by Jane Steen
Did they know the name of Lombardi? No, they did not. And why would they, I thought. The Lombardis knew nobody in Chicago, just another small family among the thousands of visitors who had fled the burning hotels with no idea of where they were heading. And yet she was there still, somewhere in Chicago. She had been heard of at the Congregational Church, where relief efforts were centered, and at the other churches offering food and shelter. Martin, whose residence now housed a German family by the name of Fassbinder, spent days looking for her in a city that was already being organized for rebuilding, the mess of rubble metamorphosing into neatly stacked piles of reusable brick and stone. If the burnt fragments that were being dumped into the lake contained the ashes of those who simply disappeared under the onrushing firewall, there was no way of knowing. Chicago was rising again amid the tears of the bereaved.
And then, after an agonizing week, he found her.
The disheveled, distraught woman who climbed down from Martin’s gig to fall into my arms bore little resemblance to the neat, smiling matron of my acquaintance. Bet took one look at her ruined boots and the way her clothes hung limp on her gaunt frame and decreed that there would be no gabbing until the poor lady was fed and bathed and had a decent stitch of clothing on her back. So it was not until two hours later that we sat alone by the parlor fire, just as we had done so many times at the Poor Farm. Only now Mrs. Lombardi’s damp hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she sat pleating the skirt of one of my housedresses—too long for her and much too broad in the shoulders—with hands that shook with a series of tremors as if a cold wind were passing over them.
“They are lost, Nell. All of them. My children—” her voice broke on a sob, and she clenched her hands as she regained control of her emotions.
“You do not have to tell me about it.” Although I wanted to know, very much. I had seen Teddy and Thea and little Lucy often enough that their bright faces were fresh in my memory.
“There’s little to tell. We were heading north; we were moving so slowly, with everyone pushing and crying, falling over the things that people would carry a short way and then drop—paintings, pots, chairs—there were animals… I saw a cow running with its back on fire. The wind was blowing huge sparks and burning brands onto us from miles away, it seemed, and sometimes you’d hear screaming as a woman’s hair caught fire, or her skirt.”
I closed my eyes, imagining how terrifying it must have been to be trapped between the crowd in front and the fire behind.
I opened them to see Mrs. Lombardi staring at her hands, which were curled as if remembering the touch of small fingers. Tears were spilling down her cheeks.
“I had a tight hold of Thea and Lucy, but they were getting so tired. I saw a little girl—she couldn’t have been more than three—crying, all by herself, and I wanted to take her too, but my hands were full. I called to Teddy and Roderick, but my husband couldn’t hear me, and Teddy thought I was scared for his safety. The last time I saw him he was calling back, ‘I’m all right, Mother.’ My brave little man.”
Her tears turned to sobs, and it was several minutes before she could continue. My own eyes stung as I watched my friend weep for the family that had vanished, the children she could not even find to bury.
“A little while later—I became confused about everything, Nell, I didn’t know what time it was or where we were—the girls were so exhausted that Reverend Grueber carried Lucy to Roderick and took Thea in his arms.”
“Reverend Grueber?” I did not recall the name.
“One of the missionary gentlemen we had come to Chicago to meet.” Mrs. Lombardi wiped her face, staring into the parlor fire as if it contained her memories. “I followed on behind, but I dropped back just a few yards to see if I could spot the little girl. Her face haunts me still.” She passed her hand wearily over red-rimmed eyes. “And then all was blackness.”
“What on earth happened?” I leaned forward, poised precariously on the edge of my seat.
“I was hit on the back of my head, here.”
I leaped to my feet and, parting the thick curtain of damp chestnut hair, felt the spot Mrs. Lombardi indicated. Even after all those days, there was a distinct swelling.
“You must see the doctor.” I darted toward the bell to ring for Bet. Mrs. Lombardi put out a hand to halt my progress.
“No need, Nell. I was thoroughly looked over by an excellent medical man in the Congregational Church. I am quite all right, but at the time I had a nasty concussion.”
A chill ran through my bones. “You were surely not left insensible in the path of the fire? Did Mr. Lombardi see you fall?”
“I will never know.” Mrs. Lombardi’s strength seemed to be leaving her as she arrived at this part of her tale, and I took her hand tightly in mine. “I awoke the next morning in an unburned alley. I was clearly on the other side of the river from the fire. A bridge was before me, and I tried to cross it, but the smoke and heat were so intense that I could not. I was sick to my stomach and dizzy, and I was soon dragged back from my quest by a Polish laborer. He had little English, but he made it clear to me that there was no hope.”
I let go of Mrs. Lombardi’s hand and rifled among the pile of newspapers I had refused to allow Bet to remove. I had seen a roughly drawn map of the fire’s progress in one of them.
“Do you think you were here?” I indicated an area that showed the western limits of the fire. It was due northwest of the Sherman House Hotel, which was marked on the map as being the nearest to the Courthouse.
“I could have been.” Mrs. Lombardi’s brow furrowed as she studied the crude map. “Look, here are railroad tracks. I remember that it was a rough-looking place, with freight cars and stretches of rails.”
I had also read that many of the dead—of those who could be found—were discovered just on the other side of the river from where Mrs. Lombardi had awoken. They must have been trying to find their way to that very bridge. “You must have had a guardian angel,” I said, trying to cheer her.
“A guardian angel who robbed me, Nell. I noticed later that my brooch, watch, and reticule were missing. But no matter; he, or she, saved my life.”
Mrs. Lombardi was clearly not going to be able to continue speaking for long, so I asked another question to prompt her story. “Did the Pole look after you?”
“Yes, he was most kind. He took me to his home. But I remember very little; a confused sound of voices speaking words I didn’t understand, people helping me and cleaning me—I remember vomiting,” she shook her head ruefully, “and then nothing until the next day. It must have been noon before they took me to the relief center, and late in the day before I persuaded the doctor there that I was in a condition to leave.”
“You put yourself into danger.” It was not a question; I had heard from Martin about the looting and lawlessness that followed the fire.
The faintest glimmer of a smile stole over Mrs. Lombardi’s face. “I had God’s protection,” she said. “The biggest danger, at first, was the debris on the streets. But now there are gangs of laborers clearing them. It is like a desert, Nell, a wasteland of black with just the occasional wall or archway. Only the largest buildings resemble themselves at all. And ashes …” Her voice broke again, and I realized I must put an end to her tale.
“Have you taken any steps to let people know where you are?” I asked. “Perhaps your family did escape the fire and have left word for you in Prairie Haven. Does not your mother-in-law live with you? Mr. Lombardi, if he could not find you, would surely hasten to reassure her that he was well.”
“She is in New York.” Mrs. Lombardi shook her head in a gesture of dismissal. “Her brother is dying, and she has been gone for three months. I must write to her… but first I need to know what I should tell her.”
She fell silent for a few minutes, dabbing occasionally at her eyes, but gradually a look of resolution stole over her face. It was the first time that d
ay I had seen a shadow of the former Mrs. Lombardi.
“You have made me think, Nell. Nobody at Prairie Haven knows what has become of me, of course—that I am here with you. I have little hope that Roderick returned there—if he were alive, would he not be looking for me in Chicago? But I should not leave anything to chance. You have given me a purpose, my dear. I will go to Prairie Haven.”
“And Sarah and I will go with you.”
FIFTY-SIX
We did not set out for Prairie Haven for another two days. Mrs. Lombardi was in a state of collapse, and I insisted that she consult my mother’s doctor. Martin and Bet joined me in urging her to rest, eat, and prepare for the journey. There was also the matter of cleaning her clothes, which Bet did with great efficiency while I sewed a brace of new shirts to replace the badly soiled one she was wearing.
So it was not until October the twenty-fourth that we set off in Martin’s gig, choosing to try the Poor Farm for news before we continued to the Lombardis’ house. The weather was excellent, as it often is in October, and I enjoyed rolling along the roads—nicely softened by the rain—with the fresh breeze in my face. Sarah, who had gotten over her initial shyness with Mrs. Lombardi, played peek-a-boo with her and then fell asleep, a heavy, warm weight on my shoulder.
It was almost a year since I had first taken this route in cold and discomfort. Then I had been a disgraced girl; now I returned as a well-dressed, independent woman. And amid all of our grief, I was looking forward to seeing Tess, who had been much on my mind. Now I could keep my promise to her. I smiled as we approached the tall gate.
Martin’s vigorous pull on the bell was answered by Donny, who recognized me instantly and beamed with joy as he swung the gate open.
“Donny, it’s good to see you!” Mrs. Lombardi, whose cheerful nature had reasserted itself despite her despair, leaned forward to wave at the boy.
The effect was startling. Donny stopped, stared, screamed, and ran full-tilt for the Men’s House.
By the time the gig rolled up to the alighting-place between the two houses, a crowd had gathered. The object of their attention was Mrs. Lombardi, although several of them squealed with delight and waved at me and Sarah.
At the forefront of the crowd were Mr. Schoeffel and a still-fearful Donny. Like the others, Mr. Schoeffel was staring hard at Mrs. Lombardi. Martin handed us down from the gig, and Mr. Schoeffel stepped forward and took Mrs. Lombardi’s hand.
“It is really you.”
“Yes. I am sorry I omitted to inform you that I was unharmed.” Mrs. Lombardi’s expression was contrite. “I had not thought—but of course you must have been most concerned. Mr. Schoeffel, has there been any news—any word at all—of my husband and children? I have returned here with the faint hope that they may have sent word, although I have steeled myself to the notion that they are no more.”
I had never seen the stolid Mr. Schoeffel look so nonplussed. He opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but each time he shut it again and continued to stare at us.
A tug on my arm made me look round, and I found myself being hugged hard by a joyful Tess. Her term of laundry duty had evidently ended; she was neatly dressed, and her fine, shining hair was impeccable in its small bun.
“Why is Mrs. Lombardi here?” she hissed, teetering on tiptoe in an attempt to say the words directly into my ear.
“Why should she not be?” I looked over at Martin, who was standing apart from the group. An expression of dawning comprehension stole over his face, mingled with one of horror. “Nell—” he began.
“Why did she need a carriage?” was Tess’s next question. “Ghosts do not need carriages.”
That remark caught Mrs. Lombardi’s ear, and she turned to face my friend. “I am no ghost, Tess,” she said gently. At the same time Martin said “Nell!” again, more loudly.
“Of course you are,” said Tess. “We buried you last week. I cried a lot,” she added, turning to me.
The ensuing chaos lasted about ten minutes. A phial of smelling salts produced by a female orderly soon revived Mrs. Lombardi, whose knees buckled upon hearing that the chief mourners at her funeral had been her husband and children. Joy followed, of course, and Martin scooped Sarah out of my arms so that Mrs. Lombardi and I could indulge in an orgy of hugging, tears, and shouts of rapture.
I did not witness the family’s reunion, having surprised myself by becoming faint and dizzy in my turn. Anxiety, lack of sleep, and a baby who was nursing enthusiastically several times a day had taken their toll on me, and I was still waving my arms about to ward off the approach of the smelling salts when Martin, having ascertained I was not really ill, ungallantly deserted me to drive Mrs. Lombardi to her home. He told me later that Pastor Lombardi had forgotten he was a man of God and felled Martin with a punch when he had tried to break the news as gently as he could. It had taken him ten minutes to convince the poor man that his wife was alive, but the ensuing reunion was—he said—worth the wait. I wished I had seen it.
“And you never did tell Mrs. Lombardi about Hiram,” said Martin as the gig rolled smoothly out of the gate the next morning.
“No, it did not exactly seem appropriate, given the circumstances. Besides, the matter of Tess seemed much more important.” I cast a yearning look behind me. “Martin, do you think Mrs. Lombardi will be able to secure Tess’s release from the Farm?”
“You can rest assured that she will try her hardest, Nell. She told me that she and her family will not leave for Kansas until the matter is settled.” He laughed, throwing back his head to catch the October sunshine. “I would like to see Reverend Grueber’s face when he learns that Pastor Lombardi is not a widower after all. He officiated at the funeral, you know, and was quite adamant that the pastor and his children should come to Kansas to ‘begin life again.’ Well, they will, and in much happier circumstances than they expected.”
“I still cannot understand why Mrs. Lombardi is so ready to leave the Poor Farm.” I turned Sarah round so that she got a better view of the fields and trees rolling by us. “She has an important position there, and she does her job well. Do you think Mr. Schoeffel would treat her so badly once he is superintendent? I cannot help but think she is losing ground by consenting to be merely her husband’s helpmeet.”
“So you would not pick up sticks and follow a husband to the ends of the earth?” Martin’s tone was light, but there was an edge in his voice.
“Certainly not. Besides, I may never marry. To give up all of one’s independence, to be chained to a man even if he abuses you,” I looked at Martin out of the corners of my eyes, “or turns out to be a murderer—and even if he is a good man like Mr. Lombardi, to feel obliged to follow his whims—no, that is not for me.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” asked Martin steadily, “that she may be following him out of love? That they may be a partnership of equals and have arrived at their decision by discussion and mutual consent?”
I shook my head. “Partnerships happen in the realm of business, not in love. I would like to see the man who would treat me like a friend and not someone to dominate.”
Martin said nothing more but drew my free arm through his and squeezed it with his elbow. Tired from a long night trying to become reaccustomed to the nighttime noises of the Farm, I did not try to pull it away but sat lightly linked to Martin as we rolled along in a silence broken only by Sarah’s soft babbling.
FIFTY-SEVEN
It was some weeks before I began to see my future more clearly. Amid the joy of welcoming Tess to my home and settling her into my childhood bedroom—I could not bring myself to use my mother’s room or the dressing room in which Hiram had so often slept—and the slow shock of adjusting to my new circumstances, I had little leisure for creative thought. But now I was beginning to see a way forward.
When Martin came on his daily visit to my parlor, I presented him with the option I had been pondering
for several days.
After a few minutes Martin looked up at me from his perusal of Mrs. Lombardi’s letter, a quizzical expression on his face. “She wants you to bury yourself in Kansas?”
“It’s a practical suggestion.” I bent down to retrieve, for the hundredth time, the stuffed dolly I had made Sarah. “Respectable work and a quiet place to raise Sarah.”
“At a seminary? For heaven’s sake, Nell, piety is not exactly your strong point.”
“They do not need another Bible-reading student, Martin. They need a seamstress. And Mrs. Lombardi says that the housekeeper,” I twitched the sheets of paper toward me to read the name again, “Mrs. Drummond, will be quite easy to live with. Did you not see that part of the letter?”
“I must admit,” Martin turned the thin pages with care, “my attention was arrested by the thrilling story of the supposed dead body of Mrs. Lombardi. Imagine being presented with your wife’s brooch and watch, and then being shown their presumed owner—the charred stump of what might once have been a woman.” He shuddered. “I saw that morgue, Nell. And smelt it.” His beaky nose did its best to wrinkle. “Of course, it might not have smelled so bad just a day after the fire.”
“It is no wonder that they searched no further,” I said. “It is a coincidence worthy of one of Bet’s dime novels. Do you think that the—the burned person was a looter?”
“Who knows?” said Martin. “In the panic and confusion of that night, anything could have happened. I feel mightily sorry for Schoeffel, though. Unraveling the legal mess caused by an erroneous declaration of death—and having the body of a stranger on his hands to boot—must be causing him some headaches.”
I darted toward Sarah’s dolly, which she had flung with such force that she had nearly toppled the always-precarious occasional table. I felt quite cheered by the prospect of being unencumbered by furniture.