against? He had seemed very friendly and charming—exactly the type of person the paper had described. I recalled how restlessly he’d behaved, and how I’d suspected him of being a criminal. Then I recalled giving him my grandmother’s address! I would feel terrible if he came to call on me, then robbed us while we were all away. But more than a week had passed since I’d met Mr. McClure, and I hadn’t heard one word from him. I hoped he had lost our address or forgotten all about me by now.
“I know that the Columbian Exposition has attracted a lot of unsavory people,” my grandmother said. “But it a
lso has provided an ideal climate for Mr. Moody to spread the Gospel. So you see? Every cloud has a silver lining.”
“Well, I’m warning all of you to be careful,” Aunt Matt said. “That fair has more than its share of sneak thieves, pickpockets, and purse snatchers. One of the women I know from the suffrage association had all of the money stolen from her purse. She thinks it happened while she was visiting the Woman’s Pavilion, of all places. And she wasn’t the first one to be robbed there either. At least two other women had the same thing happen to them.”
“Can’t they do something to make it safer?” Grandmother asked.
“We are doing something. The lady managers have hired Pinkerton’s Detective Agency to help capture the thieves.”
“The Pinkertons will catch those criminals—you can be sure of that,” I said. I was wide-awake now. “I read all about it in Allan Pinkerton’s book, which was based on his crime-fighting adventures. They’re famous all over America for solving robberies. During the war, they helped arrest a bunch of spies, and they even foiled an assassination attempt on President Lincoln’s life. Too bad they couldn’t have prevented the second one, though.”
Aunt Birdie suddenly looked alert. “What did you say about President Lincoln? Is someone trying to kill that nice man?”
“Not to worry,” Grandmother assured her. “Have some more eggs. And, Violet dear, where in the world did you run across a book about detectives?”
“Um … at Madame Beauchamps’ school.”
“I’m surprised they would allow impressionable young ladies to read about robberies and murders and things of that nature.”
“The book wasn’t mine. It belonged to a friend.” I hoped Grandmother wouldn’t probe further. “By the way, Aunt Matt—how did your friends go about hiring the Pinkertons?”
“They have a branch office here in Chicago.”
“They do? Does it cost much for their services?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
The directness of her question left me at a loss. I wanted to hire them to find my mother and to prove that Maude O’Neill had murdered her husband, but of course I couldn’t tell Aunt Matt the truth. And I didn’t want to lie either. I should have kept my mouth shut altogether.
“I’m just curious,” I said with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
The clock in the front hallway struck eight and Grandmother sprang from her seat. “Come, Violet. We really must be on our way.”
I hurried to the hall tree to fetch my hat, grateful for the timely escape. I was pinning it to my hair when someone knocked on the front door. I opened it cautiously, remembering Aunt Matt’s warning. I half expected to see Silas McClure or some other thieving salesman on our doorstep. Instead, I saw a skinny birdlike woman carrying two bulging carpetbags the size of prize-winning hogs.
“Good morning. I’m Ethel Riggs.” She dropped one of the bags and extended her hand. “Mrs. Paine sent me here to make a gown for Miss Violet Hayes.”
“Oh no.” I struck my forehead in dismay. I had forgotten all about Aunt Agnes’ promise to send a seamstress. “I’m Violet Hayes—but I was just about to leave. Will this take very long?”
“Oh my, yes. At least two or three hours. And if I don’t get started on your dress today, I’m afraid it will never be finished by Saturday night.”
I saw no way out. I already had accepted Nelson Kent’s invitation to escort me on Saturday night, and I had nothing new to wear.
“Never mind, Violet dear,” my grandmother said. She had come out to the foyer to fetch her own hat and had overheard us. “We’ll miss you at the settlement house, but you can come to work with Louis and me another day. I really have to run along now. Bye-bye.”
Aunt Birdie smiled and waved good-bye to her, then greeted skinny little Ethel Riggs with a warm hug as she invited her inside.
Aunt Matt left the house a few minutes later, growling about the important suffrage meeting that I should be attending with her and how degrading it was for women to adorn themselves for the purpose of enticing a man.
“And remember, now, don’t open the door to any traveling salesmen,” she warned Aunt Birdie. The door closed behind her with a bang.
I spent all morning with the seamstress. One of Mrs. Riggs’ carpetbags contained a pile of the latest fashion books from Paris.We paged through them for nearly an hour, searching for a style for my new gown.
“I’ve never seen so many beautiful dresses in my life. How in the world will I ever choose one?”
Mrs. Riggs gave me a long, appraising look, twirling one end of the measuring tape that was draped around her neck. Then she wet her forefinger and quickly paged through one of the pattern books.
“I think this is the dress we should make for you.” She pointed to one with a low-cut neckline. “You have a wonderful bosom.Why not show it off?” Her mind was made up even if mine wasn’t. She closed all of the other fashion books and stuffed them back into her satchel.
“It’s a beautiful gown,” I told her, “but I’m worried that my grandmother will find it immodest.”
“Nonsense. I’ll make sure it covers all of your essentials. These large, puffy sleeves are all the rage this year. And see these silk flowers on the shoulder and waist? I’ll make an extra spray of them for your hair. You’ll look lovely.”
“I’ve never owned such a beautiful dress before.”
“Mrs. Paine told me that you needed an outstanding one in order to attract a wealthy husband.”
“She said that?” I knew my aunt’s goal was to find me a rich husband, but Mrs. Riggs made us sound like cheap hucksters looking for a hapless victim to defraud.
“If this dress does the job, you can use it for your wedding gown,” she added with a smile. “See these ruffled inserts in the sides of the skirt? They’re called godets. We’ll use a contrasting fabric for them— maybe a spotted voile.” She opened her second bag, which fairly exploded with fabric samples in a variety of colors.
“I don’t know how I will ever decide.”
“May I make a suggestion? I think the dress would look lovely made from silk brocade. And the color should be … let’s see … how about this gorgeous ivory, with pale blue for the accent color? It would be a magnificent contrast to your dark hair.”
Mrs. Riggs measured every last inch of me—twice, it seemed. “I’ll return tomorrow morning, bright and early,” she promised.
My grandmother would have to go to work without me once again. Meanwhile, I hoped she wouldn’t tell Louis Decker the reason I had stayed home.
I stood for hours the following morning while Mrs. Riggs pinned and basted the muslin pattern. Then I raced upstairs to change my clothes in order to make social calls with Aunt Agnes in the afternoon.
While I waited for my aunt to arrive I decided to spend a few minutes practicing the piano in case she asked for a command performance at one of our teas—and in case I ever made it downtown to play hymns for Louis Decker. I was practicing my scales so energetically, running my fingers up and down the keys, that I never heard the knock on our front door. I didn’t realize that Aunt Birdie had gone to answer it until I played the final note—just in time to hear her say, “Why, yes, Violet is here. Won’t you come in?” I leaped up from the piano stool and hurried into the foyer.
I almost didn’t recognize the man who stood there until he smiled at me: Silas McClure, the traveling salesman. The very person I had worried about only yesterday.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hayes.” A candelabrum was much too dim to describe his grin. His entire face seemed to glow as if lit by a spotlight. He had on a conservative brown suit this time instead of his garish plaid one, and he must have run out of Macassar oil since the last time we’d met, because his wavy brown hair looked clean and nicely combed. Except for his blinding smile, he might have been a different man altogether.
My heart began to gallop like a team of horses at breakneck speed. “Mr. McClure!” I couldn’t seem to draw a deep
enough breath to say more.
“I was in town for a few days and thought I’d stop by like I promised.” “Oh, how nice,” Aunt Birdie said. “I’m Violet’s aunt, Mrs. Casey.”
“Yeah, we met before. Great to see you again. Silas McClure’s the name.”
Aunt Birdie retrieved the silver tray from the hall table and held it out to receive his calling card.
“Here you are, young man …”
Mr. McClure took the tray right out of her hand and gave it the once-over, as if estimating how much cash he could get for it from a pawnbroker.
“Looks like good sterling silver,” he said, tapping his forefinger against it with a resounding ring.
“Oh yes. It is sterling silver,” Aunt Birdie assured him.
I couldn’t breathe. What if he and his partners came back this afternoon while Grandmother was downtown and Aunt Matt was at her suffrage meeting, and I was making social calls with Aunt Agnes? Poor Aunt Birdie would be here all alone! Mr. McClure and his chums could tie her up and stuff her inside the pantry with a gag in her mouth and steal every stick of furniture in the house—and it would be entirely my fault.
“You rarely see one this shiny,” he added, admiring his reflection.
“Why, thank you,” Aunt Birdie replied. “I polished it myself. It’s for calling cards. Do you have one?”
“Oh!” he said, as if finally catching on. “Yeah, just a minute.” He handed the tray to Birdie and groped in the breast pocket of his jacket for one. His business card had the words Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder on it in blood-red letters.
“Does your tonic contain alcohol?” I asked, groping for something to say. He found my question amusing, for some reason. His smile widened—something I wouldn’t have thought possible—until he resembled a display of fireworks.
“Absolutely not. There’s not even a trace of alcohol in it. Dr. Dean believes in strengthening the blood, not diluting it with alcohol.”