Beth Wright blustered into the bookshop just as Sylvie was closing up at five. A whirlwind unto herself, she released a gusty sigh while flapping her straw hat at her face. “Please say you have news of Rose.”
Batting a mosquito away, Sylvie locked the door before returning to the counter. “Not yet.”
Beth’s brow compressed as she followed her. “Oh no. I can’t believe this! She can’t have vanished into thin air,” she sputtered. “Did you tell the police?”
“I did.”
“They better put their best detective on the case. A young girl like Rose, why—I shudder to think what might have happened.” Her heat-flushed complexion paled. “But they’ll find her. Or we will.”
Sylvie had to believe that was true. She told Beth about yesterday’s efforts on the Midway and at the Fair, and the possibilities they’d discussed at Meg’s house. “I’m going to the Midway Ball with the Bartoks this evening to see if I can find out anything from those in attendance. Kristof will translate.”
Beth leaned against the counter while Sylvie hurried to finish her bookkeeping. “Ooh. That’s a good idea.” She paused. “Be careful how much you rely on him. You say the two of you are only friends, but I’m not sure he’s on the same sheet of music on that score anymore, if you know what I mean. I saw the way he looked at you Monday.”
“And how was that?”
“As though you’re a damsel in distress and he the knight in shining armor. But we’re a little too old and wise for that now, aren’t we?”
“For which part?” Sylvie fought to keep the irritation from edging her voice. “Too old to need help? Too old to accept it?”
Beth cocked her head, mouth screwing into a button. “Too mature to rely on a man for rescue. We’ve always agreed on this.”
They had. Before she had been widowed, Beth’s marriage had slowly siphoned the vigor from her. Her husband never laid a hand on her in anger, but neither had he touched her in love. As a girl and young woman, Beth had dreamed of escaping an overbearing father by marrying out of his household. In her rush to leave, she’d unwittingly wed a man who had only been interested in the property that became his with the match. He’d tolerated her opinions during their courtship, but ridiculed, then silenced her after they’d wed. Beth had always insisted she didn’t mind being barren, but Sylvie had wondered if there was a different reason, too private and humiliating, behind her childlessness. She could think of few things worse for a woman than to be trapped in a loveless marriage.
“Just watch out,” Beth said. “Pretty soon he’ll decide friendship isn’t good enough and propose to you, and if you marry him—or any man—everything you own becomes his. The bookstore, the apartment building, your money. Your time. Your very self. All of it suddenly transfers ownership, and you’re left begging for crumbs.”
Sylvie could understand where Beth was coming from. She also saw that her friend’s experience colored her view of every man. “Beth,” she said gently, “no one is thinking of marriage.”
“I should hope not. I should think a suffragette would know better than to yoke herself to one of them.”
The naked disdain demanded response. “I don’t need to think less of men to believe that women deserve the right to vote, do I? Many men share our views on suffrage. Remember Buffalo Bill?”
It had been the talk of the Fair. Earlier that summer, Buffalo Bill Cody had sent box-seat tickets to Susan B. Anthony for his Wild West Show, held just outside the official fairgrounds. With the packed stands watching, he’d entered the ring on horseback, galloped up to her box, and halted. In a cloud of dust, he’d removed his white hat from his grey head and bowed to her so low that his nose almost touched the saddle horn. She had stood and returned the bow, then waved her handkerchief with unbridled glee. Sylvie wished she’d been there to see it.
“I can be faithful to our cause without disrespecting men,” she continued. “I don’t require a husband to be a complete person, but neither will I tread on men in order to elevate myself.”
Beth gave her a look that implied she would do enough treading for both of them.
“But to your point,” Sylvie said, “Rose needs help, and I’ll take any kind I can get.”
“All right, if you say so. I’m just worried about Rose, and now I’m worried about you, too.” She reseated her wilting hat.
“And you said I worried too much.”
“I was wrong. It was the right amount, or not enough. I’ve got to run now, dear. The Hull House Players have an extra practice tonight. We’re trying out a replacement for Rose. While I’m there, I’ll ask if any of them know anything that could point to where she is. Good luck tonight!” She bussed Sylvie’s cheek and whisked away.
After locking the front door again, Sylvie pulled the shades and called to the cat, who scrambled up the stairs before her.
The quiet in the apartment pulsed in her ears. Sylvie was exhausted, not having been able to sleep more than an hour together since Monday. More than that, she was frustrated that after two days, there had been zero progress in the search for Rose. Was she hungry? Was she in pain? Was she afraid? Did she wonder why Sylvie hadn’t come to save her? The same questions beat their path through Sylvie’s worn-out brain. If she let herself, she could surrender to panic and be utterly swept away by it.
Gathering her courage, she refused. She would be no good to Rose that way.
Mechanically, Sylvie set out food for Tiny Tim. The sound of his eating tickled the silence as she drifted into Rose’s bedchamber, hunting for the hundredth time for anything that might be useful.
The room was neat as a pin, only because Sylvie had already combed through everything and set it all to rights. Any wrinkles on the quilted counterpane were the result of Sylvie sitting on the bed, thinking, looking, praying. Orange-red paisley curtains swayed in the breeze, and the sun that filtered through them cast a fiery glow reminiscent of Rose’s personality. She was warm, her feelings close to the surface and quick to kindle into stronger flames of love or anger. She had been this way since she was a child, especially after her father passed away. The hotter Rose had flared, the cooler Sylvie made herself, to compensate. There had to be balance, or they’d both burn up in Rose’s passions.
“Calm down, Rose.” Sylvie’s own words came back to her. How often had she said it? “You make too much of this.”
Had her passions finally, literally, carried her away?
A rhythmic scratching drew Sylvie’s attention to Tiny Tim, who was stuffing his paw beneath Rose’s bureau, trying to pull something out. Hoping it wasn’t a mouse, she knelt beside the little cat and felt until her fingers found the edge of a book. Pinching the cover, she pulled it out.
Only it was not a book. It was a diary.
Any twinge of guilt Sylvie felt for invading this private space quickly dissolved. Rose was missing, and this book might hold some clues.
Shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor, Sylvie opened it to the most recent entry. It was dated August 12, the night of the fireworks on the Wooded Island. She began reading:
I hope Jozefa felt welcome here. I know what it’s like not to belong. Even Mrs. Górecki is getting tired of me.
Rose had never mentioned a Mrs. Górecki before. Were their visits another secret?
The contrast between her neighborhood and ours is overwhelming. But that’s where my father lived, or in a neighborhood just like it. I’ve always wondered if I was dishonoring him by being grateful I didn’t grow up there. I feel guilty for all my privileges when so many Polish people are barely scraping by.
Jozefa says I shouldn’t worry about that, that my parents would be proud of me, just the way I am. Mimi has said the same thing to me many times, but somehow, hearing it from Jozefa was a relief. She has no reason to lie to me. She has no reason to be kind to me either, but she has been. Between her and what Mr. Janik said, I feel a little closer to my mother, even though all I remember of her is the feel of her shawl on my face when she h
eld me, and the song she used to sing to me. I wish I had a photograph of her. At least I have the shawl.
Sylvie edged closer to the bed and leaned back against it, stretching her legs out in front of her. The shawl, she understood, was as important to Rose as Sylvie’s copy of Little Women was to her, since it had been cherished by her own mother, Ruth. The folded shawl draped the foot of Rose’s bed now, its bright blue and dove-grey wool fringe brushing Sylvie’s neck. Rose would never have left it behind if she’d known she wasn’t coming back.
A headache pressed behind Sylvie’s temples. Tiny Tim crawled into her lap, and she welcomed the purring ball of fur.
I can’t tell if it bothers Mimi when I talk about my parents, which is why I’ve done it so much with Jozefa instead. It doesn’t hurt her feelings like it might hurt Mimi’s when I say I miss my own family. When I was little, Mimi was actually wonderful about it. She told me she was sorry, so sorry, when my father died, and I believed her. She let me cry, and she cried with me.
Sylvie’s throat burned. The words grew blurry as she skimmed further down the page.
I feel like she tries to control me now, but is she trying to protect me, or only herself? I want to be loved for who I am, but sometimes I wonder if she needs me to feel better about who she is.
Enough.
Tears rolled down Sylvie’s cheeks as she closed the diary, nudged the cat from her lap, and stood. Rose had misinterpreted everything Sylvie had tried to do for her. She’d gotten it all wrong.
Hadn’t she?
Sylvie felt like an imposter arriving at the ball on Kristof’s arm, an old maid pretending to be Cinderella. He and Gregor were distinguished in their concert tuxedos, but as she had no fairy godmother, she wore only the most formal dress she already owned. While other ladies shimmered in off-the-shoulder ball gowns and bejeweled ostrich feather fans, Sylvie made the best of a deep crimson dinner gown with matching gloves that went up past her elbows. It felt too snug across her middle, another sign her body was relaxing with age.
She felt anything but relaxed tonight.
“Enjoy the ball. Or at least enjoy the music, won’t you?” Gregor winked, then parted from their little trio to join the chamber ensemble at one end of the room.
Kristof lingered, even when Sylvie released his arm. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You hate crowds, unless you’re guiding a small group that hangs on your every word. And the room will be twice as full within the hour. The Midway guests will arrive shortly after nine.”
He was right. She enjoyed giving tours but could do without masses of people in general. Last year, one of Meg’s art shows had drawn so many admirers that Sylvie had felt like she might suffocate. Kristof had noticed, ushering her into the courtyard for some cool evening air.
The knot between her shoulders loosened a bit, just from being known. “The hope of gaining some insight makes it bearable. I’d do far more than this if it meant finding Rose.”
Kristof nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but right now I need to join the ensemble and relieve the pianist of his set.” Mozart piano music floated over the room. Near the piano, a cellist and violist were settling into their places while Gregor rubbed a block of rosin on his bowstrings. An oboist adjusted the reed in his instrument.
She patted his arm. “I plan to sit on the edge of the room until the Midway folks arrive, sipping punch and wishing I’d brought a book.”
“Planning to shun the poor fellows who ask you to dance?” His mouth twisted into a wry grin. “All the better. Less chance for you to be whisked out of my sight.”
“I’m not here to dance.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he said. He joined the other musicians while Sylvie receded to the periphery and sat in a row of chairs lining the wall.
Red and yellow bunting hung from the ceiling of the Midway’s Natatorium Building. Galleries overlooked the ballroom, their railings draped with silk triangles embroidered with gold arabesques that reflected the light of incandescent bulbs. It was one of the most opulent atmospheres Sylvie had ever experienced.
Rose would have loved it.
Crossing her ankles, Sylvie watched the musicians tune their instruments and tried not to think about the money she’d spent to be here. Her funds were thinning. Coming to this ball had been a gamble with her resources, and she could only hope it would pay off.
Though impatient to continue her investigation, she feigned a casual air and adjusted her mother’s pearls at her throat. If a ransom needed to be paid, they would be among the first valuables she would sell. But if someone were after a ransom, wouldn’t he have demanded it by now?
The music began, instantly drawing her attention to Kristof. He led the chamber ensemble into a lively piece that was the perfect background to the evening’s gaiety. Gregor barely seemed to notice Kristof’s wordless direction. While Kristof was sharp and precise, Gregor was devil-may-care and yet still made no mistakes.
Only during the last, lingering note of the piece did Kristof seek her out with his gaze. The intensity in his eyes brought a flush to her cheeks, and she was glad he wouldn’t notice from this distance.
Even so, she looked at her hands, lest her expression betray her. Just as she had when she’d made that comment in Meg’s parlor about romance and love not living up to fictional renderings. Even to her own ears, it had seemed a false note, when for so long it had been her resounding refrain. “You might change your tune on that,” Meg had whispered to her later that evening. But it wasn’t that simple. Beyond Beth’s objections, she had her own. Sylvie loved the life she’d built for herself, the freedom and independence. And she had Rose to think of.
Especially now. She was the only reason Sylvie was here.
As the music moved into a waltz, couples took to the floor. Sylvie scanned the entrances, hoping to see the Midway guests, and spotted a man in Hungarian folk dress lingering just inside one of the arched doorways. He might be waiting for the right cue for his entrance, but Sylvie would do no such thing.
Faster than thought, she was on her feet and marching toward him, reticule looped over her wrist. “Excuse me,” she said when she neared. “You speak English, yes?”
His eyebrows spiked, almost disappearing beneath the brim of his green felt hat. The feather in its band quivered as he appraised her with a grin. “A little English. Yes.”
“Good. You work at the Orpheum on the Midway, don’t you? I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Yes, I do.” He introduced himself as László Varga. She guessed he was older than she was, but not by much. His shoulders were broad beneath his white shirt and embroidered vest. Tall leather boots covered black trousers that widened from knee to waist. “I’ll talk to you, of course. But only while we’re dancing.”
A wave of heat splashed over her. “That won’t be necessary. We can chat right here.”
He cupped a hand behind an ear. “I can’t hear you. Too close to the music. It’s better if we dance.”
She couldn’t interpret the smile flashing in his olive complexion. He might simply be friendly and eager for the ball. Then again, he was a stranger who hadn’t yet earned her trust.
She pulled the photo from her reticule. “Have you seen this girl? Blond hair, blue eyes.”
Mr. Varga barely looked. “I told you, I can’t hear you.” Strong fingers wrapped around her elbow, tugging. Sylvie quickly stuffed the photo back into her bag so it wouldn’t slip from her grasp and be trampled as he pulled her onto the dance floor.
She’d been a fool to approach him alone. But now that his attention was completely hers, there was no getting out of it. “Someone from the Orpheum asked my daughter to be a serving girl there,” she tried.
“Oh?” He turned his head so she could speak more directly into his ear.
“The girl in the picture I showed you, Rozalia Dabrowski. Have you seen her there?”
“I hav
e seen many girls like her,” he said. “But their names do not interest me. I would not keep them straight even if I tried. They come, they go.”
“Do you mean they disappear?”
“What? Disappear?” A frown twitched his mouth. “No. I just don’t see the same girls from one week to another. Unlike the Egyptians, we did not bring enough countrymen with us to fill a village. Some of them we hire from your city. There are many Hungarians already living in Chicago, isn’t it so?”
“Yes, but my daughter is not one of them. Are girls forced to work for you, even if they’d rather not?”
“And how would we do that? You think we are all gypsies, that we would kidnap blond girls and keep them for ourselves?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What?”
She repeated herself, louder this time, yet still he drew her nearer. Truly, the noise level didn’t warrant this.
“Ah, but you are thinking it is good you are brunette, otherwise who knows what I would do with you,” Mr. Varga said. “Is that it?”
Suddenly mute, she tried to twist away from him.
His fingers dug into her back as he pulled her closer to his broad chest, asserting his control.
With just one glance, Kristof read the alarm on Sylvie’s face. To the ensemble, he said, “Skip the coda, end the piece,” and brought the waltz to an early conclusion.
Couples broke apart.
“What was that about?” Gregor muttered, and the flutist echoed the question.
Kristof set down his instrument. “Change of plans. Gregor, take the lead. Charles, play louder,” he told the young violinist near Gregor.
Straightening his bow tie, he wove between couples until he reached Sylvie and a fellow he’d seen at the Hungarian Orpheum. Her complexion was mottled white and pink.
“What did you say to her?” he asked in Hungarian.
“I didn’t say anything. She practically asked me to dance.”
“What’s he saying?” Sylvie whispered. “I thought I could question him about Rose, but he insisted on dancing, and I didn’t learn a thing.”
Shadows of the White City Page 11