The Firebrand

by Susan Wiggs

  “There is no humane way to do this.” He wanted to pace the room, but it was so tiny and cramped he feared he might break something.

  A knock sounded at the door, and it opened before anyone could respond. Into the room burst a large, handsome black woman dressed in a dark dress. “Oh, good,” she said in a rich, almost musical voice, “he’s still here.” With the attention of a cow buyer at the Union Stockyards, she inspected Rand from head to toe. She nearly matched him in height, and her regard was filled with the special authority of a person who knew exactly what she was about.

  “Patience,” said Viola, “this is Mr. Higgins.”

  “I know.” Her hand was large and smooth, her grip strong. “How do you do?”

  “Mr. Higgins,” Viola continued, “this is the Reverend Patience Gloriana Washington.”

  “I’m honored, ma’am,” he said.

  “Patience!” Maggie raced out of her room and flung herself at the tall woman. “Patience, help! This man is my papa and he’s taking me away!”

  “I know that, child.” As if Maggie weighed nothing, Patience lifted her up to one hip and held her there. “It’s a blessed miracle. Your mama told me all about it.”

  “Don’t let him take me, Patience! Don’t!” Maggie pushed her head into Patience’s shoulder and peered at Rand.

  “Land sakes, girl. I never knew you to be such a baby,” Patience said. “Here the good Lord gives you back your daddy, and you act like you don’t even want him.”

  “I do want him, Patience, but I—” She pushed back and looked directly at him. “I do want you, Mr. Higgins.” Her voice was curiously controlled, reminding him sharply of Lucy. “I just don’t want to leave my mama.”

  “Honey child,” Patience said, “everything’s going to be just fine, you’ll see. The Lord fixes things in ways we don’t understand.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “To test the strength of our faith.”

  “Well, I failed the test.”

  “Almighty, but you got a mouth on you, girl. This is a chance to see if we’ll trust the Lord’s wisdom and obey his law.” She had a magnetic way of speaking. Even the little girl seemed drawn in. “You’re going to find a brand-new way of life with your daddy, but you’ll always have this life, too,” Patience said. “You must learn to call him Papa, and you’ll learn to love him as much as he loves you.”

  “Aw, Patience, I can’t.”

  “Sure you can, honey. Sure you can.” As she spoke, the preacher brought Maggie over to Rand and handed her to him.

  Maggie stiffened, but Patience made a clucking noise and the little girl relaxed against him. Rand was nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of holding his daughter in his arms once again.

  “You know,” he said, “when you were a baby, I used to hold you every night and walk around the room until you fell asleep.”

  “Really?” she whispered.

  “Yes. You had a nurse who used to scold me for spoiling you, but I did it anyway.”

  “Why was there a nurse? Was I sick?”

  “No, not that sort of nurse. Someone to help your mother take care of you.”

  “My mama never needs help taking care of me. Why did my—the other one need help?”

  “I’m not sure.” He patted her on the back. “You were a lot smaller then.”

  Lucy arrived with a carpet bag in each hand. Her face was ashen, her smile false and strained. “Hello, Patience,” she said. “Thank you for coming.” Her heart was in those words; Rand could hear it. For all her steely reserve, Lucy Hathaway was inches from crumbling.

  “Let’s all go down together,” Patience said.

  Maggie strained toward her mother, fingers splayed so that her hands resembled tiny starfish, but Lucy pretended not to see and headed down the narrow stairway with the valises. Over her shoulder, she spoke to Rand. “Did you have time to go over that list I gave you?”

  The list had been a mile long. “You mean the one that says Maggie likes to fall asleep with a lamp on, with the flame set very low?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  He could feel the little girl’s interest pique. She expressed herself with her whole body, limbs stiffening and hands clenching when something caught her attention.

  “And she dislikes a creaky bed, her favorite story is Cinderella, pork disagrees with her, she prefers to take her bath on Wednesday and Saturday night and she uses Dr. Denmark’s tooth powder. Oh, and she attends the Calvary Baptist Church.” He quickly rattled off the rest of the list—where she was in her sums and penmanship, the names of her friends, the title of the book Lucy was reading to her at night.

  Lucy reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to gape at him. She set down the valises and patted Maggie’s back. “You did look over the list.”

  He had memorized every word.

  Rand had worked tirelessly to prepare for the arrival of his daughter. He wanted her to have the life he’d always envisioned for her. He wanted her days filled with sunshine and nights filled with pleasant dreams. He wanted to hear her laughter ringing through the halls and to see her busy at her sewing or dancing lessons. He wanted her dressed up pretty as a picture for supper each night, smiling across the table from him as she dined on fruit compote and buttered biscuits.

  The only thing missing from the picture was a woman. His dreams and visions of the perfect family were incomplete. He couldn’t help wondering about Diana. Her first reply to his ecstatic wire had been suspicious. Her second had been cautious and oddly congratulatory, as if he’d reported getting a new coach horse or an important client at the bank. This morning he’d wired her that Christine was returning home. As soon as possible, he would have a photograph made of Maggie, and mail it to Diana. If that didn’t get her to Chicago, he didn’t know what would.

  From the moment his coach lurched away from the curb, Rand realized that nothing was going to proceed as planned. Like a fool, he always mapped things out according to some idealized vision in his head, not according to the way things were.

  Instead of sunshine, a storm rolled in off the lake. It was a typical lake squall—swift and vicious, dark and drenching. In minutes, the sky seemed to disappear and a high wind, laced by slanting rain, lashed through the streets. Lightning cracked close by. Maggie winced, then drew herself into a tight ball on the leather seat.

  He put his arm around her, but the gesture felt awkward and forced. Touching people was a habit he would have to relearn. She didn’t move away, but tightened her posture like a turtle pulling itself into a hard shell. Rain slapped at the glass windscreen of the coach hood.

  “Storms have always scared me,” he said over the wail of the wind and the drumming rain.

  “You?” She lifted her head from her tucked arms. “But you’re a grown-up.”

  “Being a grown-up doesn’t mean you never get scared.”

  “My mama’s not afraid of anything. Ever.”

  He smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me. But storms are scary. All that noise, crashing down when we don’t expect it.”

  “What do you do when you’re scared?” she asked.

  “I used to shut my eyes and hold my hands over my ears, like this.” He demonstrated, exaggerating his expression of sheer terror. When he opened his eyes again, she was laughing, though she stopped abruptly when he grinned at her. “Now that I have you,” he said, “it’s not so scary.”

  “Because you’re not so all alone.”

  “Right.”

  The coach lurched and splashed through the streets of Chicago, heading north along the lakeshore. The strong wind caused the vehicle to sway. Maggie turned her face to the window, peering through a blur of raindrops at the lake. The choppy, gray waters were frosted with white wave crests, churning restlessly with the force of the storm.

  The coach halted under the portico at the side of the house, well out of the rain. Rand opened the door and stepped down, reaching for his daughter. As he held her by her tiny wa
ist, he was filled with such a feeling of joy that he laughed aloud, swinging her high in the air so that her little legs flew out. She looked startled, and then she laughed, too.

  The driver, with hooded oilskins dripping and streaming water, leaped down and gaped at them.

  “Is something wrong, Bowen?” asked Rand, still swinging her up and down.

  “No, sir. You sounded as though you were choking, is all.”

  “I was laughing,” Rand said.

  “So I see, sir.”

  He realized that Bowen, who had been his driver since he’d been wheeled out of St. Elspeth’s, had never heard him laugh.

  Still holding Maggie, Rand headed for the entryway. She pushed her hand at his arm. “You’re very strong.”

  “Am I?”

  “The only one who’s ever picked me up that high before is Bull.”

  “Bull?”

  “I’m supposed to call him Mr. Waxman, but he lets me call him Bull.” She cupped her hands around his ear, seeming not to notice the burns. “He’s courting Willa Jean.”

  The brass-and-glass double doors both opened at once as if they worked automatically. Glaring light flooded the foyer. Rand had ordered it so—all the lights on, all the help assembled to greet his daughter, and Grandmother in the center at the foot of the grand staircase.

  Yet the effect was not what he’d planned. The white gaslight struck like lightning, abrupt and dazzling. Their footsteps echoed on the gleaming floor, the sound tomblike and intimidating. The servants and domestics and even Grandmother were garbed in funereal black and stark white.

  Maggie dropped her chin to her chest and studied the floor.

  Rand cleared his throat, preparing to make the best of it. “Look, sweetheart. Everyone has come to welcome you.”

  Like a little squall-battered boat, she clung to him. Any port in a storm, he thought, but felt gratified by her tight grip.

  Her silver-tipped cane measuring a slow rhythm, Grandmother came forward. “Christine,” she said, her voice as strong as ever. “What a miracle to find you again, after all these years.”

  Rand patted her back. “We’re going to call her Maggie from now on.”

  Grandmother’s mouth puckered like a prune. “Her name is Christine.”

  “Maggie!” shouted Maggie, her entire body going stiff and hard in a combative stance.

  Grandmother tapped her cane meaningfully. “We’ll see about that.”

  Rand had spoken to his grandmother at length about the importance of making Maggie feel at home. But he hadn’t even thought about the name. Stupid, he thought. What else had he failed to foresee?

  Everything, it seemed. The staff stared at him, waiting. So did Maggie.

  “Let’s see if we can play a game,” he suggested.

  Maggie relaxed again. “What sort of game?”

  “A remembering game.” He took her hand. “I’ll introduce you to everyone here, and you see if you can remember their names.” He brought her to meet a petite, pale-haired woman with nervous hands and darting eyes. “Miss Lowell is new. She has come to live with us so she can be with you every day, helping you with your lessons. She is called a governess.”

  “Hello, Maggie. Aren’t you a fine, big girl?” Miss Lowell asked in a well-modulated voice. Rand felt relieved. She’d come highly recommended by a member of the bank board, whose own daughter had been raised by her. “I’m new here, too. Did you know that? You and I shall get to know this place together, won’t we?”

  “All right,” Maggie said in a tiny voice.

  “Let’s meet everyone else, shall we?” Miss Lowell said.

  “You ask a lot of questions,” Maggie pointed out.

  “I suppose I do, don’t I, though it’s a bit rude of you to point it out. I ask questions because I’m curious about everything, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Maggie’s cheeks turned bright red, and Rand felt sorry for her. She clearly didn’t understand why Miss Lowell considered her comment rude.

  He stepped forward, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Here is Mr. Nichol, who looks after everyone in the house and sees that everything is run properly.”

  “Hello, Miss Chr—Miss Maggie. Welcome.” Chilly and impeccable as always, the butler offered a proper bow.

  Rand guided Maggie down the line, introducing the maids, the gardener, the kitchen help and Grandmother’s personal companion, Miss Benson. He knew the child would never remember everyone’s name, but with time, she would eventually learn. So he was startled when the introductions were over, and she said, “What about the remembering game?”

  “Do you think you’re ready?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You said I was supposed to remember everyone’s name.”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Ask me. Ask me someone’s name.”

  He decided to pick out a few easy names, for he didn’t want to embarrass her. “What is the butler’s name?”

  “Mr. Nichol,” she said without hesitation.

  “And the cook?”

  “Mrs. Meeks.”

  He was impressed by her quickness, and some of the servants began smiling cautiously. “The upstairs maid.”

  “Miss Fulsom.”

  He decided to challenge her. “All right, what about the gardener?”

  In the end, the little girl was able to name every last member of the staff.

  “That’s quite remarkable,” Miss Lowell said. “Isn’t it, Mr. Higgins?”

  “It certainly is. Maggie, how did you remember everyone so perfectly?”

  “My mama taught me a game for remembering people in a hurry.” Her face glowed with pride as she explained, “My mama goes to a lot of important meetings and has to meet a lot of people involved in the Cause. She says people respect you if you learn their names right off.”

  “She’s right, isn’t she?” Miss Lowell said. “What is the game, then? Can you show us?”

  “I just remember a rhyme for everyone.”

  Even Grandmother shuffled forward in curiosity. “What sort of rhyme, child?”

  “A rhyme that matches the person to the name. Like Mr. Nichol.” She indicated the butler. “Nose like a pickle. And the cook is Mrs. Meeks, bright red cheeks.” She pointed out the maid. “Miss Fulsom, great big bosom.”

  It wasn’t just shock that held all mouths silent. Everyone, furtively, was noticing that Nichol’s nose did seem to resemble a large, bumpy pickle, and the maid’s bosom was indeed prodigious. There was a general clearing of throats and a shuffling of feet.

  “Did I do a naughty thing?” Maggie asked, cutting a fearful glance at Miss Lowell.

  “No—” Rand began.

  “Yes,” said the governess, then quickly added, “but you did a good job learning everyone’s name, didn’t you? Come. We had best show you to your room. Shall we?”

  She held out her hand.

  Maggie pretended not to see the outstretched hand. “What’s through here?” she asked, running down a passageway to a back door. Before anyone could stop her, she pulled it open.

  In bounded Ivan, all one hundred soaking wet pounds of him. Toenails skittering on the marble floor, he galloped into the foyer and paused to shake himself vigorously, showering everything in a six-foot radius with rainwater. Then he headed straight for Maggie, knocking her down in his enthusiasm and licking her face while she laughed uproariously. For the second time in as many minutes, everyone simply gaped in surprise, until the cook’s helper, a tall girl of about thirteen, started to giggle. The cook scowled and hissed at her, and she struggled to sober herself.

  Nichol yelled, “Bad dog,” and strode forward, reaching for Ivan’s collar. The dog shied away, but Nichol seized him and dragged him back the way he came.

  “Can’t he stay?” Maggie asked. “I want Ivan to stay!”

  “That is an outdoor dog, isn’t it, Mr. Higgins?” said Miss Lowell, patting her face with a handker
chief. “It belongs outside, doesn’t it?”

  “But—” Maggie caught one freezing look from the governess and snapped her mouth shut. She looked crestfallen, a stark contrast to her untrammeled delight a moment earlier.

  “Let him stay,” Rand ordered. “Dry him off, and he can stay in the house with Maggie.”

  Fifteen

  Miss Lowell was nothing less than a miracle worker. By suppertime that night, she’d transformed Maggie from a hoyden in trousers to a vision in blue silk. Standing formally beside his grandmother in the dining room, Rand heard the old lady gasp with admiration when Maggie and Miss Lowell joined them.

  The patched knickers and loose shirt had been replaced by a dress with lace at the collar and cuffs, shiny little shoes peeping out from under the scalloped hem. Maggie’s short curls had been crimped, lacquered and anchored in place by steel combs.

  But her bright, direct regard had turned guarded and tentative.

  “And who,” Rand asked, “can this enchanting creature be?”

  She favored him with a brief smile.

  “I think it must be an angel from heaven,” he said. “Don’t you, Grandmother?”

  “She certainly looks like one,” his grandmother agreed.

  “It’s me,” Maggie burst out, spreading her arms. “Maggie! Don’t you recognize me, silly?”

  Miss Lowell cleared her throat, and Maggie sobered. Like a bird shot from the sky, she sank into a deep curtsey.

  “Good evening, Grandmother Grace,” she said with a precision of elocution that hinted at much practice. “Good evening, Mr.—Father.”

  “And a very good evening to you,” he said. He held a chair for his grandmother, then for Miss Lowell, and finally Maggie.

  “You should sit down, too, Cora,” Maggie said to the maid waiting by the green baize door to the kitchen. “Your foot’s bothering you.”

  Cora flushed scarlet beneath her starched cap. Furtively she drew a battered leather brogan into the shadow of her skirt, but not before Rand saw the livid ulcer near her heel.

  He felt a peculiar annoyance—at himself. How long had the poor girl been limping around in pain? Why hadn’t anyone noticed, and why hadn’t the girl dared to speak up?