by Jane Steen
“We certainly are,” Martin said in answer to one such remark. He had regained control of himself, although the impenetrable look of the last year had gone, replaced by an air of relaxed command. “I visited the atelier, and I’ve never seen such fine work as we have in hand, not in America, at least. Mr. Worth himself would be impressed.” He had raised his voice a little so that everyone in the growing crowd around us could hear. Showman, I thought, and felt a surge of delight. Beside me, Tess gave a small squeak, her round face all smiles.
“When we rebuild on our old site,” Martin was saying, “we’ll have to hire more dressmakers. I’m thinking of making the new building higher.”
“You’ll stay on your old site, then?” asked one of the women. “Despite its terrible associations?”
A frisson ran through the crowd at the reference to the murder. But Martin answered gravely and without apparent emotion.
“Yes, I’ll rebuild in the same place.” His voice was clear and confident. “The unspeakable act that was perpetrated there was the fruit of one deranged mind, and it has been atoned for. I will rebuild my life on the ashes of the old as a tribute to all of the men and women who work at Rutherford’s. I will make it bigger and better for the sake of the many customers who did not desert me in my darkest hour. I’ve been in Europe, as you know, and my business connections are more extensive than ever. Should I dare to deprive the ladies of Chicago of the best Europe has to offer, with the imaginative talents of my couturières into the bargain? Prosperity will soon come again, and we need to show New York what Chicago can do.”
This last remark provoked general laughter and a few combative remarks from the men. I moved off to one side as Martin became surrounded by a small knot of people, watching him shake hands with those he knew and receive introductions to those he didn’t. Seeing that Elizabeth, David, and Tess had also moved away from the crowd, I joined them.
“That was a fine speech,” Elizabeth said. “And I think Europe has done Mr. Rutherford good. He doesn’t look as thin as when I last saw him.”
Tess yawned. “I’m tired, Nell. It’s nice to see Martin, but I’m ready for my bed. Do you think we can go?”
Elizabeth fished in her reticule for her timepiece and peered at it shortsightedly.
“I don’t suppose you’d better keep Randell waiting much longer,” she said. “I believe it’s been raining, and he catches cold easily.”
“I’ll get my coat and your wraps.” David smiled and headed off toward the back of the lobby, now almost deserted. Even the few stragglers who’d remained to talk to Martin were making preparations to leave.
“Are you going?” Martin had freed himself and came toward us, his silk hat in his hand. “Mrs. Lillington, may I beg the indulgence of two minutes alone? I would like to make some arrangements about tomorrow.”
“Be quick, then, or my mother’s coachman will turn into a white mouse.” Elizabeth grinned. “Of course, if you need a ride—”
“No.” Martin shook his head. “I’ll walk back to the Grand Pacific. I need the exercise after all that traveling.” He resumed possession of my hand, patting it firmly into position on his arm. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”
He steered me toward the front of the lobby. We stopped by a window, through which we could see the rain-slicked street. The rain had ceased, but the gaslight glinted off every wet surface and silk hat, occasionally catching the gleam of a diamond or the sheen of gold. Soon the street would be given up to the people of the night. Right now it was the province of the rich of Chicago, protected by their carriages, their servants, and the watchful police officers whose presence kept the beggars and pickpockets away.
“May I call on you tomorrow morning at your home? First thing?”
Martin released my arm and stood facing me, all trace of the showman vanished. In its place was the expression of a man balancing on a wire, calmly confident but with just a hint of fear that all might go wrong and tip him into the abyss.
“Of course.” It was the first time he’d asked to come to Aldine Square, and my heart did a little skip that did my thought processes no good. “Come at seven, and we can ride to the store together.”
Martin dropped his voice to a mere thread of sound. “I just want to know one thing. For heaven’s sake, tell me if I’ll be wasting my time tomorrow, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Don’t you dare leave me alone ever again.” The vehemence in my voice surprised me, as did the sudden sting of tears in my eyes. “I’ve hated every moment of you being away.”
Martin blinked, and the tension on his face turned to relief with such comical suddenness that I almost laughed. Only I was worried that my laughter might turn to a flood of hysterical tears. I dashed furtively at my eyes and glared at Martin.
“So you’re feeling better, then,” I said.
His smile was so wonderfully carefree that my knees felt weak. “Much better. It wasn’t just blarney when I told those people I was ready to rebuild my life.”
“Good,” I said. Seeing Elizabeth and the others coming toward us, I spoke in a rapid undertone. “Because you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to marry—the only man I’ve ever loved, come to that. If you ever make me regret abandoning my principles, you’ll rue the day.”
And with that complete surrender, I went to take Tess’s arm, and the whole group of us moved out onto the street. There was the usual confusion of good-byes and good wishes as Tess and I climbed into the carriage, Elizabeth and David preparing to take the short walk to the Palmer House hotel. The last glimpse I had of Martin was of the gaslight shining on his pale hair as he stood, hat in hand, watching our carriage with a look of baffled delight on his face.
45
About time
Needless to say, I rose early the next morning. I chose a day dress in a muted gray with a hint of blue, with trimmings of a subtle paisley silk, silver lace, and deep blue fringe. It brought out the blue in my eyes, which, when I looked in the mirror, had an expectant yet somehow frightened look to them. I had declared myself—more or less told Martin that I would marry him—and nothing else, I supposed, could go wrong. And yet so much had happened in my life over the last six years that I feared some last-minute disaster, some startling revelation that might turn my world on end once more.
“Ridiculous,” I told my reflection. “Whatever may happen, you know you can cope with it. And this is Martin, after all. He, at least, you know you can trust.”
When I heard the clang of the doorbell below me at precisely seven o’clock, my heart began to beat with an odd, surging pulse, as if it were tolling the seconds. Should I stand by the fireplace? Or the window? Or sit in a chair? Should I go out into the hallway and make sure Zofia was letting him in? Supposing it were not Martin, after all?
I stood helplessly in the middle of the room, my arms dangling, feeling like a fool. But the moment the parlor door opened and Martin walked quietly into the room, the chaos in my mind ceased, like the sudden hush that falls over the audience when it realizes the play is about to begin. He smiled, and my heart gave a little hop; and when I realized that every emotion I’d been experiencing was reflected in his gray eyes, clear and sharp as a November sky, I no longer felt nervous. It was Martin, after all. And he’d come home to me.
“I’ve been up since three, terrified something might go wrong,” he said as soon as Zofia shut the door behind him. “Heaven knows I’ve waited long enough for this moment, Nellie.”
He too did not seem to know what to do with his hands. I reached out and captured one of them, reveling in its strength and solidity, and studied his face. Elizabeth was right—he was less thin, and it suited him.
“We’ve waited for each other most of our lives, I suppose,” I said. I turned the hand I was holding over, spreading the long, capable fingers, noting how the blood seemed to gather in their tips, flushing them with warmth and life. That warmth invaded my whole body and settled somewhere in the core of my b
eing. I looked up at Martin and felt my cheeks begin to glow, but I didn’t look away.
By tacit consent we moved closer to one another, and I reached up to touch Martin’s face. He was impeccably shaven, and I could still smell the faint tang of the barber’s soap. The lines that the last year’s trials had written around his eyes and mouth could never be erased, but they were dear to me, and I wouldn’t have them otherwise. We had lived through much together, Martin and I.
“You know, I was a fool not to set my cap at you long ago,” I mused, tracing the line that ran from the corner of Martin’s beaky nose to the outer limit of his beautifully shaped lips. “I have been altogether a fool.”
Martin captured my roving hand in his, pressing his lips to the palm. “You were always stubborn.” His voice was a whisper, making my limbs soften and melt. I moved yet closer to him, even the smallest space between us unbearable. And then his mouth found mine, and I wound my arms around his neck—and there was no space between us, none at all.
“We must marry soon.” Martin’s voice was muffled by my hair. His arms were around my waist as if they belonged there, and I was ridiculously delighted that I had to tip my head back to look up at him.
“Hmmmm?”
I was dizzy from being kissed so long and so thoroughly. My lips tingled, my face was hot, and it was remarkably difficult to summon up a coherent thought.
“We—must—marry—soon,” Martin said in tones of exaggerated slowness. I could feel the laughter bubbling up inside him. “I’m most categorically tired of waiting.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline. “You’re tired of waiting? At least you had Europe to keep you amused. I’ve had a Chicago winter, with ice and chilblains and mountains of dirty snow.”
I aimed for a tone of arch crossness, but didn’t succeed too well. Besides, Martin kept kissing me so that the words came out in a series of small, explosive bursts, and I finished the sentence in laughter.
“Any more scolding before I begin kissing you again?”
“Yes.”
I pushed at Martin’s chest; surprised, he stopped what he was doing and stared at me.
“You haven’t actually asked me to marry you yet,” I pointed out.
“Well—well, I suppose I haven’t.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Would you prefer I propose from the traditional bended knee, or will you accept me if I remain standing?”
I hesitated, embarrassed. And then blurted out: “I know it’s silly after all this time, but I would much prefer—”
“I’ve always thought you were a traditionalist at heart.”
Martin’s long body folded itself gracefully in a downward direction until he was poised on one knee on the Turkey carpet, his large hands enveloping mine. The amused look in his eyes suddenly turned serious, and his fingers tightened as if he didn’t ever intend to let me go.
“Eleanor Lillington—”
“Look! Martin’s here!”
We were gazing into each other’s eyes, and it took both of us a few moments to register that we were no longer alone. Sarah ran into the room, mouth agape, but Tess stopped in the doorway. A look of dawning comprehension was on her face, mingled with glee.
“What are you doing? Why are you kneeling down? Has Mama hurt herself?” Sarah’s gaze darted between us, her expression anxious.
“Sary, come back here!” cried Tess. “We mustn’t interrupt—not now. I’m sorry, Nell,” she continued, a small hand hovering over her mouth in an attitude somewhere betwixt dismay and mirth. “I didn’t know Martin was here—we came to see where you were. I’m sorry, Martin.”
Martin, who seemed to be taking the interruption with far more nonchalance than I felt, merely shifted his grounded knee into a more comfortable angle, resting his free arm on top of it. He didn’t let go of my hand.
“I’m proposing marriage to your mother,” he informed Sarah in a conversational tone and gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”
Sarah’s eyes grew round. She took a step toward us and rested a small hand on Martin’s knee, gazing at him seriously.
“You really want to marry Mama? To be Mr. Lillington?”
Martin didn’t laugh, but reached out his free hand and gently pulled at one of Sarah’s ringlets. “Well, I’m rather hoping your mother will become Mrs. Rutherford, or Mrs. Lillington Rutherford at the very least. It’s traditional for the lady to adopt the gentleman’s name. It’s also traditional for the gentleman to propose on bended knee, which is why you find me sinking into the carpet.”
“Oh.” Sarah’s brow was marked by the tiny frown she always got when trying to understand grown-ups. “But if Mama’s going to be Mrs. Rutherford, how can I be called Sarah Lillington? Does my name change too?”
“If you want it to.”
“So you’ll be my Papa?”
“Yes.” Martin’s face had grown completely serious.
“For ever and ever?”
“Yes.”
“Sary!” Tess hissed. “Come away and let them be private. We shouldn’t be here.” She then ruined the stern effect she was trying for by grinning at me and bouncing on her toes. “Just like the play. I’m awful glad.”
“So am I,” I said, my eyes on Martin.
Sarah reached for my hand, and I grasped hers. Her small fingers were in mine, Martin’s large ones encircling my other hand. It felt wonderful.
“Your permission to continue?” Martin asked Sarah softly. She nodded and he returned his gaze to me, looking straight into my eyes with an expression that combined amusement and tenderness in such a way that my knees turned to jelly.
“Eleanor Lillington,” said Martin in a voice loud enough for the others to hear, “I have loved you—well, all your life, in one way or another. In the somewhat unexpected presence of witnesses, will you do me the honor of granting me your hand in marriage?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a hoarse croak, and I cleared my throat. “Yes, Martin, I will marry you. I can truthfully say you’re the only man I’d ever want to marry.”
Martin’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but he kept a straight face as he looked at Sarah.
“Since we’re being unorthodox—”
“What does that mean?” Sarah interrupted, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen over Martin’s forehead.
“I’ll explain later. Since—well, to put it more simply, Sarah, I’ll be proud to be your Papa for ever and ever. May I have that privilege?”
“You certainly may.” Sarah’s eyes widened. “I’m going to be the daughter of Rutherford & Co.!”
Martin rose to his feet and stretched out an arm to Tess, who was still hovering in the doorway.
“You may as well join in, Tess. Will you do me the honor of continuing to live with us as my wife’s—as our—best friend? As a most important member of our family?”
Tess squealed and ran to hug him, me, and Sarah in turn, setting off a positive riot of hugging all around. By the time Sarah decided she couldn’t wait another moment to inform the servants of this exciting development, I felt drained of all emotion. It was only Martin’s steadying hand around my waist that stopped me from collapsing on the settee in an uncharacteristically feminine bout of hysterics.
“Well, I suppose that was easier than breaking the news to them later,” said Martin, shutting the door firmly as the last flounce of Tess’s skirts cleared the doorway. “And now, if the future Mrs. Rutherford would indulge me, it’s traditional for the gentleman to require as many kisses of his fiancée as he can get away with.”
46
Advantage
We were wed very quietly since Martin had only been a widower for just over a year. The small ceremony merited a mere three lines or so in the press. The papers had been full of events in the South, strikes, and now the war between the Russians and the Turks, and the Rutherford murder was no longer of much interest to the Chicago populace. In some ways, Alex Gambarelli had done us a favor by r
emoving the “murder room,” as it had become known within the Rutherford’s building. Before the fire, Joe had to keep it permanently locked and empty to discourage visits by curiosity-seekers.
We lived at Aldine Square after our marriage, the Katzenmeiers having informed me that they would not return till September. Our new house on Calumet Avenue would be ready by the end of the year. Martin, who was fascinated by architecture, spent much of his time traveling between the new store, the walls of which were rising fast, and the unpretentious yet spacious dwelling we would share with Sarah, Tess, and the children yet to come.
“He’s also looking at land in Lake Forest,” I told Elizabeth as we walked arm in arm around Aldine Square’s small central garden. “He thinks we should build a summer home there, as so many of the merchants are doing. Sarah is wild to have a pony now that she can ride—thanks to you.”
“How very domestic, Mrs. Eleanor Lillington Rutherford.” Elizabeth poked me playfully in the side. “It’s ‘he thinks’ and ‘he says’ every minute. Adding ‘Lillington’ to your name may give you the illusion of independence, I suppose.”
“I haven’t been truly independent for years,” I protested. “Since the day I decided to keep Sarah, I’ve had to take her welfare into account. I wasn’t going to keep her, you know.” I could see Sarah at a distance, walking with Tess and Miss Baker. “But then there was trouble at the Poor Farm, and I realized how vulnerable she was. I found a sense of responsibility I’d never known I possessed.”