The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  “Have some more lemonade,” said Elizabeth, motioning to the very young, dark-skinned maid who hovered shyly at my elbow. “I wish it were chilled white wine, but Mother doesn’t approve of alcoholic beverages on a Sunday.”

  “I certainly do not,” said Mrs. Parnell, looking over the spectacles she had donned to read a respectable-looking volume of sermons. She didn’t seem to be getting on fast with them—she hadn’t turned a page in an hour. “And you know very well Mrs. Lillington doesn’t drink—most commendable.” She nodded at me in a friendly way.

  Mrs. Parnell appeared to have decided that I was a repentant sinner and thus quite fit for society. She had cheerfully introduced me to several women at her church that morning. They seemed to regard Mrs. Parnell as an authority as to who was socially acceptable. They had immediately pressed me to let them know when I, my delightful little girl, and my companion could join them in such summer pursuits as bathing in the lake and indulging in the exciting new game of lawn tennis, which was threatening to become all the rage in Lake Forest. I put them off as best I could, promising to write to all of them when my other social engagements allowed. I left suspecting that Mrs. Parnell had informed them of my wealth and that this was to be the social glue that bound them to my side.

  Elizabeth stretched and yawned in a way guaranteed to make her mother wince—which it did. “Well, I like to take a drink of wine,” she said. “And she does, given the chance.” She winked at me.

  “She is the cat’s mother.” Mrs. Parnell’s tone was reproving but her blue eyes twinkled.

  “I beg your pardon, Mother. Nell, can you see how in favor I am now that I’ve promised to play the part of the passive little woman and wait for Mr. Fletcher to woo me? Mother pretends to be cross with me, but she’s secretly delighted I’ve landed a potential husband. If he asks me, that is.”

  “Impudence,” Mrs. Parnell said, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Who wouldn’t want to ask for your hand, my pretty Elizabeth? And yet I admire the young man’s scruples about waiting for his promotion before he approaches your father.”

  “Scruples,” groaned Elizabeth. “It sounds so very boring.”

  “You think Mr. Fletcher’s boring?” I teased her.

  “I think he’s—” She rolled her eyes dramatically and laid a hand on her heart. “But I’m still a Feminist. Which reminds me—” She reached for the bag beside her, withdrawing a sheaf of papers.

  Mrs. Parnell gave up the pretense of reading and removed her spectacles. “I suppose we must get the latest lecture over while little Sarah is out of earshot. I don’t want you to corrupt her.”

  “Perhaps you should send Betsey away too.” Elizabeth motioned with her head at the little maid. “Although, Betsey, you should listen hard. You’re a free woman, after all, and the future is as much yours as Sarah’s.”

  “Yes’m.” Betsey looked as if she’d rather be playing with Sarah, but her training held and she hastened to refill Mrs. Parnell’s glass. Twenty feet away from us sat Miss Baker and my lady’s maid, Alice. Miss Baker was talking fast, and I wondered if Alice was also getting a lecture on women’s rights. Elizabeth thought Miss Baker was a wonderfully progressive woman.

  “So what’s the latest startling notion about the iniquities done to our sex?” Mrs. Parnell asked. “I suspect this is about the women’s franchise again.”

  “And much more.” Elizabeth grinned at me. “A pink dress and a highly conventional suitor do not a submissive little wife make.” She looked complacently down at her dress, a light but graceful confection of pink cotton covered with white gauze.

  “Don’t come crying to me when Mr. Fletcher casts you off as an unrepentant virago,” said her mother. “Well, out with it.”

  Elizabeth straightened up and gathered her audience’s attention with a regal sweep of her head. “The Declaration of the Rights of Women of the United States,” she intoned. “Presented by Mrs. Susan B. Anthony herself at the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition, on the occasion of our nation’s birthday last month. I wish I’d been there.”

  “God forbid,” murmured Mrs. Parnell. Elizabeth ignored her.

  “Listen to this, Mother,” she said. “‘The history of our country the past hundred years has been a series of assumptions and usurpations of power over a woman, in direct opposition to the principles of just government acknowledged by the United States at its foundation.’ And it goes on to give examples.” She flapped the papers she held at me. “Do you know, Nell, that we have fewer rights now under the Constitution than we had when our nation was founded one hundred years ago?”

  Mrs. Parnell sniffed. “Rights. There’s a difference between the rights we may or may not hold and the reality. Your dear father is the titular head of the household, of course. But the powers he thinks he has are illusory.”

  I stifled a snort of laughter. I had met Mr. Parnell that morning. He was both tall and large, dwarfing his wife and even making Elizabeth look petite. Yet there had been no doubt that he deferred to his wife’s opinion in all things except his business. Not that he seemed at all henpecked or even faintly bothered by Mrs. Parnell’s assumption of authority. He had listened to her opinions with perfect equanimity, and after luncheon had simply said, “Well, my dears, you’ll see me at the usual time,” before disappearing from view.

  “Mother,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “Listen, Nell. ‘The marital rights of the husband being in all cases primary, and the rights of the woman secondary.’ That’s in a clause explaining that a husband can keep his wife unjustly imprisoned with impunity. Imagine it. And yet so many young women run into marriage as lightly as they would go to a party. And see here.” She waved the papers under my nose. “Mrs. Anthony condemns the absence of women from juries—even when it’s a woman on trial.”

  I frowned. “So long as the jurors are just and true to their task, does it matter if they’re male or female?”

  “How can a man fairly judge a woman?” Elizabeth snorted in derision.

  Mrs. Parnell’s eyes gleamed. “If you are at all susceptible to the wooing of Mr. Fletcher, my dear, you had better accept that some men possess an iota of intelligence. If you do not, perhaps you are better off a spinster.”

  Elizabeth’s round cheeks, already reddened by the heat, flushed a deeper hue. “I’m talking about men in the generality.”

  “The problem is, my precious, we only marry one of them at a time.”

  “Honestly, Mother, you’re quite impossible. Don’t you want women to have an equal status with men?”

  Mrs. Parnell’s intelligent face assumed a thoughtful expression. “I’ll admit we seem to have steered into a most backward course, legislatively speaking. Those who do not have a good, provident, kind husband like your father have few options for freeing themselves. But then a man with a faithless and dissolute wife has little recourse either.” She glanced briefly at me as she spoke, and I wondered just how much she knew—or surmised—about Martin.

  “I could never countenance any man—or woman—acting outside their legal means of freeing themselves,” I said, more in answer to her implication than to her statement.

  “No, I don’t think you could,” said Mrs. Parnell softly, and it was as if some kind of understanding passed between us.

  “‘Universal Manhood Suffrage,’” read Elizabeth, “‘by establishing an aristocracy of sex, imposes upon the women of this nation a more absolute and cruel despotism than monarchy; in that woman finds a political master in her father, husband, brother, son. The aristocracies of the old world are based upon birth, wealth, refinement, education, nobility, brave deeds of chivalry; in this nation, on sex alone; exalting brute force above moral power, vice above virtue, ignorance above education, and the son above the mother who bore him.’”

  The arrival of Sarah and Tess prevented Elizabeth from reading more. I jumped up and began arranging cushions against the nearest tree, fussing over Tess, whose color wasn’t good. The Parnells had a house on a lo
ng, narrow lot that gave onto a park bordering the bluff, and the breeze was pleasant. Beyond the park, the lake looked blue and smiling in a way it rarely did in Chicago.

  The change in activity gave me time to think, and I needed it. The words Elizabeth had read out reminded me sharply of the absolute helplessness I had found myself prey to when I was a disgraced girl. My stand against marriage had put me more firmly into the power of my stepfather, Hiram.

  Cruel despotism indeed—and it had almost cost Sarah and me our lives. Yet wasn’t I contemplating making Martin my despot? Because if—when—he asked me, I didn’t see how I could possibly refuse him. It shocked me, at times, to realize how much I ached for the very thing I’d sought to avoid when I was young. I was morally certain that Elizabeth, despite her progressive views, would accept David’s offer of marriage. Did she feel the same visceral pull as I did, the yearning for a mate—the thing that the world called Love, and which seemed to override all other considerations?

  “Walk with me, Nell.” Elizabeth had also risen and looped her arm through mine. “I haven’t had nearly enough exercise.” And she tugged me in the direction of the park, leaving no opportunity for anyone else to accompany us.

  “Stop looking so worried,” she said as soon as we were far enough away from the house. “Mr. Rutherford will come back.”

  We had spent some time the previous evening discussing the fact that Martin was absent from the store and had been for about four days. Worse, Joe was gone too, leaving me to conjure up frightening reasons why the two of them should need to leave the store at the same time. The staff had remarked upon such an unusual practice. I’d received no word from either of them, and yes, I was worried. Furthermore, I had deliberately kept information from them—an omission that might, I didn’t know how, put them in danger.

  “Love is a highly complicated business.” I looked to where Tess and Sarah sat together under the tree, now reading a book. “Especially where marriage is concerned. Marriage affects more than just two people—it affects society.”

  “Exactly, O wise one.” Elizabeth raised her hands in ironic mockery. “Which is why Free Love is such a good idea. But I suppose if David won’t hear of it, I’ll have to give up on the notion.” She paused for a moment and looked at me from under her lashes. “Though I’m sorry to delay the opportunity to find out about—you know—it.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting expert advice from me,” I said.

  “I asked Frances.” Elizabeth’s tone was thoughtful. “She said it was utterly enjoyable—except, of course, for the constant worry about starting a baby. She gave me the most interesting description.” She looked into my face. “What was it like for you?”

  “Brief and unsatisfactory,” I said in a discouraging tone. I had no intention of discussing Jack. I wished I’d heard Elizabeth’s sister’s interesting description.

  “And yet you wish to—well, you would again, wouldn’t you? With Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Yes. Can we change the subject?” I was warm enough already and didn’t need to think about Martin that way.

  We were about ten feet from the edge of the bluff, and Elizabeth flung her arms out to receive the full effect of the breeze.

  “Blast courtship,” she cried out, her words swept back from the lake by the wind. “I feel as if I’m going to have to wait forever.”

  You, I thought, are not the one whose putative mate is proposing to abandon you for the entire winter.

  33

  G

  The Parnells’ driver took me to the station at Highland Park in time for the first train at six in the morning, so I was at the store by more or less my usual time. Naturally, the first thing I did was to go to the third floor. The relief that coursed through me when I heard Martin’s and Joe’s voices coming from Joe’s office made me quite weak at the knees.

  “Where were you?” I barely gave Joe time to respond to my knock. “Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?”

  Martin was seated in the chair that would normally have been Joe’s so that he could look over the ledger in front of him. Joe sat beside him, although both men stood when I entered the room. A look passed between them.

  “I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I’ve become so accustomed to not contacting you, for your own protection from the press, that I couldn’t bring myself to risk it. Especially after you came to my rooms. You’ve been taking a lot of chances.”

  “I’m rather tired of avoiding risks.” I sat down and waited till both men had reseated themselves. Despite Crabb’s instructions, and despite—or perhaps because of—Martin’s discretion, I had resolved to act openly myself. My worry over Martin’s absence had brought me to a decision. The time for secrecy was past, and I had things to tell.

  “Crabb knows my real name,” I said. “He followed me to the Grand Pacific, saw me with Joe, and put two and two together. So there may not be any point in trying to protect my good name anymore.”

  “Has he contacted you since that day?” Martin looked concerned, but not overly so.

  “No.”

  “I’ve been through my private mail already, and there was nothing from him in there either,” Martin said to both Joe and me. “It could be that he’s decided not to act, for reasons of his own.”

  “Or he’s waiting for the right opportunity.”

  “He followed you?” Joe asked. At my nod, he looked at Martin. “You were right—we need to arrange for some protection for Nell. Not that we think Crabb’s a particular danger,” he added hurriedly, seeing my face. “From everything we’ve found out about him, his main interest appears to be to make himself money. But still—I can’t countenance the thought of someone following you. I’ll speak to Pinkerton’s.” He pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few words.

  “Are you going to tell me what you were doing, or leave the matter to my imagination?” I asked Martin. “Because, believe me, I have been imagining things. All sorts of things.”

  For some reason, that made Martin smile—which made me feel embarrassed. But he spoke steadily.

  “We went in search of John Powell,” he said. “I told you I recognized the writing—I ought to. I realized whose it was when you had gone.”

  “So he was G?” I asked.

  “His Italian name is Giancarlo,” Martin said. “I wanted to ask him about it. It’s the only clue to anything out of the ordinary with Lucetta in the last few months.”

  No, it wasn’t. But I needed to hear what Martin had to say.

  “You don’t think he’s the murderer, do you?” I asked.

  Martin shrugged, but he looked uneasy. “It seems unlikely.”

  “He adored her, of course.” I sighed. “All the Gambarelli men adored her.”

  “And a little note with a compliment doesn’t make a man a murderer. It could just as easily have been that Powell flirted with Lucetta, and Gorton killed her in a rage. But that doesn’t seem likely either.”

  “Did the police ever interrogate Gorton?”

  “Why would they? He wasn’t a suspect. The people who knew he was Lucetta’s long-established lover are mostly in this room.” Joe’s tone was dry. “Don’t think we haven’t had the Pinkerton agents following him all around the city and inquiring into his bank account. He works hard, lives modestly for the most part, and sends money to his brother in Bordeaux. He meets with Crabb as regularly as clockwork, always at Gambarelli’s. He never sets foot inside a shady establishment, is never seen with a woman, and, in short, leads the most boring and regular life possible.”

  “John Powell, on the other hand—” Martin began.

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you simply ask Gorton for his version of events? Or tell the police about him so that he does become a suspect?”

  Martin and Joe looked at each other again. I rested my forehead on my hand.

  “Because your pride won’t allow you to admit publicly that you knew he was Lucetta’s lover and did nothing about it.” I groaned. “Men.�
�

  A flush tinged Martin’s cheekbones. “Not until we have some kind of evidence,” he said shortly. “And I don’t see what pride has to do with it.”

  “Don’t you?” I shook my head. “What were you saying about John Powell? Did you find him?”

  “No,” Joe said. “He was supposed to be in Salina, Kansas, working on clearing the land and getting the foundations dug for a new store. He wasn’t, and nobody knows where he is.”

  “We spoke to the foreman. He confirmed that Powell has been drinking himself into insensibility by the end of every day,” Martin added. “I know he’s mourning Lucetta, but this seems excessive, even for him.”

  We were all silent for a moment while I studied the two men. Finally, I said, “You do think he might be the murderer, don’t you?”

  “I think he may be a murderer, if not Lucetta’s,” said Martin, his face grave. “Do you remember I told you about a murder that took place in Jefferson City, a prostitute who was beaten to death? The man who was hanged for the crime went to the gallows protesting his innocence and specifically named me as the guilty party. If I hadn’t been able to prove I was in Kansas at the time, I might have had another murder charge hanging over my head. But I began to wonder if he didn’t mean me, the man—if, perhaps, he meant me, the corporation. The frontier stores are named FR Emporium, but their connection with me is well known. Everyone who deals with them tends to refer to them informally as Rutherford’s.”

  Martin delivered the latter part of this speech to his feet, in which he seemed to have taken a sudden violent interest. I could see from the set of his shoulders that the anger he sometimes had to fight to control was stealing over him. My heart plummeted to the level of my boots. But it was no good—the time to speak was now, and speak I must.

  My voice sounded small. “I’ve worked out a possible motive for the murder,” I said. “Something that might have made Powell—or even, perhaps, Gorton—sufficiently angry to kill Lucetta.”