Veiled in Smoke

by Jocelyn Green

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.”

  He watched Hugh for his reaction.

  Hugh’s face was blank. “’Tis a pleasin’ rhyme. I’ve no idea what it means.”

  Smiling, Stephen slipped into an older version of himself to explain the meaning of the written words. “The poet is asking God—the Trinity—to make him new using whatever force He needs to. He says that up until now, God’s methods have been too gentle, but the transformation he needs is so complete, he needs more than that. ‘Bend your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.’”

  That was exactly what Stephen needed. Perhaps it was what God was doing in him now, and he was only now seeing it.

  “Do you believe that?” Hugh asked. “You believe that God could make you new?”

  Stephen examined himself, for the question deserved an honest answer. “I do.”

  “Do you not blame Him for the ill that has befallen you, then? He could have prevented your trials. If He is all-powerful, and if He is good, He could have healed you before it ever came to this.”

  Hugh’s remarks stayed with Stephen far longer than the bread and gruel did. That night, as his stomach growled and coils from the thin mattress pressed into his hip, he rolled the challenge in his mind. Yes, God could have intervened and prevented his arrest and subsequent captivity in this wretched place.

  But this place had been the breaking of him. It was here that he’d remembered his utter need for God and the potential relationships that still awaited him with his daughters. Here he had begged for new life. This was the battering of his heart of which John Donne had written. On the other side of his need, there was the One who could meet it.

  The image of Hugh materialized in the shadows. Another hallucination, but a mild one, as these things went. “You took it again, didn’t you? The whiskey tincture. Is God meeting your need by using that? Or can He make you new without it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1871

  Meg had thought she was ready for this.

  She was wrong.

  The art that hung in Mr. VanDyke’s gallery seemed to mock her. The gaslights had seemed to hiss Imposter as she entered the shadowy room. In one corner, she and Nate held the portraits of Sylvie and Jasper to show Mr. VanDyke.

  The gallery owner’s reaction to her work was written plainly on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend.” Mr. VanDyke’s gentle tone did nothing to soften the rejection. He looked pointedly at her hands. “I can see your resources have been compromised in the fire, and you have my deepest sympathy. But my clients want portraits they can be proud of for generations to come. It’s a business arrangement, not a charity offer.”

  Whatever humiliation she’d felt burned away in the ire now licking through her. Nate’s jaw hardened before he opened his mouth to speak. She touched his sleeve to stop him. She could speak for herself.

  “I have not come for sympathy or charity.” Meg lifted her chin, glad her voice was steady. “If that’s all you see here, I won’t waste any more of your time. Or mine.”

  And it was over. Just like that.

  She didn’t look at Nate as they walked down the stairs and out into the late afternoon light that leaked from an ash grey sky. The door slammed shut behind her. She felt the blessed cold on her hot face, but no tears, as Nate hailed a cab. Likely she appeared composed. But on the inside she fought to keep herself from fragmenting into pieces.

  After Nate loaded the portraits into the carriage and handed her up, he sat beside her, his knee touching hers. They trundled along without speaking, for what was there to say? Meg stared at Sylvie’s likeness across from her and wondered how she would tell her sister that their hopes of her gaining clients had come to naught. Coming on the heels of her failure to get her father released from the asylum, it was another blow to her already bruised spirit.

  Nate took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Mr. VanDyke was out of line in what he said, you know.”

  Outside the cab, long shadows of lampposts leaned down the street. “I agree. But he does know his clients. If he says they wouldn’t like my style, I believe him. I barely like my style myself.”

  “Meg.” Nate wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she allowed her head to rest against him as she inhaled his scent of sandalwood soap and newsprint. When he kissed her temple, the gentle pressure released the tears that had been banking inside her. “All I’ve wanted to do, almost since the moment I met you, is protect you. I hate that your heartaches keep coming. If I could take them from you, I would. I’m no art critic, but I’ll tell you what I think of your style. Do you remember when you asked me why I look at the city without my glasses on sometimes?”

  She did. “You said it was a relief. It was a respite for eyes and mind not to see every single detail, and that there was beauty in the blend and blur.”

  He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “That’s right. There is a certain charm in the softening of the world’s hard edges. My vision isn’t much without my spectacles, but the change in perspective has become a gift to me. That’s how I see your painting, Meg. I know you admire the realism of the old masters. But what you’ve done since the fire carries even more emotion. What you call imprecise, I call gentle. You’ve painted with your whole heart, and it shows. Did you ever consider that this”—he gestured to the portraits across from them—“is more reflective of yourself as an artist than what you’ve ever done before?”

  She leaned back and turned to face him. “No.” A smile lifted her lips at one corner as she looked into his eyes. She saw kindness there but not flattery. He believed what he’d said, and that alone took the chill from the air.

  “Well, maybe you should.” With the pad of his thumb, he swept a tear from her cheek. After his touch lingered for a moment, he withdrew his arm from around her and replaced his glasses.

  Slightly unsettled by the abrupt change in the atmosphere, Meg looked out the window. “This isn’t the way home. Or to Jasper’s home.” She needed to return his portrait to him. At least he’d said he was pleased with it, no matter Mr. VanDyke’s opinion.

  Nate glanced at a passing carriage before facing her again. “I told the driver to take us to Edith’s house. I’ll take you home right after.”

  “That’s fine, Nate, but why?”

  “Frank should be there. I want to talk to him about your father’s situation.”

  By the time they arrived at the Novak home, Meg’s hopes had risen and deflated several times as she tried to manage her expectations. Edith welcomed them warmly, then hugged Meg with a little extra force after hearing about Mr. VanDyke’s rejection.

  “Can I get you anything?” Edith wiped her hands on her apron before brushing a strand of hair off her brow. She was obviously making use of Henry’s nap to work on dinner.

  “You can get me this guy, how about that?” Nate scooped up Tommy and held him upside down by his ankles. “Have you got anything in your pockets for me today?”

  Belly laughter tumbled out of the little boy. “Try again! Try more!” he cried, and Nate lifted him up and down in the air in a game Meg suspected had become a common ritual. She laughed along with him.

  “Ah, well.” Nate feigned disappointment as he gently put his nephew down. “Maybe next time.”

  As Edith returned to the kitchen, Frank entered the parlor, his necktie loosened about his collar, and tickled Tommy mercilessly until the boy took off running.

  “Have a seat.” Frank took an armchair, while Meg and Nate sat on the sofa where Sylvie had slept last week. “Special occasion?”

  “You might say that,” Nate replied. He tossed his hat to the end of the sofa.

  “I saw the article about Otto Schneider’s confession and your father’s name being cleared of the charge,” Frank said. “Congratulations to both of you. After all your editor’s warnings to stay away from anything related to the Townsends, Nate, you must have felt vindicated writing this article
.”

  “I did. But Stephen still hasn’t been released. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Briefly, he laid out what had happened with Meg’s father at the asylum.

  “What can we do?” Meg rested her left hand over her right in her lap, a habit she’d quickly formed. “I’ve written letters, but I doubt that will be effective on its own. Do you have any ideas?”

  Comforting smells of potatoes, sausage, and onions wafted from the kitchen. Tommy toddled back into the room and climbed onto Nate’s knee with a wooden truck in his fist. Nate held him on his lap and let him run the truck up his arms and across his chest.

  “Soldier’s heart,” Frank repeated. “One of the doctors I work with prescribes medicine for that condition for some patients at the Soldiers’ Home.”

  Meg leaned forward, spirals of her hair falling over one shoulder. “You mean, they have what my father has, and they’re not committed as lunatics?” This was news she could use.

  Crossing an ankle over one knee, Frank pulled his necktie from his collar and laid it across the arm of the chair. “I suppose it depends on which doctor you ask. But do talk to the doctors there. At least one of them says there are varying degrees of the condition and that not all require institutionalization. I’m inclined to agree.”

  Dr. Gilbert came to mind. If she recalled correctly, he split his time between the free clinic in the North Division and the Soldiers’ Home. Surely he’d speak to her about this.

  The last sunrays of the day filled the room with the rosy glow of a goblet just emptied of its wine. With one hand on Tommy’s back, Nate said, “We ought to talk to some of the asylum trustees, as well. I interviewed a few of them when I wrote the story on the asylum’s new building last year. I’ll track them down again and see if they’re on the committee in charge of discharging patients. If they aren’t, they can tell me who is, and we’ll go from there.”

  Meg exhaled, grateful they had a plan and that she wasn’t alone in her quest.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1871

  Jane Eyre didn’t need anyone’s permission to return to Mr. Rochester. Neither did Sylvie need approval to visit Jasper at his house. Even so, she felt the flutter of moth wings in her stomach as she waited for someone to answer the door. When Kirstin opened it, the maid’s bright smile put her immediately at ease.

  “Miss Sylvie! We’ve missed you so. Do come in!” Kirstin pushed her ruffled cap back into place over her auburn hair.

  Sylvie stepped inside and removed her hat, drinking in the familiar smell of this place. When only Hiram lived here, the atmosphere was old and stately. Now its essence was balsam shaving soap and black coffee. Masculine. It was Jasper.

  “You and Helene are back for good, I take it?” Sylvie asked.

  “We are indeed, heaven be praised, now that Mr. Schneider is in prison and the will has been properly executed. I saw Eli on the street the other day and asked if he’d return, but he decided to stay where he is.”

  “He must be happy in his new situation, then. In any case, it sounds like everything’s official now. All has been transferred into Jasper’s name?”

  “That’s what I understand, miss. We’re drawing wages and he’s looking for a cook, so it must be true.”

  Jasper entered the hallway, a shaft of sunlight glancing off his hair. The smile he gave Sylvie could not have been manufactured. He was happy to see her, and his happiness was her own.

  “Sylvie,” he said. “Have you and Meg come to see how the portrait looks hanging in the library?”

  Kirstin took Sylvie’s cloak and hung it on the stand before bobbing and scurrying away.

  “Not exactly.” Sylvie smoothed the sides of her skirted jacket. “I mean yes, of course I want to see it. But I came without Meg. I came to see you, not just your likeness.” She watched a hint of pleasure filter over his finely chiseled features.

  “Ah.” A dimple starred his cheek. “Well, do come see it so you can tell Meg about its place of honor. When she returned it, she told me what Mr. VanDyke said.”

  “Yes. She took it rather hard, at first.” Truth be told, they both had. Without income from portrait painting to bolster their meager book sales, they’d need to pawn some of their mother’s jewelry. But she wouldn’t tell Jasper that. She would hate for him to think she’d come asking for money now that he’d inherited Hiram’s.

  “And now that it’s been a couple of days? Has her mood altered?” he asked.

  “Her disappointment doesn’t seem quite as bitter. At least she’s painting again. She could no more stop doing that than I could stop reading books. It’s part of who she is.”

  Jasper’s shoulders squared. “Let’s send you back to your sister with news that her portrait of me fits the library—my library—perfectly.”

  Sylvie followed him into her favorite room and gazed at his image above the fireplace mantel. As she’d tried to explain to Meg, from a distance, the portrait was even more striking. She smiled. “I’ll tell her. She’ll be so glad to hear it.” She turned from the canvas to the flesh and blood man it represented. “I’m so happy for you, that all your legal questions have been settled.”

  “I’m happy for me too.” He chuckled. “I didn’t realize how much it weighed on me until I could put the matter behind me. Now I can move on.”

  “Yes.” Sylvie turned her bracelet on her wrist to hide the clasp. She could no longer put off the chief purpose of her visit. She didn’t like asking him for favors. How much better would it be if she could bestow a kindness upon him instead. Still, she pressed forward. “Now that you’ve put the matter behind you, I have a request to make.”

  He gestured toward the settee and sat beside her. “Name it.”

  Firelight burnished the walls, warming the room. “Now that Otto Schneider is where he belongs, Meg and I have been trying to get our father out of the asylum. They know he didn’t kill your uncle, but for some reason they still say he’s dangerous. He isn’t. He was paranoid and suspicious before the fire, but he wasn’t a danger.”

  He held her gaze. “Go on.”

  She fingered the velvet buttons on her cuff. “Meg spoke to a doctor who thinks our father might be treated without being institutionalized. Then she and Nate talked to a member of the asylum’s board about securing Father’s release. We heard yesterday that the rest of the board is concerned about public opinion in their handling of the case. Our former tenants, the Spencers, sent the asylum a letter, asking them to discharge him too, but it didn’t move them. It feels like we’re trying to reason with a brick wall.”

  Jasper shifted on the settee, sitting so close to her that the toe of his shoe disappeared beneath the hem of her skirt. “I know what it’s like to have a loved one in need and not be able to do a thing about it.”

  His nearness emboldened her. “I haven’t always gotten along with my father, but he isn’t insane. I want him back. Please—” Her voice cracked with the weight of her conviction. “Please help me get him back.”

  His green eyes widened before understanding registered there. “You want me to write the board too.”

  “It would mean so much coming from you. Considering the false charge that our father killed your uncle, your willingness to see him released would carry far more significance than ours.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and spun Hiram’s ring about his finger. “What you need isn’t a letter from me personally so much as the letter of the law. Keeping a patient without his family’s permission cannot be legal if he’s no threat to public safety.”

  Sylvie ought to have known the law would be on their side. “But I—we can’t afford an attorney.”

  “Then isn’t it fortunate you happen to be friends with one in the making?” He smiled. “I’ll draft the letter myself, outlining the laws the asylum violates by keeping your father. Then I’ll take it to my professor this afternoon to make sure I’ve got it right. He’s a kind man. He might even let me use his letterhead to type it up and sign his own name to
it. Either way, I’ll deliver the letter myself before this day is through.”

  Wonder filled her. In all her mental rehearsals of how this meeting would go, the law, and Jasper’s love of it, had not factored in at all. “Your professor will want payment for his time,” she guessed. She twisted a ring off her finger and held it out to him. “We’re short on cash. Do you suppose this will suffice?” It was only a simple pearl set in gold.

  Jasper took the ring and slid it back on her finger. “Keep your ring. If I incur any costs for his services, I find myself in a position to pay them myself now. It will be no hardship, believe me.”

  “Are you certain? This is so generous of you, I hardly know what to say.”

  He enfolded her hands in his. “There are things you don’t know about me, Sylvie. The things I’ve seen and done . . .” His voice trailed away, buried, she suspected, beneath memories of war. “But you make me want to be the best version of myself I can possibly be.”

  Her breath caught. For one shining moment, fiction and reality blended. Jasper’s words were an echo of Mr. Rochester’s, who’d told Jane Eyre, “I wish to be a better man than I have been.” And Sylvie, like Jane, felt her “thin crescent-destiny” begin to enlarge.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I can’t thank you enough. Your help is so much more than I imagined you would do for my family.”

  He circled his thumbs over the backs of her hands. “I like Meg. I have sympathy for your father. But, Sylvie, I’m doing this for you.”

  Any doubt she’d had about coming here shattered with the force of her joy. There was no mistaking his affection now, not with those words, not when he looked at her like that. Whatever he’d done before she knew him, she forgave him. Whatever ghosts of war still haunted him, she could understand those too, at least in part. Did he know he held not only her hands, but her heart as well?

  A log crumbled behind the grate, releasing a shower of sparks. Jasper’s gaze dropped to Sylvie’s lips, launching her pulse to a painful speed.

  But just as quickly, he released her and stood, for Kirstin bustled into the room to stoke the fire.