Remembering an article from her uncle’s newspaper about union talks near the lake, she reached for the handle. “They’re strikers!”
Carter grabbed her wrist to prevent her from moving. “Are you mad? Don’t go out there. Those men are uncivilized. Who knows what they’d do to you.”
Memories from the previous night assaulted her and a wave of nausea hit her harder than the waves that had almost drowned her earlier in Lake Michigan. While she’d been spoiled and fussed over at the Palmer House, these people had been bravely walking out on jobs they desperately needed.
She spun to face Carter. “If we marry, will you let me help them?”
“Help who?” His eyebrows dove into a deep V.
Ellen jutted her hand to indicate the throng of people moving as a solid mass toward the lakefront.
Carter paled. “Upon no account. Those people are trying to cause a revolution. Haven’t you read about the anarchist uprisings?”
Read about it? She’d been dragged into the center of it when the anarchists decided she was a spy. Ellen rubbed her cheek, hoping the bruise from where Mary Goodwell had struck her didn’t show. But the people who lived Behind the Yards weren’t all anarchists. Surely some of them simply wanted a better life for their families.
“Not all of them want that. The majority of those people want to be treated fairly. They want to work for eight hours a day, make a decent wage, and not be dragging their feet by the time they return home each night.”
He scowled. “And how would you know about their plight? Do you have some stable boy lover your heart bleeds for? You might as well come out with whatever it is. My private investigator will report the information to me anyway.”
He’d probably discover Lewis was a turncoat as well.
Ellen swallowed hard.
The hollow feeling that had torn into her heart while held captive at The Rat Palace threatened to shatter her completely. James had walked out on her, taking with him her desire for a home where she would be cherished and loved. Now Carter pried away her purpose and well-planned dream of helping the downtrodden. If she married him, he would never allow her to set up an organization to help the people who lived Behind the Yards.
Her life would never count for anything. Never matter.
No. She would try one last time before giving up all hope. “You don’t see a need to improve their lives? You don’t see that they are stuck?”
“They disgust me.” He leaned back against the seat and crossed his arms. “Their lives could be better if they worked hard. Most of them drink their money away or lose it all at the gaming tables.”
Ellen shook her head and reached for the door again.
Carter clamped down on her arms. “Listen—there are men who have risen out of that. A couple of them became millionaires after the Great Fire because they founded lumber businesses while the city rebuilt. That takes brains, and I respect them for rising above what most of them deem a broken cycle. They could get out if they simply tired. Don’t you see, they don’t want to? Not really. If they all wanted a better sort of life, then more of them would have joined the lumber industry at that time. They don’t want to work hard.”
She yanked out of his hold. “If every single one of them joined the lumber industry, then there would be no trees left in Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin.” She rubbed her wrists. “I can’t believe they are all as you described. Asking for a shorter work day seems reasonable.”
“You’re a woman. Your opinion is based on emotion, not fact.”
She reeled back. “But you said this morning that you value a woman who reads the paper and educates herself on the news.”
His eyes narrowed. “I was being pleasant.”
Ellen reached for the door handle again.
Carter moved to block her, but then raised his hands in surrender. “The choice is yours. You may run out of my carriage and go find your stable boy, but if you do so, we will leave without you, and I will never speak to you again. Or, you can remain in the carriage, change the conversation, and we can continue to make wedding plans. The choice is yours.”
Ellen bit her lip. The memory of being caught, in danger, and tied up made her blood run cold. If she stayed with Carter and forgot about helping people then she’d never have to experience an ordeal like that again. On the other hand, her whole life had been focused upon staying safe and caring only about herself—and where had that gotten her? Alone. Unloved. Unwanted.
She wanted to be someone who mattered. No, she wanted to do things that mattered.
“Here.” She unsnapped her necklace then placed it in his hands. “Please send this to the Danbys’ address under my name. It’s precious to my aunt, and I don’t want anything to happen to it.” Hopefully nothing would happen to her this time. “You’re a good man, Carter. Just not the right man for me.”
If he responded, she didn’t hear. Ellen climbed down from the carriage. Her aunt had told Carter he could keep Ellen out as long as he wanted, so the Danbys wouldn’t worry. He couldn’t report her actions to Aunt Louis without suffering embarrassment. No one would ever have to know about this caper.
So much for her resolve this morning to become the society woman Carter would have wanted. It seemed like her impulsive manner sealed her spinsterhood in the west.
So be it.
The option to turn back swam in her mind, but her heart was wrung for the people she’d witnessed Behind the Yards.
As her future hung in the balance, the coachmen hopped down from their seat. “Miss, do you require assistance? Is something wrong?”
“No,” she called over her shoulder. “Everything is finally right.”
The servants exchanged looks of bewilderment, but she didn’t care. She zigzagged through the stalled carriages and streetcars, pushing onward toward the marching crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chicago, May 1, 1886
James fought a sneeze brought on by the fake mustache Hugh forced him to don. He wiggled his lip, trying to make the fool-thing lie straight. Now he knew why he’d never grown one, even in the height of their popularity. The overcoat and patched trousers he wore smelled of another man’s sweat. Spying was an unhygienic business.
“Everything fit?” Hugh hollered from another room.
“Ahh, I didn’t know they were supposed to.” James toyed with the extra fabric bunching at his wrists. “Do you really believe attending the meeting will be profitable for us?”
“Couldn’t hurt. Besides, what else did we have on the agenda today?”
James fussed with his half-caved-in hat. He turned, caught sight of Hugh, and laughed aloud. The usually vain Englishman stooped over his cane like an old man. His tattered rags, gray wig, and long gray beard added to the humor. He’d topped off the ensemble by smearing coal soot across his teeth, giving them a decaying quality.
Staying in character, Hugh cackled. “Our own mothers wouldn’t recognize us.”
James scratched his neck. His mother would have swatted him with a rolled up newspaper if she saw him in such a state.
Hugh tapped James with his cane. “Come, I have a nag hitched to a wagon out back.”
They walked out the lower servant’s entrance, Hugh’s staff members were aware of their employer’s secret life. Not one batted an eye as they shuffled past.
Hugh handed James the reins. “You’ll have to drive, sonny-boy.” James was amazed at how Hugh had mastered dropping his English accent.
“Sonny-boy? You’re not that much older than me.” James didn’t dare snap the reins for fear that the poor excuse for a horse might die. When he moved the lead, the animal wheezed. The old beast’s head hung to her knees as she ambled out of the alley. Her shoulder blades looked like saws moving beneath her skin.
“You’re right, I’m less than three years your senior. But today—today you’ll call me Papa and no one will be the wiser.” Hugh hunched on the bench, moaning for effect whenever the wagon wheels jutted over bumps in the
road.
James feared for the flooring of the wagon. The wood looked rotten enough to crumble beneath them at any moment. Thankfully, it held together as he turned the horse toward the lakefront. “You know, we could walk faster than this animal is pulling this run-down.”
“True, but what kind of son would let his overworked father walk the entire way to the rally?” Hugh adjusted his cap.
A few minutes into their travel, Hugh cocked his head and stared at the lapping waves of Lake Michigan. He let out a long breath. “So you’ve done this all to protect a woman?”
Glancing at the man who had become somewhat a friend, James tried to read his profile. “If you mean Miss Ingram, then yes. I’d do anything to protect her.”
A sigh escaped Hugh’s lips. “Even risk losing her?”
“Haven’t I already?” The words hurt coming out.
Hugh turned, a dare in his piercing eyes. “Would you die for her?”
“Without a thought.”
“Then you are a better man than I am.” Hugh angled his body again to watch the rise and fall of the lake.
The nag stopped to use one of its back legs to kick flies off the other. The animal’s pitiful excuse for a tail proved unable to do the job effectively.
Hugh Gunther was a strange man. James couldn’t figure him out. Such snobbery wrapped with a man who risked his life without any outward gain in doing so. For that matter, what drove Hugh to take the risks he did?
James snapped the reins, and the old mare tossed her head. “What’s your motivation?”
Hugh shrugged. “I told you, it’s a tradition passed down from father to son. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.”
James shook his head. “I hope I don’t offend your refined English sensibilities, but I’m calling your bluff. As far as I can tell, your father isn’t around. If he’s passed away, any family pressure would be removed. And you have no incentive to help Americans. So if we’re discussing why we’re risking our necks, be the gentleman you claim to be and answer my question with some amount of honesty.”
Hugh steepled his hands on his cane. “You’ve played your hand well, and for that I’ll reward you with as much of the truth as I can offer.” Sadness filled Hugh’s voice. “What do you wish to know?”
“I spy for Ellen’s sake and for Lewis, too. I’m still determined to save my friend if I can, but if I’m going all in and we’re talking high risks, I want to know why you do all this. What’s at stake for you? Is your motivation worth all this or will you bow out when you’re most needed?”
“You’re right about one thing. It has nothing to do with my ancestry. I, too, spy for the same reason most men do. Because of a woman.” He scrubbed his hand over his fake, scraggly beard. “You endeavor to protect Miss Ingram, which is admirable. I, on the other hand, failed to defend a woman when I could have.”
“So you spy as a way to atone?”
Hugh sneered. “No dear man. I have a far stronger drive. Revenge.”
Near the lakefront, thousands of people pressed together. James tied the nag up to a pole—not that he feared the animal leaving, or someone stealing the rundown wagon—then assisted Hugh.
They separated, fanning into the crowd to gather and glean information. For the most part, James encountered hungry, hurting people—not anarchists bent on destroying the city. He mopped his hand over his face and wished he’d never gotten himself tangled in this spying business. If only he’d told Hugh to leave him alone from the beginning and watched Ellen better at Cobb’s Ball. None of the events that made up the last horrible week would have happened.
Hugh hobbled to his side. “There are fools here. They think because I’m an old man they can talk freely around me and I won’t hear.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I have an inkling that there is more to all this.”
“The people here want to be treated fairly.”
Hugh waggled his eyebrows. “Not them. The spies! I’m beginning to think anarchy is only their cover.”
Before James could ask for more of an explanation—which he knew Hugh wouldn’t give—Hugh pushed him toward the nag and wagon. “We’re done for the afternoon.”
***
The strikers surged together with such force that Ellen had a difficult time breaking in to join them. After three failed attempts—one of which included getting her slippered foot trodden on—Ellen reached out her arm and latched onto a woman.
“Oy!” The woman staggered into Ellen. People in the crowd mumbled and jostled past them. With a scowl, the woman shoved at Ellen’s hand. “Let me be. We ain’t breaking any laws. You can’t make us quit.”
Ellen dragged the girl out of the stream of pedestrians. “I don’t want to stop you, I want to join you.”
“You? In them fancy clothes?” Her unwashed hair hung lank with grease. An oversized, gray jacket covered the washed-out, blue dress billowing around her knees. Both obvious hand-me-downs.
Ellen couldn’t place the wretch’s age.
“Yes.” Without a though of smudging her gloves, Ellen grabbed the girl’s bare hands and gave them an encouraging squeeze. “I want to help you. What is your name?”
The girl peeked over Ellen’s shoulder, toward all the people in Ellen’s social circle waiting in their carriages. “This some sort of trick? Are you with the policemen?” Her brown eyes widened.
“No. Not at all. I want to join the march and find out more about what you do and where you live.” Ellen offered a smile.
The girl gazed back over the crowd. “I’m Iana.”
“I’m Ellen. May I march with you?”
Iana bit her lip. “Not in those duds. It ain’t a good idea. People will see you and think things.”
“I have an idea.” Ellen shrugged out of her fitted coat. “Exchange coats with me. Yours will cover my dress completely and no one will know.” She tried to hand hers to Iana.
“I don’t know, Miss. I never seen something so fancy, let alone let it touch me.” She pushed the coat away.
“Please.” Ellen thrust the coat back at Iana. “It’s the only way.”
The girl tossed her hands into the air. “I’ll get it dirty.”
“I don’t mind. In fact, you can keep it.” Ellen extended the wad of fabric toward Iana again.
“Keep it? What would I ever need something so nice for? It’s worth more than I make in a month.” But she accepted the coat and shrugged out of her own.
Ellen fastened the mismatched buttons on the large jacket over her and giggled. Because of Iana’s height, the jacket reached almost to Ellen’s toes. “You can sell it, Iana. Use the money for something you need … or want.”
Iana slipped into Ellen’s coat. “It does have a good fit to it.” She smiled.
“See now. We’re perfect.” Ellen looped her arm through Iana’s. “Shall we march?”
The girl nodded, and they pushed back into the flow of people. Some of the laborers lifted signs with crude handwriting proclaiming, “We demand an eight-hour work day!” or “You can’t work us like slaves.” One man near Ellen’s right wondered to his friend about police force once they reached the lakefront. Store owners and shoppers in the lakefront district huddled near their front windows, watching as the strikers passed by.
A well-dressed man on the walkway yelled, “Go back to work! The lazy lot of you.”
Iana stuck a bony elbow into Ellen’s ribs. “What makes you interested in our cause?”
Ellen lowered her voice. “I visited the Behind the Yards neighborhood the other day.”
“Behind the Yards? I don’t even frequent there. What was a girl like you doing in that awful place?” Iana scrunched her eyebrows together.
“That doesn’t matter.” Ellen patted her hand. “What does matter is I didn’t like what I saw. I want to do something to make life better there.”
“That’s a fine aim, Miss, but how can one person do all that?”
Ellen shrugged. “I don’t know yet, but I’
ll think of something. That’s why I wanted to come today. I need to learn.” Allowing enthusiasm to take over, she turned to Iana. “Can you tell me about your life?”
When she stopped for a moment, the man behind her in the march slammed into her back. Ellen reeled forward, arms spinning like a windmill. The man grumbled and moved past her. Iana yanked Ellen by the elbow to right her.
“I don’t live Behind the Yards or work in the slaughter house, bless all the saints above. I share a room with four girls in an apartment building off of Halsted. It’s behind the river on the near west side of the city.” Iana made a show of dusting off Ellen’s shoulders.
“Five girls … in one room. How does that work?”
“Oh, don’t look at me so shamed-like. It ain’t that bad. I could be at my parent’s place sharing a bed with the little’ins. But I struck out on my own. I’m bound to be an independent woman. My mom does domestic work, laundry in one of them great big houses. But not me, no, I’m a piecer.” Iana lifted her chin as she spoke.
Ellen pursed her lips. “You don’t want to be in service work?”
“I wouldn’t mind if they paid what I could make doing my piece-work.”
“What does that mean, doing piecework?”
“Pretty thing like you don’t know much about the world now, do you? It’s all the hand sewing that the machines can’t manage. We’re paid by the piece instead of by the hour. If I can do piecing for sixty or seventy hours in a week, then I make more than my mom does in service.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re paid by the piece then why are you marching for an eight-hour workday?”
“Oh, I’m not marching for me. It won’t gain me anything if they win. I’m with the strikers to show I support them. These are the people I live with and rub shoulders with each day. They shouldn’t have to stand in the factories for twelve or more hours at a time. We all came to this country looking for a better life, not to die young and be exhausted.”
“But don’t you work that long with the piecework? In order to get sixty or seventy hours a week you’d have to—”
Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) Page 19