Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

  “He is too a giant,” Maggie whispered. “A real live giant, just like in the story.”

  Ignoring her, Lucy checked to see that her small satchel was still secure in the basket of her bicycle. She brushed at her wrinkled skirts, trying to compose herself. “I realize we’re intruding, sir.” Heavens, how was she ever going to do this? “But I have a matter of some importance to discuss.”

  “Your loan is still under consideration, I assure you,” he said. “Nothing’s changed from yesterday, so there is no need to—”

  “May we come in?” Lucy blurted.

  His lips thinned in an expression of displeasure.

  “Please,” she added. “It’s important. I assure you, I have something monumental to tell you.”

  “I want to hear the monumental thing, too,” Maggie said, trying out the new word.

  “Very well,” he said, helping Maggie pick up her bicycle and wheel it along. “I suppose I can offer you a glass of lemonade. This way.”

  Behind him, Lucy watched the small child next to the large man, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze gusting in off the lake. Rolling the bicycle between them, Maggie and Mr. Higgins walked side by side with no notion whatever of their relationship.

  She followed him to the house. For Lucy, an eerie familiarity haunted the wide sandstone steps leading to the entranceway. She’d grown up in a house like this; she recognized its staid formality and hushed halls gleaming with beeswax polish. A gauntlet of servants used to assemble in the vestibule in preparation for the Colonel’s daily inspection. Mr. Higgins’s home was much the same in formality and perfection of order, she observed. His wife must be an expert household manager.

  “Look, Mama.” Maggie’s voice rang through the paneled halls as she raced into the foyer and skidded to a stop in front of a statue set in a niche at the base of the stairs. “That boy is peeing.” She dissolved into gales of laughter as she regarded a small fountain fashioned to replicate the famous Mannequin Pis of Brussels.

  Lucy’s lips twitched with the urge to laugh or at least smile, but then she glanced at Mr. Higgins. He appeared baffled, as if Maggie were a life form he’d never encountered before. Lucy had been watching him for a single spark of recognition, but there was none. Too much time had passed.

  But still, this man had known her as a baby. He’d held her, surely, touched her hair and smelled her smell. How could he fail to recognize his own child?

  Perhaps, thought Lucy, the moth—Mrs. Higgins would respond to Maggie. A woman knew her baby more intimately than a man, particularly in a tradition-bound family. Mr. Higgins had probably stayed well away from the nursery, seeing his child for only a few moments each day.

  “What in heaven’s name is all this ruckus?” demanded a stern, female voice from the top of the stairs. The tip of a walking cane punctuated each descending step, stabbing at the carpeted stair. Lucy heard a thunk and then a shuffle, the eerie, measured rhythm filling the cavernous space of the foyer.

  Never one to possess any patience, Maggie bounded up the stairs, shouting, “I want to see the ruckus, too!”

  Lucy could find no voice to call her daughter back. She stood stiffly, as if taken by a sudden frost. The hem of a dark dress appeared, belled out by layers of petticoats and followed by a gloved hand grasping the head of the cane. Lucy didn’t dare move as she waited to see the lovely, fair face of Mr. Higgins’s wife.

  “I’m Maggie,” the child said, meeting her halfway up the stairs at the turn of the landing.

  “You are loud,” the woman said.

  “What’s your name?” Maggie inquired.

  “You may call me Mrs. Higgins.”

  Lucy could find no air to breathe as she waited.

  Maggie grabbed the woman’s free hand and they descended the stairs together. When the two of them emerged from the shadows, Lucy stared in shock.

  Dear God, Randolph Higgins’s wife had turned into a crone.

  Lucy forced herself to close her gaping mouth. The terrible ordeal had changed the coolly beautiful Mrs. Higgins into this wretched old—

  “Grandmother,” Rand said when she reached the vestibule, “I’d like you to meet Miss Lucy Hathaway. Miss Hathaway, this is my grandmother, Grace Templeton Higgins.”

  Lucy thawed out so quickly that her knees felt like water. Holding in a sigh of relief, she extended her hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “I cannot shake hands with you,” the old lady said imperiously. “Both of mine are occupied. One with my cane, and one with this…this…”

  “Maggie,” Maggie repeated. “I told you, that’s my name. Here. You can have your hand back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why do you wear those black things?” Maggie demanded.

  “These are lace mitts made in Belgium. They are considered fashionable, and they also keep my grip from slipping on my cane.”

  “Oh. When I want to grip my baseball bat, I just spit on my hands, like this—”

  “Maggie, please don’t spit in the house,” Lucy said.

  “I was going to spit in my hands.”

  “What sort of creature is this?” Mrs. Higgins demanded. “Where on earth did she get such atrocious manners?”

  “Mama keeps meaning to order me some from the mail catalogue, but she hasn’t done it yet.” Maggie had always thought the reply enormously clever and delighted in using it. But Mrs. Higgins looked so severe that Maggie flushed. “I thought you might want some help getting down the stairs, on account of you’re crippled with that cane.”

  “I am crippled without the cane. With it, I can get around quite well, thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Maggie seemed determined to make up for her manners now.

  Lucy simply held her silence. Maggie was…Maggie. She always had been. Her exuberance often burgeoned into mischievous behavior or cheeky remarks, though she didn’t have a malicious bone in her body. Sooner or later, the Higginses were going to learn her true nature, and it might as well be sooner.

  Lucy was surprised by the expression on Mr. Higgins’s face. His lips strained taut as if he were holding in a cough…or laughter.

  “What is that you’re wearing, child?” the old woman demanded. “Trousers?”

  Maggie plucked at the rough fabric. “I always wear trousers. Mama and I believe in equal rights for women, and she lets me dress as comfortably as any boy.”

  “Hmph. So you think boys’ clothes are more comfortable.”

  “Yes, and I can ride my bicycle easier, too.”

  “Bicycle.”

  “I have a two-wheeler and I can ride all the way down State Street to the river, faster than the horsecar.”

  “Boys wear neckties,” Mrs. Higgins pointed out. She put an imperious hand on Maggie’s shoulder and steered her down a hallway toward the back of the house. “Why aren’t you wearing a necktie?”

  “Neckties are dumb,” Maggie said, gamely going along with her. “No one should ever wear one, boy or girl.”

  “Where are they going?” Lucy whispered to Mr. Higgins.

  “I imagine Grandmother will take her on her daily walk, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course,” she said, relieved that Maggie wouldn’t be around when she made her announcement.

  “Don’t worry about a thing. Grandmother isn’t any more vicious than Ivan. But she can be just as frightening to those who don’t know her.”

  “Maggie isn’t afraid.”

  “True. Your daughter seems quite fearless.”

  “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

  “It’s meant as one.”

  She shifted the leather case in her arms. “Mr. Higgins, do you suppose we could sit down somewhere?”

  He brushed at his grass-stained shirt. “As I told you earlier, I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I realize that. But as you might guess, Maggie and I are rather informal.”

  “Very well.” He pressed a small
bell in the vestibule. A moment later, a maid appeared and he requested a pitcher of lemonade. “On the side porch,” he added, then led the way through a parlor, opening a set of French doors.

  The parlor was silent and spotless, with an ormolu clock, fringed drapes and furniture, tufted silk carpets and cut crystal chimneys on the gaslights. Lucy paused to study the portrait that hung over the mantel. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. The painting depicted Diana Higgins seated upon a draped stool, holding a beautiful baby in her arms. Rendered in rich, shadowy oils the style of a Dutch master, the picture captured the cool perfection of Diana’s features, the precise grooming of her fingernails and hair, the dreamy, soft innocence of the baby.

  The baby had Maggie’s face. The resemblance was so uncanny that Lucy couldn’t believe Mr. Higgins didn’t see it. I can’t do this, Lucy thought, panic knocking in her chest.

  “It’s a very beautiful portrait,” she said, clutching her bag a bit closer.

  “Thank you.”

  She tried to imagine what he and his wife thought about each day when they saw the picture of their child. Swallowing hard, she went through the French doors to a porch that faced the lake. A velvety green swath of lawn, sectioned by tree-lined walkways, connected the elegant neighborhood to the beach, crossing over Lakeside Drive. The crisp beauty and intense light of the view filled her with nostalgic memories of long walks along the shore with her father.

  Lucy cleared her throat. “I would like for Mrs. Higgins to join us.”

  “My grandmother is quite content to entertain your daughter, I think.”

  The maid arrived with a tray of lemonade in a crystal pitcher.

  “I was speaking of the other Mrs. Higgins,” Lucy said, smiling anxiously at the mixup. “Your wife.”

  Crystal clinked nervously, and the maid’s hand trembled as she poured. Cutting quick glances at Lucy, she finished her task and scuttled away.

  Randolph Higgins seemed to grow even taller. “What the hell is this all about?” he demanded.

  She blinked, then thrust up her chin, defensive at his bluster. “It’s a simple request. I would like to speak to you about a matter of importance, and your wife should be present.”

  A strange stillness gripped him. He tilted his head slightly, as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

  Discomfited, Lucy shifted in the wicker chair, causing it to creak in the unnatural silence. Out on the broad side lawn, three figures appeared—Maggie racing along with Ivan the dog, followed by Grace Higgins, looking like a large black crow in a dark bonnet and shawl, holding her cane in one hand and a fringed black parasol in the other.

  “Well,” she prodded Mr. Higgins. “Will you send for your wife?”

  “Miss Hathaway, your attempt to gain my sympathy in the matter of your loan has gone too far—”

  “This is not about the cursed loan,” she snapped, nervousness sharpening her tone.

  “Then what other business could we possibly have?” His brows lowered in suspicion. “Let me guess. You’re hoping to convert one more bitter, frustrated woman to your cause of social chaos and French paramours.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Is your wife bitter and frustrated, sir?”

  “Not anymore,” he said softly, his lips thin with a fury she didn’t understand.

  Lucy wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Why are you being so disagreeable and difficult?”

  “Why are you being so meddlesome and annoying?”

  “Because I have every right to be.” Lucy grabbed a chilled glass of lemonade with a mint leaf garnish and took a long drink, letting the cool liquid soothe her throat. Clearly this was going to take all the patience she possessed. “Now,” she said, setting down the glass. “Please send for your wife. I want to discuss this with both of you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” His icy hostility leached the warmth from the bright spring day. “I do not have a wife, Miss Hathaway.”

  This man had the unique ability to render her speechless. He was the only one capable of it. Her heart ached for him and her hand heated with the uncanny urge to touch him. It was not enough that he’d lost a daughter. His wife was dead, too.

  When she found her voice, she could only manage to say, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You have my condolences, Mr. Higgins.”

  He hissed a breath through his teeth. “You don’t understand. My wife is not dead. She has divorced me.”

  Divorce.

  The word hung almost visibly in the air between them. To Lucy’s ears, the term possessed the energy of something rare and bold. As a member of the Women’s Suffrage Movement, she lent her support to the option of divorce. No woman should be forced to endure a man who mistreated or abandoned her. But she’d never imagined that a divorce would happen to the handsome, golden Higginses who had glowed so brightly that long-ago night.

  Her first thought was that tragedy had torn them apart. The laughing, clever young man she’d met that night had been transformed by loss; perhaps his beautiful wife could not abide the changes. “I don’t know what to say,” she finally blurted out.

  “You needn’t say anything. My private life is none of your affair. It is something that happened in the past, and it is over.”

  Was it? Although Diana was no longer his wife, she would always be the woman who had given birth to Maggie. How powerful was the bond of sharing blood and breath and food? Lucy was terrified of finding out the answer, yet she knew she had to. “This complicates things, then,” she forced herself to say, “for I feel I should speak to your w—your former wife as well.”

  “Believe me, she subscribes lock, stock and barrel to your infernal cause. However, you won’t be able to enlist her.” He glared out at the elegant expanse of lawn. “She lives in San Francisco now.”

  “I see.” Lucy sipped her drink, trying to reorganize her thoughts. What if the former Mrs. Higgins decided to take Maggie off to California?

  “Let me be plain, Miss Hathaway,” Mr. Higgins said. “For reasons you refuse to disclose, you are prying into my private affairs. Would I not be well within my rights to show you the door? To make you put your sweet little backside on that bicycle and leave the premises?”

  She nearly choked on a mint leaf. How dare he comment on her backside? How dare he call it sweet? She tried to summon indignation, but mingling with her worry about Maggie was a fierce interest in this man. With inappropriate, shameful curiosity, she wanted to know every last detail of the divorce. She deserved to know, she assured herself. What had become of Maggie’s natural mother? Why had she left? Could she hand Maggie over to a broken family?

  Impulsively she reached out and covered his hand with hers. His skin was taut and waxy with scars. “Believe me, Mr. Higgins,” she said, “you do not want to send me away.”

  He reacted swiftly, yanking his hand away. “Yes, I do,” he stated.

  What if the divorce was his fault? Lucy wondered, hearing hostility in his voice. Was he cruel? Neglectful? Autocratic?

  “Please. I know it’s painful to speak of, but I must learn more about your—Mrs.—Why you divorced.”

  “Since you have taken such an inexplicable interest in the matter, you should be able to guess what happened,” he said with a clipped detachment that chilled her. “Thanks to radical groups like your Suffrage Movement, the laws of Illinois are particularly favorable to divorce. Chicago is crammed with lawyers who make it easy.”

  “Was it?” Lucy asked softly. “Was it easy for you?”

  He looked at her for a long time, and she lost herself in the vivid clarity of his eyes. A thousand stories lurked inside him, and she found herself wanting to know them all. At last he spoke. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  “Maybe someone should have.”

  Another pause. He took a gulp of his lemonade and stared into the blue distance. “We were very young when we wed.
Full of dreams.” He cleared his throat. “Full of…a terrible hope. We had a good life in Philadelphia, but Diana wanted more.”

  “More what?” asked Lucy.

  His eyes flickered. “No one’s ever asked me that, either. She always seemed to be looking for something that lay just beyond the horizon. I thought once the baby came along, she would be content.”

  Lucy was struck by the idea that he’d come halfway across the country to find a better life for Diana. Was it a blessing or a burden, she wondered, to have one’s happiness matter so much to a man?

  A humorless half smile lifted his mouth. “But here’s the irony of that. I was the one who found contentment when Christine was born, not Diana. They say it is the woman whose nesting instincts are aroused. In my case it was being a father. It seemed to fulfill every dream I ever had.”

  His candor amazed her. The blunt, probing questions she’d asked had opened a floodgate of confessions. Perhaps he’d never had anyone to tell this to before. Lucy didn’t dare speak, hoping he’d continue. She felt torn, admiring his honesty even as a part of her wished he’d prove himself an unfit father so she could keep her secret.

  “We came west because I thought Diana might enjoy the excitement of a new city and the challenge of building a new home for our family. I intended to establish myself at the bank, and she would build a grand new house. The one thing we never could have anticipated was the fire.” He leaned forward, resting his lanky wrists on his knees and staring at the ground, seeing things Lucy didn’t dare to imagine.

  She suddenly wanted him to stop talking, for she didn’t wish to share his pain. Yet for Maggie’s sake, Lucy knew she had to hear everything.

  “This will sound odd to you, Mr. Higgins, but I truly do wish to know what your life has been like.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Why would you care? Have you another sexual proposition?”

  She chose not to dignify him with an answer, but responded with another question, one she hoped would shift the mood from bitterness to honesty. “What happened after the fire?” She pictured them that night, handsome and golden, standing in the glow of everyone’s admiration. After her idiotic blunder, she’d stood back and watched, thinking them the most romantic, luckiest couple in the world.