Veiled in Smoke

by Jocelyn Green

  I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger

  A traveler through this world of woe

  But there’s no sickness, toil nor danger

  In that fair land to which I go

  I’m going there to see my father

  I’m going there no more to roam

  I am just going over Jordan

  I am just going over home

  The lines had been broken with labored breath until Sylvie bade him stop altogether. Gently, she’d touched his lips to quiet him, and he’d kissed her fingertips.

  Did he remember that? Because she did. The moment of his need and her meeting it was embroidered on her memory in shining thread. He’d been half out of his mind with fever and might not even have known who she was, but it was the first time a man had kissed her. Pity it didn’t signify a thing. Did it?

  Either way, she hadn’t told Meg. Some secrets were too precious to reveal.

  Gaslights dimmed in their sconces along the sides of the auditorium, casting shadow over the masses and a spotlight on the stage framed by scarlet velvet curtains.

  Meg leaned over to Sylvie and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Sylvie smiled and nodded, resolving to enjoy herself.

  After an announcer in a long-tailed tuxedo praised the Relief and Aid Society, thanked sponsors, and introduced the evening’s program, a succession of musicians occupied the stage. Some performers were local, and some had traveled specifically for the occasion. Sylvie recognized most of the songs. At the conclusion of each, the gymnasium-turned-auditorium thundered with applause.

  It was a shimmering, silvery evening. Sylvie felt restored not only by the entertainment, but by the coming together of so many people who cared.

  She glanced at Meg, ready to comment on the last performance, but her sister was riveted by Nate whispering in her ear. Clearly forgetting to be ashamed of her scars, Meg rested her fingertips on his arm. He covered her hand with his.

  What Sylvie wouldn’t give for such a sign of affection from Jasper. With a wistful sigh, she looked away.

  The master of ceremonies retook the stage, beaming in front of the lowered curtain. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand finale, a special treat. Two original songs written specifically for Chicago in her time of need, and performed by Boston soprano Constance Jacobs. The first is entitled, ‘Pity the Homeless.’”

  He stepped out of the spotlight, the curtain rose, and with quavering tones, the soprano sang:

  Pity the homeless, pity the poor,

  By the fierce Fire fiend forced to your door;

  List to their pleading, list to their cry,

  Pass them not heedlessly by,

  Roused from their slumbers, peaceful and sweet,

  Hastening in terror into the street,

  Leaving behind them treasure most dear,

  Flying in anguish and fear . . .

  Sylvie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, longing for someone to crack open a door or window to permit a draft of cool air. She had not expected a song about the fire itself, nor did she want to relive it. She folded her hands. Her palms were slick with sweat.

  At last the song was over, and she drew in as much breath as her corset would allow.

  “Are you all right?” Meg asked during the clapping.

  Was her unease that obvious? “Better now,” Sylvie replied. “That song . . .”

  Meg nodded. “Let’s hope it garners large charitable contributions.”

  When the next song was announced as “Passing Through the Fire,” Nate gave Sylvie and then Meg a reassuring smile. The three of them had endured that dreadful night of real flames together. Surely Sylvie could sit through mere words put to song.

  Flames! flames! terrible flames!

  How they rise, how they mount, how they fly.

  The heavens are spread with a fierce lurid glare,

  Red heat is filling the earth with air,

  While, mercy! mercy! We hear the despairing ones cry.

  Eyes squeezed shut, Sylvie fought the urge to cover her ears as well. Really, must this woman put so fine a point on it? Her lungs constricted, and she felt like she was pulling air through a cheesecloth.

  Passing thro’ the fire! passing thro’ the fire,

  And it is our Father’s hand,

  Tho’ we may not understand

  Why we’re passing thro’ the fire,

  passing thro’ the fire!

  Sylvie fished her handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to her face and neck. Were they trying to re-create the heat of that night in here? Desperate for fresh air, she suppressed a groan and fanned herself instead.

  Flames! flames! terrible flames!

  How they sweep, how they rush, how they roar.

  See the hideous tongues round the roof,

  tree and spire,

  As swells their wild carnival higher and higher,

  Till falling! crashing! Our glorious

  city’s no more.

  She could see it, then. By some trick of her mind’s eye, the terrible flames rose before her and behind her, encircling the auditorium while all of them just sat there, unmoving. She felt the terror that had overwhelmed her the night the fire chased her—chased all of them—as it destroyed everything in its path. Her pulse pounded in her ears so resoundingly that it became the clang of the courthouse bell, and then all the other bells of churches and schools.

  But this was madness. The courthouse bell was destroyed, melted down and molded into relics, one of which she had held in her palm.

  She was shaking, crushing fistfuls of her skirt. An unaccountable anger consumed her. This soprano from Boston had no idea what she was singing, had no inkling what it was to lose everything. How dare she sing it, with melody and measures and mathematical beats that created order out of a night that wrought pure chaos? Sylvie was livid, even though she knew the audience needed to be emotionally moved in order to fill the offering plates that would soon be passed. But she could barely eke that small amount of logic from her agitated mind.

  Something pulled at her, and she jerked away from it, startled, before looking down at Meg. Somehow Sylvie was standing, as if ready to run all over again.

  “Sit down,” Meg hissed. “Or do you need to leave?”

  Sylvie nodded. She couldn’t control her rapid breathing. She needed air, she needed to get away.

  Meg whispered to Nate and gestured to the aisle on his other side. A glimmer of light from the stage reflected off his spectacles as he glanced at Sylvie, then quickly rose and slipped out of the row of chairs. Meg and Sylvie followed him as he moved toward the rear of the gymnasium. After helping the women into their cloaks, he threw on his frock coat and led the way outside.

  A welcome November chill blasted over Sylvie as she escaped Turner Hall. Leaning on Nate’s arm, she gulped cold air as if to quench a fire in her lungs. It had a bracing effect, and her pulse began to calm.

  Meg wrapped her arm around Sylvie’s waist. “What happened?”

  She shook her head to clear it. “I don’t know how to explain it except that those songs brought the fire too vividly back to life. I could see it again, right there in the building, even though I knew it wasn’t there.” She placed a hand to her chest. “My heart is beating as though we’ve been running from the flames all over again. And I was terrified and furious at that singer, completely beside myself with feelings that felt too big to contain.” She paused to catch her breath. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “No.” Nate’s voice gentled. “It sounds familiar. For someone who has experienced trauma, that type of reaction can be triggered without warning. It’s not uncommon.”

  “Did you feel it too? Either of you?” Sylvie looked to her sister for an answer.

  “Not to the same degree that you did, perhaps,” Meg began, “but of course I couldn’t help but be transported to a place I’d rather forget.”

  Tears welled in Sylvie’s eyes. Meg’s mild description was n
othing compared to what she had experienced. “That’s not the same. That’s not the same at all.”

  Gaslights hissed, spreading amber puddles over the sidewalks on both sides of Prairie Avenue. The lampposts made lonely sentinels now that soldiers no longer marched the street. Meg’s arm was linked through Sylvie’s as they approached Hiram’s front porch, but her gaze flicked to Nate’s profile beside her.

  Perhaps it was the artist in her that admired the depth in his eyes and the way his finely drawn lips turned slightly up at one corner, even in repose, as if he were processing some fascinating information and almost ready to speak of it. Perhaps she looked at him, at everyone, differently now that she must learn to paint from life.

  “Thank you for leaving the concert early,” she said. “I know you were there for work.”

  He lifted an eyebrow in subtle challenge. “We only missed the last verse or so of the last song, and then the closing. I would have missed more for Sylvie’s sake or for yours. However, after I see you safely inside and say hello to Jasper, I do need to go back to find out how much money they raised. I can’t give my article to Medill without that sum.”

  Meg had wondered if Joseph Medill was still Nate’s editor. He’d been elected mayor last Tuesday. “How much longer will he stay at the Tribune?” she asked.

  “Not much longer.” Nate climbed the stone steps beside her. “He takes office December 4, so I’ll have a new boss to impress soon.”

  “I have no doubt you will. But for now, come inside for a cup of tea while the donations are tabulated,” she suggested while Sylvie unlocked the door and stepped inside. Helene and Kirstin were visiting friends and family tonight, but it would be no trouble to put a kettle on to boil and to serve a plate of shortbread cookies.

  Nate crossed the threshold and moved to close the door behind him, but a gust of wind slammed it shut right out of his hand. “Is there a window open somewhere?”

  Sylvie rubbed her arms. “I can’t imagine there would be. Unless Jasper burned his dinner and needed to let out the smoke. . . .”

  Meg doubted he’d cooked anything at all. Without pausing to remove her hat or cloak, she set off down the corridor, Sylvie and Nate right behind her. “Jasper?”

  A plaintive moan came in reply.

  Gasping, Sylvie hastened past Meg and into the library. “Jasper, you’re hurt!”

  Meg froze in the doorway long enough to see him holding the back of his head before she hurried to fetch a basin of water and clean cloths. On her way to the kitchen, a chill wind grazed her skin. The window by the rear door had been broken. Glass lay in shards all over the floor.

  “Meg, stop.” Nate pulled her back as if she were about to walk on the pieces. “There’s been a break-in. Jasper was attacked.”

  His hands warmed her shoulders through her cloak. “Who was it?” she whispered. Was it wrong of her to hope it was Otto Schneider?

  “Come talk to Jasper yourself. He doesn’t need tending—the wound already stopped bleeding.”

  Questions galloped through her mind as she sat on the brocade sofa across from Sylvie and Jasper, who shared the other. Behind them, the study table was scattered with textbooks and a pad of foolscap paper. Nate added a few more logs to the guttering fire, then brushed loose bark from his palms. Unbuttoning his frock coat, he sat with Meg.

  “Start over,” Meg said. “Please. Tell us everything from the beginning.”

  Touching the back of his head, Jasper winced and licked his swollen bottom lip. “I was studying. I must have fallen asleep on my books, because I didn’t hear the window break. I didn’t hear him coming until too late. As soon as I startled awake, he struck the back of my head with that brass bookend.” He pointed to where it still lay behind the table. “I wish I could say that I rallied and that we fought it out, but the truth is, the blow knocked me out. I must have split my lip on the edge of the table.”

  Sylvie’s complexion turned waxen in the firelight. “He robbed the house, didn’t he?”

  “He made off with silver candlesticks and silverware, and I don’t know what else. I haven’t made a thorough inventory. Thank goodness you ladies weren’t here when he came. If any harm had come to you, I—”

  “But did you see him?” Meg interrupted. The clock on the mantel whirred as the minute hand advanced. Eleven chimes marked the hour.

  Jasper sighed. “Average height, medium build. He had a stocking cap pulled low over his brow, so I don’t know what color his hair is. The lines on his face marked him as older than myself, but younger than your father.”

  Meg’s breath caught. It was ridiculous how much she wanted the attacker to be Otto Schneider. But if he was, it was all the more likely he’d shot Hiram, and her father had more of a chance to be acquitted. “Could you describe him to the police?”

  “I only saw his reflection in the window, and just for the briefest instant. When I started to turn around, the bookend came down on my skull.”

  Nate took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Have you reported the burglary?” When he looked up, his eyes were blue chips of ice.

  “In a way. The night watchman noticed the disturbance. I roused to the sound of him beating on the front door. He must have scared the attacker away. When I answered the door, I explained what happened.”

  “Fortunate timing, that,” Nate said. “In any case, you’ll need to see what else has been stolen and then make a full report at the police station, which is now at the corner of Union and West Madison.”

  “How hard was the blow?” Sylvie asked. She brought her fingertips to the back of his head and cringed. “There’s already quite a lump. Are you dizzy?”

  “Not if I don’t move.”

  Nate replaced his glasses and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “If no one else is going to state the obvious, I will. Meg, Sylvie, it isn’t safe for you to stay here anymore. Pack up what you can now, and we’ll come back for the rest tomorrow.”

  Sylvie opened her mouth, then closed it, bowing her head. “I thought we’d have a few more days here. Our shelter house hasn’t been built yet.” She pulled a pillow onto her lap and hugged it.

  “He’s right,” Jasper said. “Whoever came here knows there is more to be taken than what he stole tonight. He may return. I’ll board up the broken window, but who is to say he might not break another next time?”

  “There doesn’t have to be a next time,” Sylvie protested. “If we tell the police and ask them to post a guard . . .” But her voice trailed away, as even she knew that wasn’t realistic. Now that Sheridan’s companies had disbanded, the police were spread thin and wouldn’t waste a constable to patrol one house, especially one that might go to public auction anyway.

  Resignation settled in Meg’s middle. They had lived here for one month and had always known it would be temporary, but part of her had conveniently forgotten that they were homeless. They’d found refuge here and been grateful. But with a burglar—and possibly murderer—attacking this household, it was no longer a safe haven.

  “What about Helene and Kirstin?” Sylvie asked. “Will they stay?”

  Jasper leaned back, holding his head straight and still. “I’ll advise against it as soon as I see them. I can’t risk any harm coming to either of them. Eli may stay in the carriage house at his own risk.”

  Meg nodded. “It’s time to go,” she whispered. “But where?”

  Nate hated to wake Edith at this late hour. But heaven knew he’d lost enough sleep over the years for her and Harriet and Andrew.

  But it was Frank who let him in, eyes bleary with sleep, face shadowed with black whiskers. “Nate? Are you in trouble?” The lamp he held cast a glare into the night.

  “Not me.” Hands tingling with cold from the cab ride through the city to get here, he ushered Meg and Sylvie into the house before him and shut the door. “Frank, meet Margaret and Sylvia Townsend.” He kept his voice low to avoid waking the babies.

  Clearly bewildered, Fra
nk tightened the belt around his robe and mumbled a how-do-you-do as Edith emerged from the hallway, her hair in a braid down her back.

  “Sorry for the timing, Edith.” Nate kissed her cheek. The house still smelled faintly of the roast she’d fed him after church earlier that day. “Remember when you told me if I ever needed a place to stay, I could come to you? I’m really hoping the offer might be transferable.” Briefly, he related what had happened.

  “Oh, how awful,” Edith murmured, rubbing her arms. “Yes, of course, you may stay here as long as you need to, so long as you don’t mind the accommodations. We have a bed in the spare room and this couch, which Frank insists is the most comfortable place to sleep in the house.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Sylvie asked. “We would hate to impose.”

  “Not at all,” Edith insisted.

  Sylvie exhaled. “It won’t be for long. Tomorrow morning, construction begins on our new home. The materials have been cut to size already, and the crew has already made thousands of them. It won’t take long to put our own roof over our heads.”

  “Then we’ll enjoy each other while we can. Nate has told us so much about you, and I welcome the chance to get to know you myself.”

  “Likewise,” Meg said, plucking the pins from her hat and lifting it off her hair. “I understand you have two little boys. I can’t wait to meet them.”

  She looked exhausted, and for good reason. Yet she still managed a smile that was warm and genuine. Nate would have offered her and Sylvie his own room in the boardinghouse while he camped out in his neighbor’s rooms, but this arrangement was far more suitable.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Nate?” Leaving the lamp in the parlor, he jerked his head toward the dining room.

  Nate followed his brother-in-law past doily-topped tea tables and into the shadows.

  “Is this what you call not getting involved?” Frank asked. “Whatever happened to you enjoying your bachelorhood? You’ve taken two more little chicks under your wing. Only these chicks are really, really complicated. Their problems don’t have to be yours. Nate. Brother. How many times do I have to tell you? You are not a mother hen. Stop acting like one.”