Veiled in Smoke

by Jocelyn Green

  “So we wait,” Sylvie said after swallowing her bite.

  Nate shifted, and the bench creaked. “I won’t tell you what to do, but I will tell you what I know. I’ve just come from the Common Council’s special committee meeting, where they were considering fire safety regulations. They’re proposing a virtual ban on wooden houses and very high standards for those made of brick.”

  “But people are already building wooden structures in the burned district,” Sylvie said.

  “Yes, and they’re rushing to get them completed before the Council formalizes a ban. The regulations would be for new construction only. They wouldn’t force anyone to tear down what’s already built.”

  Meg savored the soft pretzel as she considered this. “Our shop was built of brick before. How high, exactly, would the new standards be?”

  “By the terms of the proposal,” he answered, “walls of one-story brick houses must be at least twelve inches thick, and taller homes must have even thicker walls in their lower stories. All roofs are to be made of metal, slate, terracotta, or another fireproof material.”

  “No more tarpaper roofs,” Meg said.

  “Exactly. And any cornices, coping, bay windows, or other projections must be similarly nonflammable.”

  Before the fire, most buildings had carved wood cornices and ornamentation painted to look like marble or stone. Banning wood like this would drive up the cost exponentially. But if it would be safer for the common good, perhaps it was worth the cost.

  Still . . . “In that case, we would need all winter to save up for the new shop. Do you think the ordinance will pass?”

  Finished with his share of the pretzel, Nate angled toward her. “It’s already facing criticism. Working-class residents can’t afford such buildings, and people in the real estate business say it will drive up prices. Believe me, strong opinions reigned during that committee meeting.”

  “I do believe you. But the question is, what are we going to do?” Sylvie crossed her arms on the table and stared at Meg.

  “It’s a big decision,” Meg started. “One with lasting impact on the family and our business. If Father would only answer a single letter, I would write him and ask his opinion.”

  “Meg.” Sylvie gave a dark laugh. “Even if he could respond, would you trust him to make the choice?”

  Tucking her hands in her lap, Meg chafed beneath her sister’s scrutiny. “Are you saying he shouldn’t even be consulted?”

  “He hasn’t been the head of our household for years. He can scarcely handle his own future right now, let alone ours. We’re on our own, Meg.”

  “If you ask me, I think she’s right,” Nate said quietly.

  “Well, I didn’t.” Meg rubbed at the scars on her palms, instantly regretting her quick retort.

  “All right,” he replied. “Then let me do the asking. When your father went to war, what did you and your sister and mother do while he was gone?”

  “We waited for him to return with hope and expectation and many, many prayers.”

  “And we carried on with our lives,” Sylvie added. “We waited for his return while still making our own decisions. Father trusted us to do that.”

  “This is different,” Meg countered.

  With a frustrated huff, Sylvie slid off the bench and lit another taper. Scooping up the other set of Anna’s curtains, she retreated to the back room with a book.

  Meg braced herself for Nate to tell her that she was wrong and foolish. That Sylvie was the sensible one.

  Instead, he swung one leg over the bench to straddle it and face her. When he reached for her right hand under the table, she flinched. He didn’t. He hadn’t the first time she’d let him see it either. She’d been more anxious about his reaction than anyone else’s, for she couldn’t bear the idea of Nate recoiling. Butterflies had filled her stomach until he came to Edith’s house for a visit, and with a look, a smile, a touch, had calmed her clamoring nerves. “Do I repulse you?” she had asked. “On the contrary,” was all he’d said before his nephew began climbing up his leg.

  Now, cradling the back of her right hand in both of his, he used his thumbs to massage her palm in circles, using more pressure than she would have. She winced at the darts of pain as the scar tissue yielded and broke under his touch.

  Outside the thin walls of the house, they could hear people leaving the work site across the street in Court House Square, voices volleying over crunching, heavy footsteps. Somewhere on the block, a woman scolded someone for smelling of liquor.

  Nate lifted his gaze to meet Meg’s. The reflection of candlelight bobbed on his glasses. “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

  “I forget you ask questions for a living,” she said, hoping to lighten the solemnity in his expression.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend I’m asking because it’s what I do. I’m asking because I care, and because you need to hear your own answer.”

  She looked away, and he shifted to massage her other hand, probing the toughness to soften it. “I’m afraid we’re learning how to live without Father, not just because we must, but because it’s easier. A relief, even. I’m afraid we’re moving on without him.” She paused, collecting her thoughts into a pattern she could understand. “It feels like we’re betraying him—the man he used to be, the man he is now, and the man he can become. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid we’re getting so comfortable living without him that we won’t want to bring him back. We could leave him there in the asylum for the rest of his life. But would that be for his sake, or for ours?”

  Slowly, Nate nodded. He was touching bruises and scars inside and out as he massaged her fingers one by one, pinching and rolling the webbed tissue between them. The rhythm and motion would have been hypnotic if it didn’t hurt. He was pushing her in more ways than one, and it wasn’t comfortable. But then, it wasn’t meant to be.

  “What else?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Isn’t that enough? It’s everything.”

  He clasped her hands, shaping his to fit hers. “Talk to Sylvie about it. Your father would want you to make decisions based on the information you have. That’s not a betrayal, Meg. You’re doing the best you can.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “I’m writing to him, but I’m not getting any replies. I don’t even know if he’s getting the letters. I don’t want him to think we’ve forgotten him or given up on him. I still believe he can get better and come home to us.”

  “He may get better, and he may come home. But if you’re hoping for the father he used to be, you’ll forever be disappointed. He’s marked by his scars as surely as you are by yours.”

  She tried to jerk away, but he held her fast.

  “Meg, you are lovelier now than you ever were. Your refinement comes not from charm school or polite society, but from coming through the fire. You and your father and Sylvie—all of us—we can never be who we once were, because we keep changing and growing. We’re not defined by our hurts, but by God’s grace we can overcome them. We are transformed. So if I were you, I would not pray for the father you knew, but for your father made new, not in spite of the scars but because of them.”

  He turned over her hands and pressed a kiss to each palm.

  Heat flashed through her as she closed her fingers over the faint trace of warmth left by his lips. Her skin didn’t feel sensation as keenly as it had before the fire, but what she felt now wasn’t limited by her scars. It was a crossing over a threshold, from the world she knew to one unknown to her. She felt as unsteady in her footing as if she were wading through the ruins to reach the other side.

  Perhaps she was. Perhaps they both were.

  A lump shifted in Nate’s throat. With a tentative smile, he cupped the side of Meg’s face in his hand for the briefest of moments. “I should go.” A hint of color tinged his cheekbones. Rising, he tapped the basket from the Hoffmans. “It appears you have everything you need to get settled. I’m glad you and Sylvie won’t be alone here.”


  Tugging on his cap, he called good-bye to Sylvie before nodding to Meg and leaving. A gust of cold air took his place.

  Sleep did not come swiftly for Meg, huddled beneath army blankets on the mattress on the floor. The fire in the stove hummed beneath the wind that wrapped around the house. Without trees and with far fewer buildings to break the currents of air, gusts swept through the neighborhood as they might on the prairie. The sound was forceful and moaning, an echo of Meg’s wrestling with unnamed longings.

  She was homesick for the life she’d lived on this corner before the fire. It wasn’t just things that she missed, but the security and peace she’d taken for granted. When they’d stayed at Jasper’s house and with Edith’s family, it was far easier to ignore the devastation in the city. Now she was right in the heart of it. And she had literally made her bed above her father’s rendering of the place that had broken his spirit. Sleeping here would take some getting used to.

  Meg ached for her father, but she missed her mother tonight. She would have loved for her to meet Nate, the story-hunter who became a friend and might become something more. Pulling the blanket beneath her chin, she wondered if he was awake and if he was thinking of her too.

  Dust blew in through a chink between the wooden planks, spraying across Meg’s face and igniting all her senses. Heart pounding, she forsook the warmth of the bedding to rummage for a stocking or towel to wedge in the crack, and wondered if the feel of dust on her skin would forever remind her of that terrible night when she had been nearly blinded by dust and chased by fire. Brushing a hand over her face and hair, she crawled back under the covers.

  “Thank you,” Sylvie whispered.

  “You’re welcome.” Such small words to fill the distance between them. Meg hated that the gap had widened since Nate had come and gone. “Can’t sleep either?”

  Before retiring to bed, Meg had conceded that they would make their decisions about rebuilding without consulting Stephen, and Sylvie had agreed to the courtesy of informing him of their rationale along the way. But there was more to say tonight than that.

  Sylvie rolled onto her side and exhaled. “Nate’s a good man.”

  Meg turned, eyeing her silhouette. Her form was a darker shade of the rest of the room, her expression fully cloaked in shadow. “Yes, he is.”

  “I overheard what he said to you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. He was right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “About you, about Father. About being refined and praying for Father to be made new. I think we might pray that all of us are made new. I understand Father so much more now that I don’t understand myself.” She chuckled. “Do you know what I mean?”

  Meg stared at the faint orange glow cast by the stove. “You’re referring to your reaction at the concert?”

  “And more. You know about the nightmares, but sometimes my daydreams seem even more real than my hand in front of my face. I can’t stop my heart from pounding so hard that I feel it will bruise my chest. And I was angry, so angry with that soprano from Boston. I scarcely recognized myself.” She paused and steadied her breathing. Wind lashed at the house, and wood creaked in protest. “But, Meg, I don’t think I’m insane.”

  “Of course you’re not. I never would have suggested such a thing.”

  “But I did. Don’t you see? I didn’t understand what I saw in Father, and I called it insanity.”

  Meg held her tongue, afraid to interrupt. When the silence stretched out too long, she quietly asked, “And now?”

  “Now I think about how long we were in danger—it was less than two days—and I consider how difficult it is for me to get past it. Then I consider how long Father was at war, first fighting, and then at Andersonville for two years. No wonder he was so affected!” Sylvie’s voice grew brittle. “I judged him for it. My pity and compassion ran out long ago, but my supply of resentment and shame seems limitless.”

  “I’ve had my share of resentment too, Sylvie,” Meg whispered. “Perhaps the difference is that I haven’t been as honest about it, turning instead to art to make me feel better.”

  Sylvie sniffed and drew a deep breath. “You could have turned to me.”

  Meg reached beneath the covers and grasped her sister’s hand. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “And now you will turn to Nate. Not that I blame you, Meg, for he really is a good man.”

  Meg squeezed her hand. “He is. But you make it sound as though he’s declared some intention with me, and he hasn’t.”

  “Not with words, perhaps.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks.” Meg rolled onto her side, laughing.

  But after she and Sylvie prayed together for Stephen and themselves to be made new, she closed her eyes and felt Nate’s hand warm against her face.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1871

  There was no reason for Sylvie to stay in the shanty alone all day while Meg was sketching and painting Jasper. So she curled up in a wingback chair in the turret room with them, Oliver on her lap. She peered at Jasper over the top of Villette, whose pages she hadn’t turned in quite some time.

  He didn’t look at her.

  He certainly didn’t look at her the way Nate had looked at Meg last night. The shanty was too small for Sylvie to miss it. What he’d said to Meg was both wise and compassionate. But paired with his kiss to her hands, the moment was utterly romantic.

  And jarring, at least to Sylvie. She’d slept little last night, realizing that perhaps Meg would not be a spinster all her life. For years they had foregone courtship, and they had done it together. But now Meg and Nate were forging an attachment that went beyond friendship.

  Swallowing a sigh, Sylvie stroked the cat’s fur, mindful of his sensitive bald spots, and was rewarded with a contented purring in sharp contrast to her state of mind. Someday Meg very well might marry, even if it wasn’t to Nate. She would leave Sylvie—as Ruth had, as Stephen had. Would it be so awful a life to be surrounded by books and readers all day, and to have the evenings for her own leisure, to escape into the literature of her choosing?

  She stole another glance at Jasper. Then, chasing her longings away, she turned a page and stared at words without reading them.

  “Right now I’m roughing in the outline of your head and hair and your shoulders.” Meg stood behind the easel, sketching charcoal lines on the canvas. “So it’s fine for us to talk. I’ve never asked you what made you want to pursue a law degree. What was it?”

  Jasper licked his lips and cleared his throat, prompting Sylvie to set aside her book and the cat and pour him a cup of tea. Her skirts swished as she brought it to him. He thanked her without meeting her gaze. He must be concentrating.

  Sylvie returned to the wingback chair and moved Oliver to reclaim her space.

  “Well, I told Sylvie that I grew up without many educational opportunities. I read as much as I could, but that wasn’t much,” he said.

  “Ah. Like Lincoln,” Meg suggested.

  “Not like Lincoln.” Jasper responded sharply, then sipped the bergamot tea. “I’m far less like Lincoln than you might want to believe.”

  “Oh?” Meg glided to the window, adjusting the shade to control the light before returning to the easel.

  He stared into his cup. “I’ve no taste for politics. But I do have a taste for justice. That’s why I want to practice law. To be a voice for those who cannot defend themselves.” His tone was edged with conviction.

  Sylvie tilted her head, considering this. “Were you once in need of such a voice, Jasper? Or was there someone you loved who couldn’t defend himself?”

  He snapped his attention to her as if only now realizing she was in the room. He set the teacup back on its saucer and balanced it on his knee.

  “You were wronged somehow,” Meg said quietly. “It marked you. It changed your path. Am I right?”

  He blinked and forced a stiff smile. “I was wronged. I needed a voice and didn’t have one. I co
uldn’t defend myself.”

  Sylvie’s heartbeat tripped over itself in sympathy. She wanted to hear more. She wanted to know everything about him.

  “I don’t like to talk about that, though,” he admitted. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Meg rubbed out a line and redrew it. A few quiet moments passed before she spoke again. “Did you take the gold coin to the historical society yet?”

  Shifting on his chair, Jasper sat a little straighter. “I haven’t made the time to hunt down their new location. Nate could probably tell me where they’ve set up quarters since the fire.” He sipped his tea, but not much of it. Sylvie ought to have brought him coffee instead.

  Meg smiled, then squinted at his ear as she drew it. “I bet he could. Otherwise, you could talk to the staff at the Soldiers’ Home. They moved into a new building in Evanston in February, but until then they were right on the edge of the old Camp Douglas property, so they might have a collection of things related to it. Most of it would pertain to the training section, I’d imagine, but you never know. They might be interested in the prison camp part of it too.”

  His teacup clinked on its saucer. “Perhaps.”

  An almost imperceptible change flickered over his expression. If Sylvie hadn’t been watching him so closely, she would have missed it. He didn’t like talking about this either. Thankfully, Meg seemed to have dropped the subject.

  Sylvie crossed her legs, shifting the book, and something fell out from between the pages. She picked it up from the floor and laid it in the book. It was a carte de visite, a small photograph of a soldier in Union uniform. The sides had been trimmed a little, as though to fit into a frame. Written on the back in Hiram’s hand were the words, The likeness of Jasper. Taken March 1865. She turned it again and studied the face, looking up at Jasper in wonder. Yes, it was him. He must have been nineteen years old at the time, two years younger than Sylvie was now. He was much thinner then, his cheekbones sharp blades beneath his skin. But his curly hair and the thin scar on his brow were clearly recognizable.