The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  The temporary store wasn’t so bad either. “Does Madame approve?” I asked Joe, turning to gaze at the mahogany trim and window frames, beyond which passersby and carriages could be seen through somewhat dirty windows.

  “She has given her benediction,” said Joe gravely.

  “Certainly, those fourth floor windows are nice and large for the workroom, although the afternoons will be a trial once the summer comes. Still, it’ll have to do until Martin rebuilds. You’re quite sure he’s going to rebuild, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think he hesitated for a moment. He sent me yet another telegram today about a consignment from Paris. He’s stopped worrying about you, at least. Or shall we say, he’s stopped asking about you quite so often.”

  “Is Mr. Field charging us an exorbitant rent?”

  “He’s charging a fair commercial rent. I wouldn’t expect any less of a New Englander. But all the dry goods merchants know the risk of fire, and a helping hand lent now will be repaid when Field needs it.”

  Joe finished his pacing and scribbled some more. “The cabinet-makers will be here this afternoon,” he said. “The mahogany’s coming by train tomorrow. Once we’ve got a date for the opening, I’ll put every man and woman without a truly solid excuse on fourteen-hour days to get the place ready. Of course, we can proceed with made-to-measure without worrying about the premises. We’ll keep your departments on Michigan Avenue until everything’s ready for you.”

  “Rebirth.” I watched the street outside, imagining the doors flung wide to receive our customers again.

  “By the time Martin returns, we should have already counted the first few days’ takings in the ready-made departments.” Joe’s dark eyes gleamed with enthusiasm.

  “By the time Martin returns—you know when that’ll be, then?” I could feel my pulse quicken.

  “At this time of year, much depends on the storms and ice in the Atlantic. The Germanic’s scheduled sailing is on April the fifth, but there could be delays.”

  He blew into his fingers to warm them. The unheated building was as cold as an icebox, and I was glad of my fur muff and matching hat.

  “So we’ll definitely be in operation? I’d like him to see the store open and busy, with ‘Rutherford & Co.’ over the door.”

  “Don’t worry. It will be.” But Joe had stopped writing, regarding me with the strangest look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I asked Martin if I could tell you, since any letter he writes would reach you well after the fact.” Joe came toward me, putting a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. But Martin’s decided on a change—or at least, he’s decided to go ahead with a change he and Mr. Fassbinder have been talking about for some time.”

  “A change? Joe, don’t beat around the bush. Just tell me straight.” I was half-amused, half-alarmed. Joe’s face was lit from within, and I could tell that the change, whatever it was, was no small one.

  Joe put his notebook and pencil in the pocket of his overcoat and took a deep breath. “The sign will still say ‘Rutherford & Co.’ You know, don’t you, that Mr. Fassbinder is the ‘& Co.,’ only they thought Martin’s name alone would look best.”

  “Yes, I know. And?”

  A wide grin bisected Joe’s narrow face. “The sign will stay the same, but the company’s name will change very soon. To ‘Rutherford, Fassbinder, Lillington—and Salazar.’”

  It took me a moment to comprehend. “Lillington and Salazar? But that means—”

  “Yes.” Joe was still grinning. “Martin’s proposal is to increase your share, taking a little out of his. He’ll still be the largest shareholder, but he could, in theory, be outvoted. Friedrich Fassbinder is willing to sell a portion of his holding to me under an installment agreement. That would make me a junior partner.”

  I flew to Joe and hugged him tight. “Oh, Joe!” My eyes had filled with tears, and I had to sniff hard. “You deserve it. You’ve been the most loyal, trustworthy, wonderful friend Martin could have wished for through all of those dark days.”

  Joe pushed me gently away from him. “Thank you. But you’re forgetting yourself—you’ll be a full partner in the company too.”

  “And me a mere woman.” I sniffed again and dug down in my reticule for a handkerchief. “Although for me, this is just a change in name only. And won’t it change again when—if—I marry?”

  “Only if you want it to. You could always be like Miss—or is it Mrs.?—Lucy Stoner and insist on keeping your name.” Joe stamped his feet on the wooden floor. “You should cross that bridge when you come to it. Right now, let’s go back to Michigan Avenue and report to Madame before we both expire from the cold.”

  Joe had dismissed his carriage when we arrived at the temporary store, so we headed up State Street at a brisk walk. We stopped to drink a mug of hot cocoa on the way, bought from a German whose stall was always reliably clean.

  “I’ve had a little talk with Mr. Crabb,” said Joe as we set off again.

  I stared at him in alarm. “About what?”

  Joe looked at me a little curiously, but the street was busy, and he needed to keep both eyes on what was ahead of us. “About unraveling the mess he and John Powell made by opening brothels near the frontier stores. I’ve offered him a small incentive. It’s a delicate task, but I think he’s clever enough to tackle it. He might end up shot, of course.”

  “Or he’ll end up a rich man.” I could see Crabb in my memory, scurrying over the ladder to safety. “I’m not at all sure if he’ll pursue the endeavor in an honest fashion.”

  “An honest man would certainly get shot. Crabb knows how to walk the line between the dangerous elements of society and the more respectable businessmen. Perhaps people like Crabb are the price we pay for living on the grand scale we do in Chicago. It’s all about money, after all. Money flowing into invention and production, money flowing in and out of business, money flooding in from women who are pursuing a dream of beauty and elegance. People like Crabb live like parasites on that money, and like some parasites, they can end up beneficial to the host.”

  “It’s not just about money,” I countered. “It’s about people. I deal with customers one by one—I don’t have your luxury of seeing them as merely a bank of open purses. It’s people who matter. The Crabbs of this world feast on the misery of women who are wronged by men.”

  I could hear more feeling in my voice than I cared to betray. Joe and Martin would never know about the night of the fire, after all. Moreover, as I said the words, I wasn’t just thinking of the poor unfortunates in the frontier pleasure houses. I was thinking of Lucetta, who might have been so much more than a society belle. She had told me she had wanted to be an opera singer, and she certainly had the voice for it. But her father would not hear of such a thing. Perhaps her lovers and her capacity for deceit had stemmed from that frustration of her deepest desires.

  We arrived at the Michigan Avenue premises to find Elizabeth Parnell deep in consultation with Madame Belvoix. She grinned as she saw me.

  “I’m having a wrapper like yours made. What do you think of yellow, all covered with blue motifs, like a Chinese vase?”

  “Dragons in a field of intertwining leaves and flowers, I think, with some larger flowers for variety.” Madame’s eyes glinted—this would be an expensive item. “We have a consignment of silk on its way from San Francisco that Mademoiselle might like to inspect. I will send you a note when it arrives.” She gave a small smile. “Perhaps Mrs. Lillington would like to see to the design.”

  “Oh, would you, Nell?” Elizabeth cried. “That would make it even more special. And if our engagement doesn’t go on forever, I’ll wear it . . . the morning after our wedding night.” She dropped her voice on the last words so that only Madame and I could hear.

  “And I’ve come to take Nell home,” Elizabeth declared. “She’s had enough excitement for a convalescent. Now, Nell, don’t protest. Only yesterday you wouldn’t move fr
om your chair.”

  “I agree.” Madame spoke emphatically. “After all, Mrs. Lillington will have a great deal to do in the coming months. We don’t want her getting sick again.” She looked hard at me, and I could see in her eyes that Joe’s news was no news to her. She knew I was to be a partner—did the woman know everything?

  “I do believe, Madame, that at heart you’re a Feminist, just like Miss Parnell.” I returned her look with interest. “I sometimes wonder if Mr. Rutherford makes any major decisions without consulting you.”

  She shrugged. “I am no Feminist, mesdames. Not in the sense of those silly women, always making speeches and crying about injustice. I am in a profession where women have always had power; I know how to retain and use such power. That is all.”

  “The power behind the throne.” Elizabeth put her fur-trimmed hat back on her abundant corn-colored hair and pinned it carefully. “Just like Mother. I am so looking forward to growing into that role, Nell.”

  “You will learn as you get older, my young ladies, that women wield power in different ways.” Madame’s voice was stern. “Mrs. Lillington, for example, will have to learn to live up to the responsibilities entrusted to her.”

  “Well, that was a most cryptic remark,” said Elizabeth after we’d bidden Madame good-bye and stood waiting for Mrs. Parnell’s driver to open the carriage door and fold down the steps. “Are you going to tell me what she means?”

  “I hardly know where to begin,” I replied. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t just think I found a job when I came to Chicago. I think I found a lifetime’s calling.”

  44

  Showman

  The hard work of the next few weeks seemed to stoke my energy rather than deplete it. We opened the temporary store as soon as we had the first floor ready and some stock to sell. We then worked our way upward, forcing the poor clerks to shift from office to office as the improvement work was carried on. I spent my time running between the State Street and Michigan Avenue premises—or at least walking as fast as I could whenever the weather allowed. The Chicago streets that had once seemed so noisy and chaotic now felt like home. I knew automatically how to avoid their undesirable elements.

  And I did find time for leisure. I kept my promise to Elizabeth to make my official debut in Chicago society—with Tess as my companion. At first, it was hard for her to remain in the parlor on Wednesday afternoons, as the ladies who called on us never quite seemed to know what to say to her. The best of them treated her more as a pet or a child initially. They soon changed their attitude once she came out of her shell and began talking naturally as subjects that interested her came up in the conversation. By the time we embarked on our first-ever outing to the novelty theater on April 16, she was quite at her ease.

  “Wait till I tell Sary about the daring young man on the flying trapeze,” she said as the last notes of the performance sounded, the gaslights flared into life, and the patrons began rising to their feet. “Some of the ladies and gentlemen talked much too fast, didn’t they? I couldn’t understand them. But I liked the songs. It was so funny that they thought that man a ghost. I could hear his footsteps quite distinctly, and ghosts don’t have footsteps, do they? I liked the way he kneeled to ask the lady to marry him.”

  “I thought she received his proposal most coolly,” Elizabeth said. “My experience was a little different.” She smirked and turned to her other side. “David, did you—oh, drat the man.” Her fiancé had left his seat beside her and stood at some distance, talking with animation to another couple.

  “He’s an independent spirit,” I teased her, punning on the last speech in A Ghost in Spite of Himself, the short play we had just watched. It had been preceded by entertainments of all kinds—songs, jigs, and oddities—so that the evening’s program had been long. Still, I’d enjoyed myself despite the frequently poor quality of the performances. It took my mind off the eternal wait for Martin, whose ship had docked at New York three days ago.

  Elizabeth had been trying to attract David’s attention with jerks of her pretty blond head. He steadfastly ignored her, so she turned back to me and Tess. “Ladies, let’s wait for him in the lobby. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I care a jot for his rudeness.”

  “Is he coming in the carriage with us?” Tess asked. We were just a short distance from the Palmer House. Mrs. Parnell had kindly offered to send her own carriage for us to spare Mr. Nutt, who was afflicted with a particularly painful earache.

  “No, he’ll walk me back to the hotel and then walk himself home,” said Elizabeth. She was transparently pleased at the prospect of a few minutes alone with the man she loved.

  We threaded our way between the seats and reached the crowded lobby, where the better-dressed element of the audience lingered to chatter. A stout woman in a badly fitted dress pushed past me on her way out, and I instinctively put my hand up to the left side of my face.

  “Does it hurt?” Elizabeth had seen the gesture.

  “Just a little, but I always feel nervous when I think anything’s going to touch it,” I admitted. The scar extended from just above the level of my left ear in a ragged curve, a little like the f-holes on a violin, finishing in the tender skin under my earlobe. It was healing well with only a small scab left, the rest being shiny pink skin that would no doubt fade to white. I very much disliked the sensation of anything touching it and always insisted Alice sweep my hair back from the spot.

  “I saw you trying to summon me with imperious looks and gestures.” David’s voice sounded from behind us. “You’d better get used to the fact that it won’t work.” He took Elizabeth’s arm and turned to Tess and me. “Did you enjoy the entertainment, ladies?”

  The question launched us into a discussion about future visits to the Chicago theaters, none of which, apparently, were particularly good. David had suggested one of the novelty theaters for our first outing—popular entertainment, pure and simple—and had proclaimed that Chicago could offer little more. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was highly knowledgeable about the various suggestions that had been put forward about improving Chicago’s cultural offerings, this being one of Mrs. Parnell’s causes. She argued with lively energy with her fiancé about the kind of establishments needed and, more to the point, who would put up the money for building them. The heated discussion provoked us to loud laughter. At a particularly outrageous suggestion on David’s part, I reacted in such an exaggerated fashion that I trod on the toes of a gentleman standing behind me.

  “I do beg your pardon,” I exclaimed, turning. Tess turned around too, and it was she who let out a squeal of delight while I stood dumb, every nerve in my body seemingly thrown into a spasm at once.

  “Martin!”

  Heedless of her pretty pink-and-gold evening dress, Tess wrapped her arms around him and butted her face into his chest, the feathers of her tall headdress tickling his nose. Her exuberance caused several other patrons in the now-thinning crowd to turn to see the cause of it. A murmur arose as they recognized Martin.

  If Martin’s arms hadn’t been occupied by Tess, I might have thrown myself into them and provided the theatergoers with more romantic entertainment than the play. The impulse wasn’t helped by the look on his face, his usual inscrutability battling with—and being overcome by—an expression which mingled relief, concern, and joy as he gazed at me, clearly taking in every detail of my appearance. I couldn’t help putting up a hand to my scar, but I saw no repugnance in his expression.

  Martin gently pried Tess loose after depositing kisses on both of her cheeks and returning her hug with interest. He took a step toward me, turning his back on the bystanders.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? Quite all right?” He seized my hand so hard that I winced.

  “I’m fine.” My voice wasn’t quite steady. “Just a little scorched on one side.”

  “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

  A loud cough from David and Elizabeth’s gleeful express
ion alerted both of us that several people were heading in our direction. Martin adroitly turned his grasp into a handshake while we both made an effort to rearrange our faces.

  He followed suit by shaking hands with David and Elizabeth—he knew both of them, of course, albeit not well. They asked him the conventional questions about his sea voyage while I tried to gather my wits. I felt a long-fingered hand squeeze the back of my upper arm before Martin took my own hand and tucked it under his arm in a swift claiming motion that elicited another smirk from Elizabeth and was not missed, I thought, by one or two of the people waiting to get Martin’s attention. I settled my fingers firmly into the sleeve of his frock coat and tried to look as if I were listening to what he was saying.

  But all I really cared about was the fact of his presence, the undeniable reality of bone and muscle beneath the layers of cloth. He was really back, at last, and I hadn’t felt so—right—for months. I tightened my grip. His response was to squeeze my arm more tightly against his side. I looked down, making a show of brushing a speck of lint from my dress so as not to betray the joy that bubbled up through me.

  “I’ve seen the temporary store.” Martin’s voice cut through the chaos of my emotions, bringing me back to earth. He looked almost as dazed as I felt but was evidently forcing himself to sound normal. “You’ve all done an excellent job.”

  “You’ve seen it? Just from the outside, I suppose,” I replied.

  “No, inside as well. I went looking for you and found Joe instead. How do you think I knew where you were?”

  “Homing instinct?” Elizabeth suggested in an undertone, and I felt Martin’s brief jerk of laughter, saw his eyes crinkle at the corners. But the moment of amusement was quickly gone as he turned to greet two middle-aged couples who were clearly expecting to be acknowledged, letting go of me as he did so. More people joined us, expressing their commiserations at the burning of the store and their appreciation that Rutherford’s was now back in business.