The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  I had been half expecting her question, and had the figures to hand thanks to my morning’s work with Mr. Fletcher.

  “You have just over three thousand dollars,” I said. “That’s a great deal of money, but not enough income to live the way we do. At the moment, it’s producing around one hundred and fifty dollars a year, which is added back to the capital. I’ve not touched it for over two years since I had plenty enough for our joint expenses in Kansas.”

  Tess looked blank, as I’d expected she would. She loved her ledgers but had no real grasp of the value of money. “I suppose Mary would know if that was enough,” she said.

  “Enough for what?”

  “Mary says I should go and live with them. She needs help with her boys, and she says if I have money, they could find a bigger house and give Ma and Da more comforts. Only I’ll have to be a Catholic because Ma will want me to go to church with them and she won’t step foot in a Protestant church.” Tess gave me a level stare. “Mary says I should be with my real family because you don’t need me anymore. They’re grateful for the help you gave me, but I earned my money fair and square, and I should be able to do what I want with it. Mary says.”

  “Of course I need you.” I was sure I sounded as dismayed as I felt.

  “But we don’t work together anymore,” Tess said. “I liked it at the seminary when we were sewing things for the boys, and you did some work and I did other work. And sometimes I helped with your dresses, although you did most of that.”

  “I liked it too.” I was caught somewhere between exasperation and sorrow and barely knew how to express what was in my heart. The notion that Tess might want to leave me—leave us—had never crossed my mind before coming to Chicago. Since I had taken her from the Poor Farm to live with us, we had depended on each other. She needed my ability to order our lives and supervise her work while I depended on her for help with that work and raising Sarah.

  “What about Sarah?” I asked. “You’d be leaving her too, and you’re a second mother to her. Doesn’t she need you?” I had dropped my voice—we were in Tess’s bedroom, and I was fairly sure Sarah couldn’t hear us, but her young ears were sharp.

  The corners of Tess’s mouth turned down. “I’d miss Sary,” she admitted. “But Sary’s a little girl now, and when she gets bigger, she may not need me either. Although she’s not as much work as Mary’s boys. They’re awful noisy. They run up and down the stairs until Mary tells them to go outside and not show their faces till dinner. And one of them will be sure to rip something or cut their arms or legs or get a great bruise on their head. They’re little imps, so they are.”

  In other circumstances, I might have been amused at Tess’s imitation of her family’s slight brogue. But there was nothing amusing about the prospect of Tess leaving us. Quite apart from anything else, I would be worried for her health if she were to spend her days looking after Mary’s house and children—Tess tired easily. And yet the enforced idleness of a lady didn’t suit her either, no more than it suited me. No wonder we were at odds with each other. And far more than I did, Tess needed stability and a place to belong.

  “Must you make a decision just yet?” I asked.

  “Oh no, not at all.” Tess suddenly sounded far more like her usual self. “I told Mary and Aileen that I would have to think very carefully.” She frowned. “And I don’t really want to have to be a Catholic. I like worshipping God the way I do already.”

  “Please don’t be hasty. You’re the best friend I have in the world. Elizabeth isn’t going to replace you.” I found the reticule I had sewn to match Tess’s dress and handed it to her with a glance at the small clock on her bedroom mantelpiece. “We’d better go down to dinner. I’ll fetch Sarah.”

  The corners of Tess’s mouth compressed into an expression that was half-rueful, half-apologetic. “I’ll get her,” she said. “And I’ll make sure she uses the lavatory and washes her hands and face again before she goes downstairs.”

  She walked to the door and then looked at me over her shoulder.

  “You don’t have to feel bad about asking me to look after Sary. I was cross with you when I said that.”

  I heard her call for Sarah, and I crossed to her mirror to make sure my hair was in place. Tess had said I looked very pretty. Well, I had to admit, Alice was able to achieve a far more elegant effect with my hair than I ever could. She had tamed my rebellious curls into smooth reddish-bronze waves, caught up at the back by a large enameled comb onto which she had attached pale green silk flowers to match my dress. A cascade of silken ringlets fell from the comb down below my shoulders, gleaming with vitality. For the first time in my life, I rather liked my hair.

  But the moment of vanity—of normal thought—passed as quickly as it came, and the eyes reflected back to me by the mirror were shadowed. What did my hair matter if Martin couldn’t see it?

  Mr. Fletcher’s visit had been prompted by the possibility that Martin might not be able to oversee my finances. The implications of his assumption were only gradually dawning on me. I had arrived in Chicago torn by the desire to be with Martin and the necessity of leaving him, but at least the future had seemed full of possibilities. Now I felt rudderless, a small boat in a stormy sea, and I had absolutely no idea what to do.

  13

  Rutherford’s

  “So you’ve seen Rutherford’s at last.” Elizabeth nodded her thanks to the smartly uniformed waitress. We were sitting in Rutherford’s tea room, a harmonious, intimate space of soothing blues and greens that appeared to be highly popular with a very elegant set of ladies. There were gentlemen too, in morning suits and silk hats, and that surprised me. I said so to Elizabeth.

  “Men are not entirely banished from Rutherford’s.” Dimples appeared in Elizabeth’s rounded cheeks. “They are positively encouraged to linger while their wives roam the store. Do you see that door over there? It leads to a short corridor with a thick baize door at the end. Beyond that is a smoking room and gentleman’s retiring room. The whole thing is arranged so that not one wisp of smoke finds its way into the store itself. Did you know that Mr. Rutherford will not employ clerks who smoke because the odor lingers on their fingers?”

  “I hadn’t known that.” I smiled. “But it sounds like Martin. He’s not given to vices.”

  A pang much like grief went through me, as it so often did when I spoke or thought of Martin’s life as it had been before Lucetta’s murder. He had been in prison for five days, and I had heard nothing of him. The papers had reported that Lucetta’s body had been released into her family’s care. She would be buried in a family plot in Wilmette, next to the mother who had died when Lucetta was a child. After my futile attempt to do something on the day of Martin's arrest, I was determined to follow his instructions and keep away, but I was in a ferment of worry and impatience. To be sitting here, in his store, sipping coffee and pretending to be unconcerned—

  “Stop that.” Elizabeth’s voice broke in on my thoughts. “He’s probably safer in jail than he would be out here anyway. I’ve been hearing rumors about the Gambarelli brothers over the last couple of days—”

  “What kind of rumors?” My heart gave a lurch.

  “They have a reputation,” Elizabeth said carefully, her eyes on my face, “for being involved somehow in the underworld. People are afraid of them.”

  “Afraid? You don’t think they could have killed Mrs. Rutherford, do you?” As soon as I said it, I knew it was a ridiculous idea. Besides, hadn’t we been talking to Alessandro Gambarelli at just about the very moment Lucetta was killed? The thought made me shudder.

  “By all accounts, every man in the Gambarelli family worshipped at Mrs. Rutherford’s feet,” said Elizabeth. “If anything, I think her killer should be most afraid. They’re Sicilian after all, and unless it’s a myth that their race pursues vengeance to their last breath . . .” She shrugged expressively.

  I didn’t at all like what she was suggesting. “You don’t mean that Martin would have
cause to fear his brothers-in-law?”

  “I mean that if Mr. Rutherford did murder his wife, hanging would be a better end.”

  I pushed back the small chair on which I’d been sitting so hard that it fell backward as I rose to my feet. “This conversation is at an end,” I said icily. “And our acquaintance too—”

  “Nell.” Elizabeth held up her hands. “This isn’t my opinion I’m recounting to you, it’s the world’s. I thought it would be better for you to hear it from me, and you should know I’m not good at hiding things.”

  “Thank you,” I said automatically to the gentleman behind me who had picked up my chair. “Elizabeth, a little tact—”

  “Given the circumstances,” said a familiar voice behind me. “I beg your pardon for intruding, Mrs. Lillington.”

  It was, of all people, Mr. Fletcher of Briggs Bank.

  I probably sounded as surprised as I felt. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,” I said. Indeed, I’d gained the impression that Mr. Fletcher was a bachelor.

  “I would have,” said Elizabeth. “I invited him. Mr. Fletcher, would you be a dear and walk around a little while I finish my conversation with Mrs. Lillington?”

  Mr. Fletcher complied with a wry smile, and as soon as he had left the tearoom, I rounded on Elizabeth.

  “You invited him here? Elizabeth, are you mad? One does not invite—”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks dimpled. “Oh, Nell, you’re not going to be a bore, are you? It’s perfectly delicious to do something shocking. Mr. Fletcher was shocked, but I explained I would be in the company of a respectable widow—that’s you, leaving aside the unrespectable bits, which are nobody’s business, really—who was well enough acquainted with him to make our meeting quite acceptable.”

  “If you were going to cast me in the role of go-between, you might have asked me first,” I said. “I would have said no. Couldn’t you have thought of a way to meet Mr. Fletcher that didn’t involve me?”

  “To be honest, no,” said Elizabeth. “I did give the matter quite a lot of consideration.”

  I put a hand to my forehead. “What will he think of me?”

  “Nothing at all,” replied Elizabeth. “He knows perfectly well this is my idea. Are you appalled?”

  “I am, rather. I could see that you liked Mr. Fletcher, but I didn’t imagine you’d gone so far as to see him as a prospective husband.”

  “Who said anything about marriage?”

  It took some considerable persuasion on Elizabeth’s part for me to do what she wanted, which was to wait until Mr. Fletcher returned and then make an excuse to leave the two of them together for a few minutes. Had it not been such a public place, I would never have complied, and I said so after I’d returned to our table and Mr. Fletcher had taken his leave.

  “It’s fortunate for you that he’s clearly the steady type,” I said. “Do you think he was fooled by your subterfuge?”

  “I don’t think he’s fooled by anything. That’s why I like him—he has such an air of confidence combined with modesty. Confident men are usually arrogant, and modest men are usually timid. Mr. Fletcher is neither arrogant nor timid.”

  “And what on earth did you mean, that you weren’t thinking of marriage?” I felt I was beginning to sound like Mrs. Parnell, but in truth, Elizabeth’s carelessness of her reputation worried me. I had been like that myself once, so I had good reason to be worried.

  “I’m thinking of seduction.” Elizabeth leaned in close to me and dropped her voice to a whisper. “If one is to espouse a principle, one must be prepared to carry it out. And I have thoroughly espoused the principles of Free Love.”

  “Merciful heaven.” I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, dumbfounded. “You’re thinking of enticing him—Elizabeth, supposing there’s a child? Believe me, much as I love Sarah, I don’t recommend the consequences of bearing a child out of wedlock. You’ll be forsaking the company of respectable people—of your own class—your family—forever.”

  “You’re still received by respectable people,” said Elizabeth shortly. “Besides, there are ways to avoid children. My sister has sent me her useful little book.”

  “For heaven’s sake—”

  “I really don’t see why you’re so against the idea,” Elizabeth said. “I gained the distinct impression that you were no more keen to put yourself into the hands of a man, financially and practically speaking, than I was.”

  “Look.” I leaned forward in my chair. “You have no idea just how you put yourself into people’s power by making them—well, morally superior to you. Because of Sarah, because of what I did, I almost ended up in the clutches of a man who would have held me in utter bondage for the rest of my life. Who would probably have sent Sarah and Tess away from me. Who offered me respectability in return for—well, just about everything I had. But I have a feeling I wouldn’t have liked it. Why would you do something that might make you miserable for the sake of a principle?”

  “Do you know how many mistresses there are in this town?” asked Elizabeth, her cheeks red. “Hundreds, probably thousands. There’s barely any rich man in Chicago who doesn’t have some kind of rumor attached to him. And behind every one of those men is a woman who has both love and freedom.”

  “But is it freedom? If I were sure of that, I’d choose it myself.”

  “I am sure. Free love is the future of mankind, Nell, and if you can’t see it, I can. It is my fixed intention to embark on the seduction of Mr. Fletcher, and you can’t dissuade me.”

  By the time Elizabeth and I gathered up our possessions and made our way to the door of the tearoom, my head was spinning. I understood one thing—Elizabeth was every bit as stubborn as I was despite her peaches-and-cream prettiness and open, insouciant way of speaking. At least, she was as stubborn as I’d been at sixteen, before I’d had Sarah and Tess to think of. Those responsibilities had taught me that my actions had consequences, often unintended. I had learned that circumspection, if boring, was sometimes necessary to avoid disaster.

  My own resolve was tested almost straightaway. As Elizabeth and I proceeded toward the main entrance, I spotted Mr. Salazar making his way toward us. My heart soared—this was exactly the person I’d been waiting to see. I had forced myself to remain discreet with regard to Martin, but the effort was killing me. If I didn’t have word of him soon, I’d not be able to stop myself from banging on the courtroom doors. Here, at least, was someone I could consult.

  “May I have a few minutes of your time?” Mr. Salazar asked.

  I looked at Elizabeth, who grinned. “It’s perfectly acceptable for a lady to walk one block down State Street without a chaperone, and I will avail myself of that glorious opportunity. You will have to do the same, Nell.”

  Mr. Salazar waited until Elizabeth had passed through the entrance doors before speaking. “Would you like to visit the silk department?” he asked formally.

  “I would indeed.” Elizabeth and I had made a brief tour of Rutherford’s sales floors, and I was longing to revisit them. I knew that there was far more to see. Several rooms were available to welcome women who had progressed beyond the mere idea to the reality of getting a dress made. Elizabeth said there were even parlors large enough to receive a whole group of women who could sit and encourage each other into ever greater excesses of expenditure, fueled by bonbons and ratafia if they wished.

  The silk department was at the center of the store—a huge, hexagonal room of simple white marble with a frieze that incorporated the Rutherford’s peacock feather motif. Bolts of silk were arranged by hue and weave, from the finest pale gauzes to heavy, sumptuous raw silk dyed in the colors of jewels—sapphire, emerald, ruby, and some shades not encountered in nature but somehow not at all gaudy. The effect was rich and overwhelming without losing one iota of elegance. In the center of the hexagon, a pedestal spilled out silks of all colors, which should have clashed but didn’t. The effect was to excite the eye rather than offend it, and I said so to Mr. Salazar.


  “Martin has built something quite extraordinary.” I looked toward the ceiling, where a row of windows set high up in the towering walls allowed in the sunlight without letting it touch the silks.

  “I’m glad you can see it. The designs of many of the rooms were Martin’s ideas—he relishes the possibilities of architecture.”

  “I’m not sure if I know the man who built all this.” It was a feeling that had been growing on me all day. I knew Martin’s past, I knew him as a friend, and I knew him as the love of my life. But looking at this incredible edifice, with its busy clerks, its skillful shopgirls, its promises of a wardrobe to suit any woman, its simple motto “Dress well”—this was a bolder and more confident Martin than anything I had known. “I’m not sure if I know this side of him at all.”

  “The showman? The palace-builder? The manufacturer of dreams?” Mr. Salazar smiled at me. “Perhaps you don’t. I’m not sure if Martin knew the extent of his abilities until he began putting them to the test.”

  “That was what he wanted to do.” I remembered him telling me back in Victory, before I left for Kansas, that he aspired to manliness, to risking all that he had in pursuit of his venture. He had done it—and was it to be taken from him?

  “Did you see . . . Mrs. Rutherford?” Somewhere in the building above our heads was the place where Lucetta had lain. When I had found the bodies of Johanna Mauer and her baby at the Poor Farm, there had been a stain like a shadow on the floor where they had lain for so long. Even after the floor was cleaned, the shadow worked its way up again. And now Martin’s marble palace also had a shadow on it, a history hidden behind a closed door, but never to be forgotten.

  “I did.”

  Something in Mr. Salazar’s tone of voice made me look up at him. “How bad was it?”

  “Bad enough. I served in the infantry during the war, and I’ve seen my fair share of butchery.” He looked sideways at me. “But I’ve never seen carnage dressed in silks and lace. She fought, Mrs. Lillington. Hard, and over a period of several minutes’ duration, if I’m any judge. She saw her death coming—she must have felt her life flowing out of her, even as she fought for it.” He shook his head. “No rational man could have thought Martin had done that if he’d seen the blood. There was blood only on Martin’s hands, and on the knees of his trousers where he’d knelt down. If he’d killed her, he would have been covered in it.”