“You just rest tight,” Aagaard said. “I’m getting us to the doc’s with all possible speed.”
Kael wanted to know what had happened—how badly Atwell and Gundry were hurt.
“This is all Lindland’s fault,” Aagaard growled. “Should have been supervising like he’s supposed to. I shouted that at him, too. Would have done more—driven my fists through him—but I had to fetch the wagon and horses and get us on the road to town. Lindland didn’t act as if he cared if you lived or died.”
Even through his haze of pain Kael noted how the taciturn Norwegian had turned talkative.
He clutched the arm of the man next to him—Gundry or Atwell—willing him to survive. He gathered energy to say something else rousing.
But then the wagon wheels hit a rut, and the sharp jolt banged Kael’s head against the wagon bed. The pain drummed through his skull and sent him back into darkness.
* * *
Bowed down by guilt and sadness, seething with anger, Kael stood by the two open graves in the cemetery behind the church in Sweetwater Springs, his arm tied up in a sling, and his mackinaw draped over his shoulders. As if to mirror his mood, rain dropped from the dark clouds. Even the broad-brimmed hat Dr. Cameron lent him didn’t keep water from dripping down his neck. His head ached, and his arm throbbed. The physician had forced some laudanum down him before setting his broken arm and stitching closed the cut in his hairline, but the effects were wearing off.
While the doctor was fixing up Kael, Aagaard went for the minister, and he and Reverend Joshua had traveled to the Gundry’s home and then had visited Atwell’s girl, who worked as a maid at the hotel.
On one side of him under a black umbrella stood Gundry’s grief stricken parents and on the other was Atwell’s girl, who silently wept and clung to Aagaard’s arm. The Norwegian tried to shelter her with an umbrella also borrowed from the doctor.
Aagaard had told Kael her name, but his laudanum-befuddled brain didn’t keep it in his mind. He just kept hearing Atwell’s voice calling her “my girl.”
Various other mourners ringed the graves. Some clustered near Gundry’s family—siblings, Kael suspected—for they had the same stocky bodies. He saw other townsfolk, too, who must have come to pay their respects. A small part of him not taken over by grief and guilt felt grateful for their presence at a funeral for two lumberjacks—men not usually looked upon as stellar members of a community.
Reverend Joshua conducted the gravesite service, because his father had been called out to attend the needs of other parishioners. Delia Norton, his beautiful bride, wore black silk, and a matching hat on her auburn hair. Mrs. Norton glanced at Kael, sympathy in her hazel eyes.
Anger boiled in his chest, combining with the grief and guilt. Kael looked away. Over and over he replayed the scene of the accident to think of what else he could have done. Should have tossed Lindland into the lake as soon as he decided to work with Atwell.
Lost in his recriminations, he barely heard the words of the ritual. Only when the minister stopped and started talking freely did Kael again pay attention.
Reverend Norton glanced down at the graves. “I often ponder how life can change in a moment. A few weeks ago, I was celebrating my wedding.” He looked at his wife, casting her a loving smile, and then back at the mourners. “A wedding that came about because life changed for Andre Bellaire when he suffered a heart attack on a train journey that forced him and his daughter to remain in Sweetwater Springs.”
Kael followed the minister’s gaze and saw Andre Bellaire nodding at his son-in-law’s words.
“Another such instance happened for Arnold Gundry and John Atwell, whom I met when they were merrily partaking in the lavish food and drink provided by my father-in-law at our wedding reception. They gaily informed me they and Mr. Kelley—” he nodded at Kael “—won the right to attend the wedding from a lottery of names pulled from a stewpot. We laughed together.” Reverend Joshua glanced at the Gundrys and Atwell’s girl. “I’m grateful for that warm memory of them and grieve with you for the loss of two lives cut tragically short.”
The girl’s hand tightened on Aagaard’s arm. She let out a sob before bringing her handkerchief to her mouth. Her hand shook.
In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Aagaard patted her arm.
Kael could only be glad she was clinging to the Norwegian. He couldn’t have given her the solicitous attention she deserved.
“Before we end, would anyone like to say a few words?” Reverend Joshua asked.
Aagaard glanced at Kael, a question in his eyes.
Kael knew what the man wanted as plain as if he’d heard the Norwegian speak. Sing their songs. But he couldn’t. His pain and helpless anger had too deep a hold on him. The very thought of singing made his throat tighten as if in a vise, although he wished with his whole heart he felt differently—that he could sing and set the souls of the men dancing as they climbed Jacob’s ladder to heaven. He bowed his head and refused to look at anyone.
CHAPTER TEN
Chicago
A week after opening night
“‘Yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’” Sitting in the darkness beside Sophia’s bed, with only one lamp burning low, Emma muttered the psalm, needing the consolation of the familiar words. “‘For Thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”
Sophia lay quietly, looking dwarfed by her big bed. Earlier she’d gotten restless, moving her head, as if trying to get comfortable.
With an arm around her shoulders, Emma had lifted her sister and turned the pillow to the cool side, which seemed to help. Once she’d dribbled some medicine into Sophia’s mouth, her sister had calmed. The ice in the bowl by the bed had melted. Soon she’d need to tug the bell pull summoning a servant to bring more.
How much longer can Sophia hold on? Although they’d managed to spoon some broth into her, Sophia hadn’t taken any other sustenance. The dread Emma lived with grew heavier each day, for she knew her sister didn’t have much time left.
She studied the slow rise and fall of Sophia’s chest and picked up her wrist to feel her pulse. Both her older sisters had thin wrists and trim ankles, features Emma, more sturdy-boned, had always envied. But now her sister’s wrist seemed skeletal.
Sophia, our bright, shining star. “I envied you so much—” Emma whispered “—your charisma, the way everyone loves you—especially Papa—your talent and beauty and wealth. Living up to you was so hard. I never could. Although, unlike Lily, who always stayed in the shadows, I did try.”
Her voice caught on a sob. “I’ll take back every bit of envy I’ve felt all these years if you’ll only return to us. And I’ll never feel envious of you again.” She placed her free hand over her heart. “I promise, Sophia. Please, dearest sister, wake up!”
In her distress, her voice had risen, and Emma felt the faintest movement of her sister’s hand.
She leaned over the bed to feel Sophia’s forehead. She feels cooler. Am I just imagining it?
Emma decided against fetching the ice. She’d wait to see if her sister’s skin warmed, showing Sophia’s temperature was still high.
Time passed slowly, and her eyes grew heavy. But she wouldn’t allow herself to move and wake Blythe, who was to take the next shift, for she sensed the time of transition drew near. Will Sophia slip away to heaven, or is her fever breaking, and she’ll recover?
Rising to wake herself, Emma leaned over to place her palm on Sophia’s forehead. To her shock, her sister’s skin felt cooler and moist.
Has she died? Emma’s stomach tightened in fear. Her fingers slipped to the side of Sophia’s throat to feel a pulse, slow and steady. Light-headed with relief, she let out a cry of joy, and then collapsed onto her knees. Laying her forehead on her sister’s shoulder and sliding an arm across Sophia’s chest, Emma wept with gratitude.
* * *
A few hours later, Sophia opened her eyes and stirred. Her head ached,
and her throat was scratchy. She blinked to clear her cloudy vision and glanced over to see Emma, sitting in a chair and embroidering in a ray of light from the windows. “Wha…?” She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Emma gasped and looked up. “Don’t talk!” Dropping her handwork on the floor, she lunged to the side of the bed, placing her fingers over Sophia’s lips. “Dearest, you’ve been gravely ill, and the doctor wants you to rest your voice. Do not speak a word!” she commanded, lowering her hand and patting Sophia’s arm. She softened her voice. “I’m so glad you’re awake. You’ve given us quite a scare. But you’ll be better now, dearest, won’t you?”
Confused, Sophia raised a hand to rub her aching head but found only stubble. Frantically, she ran her hand over the top of her head but couldn’t find her hair. I’m I still in a nightmare? She croaked a question, couldn’t make a sound, and tried to rise. What’s happened to my hair? But she barely had strength to lift her head.
Emma caught Sophia’s hand and gently pressed her shoulder against the mattress. “You mustn’t exert yourself. You’re still very ill.” She lowered their joined hands. “Let me get you some water. We’ve been forcing liquids down you, but drinking on your own is much better.”
Sophia’s slight nod made her head throb. She winced.
“Don’t move, please.” Emma poured water from a pitcher into a glass. “Let me do all the work of raising you. All I want you to do is sip.”
Bossy nurse. She wanted to tease her sister, the way their family always did when Emma tended to their illnesses. But, lacking the strength to do so, she obeyed and remained silent, taking a small drink when her sister lifted her shoulders.
“That’s better.” Although her tone sounded hearty, Emma’s face looked tired, and her eyes were red. “Drink more for me, dearest.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Emma, we hear you talking,” her father called. “What’s happening?”
Emma lowered Sophia and adjusted the pillow. “I’m going to allow Papa and Fritz into the room.” She smoothed the sheet and blankets. “This is the first day since you’ve been ill that Fritz has felt well enough to visit, and only because he’s foregone his latest dose of laudanum. Being here is a tremendous physical sacrifice, which is causing him a great deal of pain. He can only stay a few minutes. But I know how important it is for him to see you.”
Sophia wrinkled her forehead, trying to follow what Emma was telling her.
“You do remember Fritz has cancer?”
Cancer. Her fuzzy brain took a moment to remember.
Emma patted Sophia’s shoulder. “Papa has sat with you and paced outside of your doorway throughout your illness. Seeing you awake will reassure both of them.”
Sophia’s slight nod made her head ache more.
Emma gave her a tremulous smile and turned to walk to the door.
Behind her sister’s back, Sophia lifted her hand to her head. The movement took effort, as if her arm had turned to stone. Gingerly she rubbed her palm over her hair, feeling uneven stubble and the curve of her skull, but not much else. Still, she searched for the thick tresses that should be there, but weren’t.
“We had to cut your hair, Sophia.” Emma’s tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes showed sadness.
Sophia wanted to keen with loss, but she was too weak. Am I dying?
“Your fever was so high, and we needed to keep you cool.” Emma returned to the bedside. “Your hair will grow back,” she said in a brisk tone. “Mavis says probably thicker and curlier than ever.”
In five years, maybe. If I live. Sophia closed her eyes, too tired to stay upset.
Footsteps on the wooden floors stilled to muffled thuds when they hit the Persian rug.
She opened her eyes.
Her father came into view. Like Emma, Papa, too, looked tired but, even worse, as if he’d aged several years.
He bent over her, glanced at her hair, and winced before placing a kiss on her forehead. “My darling girl. You’ve frightened us so. Promise me you’ll get well.”
“Papa,” Emma chided. “Sophia isn’t to talk, remember? So she cannot promise you any such thing.”
“Sophia can promise me in her heart.” Papa brushed a finger over her cheek. “Will you do that, my darling?”
Not because she particularly wanted to, but to appease him, Sophia braced herself against the pain and nodded.
Her father smiled. “That’s my beautiful girl.” He straightened and stepped back. “I’ll give Fritz a moment with you. The doctor has ordered him to remain in bed, but the stubborn man persisted in calling.” His tone was joking, but the shadows deepened in his eyes.
He knows Fritz is dying. Perhaps I will beat my old friend to heaven.
Her mentor shuffled to her side, leaning heavily on his manservant. His skin was sallow, his face cadaverous.
Stunned, she almost didn’t recognize him but dredged up a partial smile.
Fritz greeted her.
Sophia couldn’t hear what he said, because his shocked expression at seeing her spoke louder than his words. As if looking into a mirror, she could see her ravaged appearance reflected in his eyes. His reaction to her altered state wasn’t covered by the hastily-assumed gallant expression, the falsely cheerful tone in his overly hearty voice.
When the men closest to me, my staunchest supporters can’t bear to look at my face, how will anyone else?
Her eyelids grew heavy and drifted closed. Sophia wanted the lethargy pulling at her body to take her under and carry her away from the debacle her life had become.
As from a distance, Sophia heard her father’s groan of anguish. But she could no longer resist the pull of darkness that swept over her and sucked her into welcome oblivion.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chicago
Ten days After Opening Night
In the dark of each night, sleep only brought nightmares. Sophia saw herself collapsing on the stage in front of a critical audience, paralyzed in both body and speech, ashamed for being a helpless spectacle. Awakening with a gulp of air, she’d flail her arms and legs, experiencing a deep sense of relief from the ability to move. I’m not frozen!
Then the reality of the loss of her voice would return, casting Sophia back into despair. The nightmares replayed over and over, until dawn brought light through her windows, and she finally sunk into deeper sleep. Later, she’d awaken, feeling drained and lethargic, her spirit as weak as her body.
Sophia had no appetite, but Emma forced her to consume broth and gruel and juice and biscuits soaked in milk.
After a few days of their quiet presence or taking turns reading aloud from her favorite books, Blythe and Emma began to take a more forceful tack with her, striving to pique her interest in the greater world, or at least the world within her bedroom. Today was her younger sister’s turn to hearten Sophia’s spirits.
Emma sat in the chair near the bed and leaned close. “Let Mavis freshen you up and brush your hair,” she coaxed.
Sophia’s strength had improved just enough to make her fractious. I have no hair to brush, she wanted to snap. But one such experiment had informed her she’d truly lost her voice. More frightened by the croak than the loss of her hair, she’d not made another attempt.
She would have crossed her arms over her chest, but that was a ridiculous gesture when one was lying in bed. Besides, I’m not a child pouting because someone’s taken away my toy. My illness is serious.
Emma read her expression and wrinkled her nose. “Smooth your hair, oh hedgehog, and tie a ribbon around your head.” She ran a damp cloth over Sophia’s face and neck. “Perhaps Doctor Hamb will permit you to have a bath.”
Far more important, perhaps Dr. Hamb will permit me to speak. Sophia groped for her notepad and pencil. Mirror, she wrote, punctuating the paper with a demanding ! at the end. Ever since she’d awakened, her annoying caretakers had denied her written requests for a mirror. She could feel the shortness of her hair, the thinness of her body, but she
wanted to know exactly how she looked.
Emma raised her chin in a stubborn pose. “After Mavis has attended to you.”
Sophia knew that look—nothing would make Emma budge. She rolled her eyes. Oh, what I’d give for the ability to quarrel with my infuriating little sister.
She partially sat up and jabbed a finger in the direction of the daybed.
Emma seemed to have no problem understanding her. “You’re not moving until Doctor Hamb gives you permission to leave your bed,” she said sternly.
With a huff, she subsided back against the pillow.
When the maid came, Sophia suffered Mavis’s ministrations. She submitted to a trimming of some longer tufts to even out her hair and for having a wide violet ribbon tied around her head. Once Mavis finished and stepped back, Sophia snapped her fingers and pointed at her vanity. A brown medicine bottle sat beside perfume bottles, cosmetics, her toiletries, and a vase of red roses.
The maid reached for the hand mirror, but Sophia shook her head and pointed at the bigger mirror set into the back of the vanity and made to be lifted off.
With raised brows, Mavis glanced at Emma, who nodded and shrugged.
Giving a disapproving shake of her head, the maid crossed to the vanity and hefted off the mirror, lugging it over to Sophia. She placed the bottom edge on the bed and propped the back against her stomach, her fingers curled over the top edge.
Sophia looked into the mirror and let out a silent groan, which didn’t carry nearly the same meaning when made without sound. Her short hair and gaunt features made her look like a pale porcupine—not that she knew what a porcupine looked like in real life, but she could imagine. Her skin, which had often been compared to the luster of a pearl, now appeared sallow. Shadows made dark circles under her eyes. She leaned closer to peer into the glass. Are those lines around my eyes and mouth?
With a hiss, Sophia grabbed the mirror from Mavis’s grasp and tried to raise it. The mirror was too heavy, and her arms almost collapsed under the weight, which would have dropped the darn thing on her face. Struggling, she managed to fling it away, but instead of flying across the room and shattering with a satisfying crash, the mirror only toppled over the side of the bed and landed on the carpet.
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