Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1)

by Jessica Keller

  As Madame De Molineus had taught Ellen during school: C’est la vie.

  What she wouldn’t give for one friendly face in the room. But upon entering the house, Uncle Garret had gone straight to the card room, and if Ellen sought out Aunt Louisa, her aunt would urge her to mingle. She had no choice but to face the party alone.

  Much like the rest of her life.

  ***

  James crossed his arms and leaned against the side table. “Tell me again why we’re here.”

  The right side of Hugh’s mouth pulled. “Mr. Kent, didn’t you know? I’m a supporter of the Lord.” He jutted his cane to point at D.L. Moody. The man of the hour shook hands with Mr. Pullman, the billionaire train car manufacturer. Moody’s drab, undertaker-type suit stood out amongst the bevy of lush fabrics splashed around the room.

  After snatching a few grapes off a passing waiter’s plate, James shook his head in a good-natured manner. “I doubt that, Mr. Gunther. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a man with a darker soul than yours.”

  Hugh shrugged. A sad smile played across his face. “I’m a lost cause. But you—there’s still hope for you, friend.” He pointed across the room.

  James followed with his gaze. Ellen. His heart lurched into his throat.

  A second later, she looked up and their eyes locked. Even with the distance between them, James could sense she needed him. Or maybe he just wanted to believe that. But the dejected set of her shoulders told him otherwise. The dark drapes she stood among seemed to envelop her small frame.

  “Go to her,” Hugh whispered. “I lost the woman I loved because of my stubbornness. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  Keeping eye contact, James weaved through the throng of people to Ellen. Her light pink gown made her skin appear paler. The freckles that usually washed across her nose seemed to blend in. Was she ill?

  He opened his mouth to speak.

  Ellen latched onto his arm. “James,” she breathed his name like a prayer.

  As he stepped closer, her rosewater scent drifted over him. Her hand against his forearm trembled. Ellen shaking? It took all his strength not to gather her into his arms and find out what had her so scared. If they weren’t at a dinner party, he would have.

  “You don’t look well.”

  She grimaced. “No one’s ever accused you of flattery, have they?”

  He tapped his chin. “Actually, I believe you did a few nights ago at Cobb’s Ball.”

  “Touché.” Ellen offered the carefree smile he loved.

  But it faded quickly.

  “Ellen, what has you so—”

  Someone cleared their throat behind him. In a fluid motion, James turned and moved beside Ellen. Mary Goodwell surveyed Ellen with predatory hunger flashing in her eyes.

  Ellen’s clammy hand slipped into his. James closed his fingers over hers, trying to offer encouragement.

  Mrs. Goodwell smirked. “Are you two enjoying yourselves tonight?”

  A moment passed, and James didn’t think Ellen would answer, even though Mary was clearly asking her, not him.

  But then Ellen’s jaw set and her moxie returned. “We’re grand. Thank you for asking. And how are you Mary? We’re close enough to use first names, right?” Ellen’s nose wrinkled.

  “Close? Indeed,” Mary purred. She toyed with her necklace. A diamond at the end dangled into her cleavage.

  James popped his gaze back to Ellen.

  “Yes. I do hope the man I last saw you with is okay.” His little half-pint offered a coy smile.

  “That man?” Mary shrugged. “Worthless.” She stepped closer, her brow scrunched. “It appears you have a bruise there on your cheek. I can see a slight purple through your skin. Whatever happened?”

  Ellen’s arm tensed and she dug her nails into the back of James’s hand. “Oh, that? I tripped.”

  Mary lowered her chin. “How absolutely terrifying. I’d be more careful next time if I were you.” With that, Mrs. Goodwell turned and sauntered away.

  When Ellen opened her mouth to speak, James shook his head. Still clasping her hand, he tugged her out of the room. She stumbled along behind him as he led her into the library. The room was blessedly empty. He walked her to a leather chair and tried to make her sit, but she refused.

  He stopped, and then took a seat on the armrest of a chair. From that height, he could be eyelevel with her.

  James crossed his arms. “Would you mind telling me what all that was about?”

  Ellen tossed her hands in the air. “Honestly, James, use your brain. The other night … when they had me at The Rat Palace … when you left my uncle’s house.”

  “I realized that much. But what did she mean about the bruise?” He leaned closer. She did have a small bluish mark under her eye. “What happened, Ellen?”

  She pivoted and began to run her fingers over the books lining the walls.

  “Tell me.”

  “Mrs. Goodwell struck me. That night they had me tied up. She struck me right across the face.” Ellen fisted her hands and faced him. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I’ve got red gashes from the ropes, too, if you’re interested.”

  James exploded to his feet. “I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her.” He made for the door. No one hurt Ellen.

  She bolted in front of him, blocking the doorway. “You’ll do no such thing. Besides, you don’t care. You told me so yourself.” Her little booted toe tapped a beat against the floor.

  Amendment: no one hurt her except him. There—clear in her eyes—pain. Tears swam close to releasing, but she tipped her head toward the ceiling.

  A raw ache filled his chest. He wanted to promise her he loved her. More than that, he wanted to kiss her again. Feel her soft warmth in his arms. But such a line of thought would get him nowhere.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “Where’s Carter? He should be standing guard for you tonight.”

  Ellen suddenly became very interested in the patterns on the carpeting. “He’s with Priscilla now.”

  “He didn’t escort you tonight?”

  “No, I entered with my uncle.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, and then looked him in the eye. “James! I think my uncle is a spy.”

  “Mr. Danby? I can’t see that.” An image of Ellen’s rotund uncle sneaking out onto window sills made James stifle a laugh.

  Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “My aunt said he goes on missions.”

  James groaned. “That could just be a term.”

  “Maybe that’s why he threw you out.”

  “No. We both know that’s not the case.” He rubbed his jaw.

  “James, are you working with the Tabor Detective Agency? Is that who you spy for?”

  He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard they were bad.”

  “I don’t know anything about them.” James reached for her hands. “May I take off your gloves? I want to see how bad the bruises are.”

  He peeled the silky fabric from her skin. Angry red gashes came into vision and his stomach rolled. The sight solidified him. He had left her to prevent more of this sort of torture from happening. And he would continue to keep his distance. But even in that thought, he couldn’t help himself. He lifted her injured wrists to his lips and gave each wound a gentle kiss.

  For once, thankfully, she didn’t comment. Ellen slipped on her gloves and stepped into the hallway. He thought she would continue walking, but she glanced over her shoulder at him.

  “I know you don’t want me—like the way I want you to—but for tonight, can you stick close? I wouldn’t ask, but you’re the only person in the whole world I feel safe around.”

  James nodded.

  He’d follow her to the Klondike barefoot if she asked.

  ***

  With her chin in her hand, Ellen stared at the afternoon sunrays as they traced their way down the parlor’s wall.

  Uncle Garret hid behind his newspaper. “I saw you with that Kent boy last night.”

  �
��You said there would be no way for us to avoid each other in public.”

  “Seeing each other and running off alone together are two very different things.” He growled and his paper shook.

  Aunt Louisa bustled into the room, her hand aloft, waving envelopes. “Look at this. Not one, but three letters for you.” She fanned the correspondences out on the coffee table in front of Ellen.

  Despite the stern look Uncle Garret tossed her way, Ellen snatched the letters and jogged up the stairs to her bedroom. She recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately and tore that one open first. After reading the message, Ellen let the paper float to the floor.

  Her stepfather, Asa, and her mother would arrive at Union Depot to take her home to Wheaton on May sixth, but today was already the third. They planned to move west by the end of the month.

  Ellen wanted to fling herself across her bed, pound the pillows with her fist, and wail.

  Instead, she picked up the other letters. Who knew? Maybe someone else sent news that could raise her spirits.

  She broke the golden Hurst seal on the second.

  Miss Ingram,

  I feel I must write because you were clearly distraught by my nearness last night at the Goodwells’ fundraising dinner. You must understand that after your deplorable behavior the other day, I can no longer have any association with you. Besides that infraction, the Tabor detective discovered that your late father worked at the race-track stables. Even without your outburst, that is not an acceptable occupation.

  –C. F. Hurst

  Ellen balled up the letter. Might as well toss it in the kindling pile. “My father didn’t work in the stables—he owned them. Hire a better detective next time.”

  She didn’t recognize the scrawling on the last note. When she opened it, she looked at the name first: Iana.

  McCormick brought in non-union replacement laborers. The strikers are hopping mad. They are gathering outside the factory gates to harass the new workers when they leave. The mayor’s called for hundreds of policemen to protect them. It’ll be dangerous. I don’t think you should be there, but I promised I’d tell you. -Iana

  Ellen only had three more days to make a difference in Chicago before her mother wrenched her west.

  She snapped to her feet, tore off her dress, and dove under the bed for the loaned servant’s dress she’d worn on outings since her dip into Lake Michigan. After tugging the dirty clothing on, she dashed down the servant stairs and out the back door. She scooped up Iana’s large coat hidden behind the bush and ran toward the streetcar stop.

  ***

  Ellen stepped off the streetcar to a sight straight out of a war article. A line of policemen with their guns at-the-ready blockaded a crowd of yelling strikers. Anger hung palpable in the air.

  Thick smoke puffed from the three factory chimneys of the McCormick Harvesting Machine Company. Someone must be working inside.

  The back of the building sloped into a wharf off of Lake Michigan. Two of the other sides had railroad tracks, both with trains loading and unloading goods. With three sides of the factory blocked, there remained only one way out for the non-union laborers when the end of the day whistle blew.

  Wringing her hands, Ellen paced. The policemen prevented her from joining the strikers, but she wanted to find Iana and get her to safety. Ellen stood on her tip-toes, trying to see around the uniformed men. The smell of unwashed bodies carried on the wind.

  A man wearing a stiff-crowned hat with an upturned brim strolled alone along the fence. He had his coat draped over his arm as he patrolled.

  Ellen marched toward him. “Excuse me, sir?”

  He stopped. His eyes traveled from her feet to her neck, then to her feet again. He smiled. “Why, hello there.”

  “Do you work here? At the factory?” She jutted her chin toward the building.

  “Naw.” He rubbed his bread. “I’m a Tabor. The name’s Peter.”

  “Then you’re a detective.” Ellen stepped closer.

  Peter leaned against the fence. “Hired by McCormick. There’s a couple of us prowling the perimeter. Not that he doesn’t trust the police—let’s just say he wanted a little extra insurance.”

  “If you’re for McCormick why are you so willing to talk to me?”

  “”Cause, you aren’t a striker.” Peter shrugged.

  “Yes, I am. Look at my clothes.”

  “That’s how I know. You don’t hold yourself like a worker. You aren’t used to being told what to do. It’s in your eyes and the set of your chin. You’re just some middleclass girl looking for a story to tell.”

  Her throat went dry. “How could you know that?”

  He tapped his forehead. “Right here. It’s what I’m paid to do, after all. Now, if I were you, I’d skedaddle out of here before that whistle blows.”

  As he spoke the shrill signal blew.

  Within minutes, the non-union workers were ushered out of the building by a group of burly men who must have been managers. The men walked the stream of shuffling people to the gate. The one who appeared to be the leader fished a key from his pocket.

  “Step aside!” he bellowed.

  The crowd of strikers parted, but they tossed insults at the non-union labors.

  “You’re filth! Taking our jobs.”

  “You good as stole food from my children. If they starve tonight, it’s upon your heads.”

  “Dogs. Cowardly dogs. You spent the day bowing to the masters.”

  The non-union laborers kept their chins to their chests. Their clothes were more tattered than the ones the strikers wore.

  Ellen stomped her foot. “Stop! Leave them be. You’ll only get yourselves into trouble.”

  Peter stood beside her. “Save your breath. It’s too loud. They can’t hear you.”

  As the non-union workers filed through the gateway, the strikers surged forward and hurled more insults. Then someone in the crowd picked up a stone and sent it flying. The rock struck a worker. He cried out.

  The police rushed forward. They cocked their guns and shoved a group of strikers into the mud. Other strikers jostled forward and swung at the cops. To Ellen’s horror, the police opened fire on the crowd.

  Shots rang out. A scream ripped through the air. Some people dove to the ground and covered their heads. Others took off running.

  Ellen froze—her hand over her face so that she peeked at the mayhem between her fingers.

  Peter seized her arm and towed her backwards. He placed his body between her and the gunfire.

  “I have a wagon waiting in case of an emergency around the side here.” He pressed his mouth close to her ear.

  More shots, punctuated by screams.

  Peter held out his hand. She grabbed it and they ran along the edge of the fence, away from the fighting mass of people behind them. The wagon came into view, and Ellen stopped to catch her breath. Peter wrapped his arm around her waist and propelled her forward.

  He lifted her onto the bench, then scrambled up beside her. When he made a clicking sound with his tongue, the horse shook its mane and started walking. Peter snapped the reins and forced the horse to a trot.

  After they were four blocks away from the factory, Peter let loose a long whistle. “My, that was a close call.”

  Ellen palmed the moisture off her cheeks. “What about all those people. I saw young children in the crowd.”

  “You can’t think about them. They chose to strike. They knew the dangers involved. They knew the city would send a large force to deal with them. I figure there were about four hundred officers there, would you say so?”

  Ellen shrugged.

  “Believe me—they’re not worth fretting over. Especially when they showed up today, knowing McCormick had reopened the plant and brought in scabs.”

  “Scabs?” She’d experienced her share of skinned knees growing up, but had always considered scab a disgusting word.

  “Replacement workers. They’re cheap. It’s a quick fix to a bigger problem, b
ut they cover it for the time being. Scabs.” He turned down a side street. “Now where to?”

  She rattled off her aunt’s address, and he claimed to be familiar with the Danbys’ neighborhood.

  Peter elbowed her. “Are you shell-shocked?”

  Trying to will away the images of people falling to the ground, Ellen blinked. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m terrified that people are injured back there.”

  “Injured?” He laughed. “I’m sure they’ll find some dead bodies. Those people are no good, but I can’t complain. Their plight gives me a stable job.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Why? If the world was hunky-dory and people were all honest, hard-working, and trusted each other, well, there’d be no reason for detectives to exist. Who would I investigate if no one did anything wrong? These troubles between the factory owners and the working class, it may sound trite, but it pays my bills.”

  Ellen crossed her arms.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I want to see an end. I don’t want anyone else hurt. And when this is done, there’ll be another problem I’ll be hired to help with.”

  He pulled the reins, halting the carriage in front of her aunt’s home.

  “Thank you for the ride, sir.” She climbed down without his assistance even though her knees shook from the events she’d witnessed.

  “Now, take this.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you need anything—anything at all—or if you think of a way I can help bring an end to the striking, you just send word to me. All right?”

  She rubbed her thumb over the dog-eared card. “I will.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Chicago, Present Day

  Whitney examined the three decorative belts her friend had lent her. She grabbed the sparkling metallic one and clipped it over the imperial blue maxi dress she wore.