by Jane Steen
“Momma, wait for us.” Sarah’s high voice sounded from behind me. “Why are you walking so fast?”
I turned and tried to smile, holding out my hand so that Sarah could run to me. “I guess I’m just in a hurry to eat. Aren’t you?”
“Your hand is sweaty, right through your glove.”
“Maybe I’m walking too fast.” I made a deliberate effort to proceed at a stately pace. “Aren’t I silly?”
The hotel was only a block away, but it seemed like the longest walk of my life. I could have sworn that the corner dome and Greek pediments of the Palmer House were moving away from us as we walked.
At last, we reached the Ladies’ Entrance, and I stood back to let Tess and Sarah precede me, nodding at the smiling doorman.
“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth spoke into my ear, grasping my upper arm to stop me from entering the building. I stepped back from the door, motioning to the doorman to shut it.
“Please don’t ask me. Not just yet. And not in front of Sarah.”
Elizabeth gave me a hard stare. “Very well. We’d better go in—they’re waiting for us. But you have to explain soon.”
It was pure agony to sit down and try to make conversation when I felt like I wanted to scream. I sipped a little water and tried a bite of the luncheon I’d ordered. The water I could stomach, but the food tasted like ashes in my mouth, and I abandoned it after one bite. Thank heaven for Elizabeth, who kept the flow of conversation going so I could sit silently and brood over Martin.
But there was no fooling Tess. “Is something wrong, Nell?” she asked after she’d satisfied her hunger. “You’re not eating. When you don’t eat, that means you’re upset.”
I shook my head at her, directing my eyes to Sarah. “I’m fine. I’m not upset.”
Tess opened her mouth to protest but shut it again with a glance at Elizabeth, who was distracting Sarah with a funny story about a puppy one of her brothers had owned. She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes.
“Yes, you are,” she hissed in her loud version of a whisper. “I can see Miss Parnell knows. Why don’t you tell me?” She banged one small foot against the leg of her chair.
“I haven’t—I can’t—” I was babbling, not knowing what to answer, feeling perilously close to tears. “Tess, please don’t ask me.” I swallowed. “I haven’t said anything to Elizabeth—”
“Is that so?” Tess stuck out her lower lip. “Well, Elizabeth can put up with your moods today. I’m not going to.”
She wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood up, holding out a hand to Sarah. “Come on, Sary. Momma has secrets again. She won’t tell you and me, but she can tell her new friend all about it.” Sticking her small nose in the air, Tess marched away from us with my daughter in tow. Sarah was full and tired and didn’t protest.
I should have gone after Tess, but I couldn’t move. I stared at my plate, trying to summon up some strength.
“Nell.” Elizabeth’s voice cut into my thoughts. “It’s something to do with that scene at Rutherford’s, I’m sure. I wasn’t going to say it in front of Sarah, but I heard a man say—‘murderer.’” Her voice dropped to a low breath of sound. “Was somebody murdered? Was that Black Maria taking the murderer away?”
I fought for composure, setting my jaw so firmly that it hurt. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I couldn’t stop the tears. “They took Mar—Mr. Rutherford away. They said he murdered his wife. Elizabeth, what am I going to do?” I turned my back on the room and fumbled in my reticule for a handkerchief.
Elizabeth let out her breath in a great rush. “So that’s what it was.” She frowned. “What do you mean, what are you going to do? There’s nothing you can do except pray, I suppose, if you’re the praying kind. If Mr. Rutherford didn’t murder his wife they’ll let him go free—or do you think he did?”
My despair gave way to instant fury, heat coursing through my veins. “How dare you even suggest he might have? Of course he didn’t.” My anger was all the more violent because of the sudden image of Martin’s white face as he hit Judah Poulton, blind with the desire to kill.
“Hush.” Elizabeth flapped her hand. “Do you want the entire room to hear you? I’m sorry for saying it. Mother says I have a knack for making precisely the remark I shouldn’t.”
“You said what everyone will say.” I sniffed and stared at the long windows, through which I could see the rain falling in sheets. “It’s what everyone will think. But I can’t think it.” Of course it wasn’t possible.
Elizabeth seemed about to reply when her face assumed an expression of mild curiosity. Turning round to look in the same direction, I saw a gentleman of slim build and medium height, very correctly dressed in top hat and frock coat, following with his eyes the direction in which a waiter was pointing—directly at me.
“I do believe there’s someone looking for you,” she murmured. “He looks familiar somehow.”
“Not to me. I’ve never seen him before in my life.” I stared at the gentleman, who was making his unhurried way through the groups of tables and chairs. He was definitely heading in our direction.
“Mrs. Lillington?” He reached our table and bowed. He removed his silk hat to reveal neatly dressed dark hair streaked lightly with gray. His face was thin with heavily lidded eyes and a strong, mobile mouth bracketed by two deep creases that deepened as he gave me the ghost of a smile.
“My name is Salazar,” he said as he held my hand for a moment. “You may know the name.”
“Oh, of course.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, gesturing with her hands. “You’re the general manager at—at Rutherford’s, aren’t you?” She suddenly became conscious of what she’d said. “You had a tragedy today—Mrs. Rutherford—” She swayed a little and grasped my hand. “Oh, Nell, it’s just come home to me. Lucetta Rutherford, dead? All that beauty, that voice—” She looked up at Mr. Salazar. “How did she die?” she asked, a grim expression on her face.
Mr. Salazar hesitated for a moment. “Her murderer . . . cut her throat,” he said finally. “You may as well know—it’ll be in this evening’s papers.”
“Dear God.” Elizabeth’s normally pink cheeks were pale, waxen-looking in the gaslight. “My sister knows her,” she said to Mr. Salazar.
“I’m sorry.” And he genuinely looked it.
I didn’t want to talk about Lucetta anymore. The only person on my mind was Martin.
“Where’s Mr. Rutherford?” I asked. “I must go see him immediately.”
“That’s precisely what he doesn’t want,” Mr. Salazar said, an expression of sympathy in his brown eyes.
And that, I realized, was precisely the answer I had already half-consciously anticipated. “Did he tell you that?”
“He wasn’t free to give me explicit instructions, but yes, his meaning was clear. When they arrested him, they emptied his pockets, but fortunately those were prison guards and not detectives. They made a note that he had a bundle of correspondence in one pocket, not noticing that most of the letters were from you.”
I felt a little dizzy. The phrase “cherchez la femme” sprang to my mind from the crime reports in the newspapers. I realized how close I had come to figuring prominently in a police investigation. “Did they keep them?” I asked.
Mr. Salazar seemed unable to repress a smile. “Martin asked if he could have the contents of his pockets back once they’d made a note of them. He shoved the bundle of letters at me and said, ‘Salazar, you’re going to have to deal with my mail. I want it made quite clear that I want no visitors except yourself. None at all.’ He knew I’d understand. I’ve already made a memorandum of the private correspondence on his desk, with the exception of your letters, should a more astute policeman ask me about it.”
I could see Elizabeth watching me closely, but she kept silent. She, undoubtedly, would be more intelligent than a prison guard, and I wasn’t at all sure how I could answer her questions. But this was not the matter uppermost in my mind.
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��Where is he?” I asked. “If you can’t tell me, Mr. Salazar, I’ll have to make inquiries. And it will be in the newspapers later today anyway, I suppose.”
Mr. Salazar’s shoulders slumped, and I almost felt sorry for the man. “They took him to the county courthouse,” he said. “On Hubbard Street, north of the river.” He looked anguished. “He’ll be in the jail behind the courthouse by now, I’m sure. You won’t be able to see him.”
“I have to do something. And the rain’s easing.”
“You’ll have to take a carriage,” suggested Elizabeth. “How far is it?”
“Nine or ten blocks via the LaSalle Street Tunnel.” Mr. Salazar swallowed hard. “But you can’t possibly turn up at the courthouse in a carriage. It’s swarming with journalists, and any attempt to see Martin will draw attention to you. Can’t you see that’s what he doesn’t want?”
I could feel my nails digging into my palms as I balled my fists. “But I have to go.”
“Can’t you take her?” Elizabeth asked Mr. Salazar.
“I’m known to the press, and even coming here is a risky business. Please, Mrs. Lillington.”
Elizabeth clutched my arm. “Nell, if I walk there with you so that you can see the place, will that be enough?” She looked up at Mr. Salazar. “We won’t do anything to draw attention to ourselves.”
He let out a groan. “Martin will be furious if he finds out.”
“So don’t tell him.”
I had to return to our rooms to refresh myself before the journey, and that meant encountering Tess’s reproving glare. But explanations would have taken time, so I merely did what I needed to do and was back in the lobby ten minutes later to meet Elizabeth.
She was silent as we headed along Monroe Street and turned north onto LaSalle. I was a fast walker—especially in the circumstances—yet Elizabeth easily matched my steps. But as we neared the entrance to the river tunnel, she grasped my arm.
“Tell me what this is about. What, exactly, is Mr. Rutherford to you?”
“I told you. He’s an old friend of mine. I’ve known him since we were children.”
“That might explain why you’re as white as a sheet and ready to throw yourself into the path of the journalists. I should tell you that Chicago newspapermen are a hungry lot. If they catch a whiff of any possible scandal, they’ll invade the Palmer House and probably find their way into your rooms. Do you realize that? But it doesn’t explain why Mr. Salazar—and, clearly, Mr. Rutherford—are so eager to keep any connection between you and Mr. Rutherford out of the papers.”
She was silent for a few moments and then blurted out, “Mother doesn’t believe there’s a Mr. Lillington. Nell, before you get me entangled in this, I need to know—is Sarah Mr. Rutherford’s child?”
We were on the steep slope of the tunnel’s mouth, and I stopped so abruptly I nearly pitched forward. The man behind me said something very rude, and Elizabeth turned to glare at him before grabbing my arm and propelling me onward into the gaslit tunnel. She pulled me to the side so that the impatient man could go ahead of us.
“Well? I’d hate it if Mother was right yet again.”
“Sarah’s not Martin’s—Mr. Rutherford’s child.” I bit my lip. “But your mother is right—there was never a Mr. Lillington. I suppose that means you won’t be able to see me now.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Mother’s less of a prude than you’d think. She believes you may have been wronged. She doesn’t think you’re what she calls ‘that sort of woman.’ But this business with Mr. Rutherford may force her to change her mind, so I’m going to have to be severe with you. Is there anything improper between you?”
We were talking in whispers as the tunnel’s rounded walls made our voices echo alarmingly. I shook my head but felt a qualm. “I can’t help my feelings for Martin. But I won’t do anything wrong, for Sarah’s sake. And for mine. Yes, I was wronged—I suppose. And I did wrong. I was young and stupid, and I’ll not do anything of the sort again. I came to Chicago because it was the only place I knew to go to after Kansas—my time there had come to an end. I know I can’t stay here in Chicago forever, and Martin knows it too. He won’t wrong his wife either.” I swallowed hard. “If I hadn’t made my mistake, I suppose Martin and I might have married eventually. But it’s too late now.”
“That depends on how you look at it.” Elizabeth took my arm again as we climbed the slope out of the tunnel, blinking at the daylight, which seemed much brighter now. “He’s a widower, don’t forget.”
“That’s not funny.” I lengthened my stride, but Elizabeth kept hold of my arm.
“I’m not trying to be funny. If he’s innocent, and for your sake I hope he is, things may have changed considerably for you.”
“Or they might be ruined forever.”
“You don’t believe he did it, do you?”
I wished I could break into a run to get away from Elizabeth’s questions, which were altogether too like the ones my own mind was putting to itself. “No, I don’t.” I hoped I sounded certain. “I don’t believe Martin could kill any woman, let alone his wife.” That was the truth, and the realization that I really did think that made me feel better.
“But—and you’ll forgive me for being frank—from the way Mr. Salazar is behaving, there’s enough between the two of you to run the risk of making you the object of journalistic, and even detective, attention.”
I took a deep breath before replying. “Yes. At least there’s enough to give the impression that things are otherwise than they are. Martin’s afraid that people will come to the conclusion that I’m his mistress—which I’m not.”
“That’s quite a mess, my dear.” Elizabeth gave me a sympathetic glance before squinting shortsightedly at a street sign. “We’ll need to turn east when we reach Hubbard Street. We’re doubling back on ourselves a little, but the LaSalle Street Tunnel was the best way to go. And Mr. Salazar’s quite right. Making any attempt to see Mr. Rutherford would draw attention to you most unpleasantly.”
The fast walking had burned off some of the nervous energy that had made it impossible to stay in the hotel, and I was beginning to recover my senses. “You’re correct, of course, and for his sake I won’t try to see him. But—”
“But you need to know. Very well, we’ll pretend to be sightseers. There’ll be plenty of those.”
There were. A large crowd milled around the entrance of the huge courthouse building, a new-looking edifice of pale brick and stone with impressive rows of arched windows.
“I believe that’s the jail behind the courthouse,” Elizabeth said into my ear. “He’ll be in one building or the other. Try not to look too anxious. Pretend you’re here out of curiosity.”
She held my arm tight, forcing me to walk at a slow, ambling pace. Most of the people in the crowd wore dingy clothing, but here and there was a well-dressed lady or gentleman. Elizabeth kept well away from them. A large party of men with notebooks in their hands represented the gentlemen of the press. Not far away from them, a group of unpleasant-looking men stood silently watching the entrances to the buildings.
“See them?” A man standing near us nudged his wife, pointing to the silent men. “There’s trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? Harry, my feet hurt. Do we have to stay here?”
“I don’t suppose there’ll be much to see. Unless they bring him outside—that lot look like they’ll tear him to pieces.” The man called Harry nodded toward the group of men. “They do that on the frontier, I’ve heard. Grab the guilty parties and string ’em up—no need to bother with the judge.”
“He’s safer inside, then.” The woman gave a short, neighing laugh. “Just shows you, doesn’t it? These rich men aren’t so different.”
“Safer, all right. They search everyone who enters the jail, right down to the skin. Women too. And you have to write down who you are and what your business is.”
The woman shuddered. “Fancy searching women. That’s disgusting.”
; “Stands to reason.” Harry chewed on one end of his mustache. “A woman might have a bomb or a metal file hidden in her drawers.”
That remark made his wife break out into high, nervous laughter. The two of them moved away to get a better look at the courthouse, leaving me feeling thoroughly sick.
“We’d better go,” Elizabeth said into my ear.
“Five more minutes.” I stared at the jail building, wondering if Martin was somewhere in there looking out of one of the windows. Or was he in a windowless cell? It was horrible not knowing what was happening. I knew I should leave, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from where Martin must be, undergoing heaven only knew what indignities and discomforts.
“Your best hope is Mr. Salazar.” Elizabeth tugged at my sleeve. “He can legitimately gain access to Mr. Rutherford, can’t he? He was quite right, you can’t stay here. In fact, there’s almost nothing you can do.”
There wasn’t. All coming to the jail had done for me was demonstrate the futility of my situation. I couldn’t help Martin in any way, and my impulsivity might indeed harm his interests. Cherchez la femme—if the police found out that Martin was in love with me, wouldn’t that provide a clear motive for murder? The best thing I could do for Martin was to behave as if nothing had happened.
“Let’s go away.” Defeated, I turned my back on the massive building, feeling my shoulders slump. We had walked almost all day, and my feet were beginning to ache. I was hollow inside—quite literally, as it was several hours since I’d eaten.
“If Sarah’s illegitimate,” Elizabeth began after we’d walked in silence for several minutes, “you’d better not put her into a school. Some kind of nursemaid or governess for her might be a good idea though. You already have plenty to think about.”
I nodded, knowing she meant it kindly, but despair surged through me. I could hardly leave Chicago now, with Martin in jail. But staying in Chicago would mean staying in the shadows for the time being, at least until I knew what was going to happen. The more people I met, the more I would have to explain myself, so society was effectively barred to me. Besides, society was full of sharp-eyed, skeptical Mrs. Parnells, wasn’t it? I would have to tread very carefully.