“Oh,” her mother laughed. “You’re a grown girl now, with your own job, you can come and go as you please.”
“Come, my Fiona, sit with us awhile,” her father urged.
The windows were open, to clear out the cooking smells and let in the night air, and Fiona settled on a cushion by her father, resting her head on the sturdy wooden chair he’d built many years ago.
“Must be busy up at Ochs Carter’s place these days,” Father said after a spell of quiet. “The newspapers have been going on and on about the lavish to-do.”
Fiona glanced up at him, and saw that he understood this was no ordinary visit. But her belly tightened and her eyes watered at the prospect of having to explain everything that had transpired.
“We’re lucky to see Fiona, what with all her responsibilities at the Carter house,” her mother interjected, giving her husband a warning look. It was plain that she, too, knew her daughter was in the midst of a crisis. “Let us not count our blessings.”
“No,” her father agreed. “We won’t count our blessings when it comes to Fiona, we will only be grateful for her lovely presence.”
Fiona smiled up at her parents, grateful that they seemed to comprehend what she needed without an explanation. “What were you reading, Pa? Can I hear it?”
He kissed her forehead, cleared his throat, and began: “’Tis the last rose of summer/left blooming alone/All her lovely companions/Are faded and gone. . . .”
Fiona closed her eyes and listened to her father recite the familiar words in his rich lilt. The chair’s arm was smooth like stone from so many years of use. She inhaled the smell of that room, so that she could remember it always as it was that night. There were the usual scents—her mother’s rose soap, and Father’s tobacco—mixed with the odor of pine. The Byrnes had begun stockpiling firewood for winter, a fact that Fiona found reassuring. They were not so unprepared for changes as she sometimes worried, and would make do without her envelopes, if it came to that. In a neighboring house, someone was playing the fiddle, and farther away, the courthouse bells made their mournful tone. Winter would be a while coming, Fiona thought, if they were still ringing the fire alarm every night. When her father reached the final stanza, she glanced up, and saw that her parents had interlaced their fingers, and were gazing at each other in silent adoration.
“When true hearts lie withered,” he concluded from memory. “And fond ones are flown/Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone.”
Fiona’s heart was sad, but it settled with the sound of poetry. She worried too much over other people. Here, tonight, she could see that her family was all right. Here her loneliness did not feel quite so mean. After tomorrow, Anders and Emmeline would be on their journey. She would see them safely off, and—content with the notion that her friends had escaped present dangers—she herself would find a new way to be happy.
That was the hopeful thought with which Fiona drifted into sleep. By the time the night sky began to pale, so too did the terrible light of the mill fire, and the Frontier Engine Company left the scene to get some rest. With them was Gabriel, who could no longer remember the feeling of loneliness. They walked, a loose confederation of men who had done their duty—teary with relief, grinning with pride, heavy-footed from their effort. At the station house, beer was passed around and talk became easy, and many things were said.
“It was a perfect fire—the air so dry and hot, and so much to burn.”
“We were lucky to have stopped it where we did.”
“Could have been worse.”
“Could have been bad.”
“Could have been the end of everything.”
“The city’ll be on alert now. Whole city will be careful when they hear what happened tonight.”
Gabriel lay on a cot and listened. One drink of beer made him sleepy, and his eyelids were heavy, so he closed them for a minute or two, listening as the men retold the story of tonight. The story of what, for one day only, would be known as the Great Fire. By the next night, the world as they knew it would be gone, and there would be no mistaking the Great Fire for any of the small conflagrations that came before.
Seventeen
Last night more than half the firemen in this city were deployed to fight a West Side blaze. These brave men triumphed, but only after seventeen long hours, and the total destruction of four square blocks. There are fewer than two hundred firemen in this city, and they are worse for wear today on our behalf. We tip our hats to them.
—Chicago Star, October 8, 1871
The first light woke Fiona, and she left without saying goodbye to her family, who were all still dreaming. In the early-morning streets, the only activity was that of milk deliveries and newspaper boys, which was how she first heard the story of the big West Side fire. But she did not make much of it. The headlines were always melodramatic—she thought about it only long enough to calculate that it was far enough from Anders, that he probably would not have known of the disaster from which he had been spared. She was alert to any threat to the plan that she must execute, and did not allow anything else to cloud her thoughts. She kept her head down, and hoped this day would be over soon.
Arriving back at the Carters, she saw that the staff was already busy preparing for the day’s festivities. The smell of bread filled the big kitchen, and a fleet of hired help was arriving to see that the wedding guests never wanted for anything for even a single moment. Their uniforms were piled under a makeshift tent, out behind the kitchen, and Fiona took a spare maid’s getup from the rest, and tucked it under her arm as she went into the house, and down into the servants’ quarters. Here she washed her face, braided her hair neat and tight for the day ahead, and put on a fresh shirt and skirt from her drawer.
Then she went and prepared for the day as she always would: she made a tray of tea and toast for Emmeline, and went to wake her up. Before she climbed the stairs, she checked the watch on the gold chain that was her reward for giving up her best dream. It was now almost nine o’clock. By eleven, it would all be over.
As she had walked home, as she had gone about her morning ritual, she had been confident that she could execute her part of the plan out of love for Anders and love of Emmeline, and that like every member of the Carter staff, she could do her duty with dignity. But when she entered the room with the flocked peach wallpaper and the magenta chaise, when she saw Emmeline awake already but still in bed, she felt the agony take hold of her belly, and knew that she would have to say little and perform what needed doing in as perfunctory a manner as possible, lest she lose control and ruin everything with her own poorly contained misery.
“Oh!” Emmeline cried wistfully when she saw Fiona’s face. “Don’t be sore with me.”
“I’m not.” Fiona sighed, and put down the tray as she had so many times before. “But I feel a little serious this morning, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Emmeline acknowledged. “Quite serious.”
“Did you pack your bag?”
“I started to . . . but then I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the black patent-leather boots or the white doeskin ones, and—”
“The black,” Fiona said, and turned away, and went to draw Emmeline’s last bath. So that Emmeline could dress herself to go off and make Anders hers forever. To distract herself from this fact, Fiona checked the temperature obsessively, and measured out just the right amount of jasmine perfume for the water. When she returned, she saw that Emmeline was still lying under the covers, and staring vaguely in the direction of the window. So she picked up the hairbrush from the vanity, went to the bed, and sat beside her old friend to help her undo the tangles she’d acquired in the night. “I know you’re scared,” she said. Speaking these reassuring words caused an ache in her throat, and they tasted bitter on her tongue, but she made herself go on. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll have each other.”
“I know,” Emmeline said.
“You will be all right with one pair of boots.”
“Y
ou’re right, Fiona, you’re always right.”
Fiona, wishing that were true, finished brushing her friend’s hair, and then said: “You remember the plan, don’t you?”
Emmeline nodded. “I will dress in the maid’s uniform, and slip down the servants’ stairs, and meet you on Clark Street. . . .”
“You will have to do it by eleven. Remember, that’s just two hours from now. That way, there will be a lot of servants that nobody recognizes around the house, but none of the guests will have arrived yet. I’ll help you pack the rest of your things, and then I’ll go down to Water Street to find a cab. It’ll be easier, anyway, for you to go unnoticed without me. All right?”
“All right,” Emmeline replied, with the firm determination that had carried her so far, so quickly, into high society, that lifted her over any slight or setback, and radiated through the bones of which her lovely features were composed.
If Fiona had secretly hoped she might change her mind, the hope dwindled and died when she heard Emmeline answer in that way. They were busy awhile with Emmeline’s dress and the final decisions about what would and would not go in the trunk, and so much time passed that Fiona worried she would not be able to return by the designated hour. She picked up the tea tray, and with a sore heart went back down through the house, so that she could walk a few blocks and find a cab, and thus initiate Emmeline’s escape from her own wedding.
Although the ceremony was planned for one o’clock, the anticipation and general chatter surrounding the Carter-Tree nuptials was such that curiosity got the better of many of the wedding guests, and they began strolling onto the property at quarter past eleven. The band had still been warming up at that time, and Mr. Carter’s man, Malcolm, had gone down and told them to hurry up and get into their places. The servants had still been laying out the silver and the crystal under the great white tent on the front lawn and had to rush to circulate glasses of lemonade to the thirsty early arrivals.
They were pink in the face, and wiping sweat from their brows, for the elements were already oppressive. Georgie was staring out the kitchen window, when she witnessed the arrival of Ada Garrison, in a dress of tiered grapefruit-colored chiffon, and thought how she’d happily trade her soul for one just like it. Upon Mrs. Garrison’s head was a matching hat with the wingspan of a swan. Fiona Byrne came through the kitchen just then, asking absentmindedly if Georgie wouldn’t mind washing Miss Carter’s tea things, as she was in a hurry to find needle and thread for something amiss on the wedding gown. Georgie barely heard her, for she was thinking how, if she could find a window on the upper floors, she might get a better view of Mrs. Garrison’s exquisite dress. She took the tray, quickly stored it under the stairwell, and went up the steps from which Fiona had come.
By then Fiona was in a panic. The fine people who would be curious and watchful for a first glimpse of the bride were arriving so much sooner than she had counted on, and the plan depended on Emmeline leaving when there was the most hired help and the fewest guests. She muttered angrily to herself, and did not consider that Georgie might be the one to notice something amiss.
Eighteen
Mr. Ochs Carter
cordially invites you
to witness the marriage
of his daughter, Emmeline Carter,
to Frederick Arles Tree
at the Carter residence
October 8, 1871
One o’clock
By noon, the rented chairs of white and gold damask had been arranged in neat rows across the two front rooms of the Carter house, and people in their best seersucker and pastel had begun to occupy them, a full hour ahead of schedule, and Emmeline, who should have put on the stolen servant’s uniform the moment Fiona had left, had instead found herself harassed by Georgie, who had popped her head in to see if the bride needed anything on her special day.
Emmeline had sent her away to find Fiona, but of course that had been the wrong tack. Emmeline well knew where Fiona had gone—she’d left with the single-minded purpose of securing a cab for Emmeline’s own escape. And meanwhile, for some dimly understood reason, Emmeline’s feet were still planted firmly in place.
“She’s gone?” Emmeline asked when the girl soon reappeared.
“Nobody’s seen her since she brought down the tray. But don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
Emmeline’s gaze flicked from Georgie, waiting expectantly to be told what to do, and back to her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked puffy and purplish after a restless night. I look like Anders after the fight, she thought. The picture of his face hovered in her mind’s eye, and her heart got jittery, and she wished that she had run away earlier, before the Carter residence had been transformed for a wedding. She wished they were already a hundred miles gone.
Georgie stepped a little farther into the room. “Are you all right?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“But you look as beautiful as always, Em—I mean, Miss Carter.”
“Perhaps for a trip to the horse track.” Emmeline gave a dismissive wave of her hand, feeling quite suddenly like an older girl, the kind who has already seen it all and become quite jaded about everything. “The sort of people you find there might be tricked into thinking this is beauty. But not for today.” It was Anders she wanted to look beautiful for today, but neither could she quite let go of the vain desire to look beautiful for Chicago’s best people, too. She knew how to transform, and an audience was already assembled to witness her performance. “Do we have any cucumbers? Go to the kitchen for me, and fetch some.”
If Emmeline believed that Georgie’s absence would allow her to finally creep away, she was mistaken. She only had time to wish again that she had not made Georgie think she was her friend. If not for that error, she would not have barged in, and Emmeline might have been able to slip out as easily as Fiona had. By now, they might have been across the river and in the West Division, and none of the Carter household need have been alerted to her doings.
But something held her back, and there was Georgie again, so quickly, with sliced cucumbers and a cold cloth press, nudging the giant gold-colored box through the doorway with her foot.
“May I help you get dressed?” Georgie asked. She was speaking in a very affected manner, which Emmeline supposed was how she imagined a lady’s maid spoke to a lady. “That’s the delivery over there, from Field and Leiter.”
Emmeline tried to think. They were already late to meet Anders. But if she started acting strange now, the household would become aware of something not quite right, and she might never be able to leave. No, he would understand that she might have difficulty leaving, guess that she could be delayed for a thousand reasons, and would wait for her. Anders always waited for her. The best course was to go along with Georgie, who would whisper to the other servants that Emmeline was taking great care with her toilette, just as expected, and the other servants would tell Malcolm, and Malcolm would tell Father. As long as Father believed that she was going to walk down the aisle, there would be time to make her escape.
But, oh—Father. He was probably reading his stack of Chicago newspapers just now—he had all of them delivered every morning—relishing the sight of his name printed in each one. How humiliated he would be. She felt as though she were on a merry-go-round operating at a wild speed with no sign of stopping. “Just put the cucumber slices on my eyes, would you?” she instructed. “Georgie, you will have to be my lady’s maid today. Do you think you can do that for me?”
Georgie nodded eagerly, and Emmeline realized that she was lucky that it was Georgie who had intruded, and not one of the servants who had been with the Carters since the beginning. Any of the others would have been scandalized by Fiona’s defection and tried to find out the reason why. But Georgie was easily distracted by the prize of taking her place. The cucumber slivers were cold and damp against Emmeline’s eyelids, but even this did not soothe her agitated mind. In fact, it made it worse. In the cool darkness they provided, s
he was able to feel the creeping loneliness. Fiona had been her loyal shadow all these years. Tonight, Emmeline would be on a train far east of here, carrying her away from Fiona, and her father—away from all of this.
She was about to tell Georgie to give her just five minutes of peace, when she realized that Georgie was taking her assignment as lady’s maid quite seriously.
“Where is the crown?”
“Oh, it’s here somewhere,” Emmeline replied carelessly.
“The one Mr. Tree gave you? The one with the rubies, the one that belonged to his grandmother?” Georgie’s eyes were wide, almost reproachful, and Emmeline realized that she should not have been so cavalier. “I’ve looked everywhere. Surely you’re going to wear it when you become Mrs. Frederick Tree? The whole house was abuzz about the crown, and . . .”
“Oh, I don’t think . . .” Emmeline removed the cucumbers and frowned. This was not a possibility she had considered. When she had sold her jewelry, she had assumed this moment would never come. She had not thought of a gaggle of servants and rows upon rows of society people speculating on the absence of the Tree family heirloom—which had been reported on in several of the society columns—during the wedding ceremony, because she had not thought there would be a wedding.
But there wouldn’t be. She had to keep her head on straight and not be washed away by every little ripple.
“Miss Carter . . . it’s not . . . lost . . . is it?”
“Of course not, but a few of the stones were loose, and we had to send it in to a jeweler, and it’s not ready yet.”
Georgie’s eyes sought the four corners of the room, and she let out a little yelp. “And where is your engagement ring?”
“Oh, Georgie, don’t be so simple, nobody wears their engagement ring when they get married.” Emmeline wasn’t sure where that notion came from, and she certainly hadn’t meant to sound so furious. But it seemed to work, for Georgie’s eyes lowered, and her cheeks darkened.
When We Caught Fire Page 14