Tiny Tim stretched out beside Rose, and she buried her fingers in the soft fur on his chest.
Sylvie inhaled deeply in an effort to calm her nerves while waiting for answers that still hadn’t come. Could Rose not see that she’d been held hostage for almost three weeks? “I didn’t know what had happened to you,” she choked out. “I almost wished for a ransom note so I could do something to bring you home safely.”
A smile touched Rose’s lips. “Jozefa didn’t want money. She wanted me.”
“But why?”
“I’ll get to that.” Rose looked at the cat as she said this, as if unwilling to witness the wreck Sylvie’s composure had become.
Again, Sylvie strove to be patient. Again, she failed. “You say she wanted you. So did I. So do I. And she nearly took you out of the country, didn’t she?”
“But she didn’t. Ivan let me go.”
Thunder rattled the china, startling Sylvie into an awareness of just how dark the room had grown. She turned on the lamp. “Just how close did the two of you become?”
“Quite. He rescued me. And he saved me from boredom and loneliness before that.”
“He also made you stay! He didn’t mail the letters to me that you asked him to!”
Rose rubbed her forehead. “He was confused. We’ve both been so confused. I still am, if I’m honest. You’re right, he didn’t mail those letters, but he meant no harm by it. You heard him. He only wanted more time with me.”
Alarm bells rang in Sylvie’s head, competing with the storm outside. “Exactly how much time did he want?”
A moment stretched long and empty, then another, and one more. Finally, Rose met Sylvie’s gaze. All of it, her eyes seemed to say.
“Has he spoken of marriage with you?” The question staggered from Sylvie without permission.
“Don’t be cross. Just because he’s ready for that doesn’t mean I am.”
Sylvie trapped a groan in her throat. To even think of marriage at this age was un—oh no. Her stomach hollowed. “Rose. I need to ask you something else, and I want you to trust that my love for you won’t change at all based on your answer. But in all that time you had alone with Ivan, did he—try anything?”
“Nothing I didn’t allow. He only—he . . .” Her complexion burned a florid red. But from embarrassment or pleasure? “He kissed me.”
“Did he do more than that? Did you two . . .” Sylvie covered her own blazing cheek with one hand.
“No,” Rose said quickly, loudly, and Tiny Tim flinched beneath her hand. “I’m only seventeen, after all, and I’m not that kind of girl. Even if I didn’t mind the immorality of it—which I do mind, very much—what would I do with a baby right now? What would he do?”
Relief flooded Sylvie. “Exactly. Thank God.”
Silence hung in the room, dimpled by the pattering rain. All of this talk of Ivan had led them away from the path she most wanted to take. The one which led, she hoped, to answers about Jozefa.
“Jozefa never should have put you in that position. Did you know she hired your hotel maid to impersonate you and tell the police you were fine so they would close your missing person case?”
Rose raised her eyebrows. “Jenny?” Her surprise could not have been manufactured. “I did write the letter to the police, but I thought she’d mailed it.”
“Of all the dangers I imagined for you, a Polish actress older than I am never crossed my mind. I don’t know why she singled you out, Rose. But she might do it again to another unsuspecting girl she finds. You ought to press charges so she doesn’t get away with this.”
“I’m not going to press charges. I don’t want her to get in any trouble.”
“Rose!” The admonition flew out of Sylvie’s mouth before she could moderate her tone. “She entrapped you and obstructed an investigation. She lied to the police. There are consequences.”
“I don’t see her as a criminal, and I never will. That’s not who she is.” Rose’s chin quivered. Tears welled and spilled over.
Sylvie was dumbstruck. “Then who is she? You haven’t reached the age of adulthood, and she tried to take you out of the country. Why?”
Sniffing, Rose swiped the back of her hand beneath her nose. “She’s my aunt.”
Shock exploded through Sylvie.
“Jozefa is my mother’s sister. Zielinski is her stage name. All she wanted was to reunite with the only family she has left. How can I blame her, when finding my real family has been my quest, as well?”
Real family. The words opened a vein in Sylvie, and all her relief bled away. The truth that should have staunched the flow—that Rose had returned to her anyway—rattled through her mind but found no purchase in her heart.
“Jozefa knew my parents had come to Chicago with me, but after my father died, no more letters crossed the ocean. She’d always wondered if I was still here. Then, when she came for the Fair, she saw my notice in the bulletin for Polish visitors. She came to the bookstore to find me that day. But when she met you, she was afraid to say who she was, convinced you wouldn’t believe her because she had no proof. But she couldn’t have known to bring records with her from Poland to verify that we’re related. You see now, don’t you, Mimi? I felt sorry for her. My aunt. We both wanted the same thing.”
Sylvie stared at Rose until her young, smooth face rippled and shimmered. “Your aunt.” She tried to swallow the stone in her throat. “You found your family, at last.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1893
Never mind that the tap water was too cool for proper shaving. The anger simmering beneath Kristof’s skin warmed it up just fine.
He lathered his face with balsam shaving soap, then pulled the razor down his cheek and over the angle of his jaw, distracted by the fact that Gregor hadn’t come home last night. The shirt he’d left for Lottie to wash had lipstick stains on the collar and smelled of alcohol and sweat and stale perfume. This was how he spent his time, now that he was unemployed?
Kristof rinsed the blade in the water and finished shaving, then wiped his face with a clean towel before throwing on a shirt. It was Sunday morning, and he ought to be preparing for worship. Instead, he was counting the ways his brother fell short and despairing that he would ever reform.
Dawn came misty and grey this morning, bringing none of its usual cheer. After buttoning his collar and cuffs, Kristof headed to the kitchen, drawn by the bolstering aroma of brewing coffee. Strong coffee. He needed his wits about him now more than ever. Gregor wasn’t the only person on his mind. He wondered how Sylvie and Rose were doing but wanted to give them space and time together. He also wondered whether Sylvie would even want his company, now that Rose was safely home. Would she choose him if she didn’t need him?
But there was far more at stake now than his feelings. Ivan couldn’t be trusted, Rose might still be in some kind of trouble, and Gregor might have gotten himself beaten and left in some dark alley.
Pushing fear beneath his anger, he tucked his shirt into his trousers, poured a cup of coffee, and settled at the kitchen table with the morning paper.
Someone fumbled at the door. When the knob didn’t turn, Kristof rose and opened it himself.
Perspiration beaded Karl Hoffman’s brow. He had one arm around Gregor’s waist, while Gregor’s arm was draped over the seventy-year-old man’s stooped shoulders. Kristof’s pulse skidded at the sight of both men. They stumbled inside, and Kristof detached his brother from their elderly neighbor just before Gregor collapsed to the floor. His skin was yellow and filmed with sweat.
“Karl.” Kristof helped him into a chair before his knees gave way, as well. “What—”
“It’s all right, son,” Karl heaved. “That is, I’m all right. It’s your brother who isn’t.”
“Gregor,” Kristof called to him.
His brother rolled onto his side. The buttons on his shirt were misaligned. The smell of opium and illness exuded from his person like an atmosphere.
&nbs
p; Staggering back, Kristof held a handkerchief to his nose. “Gregor, can you hear me? I’m calling a doctor.”
“No,” Gregor rasped. “It wears off. Just wait.”
Kristof was stunned motionless. So this wasn’t the first time Gregor had been in this condition. Only the first time Kristof had seen it. He sank into a chair beside Karl, then recalled his manners. He brought his neighbor a glass of water and mug of black coffee before retaking his chair.
“I’m sorry, Karl.” He wiped a hand over his smooth jaw. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I am up, getting ready for church, ja? Then I hear a commotion down on the street. From my window I see a man being pulled out of a hansom cab, the driver fishing in his pockets for money. I think he has been assaulted. I think he is being robbed, so I go downstairs to see what I can do. It takes me a while, this is true, but I get outdoors, and there he is, nearly insensible.”
“Like this,” Kristof said.
“Ja, just so. Like this. I cannot leave him there, so I help him up the stairs, and here we are.”
Kristof rested a hand on his neighbor’s back. “I wish you’d pounded on my door on the way down. You shouldn’t have done all that yourself.”
“You were bathing, I think. I hear the water in the pipes. Anyhow, I don’t know it is Gregor until I roll him over outside.”
Kristof couldn’t imagine the effort this must have taken. “Did you hurt yourself, helping him up here?”
“Oof.” Karl’s chuckle ended in a spate of coughing. “Please, do not tell my beautiful bride, and all will be well. At least for me.” He took a drink of coffee. “By the time I reached him, he had vomited in the street. It is good for him, to get that out of his system.”
Kristof regarded his brother. A deep sadness replaced his anger, filling every crack in his soul. A feeling much like mourning twisted his middle, for though Gregor wasn’t dead, he was the image of something lost. This would be far easier if, when Kristof looked at him, he didn’t also see the bright-eyed boy who had been the darling of his mother, the hope of his father, and, for many years, the constant companion of his older brother.
But none of that excused his choices. The habitually poor decisions that put others at risk as well as himself.
“This is it.” Kristof cleared the regret from his throat. “He can’t live here anymore. I told him he could have until the end of the week to come up with the rent money he owed me, but even if he does manage that somehow . . . This is it, Karl. He has to go.”
Part of him wanted Karl’s confirmation that this wasn’t cruelty, but consequence. But he didn’t need it. There was no other possible conclusion, and yet guilt stabbed him. His father’s dying request was that he take care of his prodigy brother. And now he was deliberately, coldly planning not to.
Karl exhaled. He cupped his large-knuckled hands around the mug, his skin marked with pale brown spots. “Last night you told us Rose is home. Is this true?”
Kristof glanced at him, disoriented by the change of subject. “It is.”
“Everything you told Sylvie about Rose is true for Gregor, too. God loves him. God knows exactly where he is. You can’t save him, but God can. His well-being is not up to you, Kristof. He is a grown man. It’s up to him, and to God. Sometimes the best thing we can do is simply get out of the way of that.”
Gregor moaned and folded his arm beneath his head for a pillow. An oily smear of lipstick glistened on his stubbled jaw. One would never believe how much talent had been given to this man, nor how bent he was on wasting it.
Karl rubbed at the silver whiskers on his chin. “There is a man called Moody preaching all over Chicago this summer on an evangelistic crusade. I have gone to hear him three times, and every time he preaches on the prodigal son. You know the story.”
Kristof nodded.
“Then you know the younger brother left home and spent his inheritance. He came back at the end, but why? The older brother didn’t bring him back. The father didn’t go get him and bring him home. No. That young man had to wallow with pigs before he decided to come home again. Nothing else would do. Sometimes you just have to let a man live with his decisions. This is not your burden to bear.”
“Thank you, Karl,” Kristof said. “In my family, growing up, it was. We had to be perfect to win our father’s approval. Gregor excelled in music, I was blameless in behavior, and only when taken together did he say he had one whole son he could be proud of.” The memory still stung.
“Ach.” The older man shook his head. “A grave mistake, a corruption of what our heavenly Father intended. I hope you have since learned you can stop striving to earn a place you’ve already been given. You’re already a beloved child of God. You can’t perform your way into or out of His family. It’s grace, son.” His voice was thick with conviction, touching a chord in Kristof’s spirit that had been silent for far too long.
“Amazing grace, indeed.” The old hymn echoed in Kristof’s mind, its lyrics as profound as the melody was simple. He bent and, with his handkerchief, wiped the spittle from the corner of his brother’s mouth. “And now grace—not me—will have to lead Gregor home.”
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1893
Sylvie relished the balmy morning air freshened by the breeze coming off Lake Michigan. Summer, at last, was beginning to bow to fall. Checking the timepiece pinned to her bodice, she climbed the stairs to the Woman’s Building. Her heels clicked over the marble floor as she entered the sun-splashed rotunda, then veered left into the gift shop and continued to the Check and Guide Services counter tucked into the back.
Dorothy smiled when she saw her.
Briefly, Sylvie told her that Rose was now safe at home. “I’ve actually come early to see about rearranging the schedule,” she added. “I need to spend the day with Rose.”
Beth bustled in through the gift shop, adjusting the mauve hat on her deep red hair. “Well? How is she?”
Sylvie had used the phone at Sherman House to call Beth over the weekend and let her know that Rose had returned. She’d also reached Meg late Saturday night, thankful that Nate’s job as Tribune editor meant they had a telephone in their house. Meg had brought her entire family to join Sylvie and Rose for lunch after church. Rose had seemed genuinely glad to see them but also flustered by the attention.
“Better than I had any right to hope.” Sylvie straightened a stack of Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman pamphlets. “Still, I’d like to have today off. I can make up for it later.”
Dorothy slid her glasses up her nose and consulted the schedule. “You’re both in luck. Beth’s group canceled. Beth, you’re now the proud tour guide of a group of New York ladies arriving in roughly an hour.”
“Thanks, ladies,” Sylvie said. “Beth, if you need time off later, please let me know.”
Right now, Rose was with Meg and Olive, waiting for Sylvie in the Austrian Village on the Midway.
Beth agreed and turned back to Dorothy, her elbow brushing a pile of The Daily Columbian and knocking one to the floor. Sylvie picked it up, scanning the day’s schedule. She took a second look.
“Jozefa Zielinski is speaking again this morning?” she asked. “She was only invited to speak twice, and she did that weeks ago. Is this a misprint?”
Dorothy wound her beads around one finger. “She’s filling in today. One of the speakers had to cancel due to a death in the family, and she volunteered to take the slot. It’s a topic she’s already covered, but chances are no one here today heard it the first time. She seemed delighted for the opportunity.”
Heat, then chills, cycled through Sylvie. “This says she speaks at ten. Is she already here?”
“As usual.” Dorothy pointed up with one slender finger. “In one of the parlors.”
Sylvie was already walking away.
By the time she found Jozefa in the Japanese parlor and seated herself across from her, her middle was a tangle of pity and fury. She clasped her shaking fingers on her l
ap.
Jozefa raised her head slowly, regally. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She was as composed as if she’d arranged this meeting herself. “She has made her choice. You’ve won. I congratulate you.”
“Jozefa,” Sylvie began. Her throat dried. Everything she’d thought of saying to this woman dissolved at the sight of her tears. Was she truly so lonely? Compassion flared in Sylvie, unbidden. How much easier this would be if she could only be filled with rage. “You could have told us you were her aunt from the beginning. Did you honestly think I would shut you out at a time when Rose wanted you most?”
Light danced on the gemstones in Jozefa’s hair combs. “Do you not recall? The first day I met you, you learned about Rose’s notice in the Polish bulletin. You made it clear that anyone claiming to be a relative would need to prove it. And proof I could not offer. Besides, it was clear to me that I also came at a time when you wanted me the least. No, do not pretend I’m wrong. You wanted her to yourself. I could not blame you. I wanted the same.”
“No.” Sylvie’s tone was abrupt and resounding, like something slamming shut. “We aren’t the same at all. You deceived Rose.”
“How?”
“You—you tricked her into staying with you.”
Jozefa’s lace collar moved with her even breaths. “If that’s what she told you, she’s the one deceiving you, not me. I invited her into my life, and she leapt at the chance. You can understand why. The pull of family is strong for an orphan.”
It had been years since Sylvie had thought of Rose in those terms. “Then why did you hire Ivan to keep her locked up while you were enjoying the Fair? Why not let her come with you?”
A few women strolled by, pointing at etchings of mountains and waves, and admiring folding silk screens of iridescent blues and greens. A kimono displayed in the corner drew their attention, magnificent in shades of fire.
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