“Well,” said Daisy, her eyes darting and bright. “Congratulations.”
“Tomorrow will be so much fun,” said Cora, sounding almost genuine. She was smiling—Emmeline didn’t think she’d ever seen Cora smile before. She was almost unrecognizable when she smiled.
“Here,” said Daisy. “From us.”
“For tomorrow,” Cora explained, and she pinned a small lapis brooch on Emmeline’s dress. “You know—something blue.”
The driver had already helped Ada down to the street. Now she made an impatient gesture. “Come along.”
“We’ll say goodbye here, then,” Daisy went on, remaining in the barouche, although it was clear that she wanted to follow Ada and Emmeline where they were going. She wanted to see what was inside the house on Terrace Row.
Emmeline bowed her head. She was a little touched, in spite of herself, and rather wished that they really could be her friends. If she were to stay in Chicago, she knew they would be, and thought what a formidable group they’d make. “What a lovely day you’ve given me.”
“Thank you!” called Cora as Ada and Emmeline made their way up the steps of a house in the middle of the block, the one closest to where Malcolm waited.
They crossed the threshold, and encountered a grand still life. There was Freddy, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression frozen. There was Freddy’s butler, offering a tray of champagne flutes. Another servant stood off to the side, holding an ornate candelabra. Instead of the usual dozen roses he brought when he took her for a drive, there were maybe a hundred stems, all frilly white, filling several enamel vases. And there was Father, leaning against the balustrade, beaming.
“My darling,” Freddy said when he saw her, and made a deep bow. “Welcome home.”
“Home?” Emmeline stepped farther into the foyer and glanced around at the carved oak ceiling, from which dangled a chandelier of crystal droplets.
“Do you like it? This was where my grandmother, Genevieve Gage Arles, entertained Chicago’s best people. Of course, I’ve had everything redone for you. This marble—you’ll never see any better, I can promise that.” He indicated the pink-streaked tile underfoot. “I’ve had it brought from Italy. And the carpets were all originally made for the Mughal emperors. The furniture is rosewood rococo, shipped from New York, the latest style. I chose the pieces myself on my last visit. Let me show you—”
He was interrupted by three sharp coughs, and turned with sudden energy toward the sound. The servant holding the candle shrank from Freddy, his face contracting fearfully, as though bracing for a blow.
“Morris, you idiot—” he began but broke off when he saw that Morris had stepped backward into the drapes that partially covered the entry into the parlor, forgetting entirely about the lit candles he held, so that the fabric peeled upward into pale yellow flame.
“Oh dear,” Ada murmured.
“Damn you!” Freddy exclaimed, his voice reaching a high pitch.
“It’s all right,” Father said, pulling a bunch of flowers from a vase and throwing the remaining contents at the little blaze. “They’re only drapes.”
They stood in silence, smelling the damp burnt odor.
“I wanted everything to be perfect.” Freddy’s voice was still angry, but when he revolved toward Emmeline, his expression was so crestfallen that she almost pitied him, and wanted to make it better.
“Everything is perfect,” she said, moving close, resting her hand on his cheek, and giving him her most incandescent smile.
For a moment he appeared mollified. But when he drew her hand down away from his face to examine her finger, anger seized his features once more. “Where is my ring?” he asked.
“Oh! Well, it’s . . .” Emmeline, in a panic, urged herself to say nothing stupid, but the words were coming fast and beyond her control. “It’s being polished. For tomorrow. It didn’t need it, not really. I just wanted everything to be—”
“Perfect.” Freddy’s whole being seemed to settle with the thought. “That’s why I love you, my Emmeline, you see the world as I do, and will not settle for anything short of perfection.”
With a firm grip on her hand, he drew her up the stairs and from room to room. Ada and her father followed, keeping quiet so Freddy could explain the provenance of every vase and painting, every settee and end table, assuring her that it was the best, the very best a man could buy. They went up the stairs and down, as Freddy imagined the dinner parties they would host here, the people they’d invite, what sort of music they’d listen to, how they would dress.
The tour ended in the front parlor with the big picture window, through which she could see the small skiffs on the lagoon, and beyond the train tracks, the little whitecaps on the lake as it spread toward the eastern states. Throughout the weeks of her engagement, she had never quite been able to picture how she and Freddy would live. Now, strangely, she knew precisely where and how their days as a married couple would be spent, only after realizing they’d never be.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” said Freddy.
“It’s beautiful.” Emmeline turned back from the view, toward the three people waiting breathlessly for her opinion. “Everything is beautiful.”
“You will be happy here,” Ada said with a confident smile.
“Yes.” Emmeline forced the words out of her mouth. “Very happy.”
“Well,” said Ada. “It’s bad luck if we linger. You must be a surprise to each other on your wedding day.”
Freddy advanced, as though to take hold of his bride, but his sister held him back.
“None of that yet!” she giggled.
Freddy glanced at his sister irritably, but did as he was told. For a brief moment he gazed at Emmeline as though he couldn’t believe she was real. This was not exactly the way Anders looked at her, but it had something in common with his innocent adoration, and she wondered that she had not noticed it before, that she had noticed only his worldly manner and fine dress.
“Sleep well, my Emmeline,” he said. His eyes welled with such yearning and hopefulness that she almost forgot he was wealthy and powerful, and saw only a young man eager to earn her affection. “I hope I will please you as a groom.”
Emmeline curtsied, and tried to maintain her happy expression until Freddy and his sister departed. Father was watching her. He must have been watching her the whole time. She knew what he was going to say—she had not shown enough enthusiasm, she had not been perfect—and she was angry with herself for not better concealing her private worries. On long, brusque strides, he crossed the room to her.
“Do you remember when we used to go far out of our way to see this block?” he whispered. “We had only one horse, and you had only one dress.”
Emmeline shivered. “Yes.”
For a while he was unable to speak. Only slowly did it occur to her that the difficulty was not on account of his displeasure with her. In fact, he was trying not to cry. When she saw his tears, hers came, too, and they were not the fake tears she’d produced for the dressmakers. “We’ve come a great distance, haven’t we?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” she said, and nodded. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her father cry, and her heart swelled, seeing him pink in the face and sentimental, and she couldn’t help but throw herself into his arms.
“Emmy,” he said, calling her by the nickname he’d banished when they moved to the North Side, and holding her tight. “You’re a real lady now. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am.”
Guilt stung in her throat. She wanted Father to have his Terrace Row house, and like all her wants, it came on abruptly, and demanded to be fulfilled in a hurry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Whatever for?”
“I don’t know, I just . . .” She trailed off, wishing she could tell him everything, all the wild turns her life had taken. She wished she could say a proper goodbye, and explain why she had to leave. And she wished she could leave and somehow also stay, so that she wou
ld not have to give anything up.
“I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?” he said. “It was only that I wanted you to have all this, everything I couldn’t give you as a little girl. Well, I shall be easier now. Let’s get you home, so you can rest. Tomorrow will be a tiring day.”
Fourteen
Do not be fooled by velvet and lace, silk and tulle, crinoline and fur. A woman’s dress is her suit of armor, tough as any metal.
—Anabelle Carrington, A Lady’s Private Book, O.P. Herring & Sons Publishers, 1869
“There goes a fine bit of stuff.”
The man was leaning against a wall, his shoulders high and rigid, the rest of him relaxed as water. His eyes were a murky green amid bloodshot white, and his jaw was black with stubble.
“Shut up,” sneered the man next to him. “Or she’ll scare.”
For her trip to Gorley the broker’s, Fiona had chosen a ruffled plum skirt and little matching jacket. She had plaited her hair in an elaborate arrangement, and blackened her eyelashes. Fiona had tried on clothing of Emmeline’s before, but she had never gone into the world in fashionable dress. All the boning and corseting, the stiff embroidery and standing collars, made sense to her in a new way, now that she was the one conspicuously put together. Not because her elegant facade saved her from fearing the men of Gorley’s block. No, they could stir menace with the slightest tilt of the head, and inside she quivered. But she sensed they were a little intimidated by her appearance, too.
“Where’s Gorley’s?” she asked impatiently, as though it was not so much their leering that perturbed her as their slowness to be of assistance.
Leisurely—as though weighing what it would gain him to help her—the man pointed to an unmarked storefront across the street.
“Thank you,” she said, and tossed him a coin. “Go to the baths,” she added as she lifted her skirts to cross the dusty street. “I can smell you from here.”
This strip of Market was just east of the south branch of the river, a place where stolen things could be bought and sold. Its denizens watched her from shadowy doorways and second-story windows. They glared from their perches on carts and coaches, or as they passed—too close—on the sidewalk. She heard whistles and grumbles, laughter and profane hisses. A cool whisper traveled up and down her backbone, but she kept her gaze steady and went on, neither fast nor slow. She was alert to the jewelry box she carried, wrapped in burlap, although she was careful not to grip it too tight, or draw attention to her precious cargo in any other way. The only time she startled was when she thought she saw a familiar phaeton go by. She twirled and strained to see if it was Malcolm in the driver’s seat. But the vehicle was gone too quickly, and the door to Gorley’s was before her. She gave herself a little nod of encouragement, and pushed inside.
The walls were covered in oil paintings and hunting trophies, and furniture was stacked in the corners. Shotguns were piled behind a glass-case counter, which was full of bracelets and necklaces, cuff links and tie-pins. There were so many clocks in that room, ticking from all sides. A large man stood just inside the door—she wasn’t sure if he was keeping people in or out, for the men who loitered by the cases and waited in the doorways had a twitchy manner, like prisoners.
“Gorley,” called the hulking person by the door. “You’ll want to see this one.”
A few moments passed in which Fiona would very much have liked to pretend to be absorbed in studying the brushstrokes used to conjure clouds in the maritime scene hanging by the door. But she did not give in to this temptation. She stood still, and did her best to seem annoyed at being made to wait. Presently, a man emerged from behind a curtain. He was short and stout, with a shiny bald head and small, plump hands, which he wiped against his shirt, as though to absolve them of sweat or grease. She was surprised by his diminutive stature, but only for a few moments. He had the sharp black eyes of a bird of prey.
“What can I do for you, little lady?”
“You’re Gorley?”
“What do you think?”
She blushed at this reply, but came forward anyway and put the box on the counter. “I won’t do business with anyone but the proprietor.”
He grinned at her, as one does an amusing child. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he replied, and began to undo the burlap wrapping. “Dolled up as you are.”
The other men in the store approached, breathing coarsely and jockeying for a good view of what was inside. Fiona put her hand on the box, to prevent Gorley’s opening it. “It’s awfully stuffy in here,” she said. “I may have to go elsewhere.”
“Step back,” Gorley barked, and the others did as he said.
Fiona removed her hand and waited. He took his time, turning over every piece, examining each pearl on the long strand to make sure a fake had not been strung up with the real ones, holding the gems to the light, examining the work of each engraving. He examined the diadem and placed it rakishly on his bald head. There was a stretch of quiet minutes for Fiona to think, which was unfortunate. She had been avoiding thinking. Since that long walk to the barn with Anders, she had been able to carry herself with nobility on account of her selfless dedication to her friends and family. She was able to do all she did with the thought that it would at least keep Anders safe. But here, as she waited for Gorley to name a price, as she held still and kept an eyebrow cocked to show she would not be cheated, the thoughts came, and she could not stop them. Emmeline would have been better at this task, and braver—she would not have been so chilled by the ogling; she would not have felt the danger. The unfairness of the whole arrangement struck Fiona, struck her like a closed fist, and afterward the ache wouldn’t go away.
Gorley sniffed. “I’ll give you five hundred for the lot.”
The amount made Fiona light in the head. Her family could live on that much for two years, maybe four. She shut the lid, and gripped the box. “That’s kind,” she said. “But it’s worth at least a thousand to you.”
As she drew back the box, Gorley put his hand out, stopping her. “Six hundred,” he said.
“Seven.”
A man, tucked into one of the corners, giggled at a high pitch. “All right,” Gorley said, and grinned, and she knew he was satisfied that he’d made the better bargain.
“It’s too little,” she said proudly. “But I’m in a hurry.”
“Ladies in your situation always are.”
Fiona’s eyes grew large with anger. In what situation? she wanted to demand. She, who had only done for others, being accused of low morality! The suggestion enraged her, and she longed to tell him what she was made of and how very wrong he was. But an outburst would do her no good. This man’s opinion did not matter, she reminded herself. She would never see him again. Emmeline and Anders could live comfortably on seven hundred a long time. She should think only of leaving, as quickly and quietly as possible.
“Well, then.” She held out her hand, so that he could see the fine weave of her glove.
He laid the bills out on the counter, and she nodded that it was the correct amount, and then he wrapped them in brown paper.
But she could not stand to simply go, and be remembered as a desperate woman. “I’ll take a receipt, thank you.”
“A receipt?” His eyebrows shot up theatrically. “If you come back for ’em, you’ll pay double.”
She gave him a blank stare. “By next week, it will be a small amount to me.”
“As you wish, mademoiselle.”
He placed the packet in an envelope, and scrawled his name across its white expanse: Gorley’s, of 101 Market Street, as though he were a fancy jeweler, and then on the other side the name of each item and how much he had paid.
“I look forward to seeing you again,” he said, and pushed the envelope in her direction.
Quick as she could, she dropped the envelope into her pocket. She leaned into the counter to conceal how her fingers darted, with the ready needle and thread, sealing the payment within her skirt. A few seconds and
it was done, without anyone noticing.
“Thank you, miss,” Gorley said. “Good luck to you,” he added. He seemed to be saying that she would need it.
“Goodbye.” Fiona pronounced the word with what she hoped was haughty finality.
Outside, the sky was blindingly bright. The bills in her pocket were heavy, they seemed hot there against her leg, and she knew that she was not safe until she was clear of Water Street, until she was back on the North Side. She must not relax yet. Such was the muddle of her thoughts as she moved in the direction of the Carters’, and perhaps it was for this reason that, when she felt a hand grabbing a fistful of her bustle, her mind went first to the seven hundred dollars in her pocket.
It took another few seconds to realize that it was she who was in danger.
The hand belonged to the man with the black stubble and the bloodshot eyes. She struggled, but in an instant he had dragged her into a doorway, and trapped her in his arms. She fumbled, adjusting her skirt and pushing the money away from him, but he didn’t notice, or care. His hands were huge and sweaty, smearing across her neck, her chest.
“Hoping I’d wait for you?” His breath stung her face, so swollen was his tongue with gin, and his rough fingers tugged at her braids.
Her pulse raced and her body shrank. “No,” she managed through her terror.
“No?” He grinned, and held her tighter. “Feisty. I’ve always liked a feisty gal.”
She tried to wriggle free, but this only allowed his body to push against hers, pungent with its awful lust.
“That’s a dear,” he laughed. “Come close.”
The blow came from nowhere, sudden as a brick hurled from the sky, and it met the man’s face with as much force. She heard his nose crack, his teeth break, the wind whoosh as it left his body. She herself was free, the money she had come for safely sealed within her pocket, and now it was her assailant who was smashed back into the doorway, pummeled and pummeled until he bled from the nostrils and cried out for mercy.
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