That boy of Fiona’s was what Emmeline was, at just that moment, doing her very best not to remember.
As she stood on the stoop of the Terrace Row house, unsure whether to go in or stay there, she focused instead on the hem of her wedding dress. The fact that it had gone a little brown at the edges did not truly bother her, but she had so little else to care about now. Earlier, light-headed with romantic hope, she made a mad dash across town, only to see her true love and her best friend in carnal repose. On the return trip, her fury had burned fast and bright, and when it flamed out there was nothing but emptiness. She was desperate for a distraction, and fretting over her gown seemed as good an occupation as any other.
Still, questions swarmed her: Had Fiona always coveted Anders for herself, or was that afternoon the first time she wanted him that way? Did she urge Anders to forget Emmeline—or, worse, did they grab for each other without once mentioning their former friend? “Former friend” stung, but what else could she be to them, now? The memory of Fiona’s happy, sleeping face, the unseemly bareness of her arms, the familiar way she and Anders clung to one another, soured Emmeline’s stomach with disgust. And yet she knew—in that clear, deep way Fiona had described—that everything might have been different if she had only woken up that morning and gone to Anders straightaway.
“Emmeline.” The light from the front parlor illuminated one half of Freddy, standing in the front doorway, and left the other half in shadow. His tone sounded wary, yet he opened his arms to her, and she—very tired, and very sad—couldn’t resist moving into his embrace.
“Did you miss me?” she asked weakly. She had frequently greeted Freddy in just this way, but she could not summon her usual flirtatious verve.
He did not reply, which was probably for the best. She knew she should be grateful that he didn’t ask where she’d been. Instead he allowed her to throw her arms around his middle, resting his hands on her shoulder and at the small of her back. She hadn’t known how much she needed somebody, anybody, to hold her as though she were too precious to let go. In his arms, she felt the awful loneliness of the past hours. Her body was sore with loss.
“I was worried,” he said eventually.
“Oh.” She pressed her face into his chest. A trace of tobacco and cologne clung to the fibers of his shirt—the smell was strange, although not unpleasant, and it occurred to her that she didn’t really know Freddy at all. But perhaps, in time, she would forget the boy she’d tried so hard to be with today. Perhaps she’d come to know Freddy instead, and that would be good enough.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded vigorously, afraid that if she had to speak she might begin to sob.
“Emmeline?”
“A little tired,” she managed.
“Won’t you come inside, and tell me where you’ve been?”
With all the spirit she had left, Emmeline turned her lovely eyes upward. She gazed at her husband of a few hours as though she already adored him, as though she were about to give him everything, and trusted him to protect her in return.
The smoothness of Freddy’s appearance had been somewhat undone by half a day of intense heat, and his eyes were bloodshot. He regarded her for several minutes, during which it was impossible to even guess at what he was thinking. His eyes had a weird quality, as though he could not quite focus on her.
“Let’s go in,” she told him, hoping it would feel more right once she was inside.
“As you wish.” He lifted her into his arms and they crossed the threshold of their home. As they continued up the stairs, Emmeline kept trying to think of it that way, but as they came once again into the bedroom, and as he stooped awkwardly to set her down, she found that it all seemed even stranger than before.
While she lingered on the grand carpet with its navy and silver crests, Freddy went to the door and turned the key in the deadbolt, which whined as it clicked into the jamb. She tried to find something to say, but could think of nothing.
Freddy seemed at a loss for words, too. He stood awhile with his back to her, giving Emmeline time to wonder if she had not permanently ruined her chance for happiness—if she would have to go on forever, in a room like this, without love.
“Can I go to sleep now?” she asked, her voice sounding pathetically like a little girl who has been naughty asking if her bad day can please be over now.
“Soon.” Freddy revolved to face her. “But first I want to know where you’ve been.”
Twenty-Four
Try to always be at least a little in love. It is a much more effective beauty aid than rouges or lip stains.
—Anabelle Carrington, A Lady’s Private Book, O.P. Herring & Sons Publishers, 1869
The wind was warm and firm against their backs, pushing them northeast along the south branch of the river, ruffling the light fabric of their shirts. Fiona’s hair was loose and a little messy, and though she had not seen her reflection in some time, she somehow knew that her disorderly appearance had a kind of loveliness. They had agreed they would cross at Lake Street, the better to avoid the old neighborhood, and head straight for the Great Central Station.
Neither Fiona nor Anders spoke much. Words seemed inadequate to the change they’d been through, and a little silly, given everything.
The men who had searched for Anders through the city still worried her, but she had the impression that the world had been irreversibly altered. That was then, and life was sweeter now. They were watchful, and kept in the shadows of the buildings so as not to draw attention, but having escaped the burning barn, made it to the river, on their way to leave behind the city that had owned them all their lives, she suspected that some divine presence was watching from above, and that they would be safe as long as they stayed together.
“Fiona,” he murmured as she walked ahead to make room for an old woman pushing a vegetable cart.
“Yes?” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, and as she twirled to face him her feet seemed to just skim the earth.
“I wanted to say it,” he replied. “That’s all.”
“Say it again.”
“Fiona.”
“Anders.” She shivered. “Have you ever heard anything so nice?”
He shook his head and grinned.
The sensation of being kissed by Anders, of touching his arms and the muscles of his back, of his fingers in her hair, and her legs wrapping around his legs, was still with her. The memory was sweet in her limbs, and she didn’t want to disturb that with any idle chatter—she wanted the traces of the time they’d spent in that loft to linger on her skin as long as possible.
The courthouse bell had not yet rung, and from their street-level vantage, Fiona and Anders had every reason to believe the fire in the barn had been contained. The city was going about its nightly business, and in the cupola, Gabriel was as content as they were, because he had drifted into a dream of victory parades and cheering crowds and a happy, sun-soaked day when he and his compatriots were celebrated like heroes.
The first sign that all was not happiness was Hiram, the telegraph operator, calling his name. At first Gabriel thought Hiram was merely waking him so that he could better keep the watch. For Hiram well knew that Gabriel had not slept at all the night before, what with the Great Fire, and had been prone to nodding off through the afternoon.
The city to the east rolled out, on and on, the barges on the water, the grain elevators taking in their stock even this late in the day. But when he looked west, he saw the wind lift the terrible trail of reddish light, and the smoke billowing above—black, except where it was illuminated like low clouds on the Fourth of July. In a panic, Gabriel shouted out the name of what he hoped was the right alarm box, so that the nearest engine company could be alerted, and get quickly to the scene.
By the time he realized he had called the wrong company, the courthouse bells had already tolled the alarm many times over, and Hiram said there was no point in correcting it, for at this point the firemen would sur
ely see the source of the smoke.
Gabriel, who wanted only to do good in the world, regarded himself hatefully.
The wind was blowing to the northeast, at least. It would move the flames toward the natural barriers of the river and last night’s fire, where there was nothing left to burn. Yet he was stricken with nauseous foreboding. All over town the wind cried against the top-floor windows, whipping flags, making the dogs crazy.
Tonight was a bad night for a fire.
By the time Fiona and Anders reached the far side of the bridge, they could hear the bell at the courthouse ring the alarm, and their mood shifted, too. A bank of smoke was now visible in the distance, rising over the West Side. They still didn’t speak much, although now she reckoned it was for different reasons. Neither wanted to think too hard about the scene that they had rushed away from.
The train station was full of bustle. Despite the late hour, periodicals and peanuts were being hawked from every corner, and there seemed to be almost as many arrivals and departures as at noon. But here, too, an anxious mood prevailed. Even the man who kept the flower stall was disagreeable. He seemed grimly determined to sell the rest of his stock and go.
“Come on, doesn’t your sweetheart need a rose?” he called to Anders as they passed. “She looks like she needs a rose.”
Anders’s eyes darted to be sure that no one had noticed him, and then he quickly handed over a coin for one long-stemmed deep-red rose. Although there were other worries, Fiona couldn’t help a little spasm of disappointment that Anders’s first gift to her would come so unwillingly. But when he took her hand, drew her close so that he could kiss her cheek and put the rose just under her nose, her cheeks flushed with joy.
“That man said you’re my sweetheart,” he said.
“Am I?”
He grinned and rested his forehead against her forehead. The flow of passengers and porters, tour guides and cab drivers, continued on either side as they swayed together.
“Hey there,” barked the flower salesmen. “The Grand Chicago Hotel is right around the corner, you can rent a room from the booth across the way.”
Anders turned on his heel. He stalked toward the man, and she saw the anger make a rigid line of his spine. He seemed larger—the span of his shoulders grew, and his fists nearly throbbed. The flower vendor stepped back, smiling a crooked smile and raising his hands in jest. “Anders,” she whispered, grabbing for his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
He allowed her to lead him, and they moved swiftly down the huge corridor toward the train shed.
“Forget it,” she urged him.
She wished they could return to the silly sweetness of earlier, but she knew she couldn’t rush that. He would come back to her when he was ready. Meanwhile, they reached the grand entryway onto the enormous room where the tracks came to their terminus. The machine exhaust rose up to the iron and glass ceiling, and uniformed personnel moved back and forth preparing for the midnight train’s departure. Fiona thought how, as soon as they were sitting comfortably on the train, they would be safe. They would be almost as good as gone, and no gamblers would be able to find them where they were going.
They glanced up at the board that announced the track numbers.
“New York,” Anders murmured, and she felt relieved that he was looking to the future.
On they went, past a group of farmers, close enough to overhear their urgent discussion.
“They say it’s burning out of control,” said the tallest one.
“But the harvest. We’ll need you on the farm every day till November.”
The tall one shook his head. “My wife is there, staying with her sister on the West Side until the baby comes. I have to go.”
The other nodded in solemn agreement, and they shook hands.
Fiona turned to watch how swiftly the tall man left the train station. He had a great lumbering gait, and a patchwork coat, and she could see him even among the hordes of people as he made his way back through the gauntlet of shops on his way to the city street. Her jaw tightened, and her temples went cold. A boy ran by, shouting the latest news—it was as the farmer said, the fire on the West Side was out of control.
The farmer knew something she did not. And suddenly she knew it too: a bad thing was going to happen tonight.
“I have to go back,” she whispered.
“What?” Anders’s brow rippled with concern.
“My family, they . . .”
“Because of the fire? It’s on the West Side, Fiona, it’ll never get to the old neighborhood.”
“But if. If it should . . . I just have to tell them to be careful, to be ready to leave, if . . .” She trailed off, frustrated with herself that she couldn’t explain what she knew she must do. “Their place, they’re always in those little rooms. And it’s like where we were, in the barn, but worse. They’d be trapped.”
Anders glanced at the train and stood quietly taking this in.
“Get on the train. I’ll just go and warn them. They’ll understand. I’ll be back by midnight, before departure time. You’ll be safe here, and my mind will be easier if I just . . .”
Anders grimaced. “If you go, I’m going with you.”
“But Gil Bryce, if he or one of his people should . . .”
Anders raised his blue gaze to hers and gave her a sly smile. “I’d do the same if it were my family, Fiona Byrne. But if you think I’m going to let you go off into the city by yourself now, after everything, then you’re crazy for sure.”
When they left the train station, the wind was harsh in their faces, as though urging them to retreat. But Fiona was relieved that she’d be able to say a proper goodbye to her family, and see them safe one last time. And with Anders close by her side, she felt certain that everything would be all right in the end. Soon they’d be leaving, but with their minds at ease and their hearts full of nothing but each other.
Twenty-Five
A girl’s wedding day is the most glorious and treacherous of her life. She will be fawned over and feted for her beauty during the early hours, but at night she will have to face her wifely duties. My advice is that she puts out the lights and urges her husband to do his business quickly.
—Cressida Marr, Advice for the Young Bride, Ostrich Press Publishers, 1870
“Emmeline?”
That was her name, she well knew. Yet, spoken with gentle concern through the dressing room door, it sounded odd, and sad-making. She had always rather liked her name, but now she hadn’t the slightest idea what it was supposed to mean. Who was Emmeline, anyway, if not the best friend of Fiona, the beloved of Anders? As she sat on the short fur-covered stool—still encased in her wedding gown, faced with her own reflection—all she could be sure of was that Emmeline was a girl lovely and sly enough to have won a coveted proposal from a wealthy and prominent young man. But she was a stranger to herself. The pretty features in the mirror did not seem to have much to do with whomever she was supposed to be, and her insides felt all washed out.
“My dearest?” This time Freddy’s query was accompanied by a rap of knuckles.
“Yes?” She had been stalling in the dressing room, claiming she needed to remove her wedding finery before they talked, before he asked again where she had been. Of course he would—any husband would want to know. But she just couldn’t bear for him to hate her too. Maybe, she thought, if she stayed in the dressing room long enough, he would forget about her little absence.
“Is everything all right?” Several moments passed before Freddy added: “I am worried about you. . . .”
“I’m fine!” she called brightly. She attempted a smile to match the sentiment, but the thing looked wobbly, then failed completely, and she began to cry. She put her forehead in her hands and let a big sob work its way up her throat and out her mouth.
Freddy must have heard, because he came into the dressing room. “Oh dear,” he said. “Come, my darling, why are you hiding from me?”
“I don’t knooooow!”
she wailed.
He put his hands upon her shoulders, and urged her back into the bedroom, where he sat her down on a navy satin settee, and cupped his hands around hers. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked.
She was trying her best not to cry anymore, and assiduously avoiding his gaze. Yet she sensed how he searched for her eyes. “Of course,” she managed.
“It’s all very sudden, isn’t it?” he went on. “We hardly know each other.”
Emmeline hiccupped and attempted a sideways glance at her husband.
“And you’re very young to be married. I suppose I was your first beau, the first man ever to take a romantic interest in you.”
Her head bobbed in vigorous agreement.
“That was your first kiss today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“I could tell.” He sighed. “You’re nervous. Aren’t you? About what comes next.”
When she could think of no answer to that, he patted her on the head like a child and crossed the room and fell into the velvet armchair.
With a ladylike lowering of her lashes, Emmeline replied, “I suppose.”
“That is very charming of you, my dear. I confess it makes me adore you even more. It has been a very long, and very tiring, day. Why don’t you rest now, and we can leave until tomorrow the business of being man and wife?”
This sign that he understood her delicate state, that he would be patient, filled her with gratitude. Maybe, even after everything, she still had some luck left. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“All right,” he said, unfurling himself. He stumbled a little on his way toward a heavy mahogany cabinet. The way he avoided looking at her told her that he was disappointed, and she thought how kind he was, to put her desires before his own. He poured himself a snifter of amber liquid, lit a small paper cylinder of tobacco, and returned to his previous position on the chair. “But there’s one small matter I must discuss with you, before our wedding day is over.”
When We Caught Fire Page 18