Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  “How do you know?”

  She hesitated. “Beth and I stopped her on the steps of Carrie Watson’s this evening. She was on her way to apply, and we literally turned her away.” She had told him she planned to go. He shouldn’t be surprised.

  Yet the color drained from his face. “You what? Unchaperoned, you did this?”

  “Chaperone!” Sylvie nearly laughed. “I speak of a girl nearly ruined tonight, a girl we snatched from the clutches of vice, and you ask me about chaperones?”

  “To the subject at hand, then. Yes, we will hire this Lottie, for our apartment and for the Hoffmans, too. I’ll cover that expense myself, to ease Lottie’s burden as well as our dear neighbors’, who sorely need the help but may not have the income to pay for it. Does this suit you?”

  It was twice the generosity she’d been hoping for. More than that, considering he kept his apartment in such order already. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It suits very well. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, explain what in heaven’s name you were thinking to visit the Levee alone.”

  Frustration kindled. “I was with Beth. I wasn’t alone.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So you’re saying if I’m not with a man, I’m alone?” Her tongue grew sharp, and she heard Beth’s attitude and offense in her tone.

  “You were unprotected. What if something had happened?”

  “Something did happen, Kristof. Lottie broke away from us, and she was caught by a man, exactly the sort you warn of. But Beth and I held fast, the police were nearby, and all ended well.”

  His color rushed back. “Sylvie.” It was as much of a gasp as she’d ever heard from him. “It could have gone a different way. It could have been worse. I told you not to go there!”

  “Yes!” she hissed. “You did! And I told you I was going anyway.”

  “I thought Rose’s letter would have put the idea to rest.”

  Rest. She could barely remember what that was like. Exhaustion pulled her one way, then another, from being touched by his concern to denying it was necessary. “I wanted to be sure, and now I am, that she isn’t there. I haven’t forgotten our conversations with László Varga and Margit at the ball. Those waitresses he hired locally—Laura and Danielle? Varga says they were fired, but maybe they disappeared, too. Maybe Rose was part of a pattern. I had to go and see for myself.”

  “They did not disappear.”

  “We don’t know that!”

  “I do.” He paused, forcing the conversation to slow, to steady. “I went to the Hungarian Orpheum this afternoon because I, too, couldn’t stop thinking of what Varga and Margit had said. I was going to ask more questions, dig deeper into what happened with Laura and Danielle, thinking it might shed light on Rose. Danielle was there, Sylvie. I talked to her.”

  Sylvie’s mouth went dry. “What?”

  “She had come to pick up her final paycheck from the restaurant. I saw her name on the check. She’s working now at a café in the Manufactures Building. Laura works there, too. She’s the one who helped Danielle get the job. What Varga told us about them was true. I don’t believe he took Rose. I believe he honestly pulled her closer because of his hearing loss, and I believe she gasped in pain because Walter had already bruised her wrist, trying to keep her in the Ice Railway car.”

  “Thank God,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I wish I could have told you sooner, before you went to the Levee.”

  “I still would have gone,” Sylvie told him. “I did what I had to do. You could have been that chaperone yourself, if you were so convinced that two old maids would need one in broad daylight. I would have welcomed you by my side.”

  Kristof pushed back from the table and stormed away, more upset than she’d ever seen him. Why? Because she’d disobeyed his wishes, though he had no right to impose them? Her own anger burned hotter at the thought.

  Rising, she stared at his silhouette against the window. His shoulders rose with every slowly drawn breath and fell with each release. Light from the streetlamps below pushed darkness away, but only so far. Shadows crept into the parlor. A clock on the fireplace mantel shaved off seconds, and she felt them piling up, taking up space, until time became its own presence too large to ignore.

  He turned around, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

  She silently dared him to try again. Ready to contradict, to strike down any argument, she bridged the gap between them.

  Kristof reached for her hands and took them. “You are not an old maid.”

  The words pierced the tension, and the fight drained from Sylvie’s spirit.

  “You are vibrant. Intelligent. You have more compassion than any other woman I’ve ever met. I’ll say it until you believe me—you are not an old maid at all.” His thumbs circled the backs of her hands.

  She swallowed the dryness in her throat. “I’m forty-three and single. What would you call me, if not that?”

  “I would call you beautiful. If you would allow it.” His expression was serious, an invitation to confirm or correct the liberty he’d just taken in making so personal a comment.

  Speech fled, and she could do neither. Heat swept her as she realized the effect his words and touch had on her. The effect she seemed to have on him.

  If they had been standing in the Rose Garden of the Wooded Island, fragrance perfuming the air about them, she wouldn’t trust the moment rearranging itself about her. If they were riding in a gondola in one of the lagoons, even if they were strolling in the Court of Honor by the light of electric bulbs, she would call her feelings, and Kristof’s, false. Any romance would be as fabricated and temporary as the Fair that inspired it.

  But they weren’t at the Fair. They were in an ordinary apartment with Gregor snoring in the next room. Her hair probably still smelled faintly of DeKoven Street. She’d just yelled at him. And this was the place and time he’d chosen to call her beautiful?

  Whatever else was uncertain, this much was true. This was no manufactured moment, and no impulsive emotion carried Kristof away. She allowed her gaze to move slowly over his handsome face, from the impenetrable eyes to his strong nose and jaw, to his lips. There she lingered.

  And teetered.

  With just one nudge, their relationship might find its place. Step back, and she would find footing on solid ground again. She the landlady, he the tenant, comfortable friends but nothing more.

  But step forward, tilt her face to his, and she would fall into a place she’d thought she’d never revisit. She stood to risk her heart again, but this time, so much more. She wasn’t one to dabble in idle romance. If love grew, it would lead to either heartbreak or marriage.

  Did she want that?

  Kristof dared to pull her nearer. The idea of Sylvie courting danger in the Levee made him never want to let her go again. Calling her beautiful didn’t begin to reach the depths of his feelings for her. He would call her far more than that, if he thought she’d let him. He’d call her his.

  “Be angry with me, if you must,” he said, although her ire had faded. “But understand that my telling you not to visit the Levee came not from a desire to control you, but to protect you.”

  “But you—”

  He placed a finger against her lips to quiet her. “I know. I have no authority over you.” He let his finger fall away and reclaimed her hand. “I only want to keep you from harm. If I had known your intention to visit the Levee hadn’t changed even over my strenuous objections, I would have accompanied you. I’m disappointed you didn’t come to me and ask.”

  Sylvie began to twist away.

  “No,” Kristof said more firmly, sliding one hand to the small of her back. “Not in you. I’m disappointed in myself for not making it clear to you that I would care for you in whatever way suited best.”

  Her lashes rose. A sconce on the wall bathed her skin in soft golden light. “You would care for me?”

  Her question tightened his chest. Did she not be
lieve it? Was she so convinced she was an old maid that she could not entertain the notion? “Sylvie.” He ran his knuckles softly down the side of her face. “I do care for you. Very much.” It had taken too long for him to admit it, even to himself. He hated gambling with every fiber in his being, and relationships were high-stake risks. They were messy and complicated, but the way he felt about her was simple.

  He tipped her chin with the crook of his finger. “Tell me now if my feelings aren’t welcome. Tell me never to touch you again, and I won’t. Only don’t tell me to stop caring for you, because I have already tried and failed.”

  Her lips parted with an intake of breath. “I—I didn’t know. . . .”

  “You don’t need a man at your side. The question is, do you want one? Do you want this one?”

  Her glossy dark hair drew in the light and reflected it back. “I’ve given my heart away only once before,” she said. “It ended badly.”

  Kristof wondered what this first love had done to her, and whether she was erecting barricades even now to prevent her heart from shattering twice. “I don’t claim to be perfect, but I am honest and true. I’m already yours, if you’ll have me.”

  Tears glazed her eyes. When she smiled, he bent his head toward hers in relief, gently drawing her closer, alert for any tension in her body that meant she would push him away.

  She didn’t. “Kristof,” she whispered, “I have never kissed a man before.”

  Shock shuddered through him. Never? His conscience warned that if he kissed her now and treated her poorly later, he might hurt her irreparably. She might be in her forties, just as he was, but he saw in her the young girl she’d once been, full of hope and dreams, before those had burned away like chaff. He saw her resilience as she committed herself to her father and the store instead. She was an enigma of both strength and vulnerability.

  Kristof swallowed and cupped her cheek with one hand. “I want to kiss you, but I will not take so precious a gift from you unless it is offered willingly.” He searched her face as it lifted toward his, and struggled to master his pulse. He wanted her, and she knew it. How she responded to that was her decision alone.

  “I—I do care for you, Kristof. More than you know. But this is all so new to me, and I don’t quite know what to do.”

  He could take care of that. He was not so old that he didn’t know what to do with a woman in his arms. He could kiss her soundly, guide her, lead her . . .

  This was a symphony, the back and forth between them. Kristof felt music arcing in the narrow space between their bodies. Quiet and halting conversation, restrained passion, then soaring, sighing intervals before more ardent repetition. So clearly did he hear every note, he was tempted to lean into the music. To lean into her.

  But her heart was not his to conduct.

  Outside, the plosive rhythm of hoofbeats sounded on the street below. A breeze waltzed through the screened window and twirled a strand of Sylvie’s hair. She was still waiting for him to play the next notes in this movement.

  With all the self-possession he could muster, he kissed her cheek, then bade her good night.

  “You want me to leave?” She took a half step back.

  How little she understood him. “I want you to stay.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed one more kiss to the valleys between her knuckles. “So I must ask you to go.”

  Her complexion deepened to a rosy hue. She left, and the music went with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 24, 1893

  Roses. They were everywhere.

  Sylvie had forgotten that in the Tea Room of Marshall Field’s department store, every place setting had a rose. Amid the din of conversation, her gaze attached to the crimson bud before her, and memory unfolded of the time a would-be suitor had come into her store bearing a dozen such long-stemmed flowers just for her. An extravagant gesture, especially for the time of year.

  He had arrived just before closing, confessing he’d admired her from afar for months and had mustered all his courage to present his case for a speedy courtship. “I have a child, Mr. Rosche,” she’d told him and smirked at his hasty retreat.

  Thirteen-year-old Rose had come out from the fiction stacks and wrapped slender arms around Sylvie’s waist for a sideways squeeze. “He probably figured that a single woman in possession of a good bookstore must be in want of a husband,” Rose had joked. “Too bad he didn’t let you keep the roses, though. Do you mind very much?”

  Smiling, Sylvie had kissed her forehead. “You’re the only Rose I need.”

  That night, as snow ticked against the windows, they’d popped corn on the stove and made hot chocolate and taken turns reading aloud from Sense and Sensibility, which they’d both concluded was even better than Pride and Prejudice. Rose’s eyes had twinkled when Sylvie came to the line, “I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love.” She’d snuggled deeper beneath the blanket they’d shared on the sofa and rested her head on Sylvie’s shoulder.

  Was that truly only four and a half years ago? It felt a lifetime.

  Sylvie fingered the velvet petals on the table before her and prayed again that Rose was all right. Fresh relief that she wasn’t in a brothel reminded her of Kristof’s reaction to Sylvie’s having gone to the Levee.

  Her fingers went to her lips.

  She took a drink of ice water to cool them.

  At least Lottie had started working yesterday. She’d been half an hour late and eager about when she’d be paid, but by the time Sylvie had walked her through the apartment, showing her what she expected, those lapses of decorum had been excused. When she’d introduced Lottie to the Hoffmans, Anna had made it her personal mission to feed the girl at every opportunity.

  “More water, ma’am?” A waiter in a white uniform held a pewter pitcher wrapped in a linen towel. His approach had been noiseless on the thick medallion-patterned Persian carpet.

  “No, thank you.” She glanced around the fourth-floor restaurant. Potted palms arched against pillars between tables, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors doubled the space. “We’ll be ordering tea as soon as the rest of my party arrives.”

  He offered a little bow and receded from view. It was seven o’clock in the evening. No doubt the waiter preferred she order more than just tea, but her budget couldn’t justify it. She wasn’t here for the famous chicken potpie, though her mouth watered at the thought. She had come to visit with Meg, and with Hazel during her break from working in the millinery department. She’d come early to collect herself. The tea—and the ambience that came with it—was just a bonus.

  “Aunt Sylvie!” Letting go of her mother’s hand, Olive rushed to the table and claimed a seat beside her aunt. “Look!” She poked her tongue through a new gap in her smile. “See?”

  As Sylvie assured her she did, Hazel sat on her other side, as starched and neat as Marshall Field demanded from his employees. Honeyed brown hair in a loose chignon softly framed her face.

  Meg sat directly across the square table from Sylvie. “Nate and Walter are both working tonight. I hope you don’t mind some extra company.” She tilted her head toward Olive. Wisps of russet hair had escaped the child’s braid, giving her a flyaway look despite wearing a Sunday dress.

  Sylvie reached out both hands and squeezed those of her nieces. “Are you kidding? I’ll take all the company I can get. So long as it’s the three of you,” she added. Her sister knew her too well to believe she’d outgrown her love for solitude.

  “Waiter.” Hazel signaled the man and ordered tea for four. “I’m on break from downstairs, so if you don’t mind . . .” She waved him away with her fingers.

  Sylvie held in a laugh at her take-charge personality, especially with a fellow employee of the same company. Hazel favored her father in that regard. “Meg, how is painting going?”

  “I haven’t been back to the Fair since last week.” When she brushed a tendril of hair from her face, her unbuttoned cuff flapped open.


  “Mother,” Hazel whispered. “Your sleeve.”

  “Oh.” Meg gave no sign of embarrassment. She shouldn’t have been, of course, but it was the sort of thing that normally would have bothered her. She had long since accepted that her scarred right hand could not manage buttons, but she usually asked for help when she needed it.

  “I’ll do it!” Olive’s small fingers worked at fitting the button through the hole. Her fingernails were clean but bitten short, making the task a challenge.

  “You should have done it at home,” Hazel said as Olive finished. “Don’t let her leave the house looking like that.”

  Irritation grated at Sylvie. “Like what? A Gibson Girl?” It was true, after all. Even in her forties, Meg’s style and grace proved just as charming as those famous illustrations.

  “Ah.” Hazel brightened as the tea cart rolled their way. “Here we are.”

  The white-gloved waiter carefully arranged the silver tea service on the table. A three-tiered platter held almond tea cakes, petit fours, and miniature strawberry tarts. Meg gazed at her youngest child with the countenance of one traveling back in her mind to some distant and painful place. Sylvie suspected that place was Louise.

  The waiter left, and Hazel carried the conversation between sips of bergamot tea and bites of fondant-covered lemon sponge. Sylvie bit into a tart and watched her sister. All the things she’d planned to tell her—about Mrs. Górecki, the Levee district, Lottie, and her growing affection for Kristoff—all of that dissolved like the pastry in her mouth. None of it was as important as what Meg was feeling right now.

  “Divine,” Hazel pronounced, dabbing her napkin to her mouth. “It was good to see you, Aunt Sylvie. I hate to dash without hearing all your news, but you have no idea how strict my boss is.” With a quick kiss to Sylvie’s cheek, and one for Meg, Hazel swept away.

  Olive seemed happy enough to have both adults to herself. She reached for another tea cake and nibbled its scalloped edge. “Is Rose home yet?” she asked. “She’s nicer to me than Hazel. I miss her.”