by Susan Wiggs
“What do you mean, what will we do? It belongs to the church.”
“Only ten thousand of it. The other ten came from the trading.”
“But you were trading for the church’s money. If not for that, you’d never have the ten thousand.”
“Your logic is stunning.”
“You promised,” she said. “The night of the fire, you promised to rebuild the steeple of St. Brendan’s Church. You’ve earned the money to do it, but you have to give it all, not just half.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Serious as a toothache.”
“You’re the fool of the world, then. With your share of the profits, you could get your family back on its feet. But you’re letting it slip through your fingers, all because you believed a liar’s promise.”
“That’s just it, Dylan. I can no longer live a lie. I used to be unhappy with who I was, because I thought I wanted so much more. But at least that poor Irish lass was honest and hardworking. If I have to go back to that life, then so be it.”
“But what about the fact that we’re married?” Dylan demanded.
“Hah. A fine time for you to bring that up. You’ve managed to bury all the secrets in the world, Dylan Kennedy. What is one more?” She turned away in a huff. “You are incorrigible. You’ll never change.”
He watched her until she disappeared into the night. He didn’t try to stop her, but for the first time in his life, he hesitated, pondering his options. He realized that he had to choose: riches or Kathleen. He couldn’t have both.
* * *
When Kathleen awakened the next day, she knew he was gone for good even before she opened her eyes. There was a certain quality to the air, a quietness and an emptiness, as if all the energy had been sucked out of the room.
She lay unmoving in the berth, deep beneath the feather bed, with her eyes still shut. She tried not to remember the night before but every stinging little ache and warm twinge reminded her of all the ways he had touched her.
She flung her forearm over her eyes, reluctant to let in the light of day. She wondered how he could touch her with such intimacy, how he could whisper words of love in her ear, and then walk out of her life as if she were no more important to him than a horse he had borrowed for an afternoon pleasure ride. He had given her everything she wanted, except the one thing she needed most.
Enough, she told herself, hearing the stern echo of Gran’s command in her mind. Enough of the self-pity, colleen.
She wondered what he had done with the money and braced herself for disappointment. Knowing Dylan, he would repay only what the church had lost, and keep the rest for himself. He was an opportunist, after all.
Aching from the wounds of having loved so foolishly, she almost wished they had not made love at the lakeshore. Almost. For her, the experience had been bittersweet; she had known it would be the last time. And she had been wrong ever to think she was unworthy of Dylan’s love. She was worthy. The reason he had left had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with him.
My mother dumped me like a stray cat in a drowning bag. His words whispered through her mind, filling her with pity and understanding. Behind that cocksure, devil-may-care attitude, he believed himself unworthy, unlovable. His own mother had abandoned him. Now, as a grown man, he made certain he was the one to leave. That way, he would never be abandoned again.
With an effort of will, Kathleen flung aside the covers and sat up. Her clothes lay discarded in a heap on a parlor chair. She washed and dressed with great care and control, unwilling to allow herself to shed a single tear. “He was the adventure you always wanted, girleen,” she muttered under her breath, sounding exactly like her grandmother. “Don’t go having regrets because you made your own dream come true. Most people don’t even have that.”
She bathed her face with water from the basin and stared into the small oval shaving mirror that hung above the washstand. It was the same face she saw every day—pale skin, green eyes, freckles. She thought getting her heart broken would change her profoundly, but she looked the same on the outside.
She had no belongings to pack. None of this—not the train car, these clothes, these furnishings, this life—belonged to her. They were all fleeting, borrowed possessions. She had known that from the start.
She left the rail yard and made her way to Madison. Once aboard the horse car, she leaned an elbow on the rail and watched the city roll slowly by. Though still a wasteland, sad and chill in the autumn morning, Chicago was being rebuilt. Brick by brick, her pulsing life force would be excavated by those who refused to let her die.
Kathleen shut her eyes and let the memories come. She had clung to Dylan’s hand and raced through the burning city, knowing from the start that her life would never be the same. She remembered him in all his guises—laughing at danger, then sobered by tragedy, at rare times quiet and pensive. But always, every moment they had been together, he had made her feel as if she were the most important person in the world.
That was why he was so good at his game, she told herself. Because he could make a person feel special and beloved, even when she should know better.
As the car lurched over the bridge, she stared down at the flat gray water, strewn with floating debris. Everyone’s life had been changed by the fire. She was not so unique. Like everyone else, she would have to start over.
She had already concluded that she could not go back to being a lady’s maid. That had led to her downfall in the first place. Working in a wealthy household had given her a window into a world she could never be a part of. She had sold her soul to belong to that world, and too late had learned the cost was too high.
It was wicked, but, sometimes when she thought back on all that had happened since the fire, she believed it was almost worth the price.
Now it was time to find her proper place in the world and to be content with her lot rather than always craving more. Dylan had taught her that she was smarter and braver than she had ever suspected. He had taught her that she had a foolish heart that could love until it nearly burst with hurt and keep on loving, futilely, even though it was broken.
With her chin held high, she exited the horse car and walked the rest of the way down Clinton Street. There was her parents’ home, gray and battered like a ship that had weathered a storm. The little ones played a game of chase in the roadway, while the older boys squatted around a string circle, shooting marbles.
Behind the house, her parents worked together on the barn, raising a new building where the old milking shed had been. Already, four walls and a roof had been framed in. Her mother held a door in place while her father positioned the hinges. Clearly unaware that anyone was watching, Patrick O’Leary put his head around the side of the door and stole a kiss from his wife, who laughed and blushed like a girl.
She was still laughing when Kathleen walked into the yard.
“Mam, Da,” she said, “I’ve come home.”
Something in Kathleen’s face or voice made her mother set aside her work. “Ah, colleen, what’s the matter?” she asked, taking both of Kathleen’s hands. “You look as though you’ve lost your best friend.”
The remark rang through Kathleen with stunning truth. She realized she had found the one genuine thing about her and Dylan. In the middle of all their dangerous games and wild adventures he had become the last thing she’d expected. And now that he was gone, she had not just lost the man she loved. She had lost her best friend.
NINETEEN
April, 1872
Sir Percival Blake stepped down from the train platform and inspected the newly built terminal. Like all of Chicago, the station wore the spit-polished glory of a phoenix rising from the ashes. After being in a place of ancient monuments and preserved antiques, the newness of Chicago struck him with a restless vibrance and energy he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
At the end of the platform, a small slender woman waited for him. She stood with her hands clasped in nervousne
ss as she craned her neck, searching the crowd.
His heart softened at the sight of her, and he was grateful she’d managed to track him down clear across the Atlantic. It was hard to believe she still affected him after all this time. But she did.
Striding forward to greet her, he took her chilly hands in his and bent to kiss her pale smooth cheek.
“Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “I didn’t know who else to send for.”
He squeezed her hand and whistled for a porter to bring his trunk. It was a handsome leather affair from Louis Vuitton, all the rage in Monte Carlo, where he had spent the winter. Drinking.
Trying to forget.
And failing.
When her wire had come, summoning him for help, he had left immediately. The journey had seemed endless. There were very few people he would cross the ocean and half a continent for, but she was one of them.
“I had no idea this would happen,” she said worriedly. “I had no idea my father would react with such a rage, simply because I married Barry Lynch.”
So she’d gone and done it. She’d wed the lanky clerk after all. It fit, somehow. The two of them belonged together.
She stopped walking as tears spilled down her face. “Father won’t listen to me, Dylan,” she said, using a name he had not heard in months. “I don’t know what to do.”
He took out a clean handkerchief and blotted her cheeks. “It will be all right. I’ll speak with your father. He’ll come around, my dear.”
Faith Costello Lynch sent him a watery, grateful smile. “You must have thought me such a ninny, sending you that hysterical wire,” she said. “But I didn’t know what else to do. You and Father have had your differences, but he always listens to you.”
“I never thought you were a ninny, Faith.”
“Not even when I fancied myself in love with you?”
He laughed, but not unkindly. “I thought you were wrong then, but never a ninny.”
“What’s wrong with loving you?”
“Everything.” He had a fleeting thought of Kathleen and it was like an arrow to the heart. Good God, would his feelings for her never mellow? Even now, months after he had walked out of her life, his memories were as harsh as this morning’s frost.
“I thought you were a god, but you’re mortal like the rest of us,” Faith conceded bluntly. “I always saw Barry for exactly who he was, and that was enough.” Her mouth formed the beautiful, mysterious smile of a plain woman who knows she is loved. “Father was furious about Barry’s role in recovering the church money. Barry stood up to him, though. He is studying to be a lawyer now. Fancy that.”
“Tell me what happened,” he said, stepping to the edge of the street to hail a hansom cab, “and then we’ll figure out what to do.”
Faith began talking, and from her very first words, it was clear to Dylan that she belonged heart and soul with poor, but honest, Barry Lynch. Vince was too stupid to see that, so he’d had Lynch arrested on trumped-up charges, blaming the relief fund scandal on him.
“He kept pressuring me to marry rich,” Faith continued. “He needed capital to get himself back on his feet. I knew I had to act quickly or I’d be stuck with some horrible wealthy old coot. So I wed Barry in secret.”
Dylan grinned. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, but it doesn’t do me a bit of good if the man I love is rotting in jail. Father refuses to understand.”
Dylan took her small, gloved hand in his as a cab stopped at the curb. “We’ll make him understand, my dear.”
“But how?”
He allowed a wink and a smile. “You’ll have to trust me.”
* * *
By the time Dylan burst into Vincent Costello’s office at the Lind, he was spoiling for a fight. How dare Vince stand in the way of true love? Didn’t he know how rare it was, how precious? Didn’t he believe something might actually be worth more than money?
“You son of a bitch.” Costello shot up from the desk and bore down on him. “I figured out your trading trick—”
“You’re dreaming, Vince. There was no trick. I got lucky in the futures market, that’s all.”
“That wasn’t luck, damn it. That was a swindle.” He drew back his fist. “And here’s what I think of it.”
Dylan caught Costello’s fist before the blow landed. “Look, Vince, don’t make me thrash you in front of your daughter.”
Costello’s face turned beet red with the effort to escape. He made a terrible sound in his throat but failed to stifle a curse that made Faith gasp in shock.
“For once in your life, listen,” she said in a commanding tone Dylan had never heard her use before. “Or I swear you’ll never see me again, Father.”
Costello scowled, but relaxed and stepped back. Dylan slowly released his grip. “The past is over, Vince. Seems to me you’d better be thinking about the future.”
“Thanks to you, I’m broke.”
“You’ve got worse problems than that,” Dylan pointed out, indicating Faith. “You never wanted her to be miserable before. Why would you go and do a thing like putting her husband in jail?”
“Because she doesn’t know her own mind. She’ll never be happy with a poor man.”
“Really?” Dylan lifted an eyebrow. “Since when was money important to Faith?”
“Since she married a man who’s hardly got a pot to piss in.”
“That’s enough,” Faith said. “Father, if you refuse to retract your ridiculous accusations against Barry, I shall never speak to you again.”
“Damn it, girl—”
“Let’s stop right there,” Dylan cut in. “No need to go spouting things you don’t mean. Seems to me you and Lynch are in the same boat—both broke. You ought to form a partnership, get back on your feet together.”
“Hah.” Costello tugged at his moustache. “I’m through with partners.”
“You had the wrong one,” Dylan admitted.
“Barry’s not like Dylan,” Faith said, seizing on the idea. “He’s—” She stopped short of saying “honest,” but Dylan read the thought. He wasn’t offended. She simply knew the truth.
“Chicago’s ripe with opportunity,” Dylan said, though he had no notion of the truth of that statement. “You and your son-in-law should start a new enterprise.”
“Like what?” Vince demanded.
“I suppose you’re barred from the Board of Trade. But you could set up an exchange for some other commodity. Something that fills an immediate need. What about a butter and egg exchange?”
“Butter?” Costello lifted an eyebrow.
“I have my sources,” Dylan lied.
Faith clasped her hands. “What a perfect idea. I could ask Kathleen to introduce you to her mother.” She glanced at Dylan and seemed to derive satisfaction from his sudden pallor. “Kathleen and I have become very good friends,” she added smugly, then turned to Costello. “Will you do it, Father?” she asked. “Will you?”
Costello’s shoulders drooped. “It might work.”
Dylan’s head rang with the sound of Kathleen’s name. She was everywhere, no matter how far he traveled or how fast he ran. He’d never escape her.
“And you’ll include Barry,” Faith said to her father.
He hesitated, then nodded.
She let out a long sigh of relief.
Suspicion flared in Dylan. Faith seemed to be having no trouble speaking her mind, he thought. She didn’t have to send all the way to Paris for him. Suddenly his mind clouded with dark thoughts.
“Why did you really send for me?” he asked her. “If you think I’m going to turn myself in and take the blame—”
“It’d be no more than you deserve,” Vince blustered.
“Oh, stop it.” Faith tucked her arm around her father’s, and her touch seemed to soothe him. Watching Faith manage him, Dylan realized that maybe she wasn’t so helpless after all.
“We have plans to make, then,” she announced, straightening her bonnet. The
n she turned to Dylan. “I thought you should see the restoration work at the site of St. Brendan’s Church, since you are responsible for funding it.” Then she came forward and stepped up on tiptoe to softly kiss his cheek. “I’m glad you’re back. Now go. I think you’ll be amazed at what you find there.”
* * *
Springtime in Chicago meant far more than budding trees and new flowers. The whole burned district had come back to life with a swift vibrance that lifted his spirits. When the cab reached St. Brendan’s, he stepped out without looking down, for his eyes were raised to the sky.
The church had been almost completely restored. The gardens, surrounded by figured wrought iron fences and gates, were ripe with the first flush of the springtime. A new gazebo draped with budding wisteria adorned the chapel garden like a crown.
And high atop the west end of the roof rose a gleaming new steeple.
Inside, the restoration work continued as workmen on scaffolds repaired the plasterwork, glaziers replaced windows and stonemasons mortared chinks in the walls. The smells of fresh varnish and damp plaster mingled with the church scent of frankincense.
Not for the first time, Dylan felt an eerie prescience, like fingertips touching his scalp. Shadowy recollections haunted him each time he entered a church. Images hovering at the edge of his memory resolved into shapes he almost recognized. Long ago he had trained himself not to think about the incident of his childhood that had defined him. He had grown so adept at forgetting that he truly had forgotten, but at moments like this, in church, he began to remember despite his resolve.
“Well, what do you think?” said a voice with a rolling brogue.
Dylan grinned, stretching out his hand to Father Michael. Dressed as a carpenter rather than a priest, he looked as fit and healthy as a lumberjack. “It’s beautiful.”
“Don’t forget your part in it,” the priest reminded him. “A pity you weren’t here to see the work.”
Curse the priest. He was as meddlesome as Faith. “I wintered in Monte Carlo, if you must know. Those grain shares I kept back turned out to be pure gold, and I lived like a king.”