by Susan Wiggs
When they reached the street, he puffed on his cheroot, took her hand and said, “Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“And I’m not letting you wander off alone at night.” A beguiling smile slid across his face. “The Pullman car’s still there.”
She balked, digging in her heels. “Never.”
“Oh, Kathleen.” He swept his arm around her. “Never say never.”
THIRTEEN
Kathleen wasn’t certain how she did it, but she managed to sleep like a dead person for a night and half of the next day. Awakening to strong midday sunlight, she sat up in the lavish berth of the Pullman car, rubbed her eyes and wondered how she had slept so soundly.
Moving the Oriental screen that shielded the berth from the rest of the car, she saw no sign of Dylan. At her shrill insistence, he had slept on the fainting couch in the sitting area, and she’d dragged the screen across the alcove of the bed.
Warily she crept out of bed and went to the window, pushing aside the drapes. Linked to other passenger coaches, the palace car sat on a side track near the lake. It appeared to be abandoned and forgotten, surrounded by a wasteland of broken stone and creosote-coated ties on one side, and the mist-covered lake on the other. The sunlight filtering through the lake fog lent a ghostly aura to the scene, and she shivered, wondering what the day would bring. She wanted desperately to know if Deborah and the others were all right, but finding a way to Miss Boylan’s seemed impossible.
Next to the lavatory, she found an oval-shaped tub of water. When she touched it, she drew back her hand in surprise. Warm water. Had Dylan built a fire outside and heated water for her? Impossible. He didn’t give a damn for her comfort. Yet he had let her take the berth last night even though she wouldn’t let him near it. Now this.
She decided not to wonder about it, and quickly put the screen in place. With a deep shudder of delight she bathed herself, scrubbing her hair thoroughly for the first time since before the fire. She donned a plain blue dress she had found in the luggage. It was beautifully made; from her years of handling Miss Deborah’s wardrobe, she recognized the work of a gifted seamstress. She felt guilty putting it on, but couldn’t abide the thought of the formal green silk again, so badly burned and hastily mended, and so full of reminders of the night of the fire. Her wedding dress, she thought, holding out the once beautiful gown. Most women went misty-eyed over their wedding dresses. All Kathleen saw was a project. It was going to be hard work, restoring the Worth gown to its former glory.
As she did her hair, using the comb, she wondered what sort of lady belonged aboard this luxurious train car. Pullman cars had been all the rage since George Pullman had won the honor of outfitting the funeral train that brought home the body of the great hero of Illinois, President Lincoln. The best families in the city had decided that the mode of travel was even better suited for the living. Wealthy tycoons and merchants all commissioned their own cars to make rail travel fashionable and comfortable. She imagined herself here, ordering tea and crumpets as the landscape whizzed past through the big picture windows.
Then she stopped herself, scowling away the fantasy. Wishing for things like that had landed her in the fix of her life. Why, oh why, couldn’t she have let herself be content with who she was and what she had? Then she never would have met Dylan Kennedy—or whoever he was. She never would have committed the insanity of marrying him in the midst of a disaster. Never would have—She glanced at the unmade bed and brought the thought up short.
“All right, colleen,” she muttered to herself, straightening the coverlet and arranging the pillows. “Best see what we’re about today.”
She went to the door of the salon car and tentatively opened it. There, a few yards down the track, stood Dylan and Bull. An iron kettle suspended over a brazier emitted puffs of steam.
Spying her, Dylan doffed an imaginary hat. “Top o’ the morning to you,” he said, mimicking her brogue. “And how did milady sleep last night and—” he consulted an imaginary watch “—half the day? Did you enjoy your bath? Do you need more hot water?”
She ignored him. “Hello, Bull. Is your ankle better?”
The big man wore new clothes and shoes. He nodded, sticking out his large foot and rotating it. “Better, thank you.”
“Bull was going to hightail it out of town,” Dylan said. “But I convinced him to stay a spell.”
“Whatever he promised you,” Kathleen warned Bull, “don’t believe him. He’s not to be trusted.”
“I don’t trust nobody,” Bull assured her. “Never have. But I got nowhere else to go.”
“Have you a place to stay?”
He jerked his shining bald head at a passenger coach. Like the palace car, it had been taken aside and presumably forgotten. “That’ll do for a time.” A steam whistle shrilled in the air, and he started toward the terminal. “I’d best be going, see if I can get in line for some grub,” he said.
Food camps and makeshift barracks had been set up throughout the city, at Washington Square Park, Madison Street, Harrison Street, Clybourne Avenue and around some of the churches. At the head of the terminal, lines formed as citizens waited for supplies from other cities.
Alone with Dylan, Kathleen could not think of a thing to say. She stood with one foot on the iron stair of the palace car, her hand gripping the figured balustrade. He sent her an easy smile, the same smile that had caught her heart the first moment she’d seen him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Starved.”
He motioned her aboard. Once inside, he took out a bundle containing graham biscuits and four red apples. “This is the best I could do for the moment,” he said. “I’m not used to having more than one mouth to feed.”
“How kind of you to point that out.”
“Who are you calling kind?” he muttered, scowling as he scanned a one-page news sheet. He seemed distracted, probably concentrating on his next swindle, she thought in annoyance.
Without warning, the door opened and a man stepped inside. Dylan swiftly stepped in front of her. “Sir, may I—” Then he strode across the room, his entire demeanor changing as if by magic. A moment ago he had been a calculating trickster. Yet in the blink of an eye, he transformed himself into an earnest, well-heeled Boston gentleman. “Cornelius,” he said heartily, “this is a stroke of luck. By God, but it’s a fine thing to see a familiar face.”
Mr. Cornelius King, who had made his first million, it was rumored, by profiteering during the Civil War, frowned in puzzled fashion. He was short of stature, yet handsome, with shrewd eyes and a well-groomed beard framing his unsmiling mouth. “Have we met?”
“Dylan Francis Kennedy, at your service.” Dylan gave his trademark bow. “We met at the Sinclair party some weeks ago.”
“Ah, Dylan, of course.” King relaxed a little, peeling off his gloves. “I heard nothing but praise for you from my daughters. I apologize for not recognizing you right off.”
Kathleen fumed. Had he managed to flirt with every single girl in the city?
“Perfectly understandable,” Dylan said. “Under the circumstances, I’d hardly recognize myself if there were an unbroken mirror in the city.” He stood aside and drew Kathleen forward. “Miss Kathleen,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Cornelius King.”
“How do you do,” she said, giving him a slight, but proper, curtsy. Truly, she wanted to fall through the floor and slink away. A dull red blush crept over her. To be caught trespassing on a famous man’s property…She knew no rules of decorum for this situation. Yet the man showed no shock at her presence. She knew from her experience belowstairs that the very best social climbers kept mistresses. He probably had one of his own. It shamed her to be viewed in such a light, but she couldn’t think what to say. If she claimed to be Dylan’s wife, she would be even more humiliated when he denied it. He was no good for her at all, she decided. If she had a shred of pride she would leave right now and never come back.
“I suppose I should ask you,” Mr. King said to Dylan, “what you’re doing in my palace car.”
“I was just about to explain that,” Dylan replied smoothly, as if he had been expecting the question. “I found it nearly overrun with squatters. Had the devil of a time getting them to leave.” He went on to describe his fictional deeds in very understated but specific detail.
As he spoke, Kathleen marveled at his finesse. It was pure magic, the way this man reinvented himself. One moment he was a cynical con artist, colluding about Lord-knew-what with Bull outside the train car. The next, he played the coolheaded young turk, easily convincing a rich tycoon that he had single-handedly ejected a gang of dangerous looters before they could do any damage to the train car. What a gift it was, to be anyone he chose at the drop of a hat. Yet she found herself wondering who the real Dylan Kennedy was. Did he even know, or was he so accustomed to role-playing that he no longer had an identity of his own?
The notion caused a wave of inexpressible sadness to ripple through her, and she grew exasperated with herself. Of all the victims of Chicago’s disaster, he should not be the object of her sympathy. But there it was. His gift. He could wrest the desired response from even the most reluctant skeptic. Even from someone who knew he was a swindler and a cheat. And a remorseless breaker of hearts.
She realized she was observing a master at his craft. Within minutes, he had Mr. King eating out of his hand, believing every lie that dropped like honey from his beautifully shaped lips.
“So there you have it,” he concluded. “Once I realized your property was at risk, I felt I had no choice but to remain here, on my guard.”
“I owe you, Dylan,” Mr. King said magnanimously. “You’ve done me an invaluable service.”
“Only too glad to help,” Dylan said, deeply modest. “How did you and yours come through the fire, then?”
Mr. King spread his hands, palms up. “My family and I waited out the fire with Lord Kim, up at Lake View, and there they stay. I came to the city to see how the recovery’s coming.” The sound of cursing and the cracking of a whip drew their attention to the yard outside. On the avenue which ran parallel to the tracks, a muleteer argued with an engine crew. “Another farmer from the prairie,” Mr. King remarked, shaking his head. “He has nowhere to sell his grain and will probably end up dumping the entire lot into the lake.” Shaking his head, he turned away. “It’s a new world, overnight.”
“That it is,” Dylan agreed.
“Mayor Mason’s already convening a Board of Inquiry to investigate the whole thing, though it’s pretty clear that it all started in the West Division.” He made a fist. “Damned immigrant Irish,” he blustered. “They probably caused the fire and are looting the city as we speak.”
Kathleen ground her teeth. Suddenly she lost all sympathy for the man on whose property she had been trespassing. She must have made some sound or movement, for he looked at her, then looked closer.
“That dress, ma’am. I believe it belongs to my wife.”
“Indeed, sir,” she said with melting sincerity. “It was the only way to keep it out of the hands of those disgusting Irish looters.”
Dylan slipped his arm around her waist and gazed at her with pure admiration. She realized that she had pleased him by joining his confidence game and by playacting with surprising ease.
“In fact,” she went on boldly, “perhaps we should continue to safeguard the train car in your absence. Surely you’d be much more comfortable at your estate in the suburbs, well away from the depraved immigrants, until the city is safe again.”
“There’s no need, ma’am. I can hire private guards, surely. I would not presume to ask—”
“We insist, don’t we, Dylan?” She nudged him in the side.
“Certainly,” he said. “We insist.”
“It’s simply too awful to think of decent folk like yourself suffering through this disaster.” She caught herself enjoying this much more than she should. “You’ll never find a guard to hire. They’re all busy with trivial matters like relief work.”
“Very well,” he said slowly. “But I can only impose upon you for a day or two, until I find proper help.”
Kathleen sensed that they shouldn’t press their luck, but she couldn’t help a small suggestion. “We’ll need some things, of course. Supplies and such.”
“I’ll see that you get them.”
And any bills we might incur, she thought remorselessly.
As Dylan walked outside with Mr. King, she pushed aside her feeling of humiliation. Despite their pretenses, their marriage had been real. Their consummation had been very real, unforgettably so. Still, she wished that playing the role of a rich man’s mistress did not come so easily to her.
* * *
Dylan had no idea why he kept getting involved in Kathleen O’Leary’s affairs and schemes. His well-honed sense of self-preservation told him to quietly leave the city, yet here he was, accompanying Kathleen to the West Division, to the home of her family. Like a common servant, he was laden with parcels—a side of bacon and a sack of flour—and they dragged at him like a ball and chain.
Similarly laden, and uncomplaining as a statue of the Virgin Mary, Kathleen walked quietly beside him through the seething city. She managed to look virtuous and pure, an angel of mercy on a quest to succor the unfortunate. She also managed to look imminently desirable, evoking heated memories of the wild bliss of their lovemaking. His body, predictably, reacted to the thought. No more, he told himself sternly. His lust for her must not be permitted to get in the way of expedience.
He intended to abandon her somewhere along the way. He told himself he was better off never seeing her again. True, the marriage had a few well-placed witnesses, but the paperwork was lost, so there was no record to worry about. Within a few hours, Kathleen O’Leary would just be a too pleasant memory of the most disastrous night in Chicago.
Yet when they reached the river, he thought it best to accompany her across to the West Division. And once they arrived there, he thought it foolish to simply drop his parcels and leave them to the foragers darting in and out of the ruins. Each time he saw an opportunity to slip away, happenstance provided him with a reason to stay by her side. Some strange force seemed to be pulling him along with her, like a rogue current that would not let him out of its grasp.
The jewels, he thought to himself. Yes, that was it. That was why he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her. She still had the jewels she had worn Sunday night. When he’d questioned her about the diamond-and-emerald necklace, bracelet and earrings, she’d explained that they belonged to her mistress and she had every intention of returning them. He, on the other hand, had every intention of stealing them. He just had to figure out where she had hidden them.
He recognized the tired wreckage of de Koven Street when they reached it. The sagging cottages, some of them burned beyond habitation, others no worse off than they had been prior to the fire, lined both sides of the street. Chickens and goats roamed untended, their owners either having fled or worse. A cow lowed miserably, her udders swollen to the point where they were painful to look at. A man holding a pail kept trying to milk her, but each time he got close, the idiot cow shied away.
Maybe it was the same idiot cow that had started the fire.
“Oh!” Kathleen burst out suddenly. She started marching fast in the direction of her parents’ cottage. “How dare they!”
A handful of kids had gathered in the side yard of the O’Leary house, which shared a wall with another dwelling. The kids were shouting and pelting the place with rocks as they chanted, “You started the fi-ire, you started the fi-ire.”
Setting down her parcels, Kathleen descended on them like a red plague. “Go on with you, then,” she yelled. “I’ll see the back of you, or you’ll see the back of my hand.”
The youngsters froze and stared at her, but they didn’t leave. She grabbed the ear of the largest boy. “Perhaps you’d like a visit with Offic
er Keating, then.”
“Ow! Lemme go!” The kid wrenched himself away and fled, the younger ones bringing up the rear.
Dylan couldn’t hide his amusement, especially at the heated glare she sent him when she returned for her parcels.
“And what are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“You, my dear. You’re ranting.” Dylan told himself to leave the supplies on the stoop and hightail it out of town.
But when Mrs. O’Leary spotted him, she gave him a tired smile of welcome and said, “Come in, do. I’ve got the kettle on for tea.”
Against his will, he stepped into the cottage and stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. “These are my little ones, Mary and James,” Mrs. O’Leary said, gesturing at a grubby pair on the floor in front of the stove. “And those two giant louts having at the parcels are Frank and Connor.” She flapped her apron at them. “That’ll do, boys,” she scolded. “Here Kathleen and Mr. Dylan were good enough to bring us some food, and you’re at it without a word of thanks. Shame on you, shame.”
“How do, sir,” they said, one after another. Frank licked his hand and plastered down a stray lock of hair. The lads were as handsome in their way as Kathleen was beautiful. They had the same deep-red hair and green eyes fringed in long brown lashes. They poked at each other when they thought no one was looking, and grinned broadly, trying to swallow their giggles. “Pleasure to meet you, ‘tis,” they said.
“I’m sure,” Dylan replied, feeling a reluctant approval of these two. Barefoot and clad in rags, they managed to seem full of life and hope despite their dire circumstances. They were about twelve and thirteen, poised at that peculiar spot in life to choose a path and set off.
Choose wisely, he wanted to tell them, because you can’t undo some choices. But he didn’t say anything. It was none of his business. And besides, he was hardly the one to be giving advice to promising lads.