So before he wrote the story, Nate shared his skepticism with his editor. “You’re not a detective,” Medill had said. “You’re a reporter—at least for the moment. If you can’t keep up with the pace of news in this city, find a different line of work.” Nate wrote the article reporting the confession. That didn’t mean he believed it.
Meg would be hurt to know Nate doubted Schneider’s guilt for any reason. Today, while returning to the shanty from the asylum, Stephen had mentioned that he’d never met Otto Schneider. He wouldn’t have known of him at all, had it not been for Hiram’s stories. It only cast more doubt on Schneider’s confession, which meant the real murderer could still be at large. But until Nate had the facts to back up his hunch, he’d keep his misgivings to himself.
Martin’s customer paid and left, disappearing into the mist, and Nate took his place on the wooden chair. He propped one foot on the crate.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Martin asked good-naturedly.
“I’m overdue, that’s for sure.”
Martin’s nose was red with cold as he wiped Nate’s shoe. “Well, at least you’ll look sharp for the holiday. Say, last time you were here, you were asking about Otto Schneider, weren’t you? Did you see in the paper that he confessed to a murder?” Whistling, he shook his head.
“I did see that.” Nate tucked his hands beneath his arms to keep them warm. “Did it surprise you?”
“Aye, it did. Drunkenness, sure. Petty theft, I believe it. But murder? I never thought he had it in him.”
Nate hadn’t come here for information, but neither would he interrupt Martin.
“You know what’s really funny? I saw Martha, his wife, the other day with her three kids. They looked better than I’d seen them in years. New clothes for all of them, if I’m not mistaken. No patches, no short hems or sleeves, nothing.” He grunted. “Christmas must have come early.”
Nate stared into the fog above Martin’s head. “Odd.”
“That’s what I thought. I told her she was looking well, and she colored a bit before saying something about a generous aunt in St. Louis.” Shrugging, Martin worked his rag into a jar of polish.
“Well, if there were ever a time for an aunt to be generous, this would be it,” Nate offered. Schneider might have been making very little income before, but now he brought in nothing. “Perhaps Martha was embarrassed that they need the help.”
“True enough, sir. True enough.” Martin nodded, then hummed Christmas carols to himself as he worked.
New clothes. An aunt in St. Louis? His own explanation notwithstanding, Nate had to see this for himself. His shoes shined and the service paid for, he wished Martin a happy Thanksgiving and took a cab to the barracks in the North Division, recalling the Schneiders’ address from the police report.
The fog lifted, and the sky lowered and flattened like a dingy white sheet pulled taut. In the ruined neighborhood beneath it, four long, one-story buildings housed a thousand families. Chimneys towered sporadically among the burned-out blocks, ominous and lonely. As Nate neared Barracks Number Two, the sounds of those living within the thin walls seeped out to him. He knocked on the Schneiders’ door.
It opened. “Can I help you?” A boy regarded him with guarded gaze, a soft pretzel in one hand. Heat radiated from the room, snapping and hissing as it toasted the moisture in the air. The smells accompanying the warmth were not those of poverty, but of preparation for a feast.
“I’m Nathaniel Pierce, Chicago Tribune. I was wondering if I could speak to your mother. This is the Schneider residence, isn’t it?”
The boy opened the door wider, and Nate stepped through it. What the small space lacked in natural light was made up for with kerosene lamps, all of them lit. Odd, for a family he’d expected to economize.
“She’s over there.” The boy pointed to a woman with one arm up to the elbow inside a turkey. Sausage sizzled on the stove.
Doffing his hat, Nate approached her, introducing himself all over again.
“Well, I’m Martha Schneider, and you’ve already spoken to Frederick. You’re from the paper, you say?” Her dark hair was streaked with grey, and lines splayed from appraising eyes. “What can you want? The article’s already been printed.”
A fair question. “I’m not here for an article, ma’am. I just wanted to see how you were getting along.”
She frowned. “We’re getting along as well as can be expected. As you see, I’m preparing for Thanksgiving. So if you’re quite satisfied, Frederick will show you out.”
He didn’t blame her for being confused and distant. But he wasn’t satisfied yet. “It smells divine in here. Are you cooking for a crowd tomorrow?”
A little girl scampered out of the other room. “Oh, ever so many!” she lisped through the gaps in her teeth. “As many neighbors as we can fit! Mama says we ought to share our blessings. And turkeys too. We have three of them this year, only Mama gave two away for other mamas to help cook.”
“Hush, Mary!” Martha turned back to Nate. “She’s a magpie, that one. There’s no telling what she’ll say.”
He smiled at the girl while marveling at what she’d said. Three turkeys would be an extravagant expense for any middle-class family. For the Schneiders, it didn’t compute. Nate bent on one knee to be on Mary’s level, and she twirled for him.
“Look at my dress! It’s special for Thanksgiving.”
Nate was no expert in little girls’ clothing, but all those ruffles looked fancy. The fabric, he could tell, was high quality.
“And you’ll take it right off, young lady, and put it away for tomorrow.” Martha withdrew her arm and slung turkey innards on a few layers of newspaper. “Tell your sister the same!”
Giggles trailed behind Mary as she scampered out of the room and relayed the message to her twin. Rolling his eyes, Frederick played jacks in the middle of the floor. The aid society outfitted the barracks with only mattresses, stoves, and crockery. But behind the boy was a matching sofa and chair, a pile of blankets spilling over the ottoman. A price tag was still tied to one wooden leg. This furniture was no donation.
None of this made sense. These people had been burned out of their home last month. They’d lost everything, just like Nate. Nate had a decent job and zero dependents, and even he could not afford what he saw here.
“I’m pleased to see you’re doing so well,” Nate said. “Considering.”
Martha continued cleaning out the inside of the bird. “I still don’t see that it’s any business of yours, but yes, we’re fine. Thanks to a generous aunt in Cincinnati.”
“Cincinnati, you said?” Martin had said it was St. Louis. But then, he could have misremembered.
Frederick glanced up with something like worry in his eyes. Nate saw it in Martha’s too. Why?
“You need to go now, Mr. Pierce,” she said. “You can see I’m very busy.”
“I’ll show him out! I’ll do it, let me!” Mary came tearing back through the room in a too-short sundress and bare feet.
Nate reseated his hat. “Thank you kindly, miss. Lead on.” With a parting word to Martha and Frederick, he followed Mary the few yards to the door. When she opened it, he tipped his hat to her. “Your aunt must love you very much,” he said quietly. “I’ll bet you wish she could spend Thanksgiving with you.”
She cocked her head and blinked. “We don’t have an aunt.”
Chapter Thirty
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1871
Stephen wasn’t in the mood for strangers. But then, he didn’t want to eat cold bean soup alone in the shanty for the holiday either. He ought to be with his family, wherever they were.
It cost him, though. The commotion grated his nerves raw. At least the Novaks had the sense to time the meal for their sons’ naptime, since they didn’t have a governess to keep them quiet while the grownups ate. He couldn’t handle all of this and children too.
The Novaks seemed pleasant enough, and he didn’t mind Nate Pierce’s company, but there was something a
bout Jasper he didn’t understand, and that worried him. Why had he taken such an active role to secure Stephen’s release from the asylum?
Regardless, Stephen resolved to quietly enjoy turkey and cranberry relish, potatoes and gravy, while everyone else conversed around him. After asylum fare, he was happy to savor each bite in peace. There were actual textures here, and flavors that sang in his mouth. Edith passed him the fruitcake, and he took another slice.
Cutlery clinked on china as Meg’s knife slipped from her grip to her plate, a buttered roll in her other hand. No one else seemed bothered by the clatter. “What other stories are you working on, Nate?” she asked. “Do you hear anything about the trial against Catherine O’Leary for causing the Great Fire?”
Nate’s expression clouded. “Not yet. The inquiry started seven days ago, and still the press has nothing to report about the proceedings. We aren’t allowed in the courtroom, but they’ve promised to give us the transcripts when it’s over. In the meantime, the other papers are printing mere conjecture, and the public is left to form opinions based on nothing more than rumor and premature conclusions.”
“From what I gather,” Jasper said, “everyone has already decided Mrs. O’Leary and her cow are guilty.”
“Which is why it’s all the more important that I get my hands on those inquiry documents to report what really happened.”
“That’s the one.” Frank raised his glass of water to Nate. “That’s the story that will be your headliner. I can see it on the front page now.”
Edith refilled his water glass. “Frank’s right. It’s about time you got some recognition at the Tribune. When Medill takes office as mayor, who will your new editor be?”
“I don’t know.” Nate wiped his mouth. “I heard one of the other editors will absorb the work until they find someone to take the job as city editor.”
Stephen lost track of the conversation after that. Sylvie and Jasper exchanged a few words, but he couldn’t make them out. He was too distracted by the sight of Meg trying to cut her turkey. Holding the fork with her left hand, she squeezed the knife between her fourth and fifth fingers and the palm of her right. The palsied thumb and first two fingers looked so awkward, like appendages destined to be in the way from now on. Meg managed to cut the meat, but it took her entire concentration. Then the knife slipped to the plate, and Stephen flinched.
Meg lifted her gaze to his and mouthed, “Sorry.”
He nodded. It wasn’t her fault. Every noise at the table was too loud for him. He felt more unsettled than he’d been a few days ago. In a strange way, he missed Hugh Brodie. He also missed Hiram, and that pang was sharper by far. The old man had always been kind to him, had made allowances for the way Stephen was, even when Hiram’s brain faltered. Stephen hated that his last words to his closest friend had been harsh.
“More potatoes, Mr. Townsend?” Jasper asked. “You could finish these off.”
“I’ll do it.”
Jasper passed the serving bowl around the table to reach him. When it got to Meg, she grasped it fine with her left hand but fumbled with her right. One side of the bowl dropped with a loud thunk, rattling the silverware.
“Meg!” The reprimand burst from Stephen before he could hold it back. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “It’s fine.” He could no more control his frayed nerves than she could control the bowl. He faulted himself, but not her.
From one of the back rooms, a baby’s cry crescendoed into a siren’s wail. Another followed. Pulse pounding at his temples, Stephen could bear no more. He left his napkin on his chair and marched out of the house, trying not to slam the door behind him.
He crumpled onto the front step. Cold seeped from the stone into his body, and he gulped the chilled air like water. At least a man could breathe out here. At least he could get some peace.
He lowered his head into his hands. Muffled sounds came from behind him of a mother consoling her child. He had humiliated his.
The peace that came with isolation was shallow and fleeting indeed. He wasn’t crazy, he knew that much. He didn’t belong in the asylum. He longed to fit back in with his family, but how could he, when he felt like he didn’t fit his own skin?
“Oh, Lord,” he prayed. “Can’t we do better than this?”
Hinges creaked as the door behind him opened and closed. Frank Novak handed Stephen his coat. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Stephen rose and shrugged into the coat. Once they reached the sidewalk, he glanced at Frank beside him. “I understand you helped set a process in motion which resulted in my release. Are you wondering, now, if you were wrong?”
“Not at all. I’m wondering how you’ve been sleeping, though.”
“Not well.” It was an understatement. Stephen had slept better in the asylum than he had in his own home last night. Not that the shanty, where he slept on a pallet on the floor, felt like home.
A long line of trees stood sentry between the houses and the road. The last few leaves of autumn shivered, clinging to branches that reached toward a milk-blue sky.
Frank turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders toward his ears. “What kind of drugs were you on at the asylum? I’m a pharmacist, so I’m curious.”
“If you’re a pharmacist, wouldn’t you already know?”
“Humor me.”
The chill wrapped Stephen’s throat, triggering the cough he’d never been rid of since the war. At last, it subsided. “Laudanum. Straight opiates,” he said finally. “Enough to make an intelligent man unthinking, enough to make him drool and not much care.” He shuddered at the memory. “Didn’t mind it so much at the time—didn’t have the strength of will. But I’ll never go back to that again.”
They walked over a mat of leaves sodden from last night’s rain. “Opiates are a popular choice with doctors,” Frank said. “But the amount you’re describing is too much. Did the pharmacist at the asylum administer the doses?”
“Never saw a pharmacist. The attendants were the ones handing them out. I believe they were making their jobs easier by incapacitating those they could.”
Frank’s mustache pulled down at the corners. “I’d hate to think so. That’s not the same as saying I don’t believe you. If you were to take the proper amount, it might yet do you good. Dr. Gilbert would—”
“No.” Stephen stopped him. “No more doctors, no more drugs.”
Words and breath puffed in small clouds as they walked. “I can see how you’d feel that way, Mr. Townsend.”
Stephen doubted it. They rounded a corner. Blackbirds pecking at a molding apple scattered when Stephen and Frank neared.
“Did they give you anything else at the asylum?” Frank asked. “Something to help you sleep?”
Burying his hands into his pockets, Stephen admitted they had. “A whiskey tincture. I took it, but won’t go back to it now that I’m out. No liquor. No drugs.”
“Ah.” Frank nodded, the tips of his ears and nose pink from cold. “They must have used whiskey as the sedative’s base. I’ll bet they added bromide of potash as an anticonvulsant to help reduce shaking. Probably chloral hydrate too, as a hypnotic to help you sleep.”
Stephen dismissed the fancy names. “Whatever it was, I won’t have it again. Most of the inmates were addicted.”
A pair of squirrels chased each other up a tree, chattering at each other the whole way. The sidewalk was littered with black walnuts that should have been cleared away. Stephen kicked them aside as he walked.
“I can appreciate that. I understand you’ve had a bad experience, but I do believe Dr. Gilbert could help you. You don’t have to muscle your way through soldier’s heart alone.”
Stephen ducked his chin into his cloak collar, unmoved. No more doctors. No more drugs. No more drink.
This was new.
Meg, who had always wanted nothing more than for her father’s welfare to improve, had made things worse for him. Sylvie, whose sympathy for him had worn to a thread years a
go, had become the one to tell him she understood. He listened to her and seemed soothed to some degree. Meg was glad for that.
She just wasn’t glad that her deformity-caused clumsiness had driven him away.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d told Edith as Frank had gone after him.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Edith said. “And neither has your father. He’s doing the best he can.” Sylvie voiced her agreement.
“He’ll come back to you,” Nate had added later. “Give him space. Give him time.”
She invited Nate to join her for a stroll along the lakeshore later that afternoon, and he accepted. But first they went back to the shanty along with Stephen and Sylvie so Meg could change her shoes. While Nate stayed in the front room with her father, Meg followed her sister into the back room.
“I wish Jasper and I could go with you.” Sylvie sighed. “But he said he needs to study.”
Meg sat on the wooden chair and crossed one ankle on the opposite knee to reach the boot. “Exactly how much time would you like to spend with him, if you could?”
A half smile slanted on Sylvie’s face. “As much as he can spare.”
Meg’s hands stilled on her laces as she watched her sister flush. “Do the two of you have an understanding? Is he courting you, Sylvie?”
“If he isn’t, I hope he’s very near it.” Brown ringlets framed her blushing cheeks.
Meg considered this. And Stephen’s inevitable reaction to it. He and Jasper had barely spoken to each other at the meal. “Is—is the timing quite right?” She pulled off her heeled boots and replaced them with shoes better suited to pebbly terrain.
“Is the timing right for you and Nate?” Sylvie’s voice held an edge to it, but she helped Meg with her laces. Meg could do it herself, but it would take far longer.
“Nate hasn’t said he’s courting me.”
“Yet he is. It’s plain to see. And I’m happy for you, Meg, truly. Just, please, try to be the same for me?” With nimble fingers, she laced and tied the shoes and patted their toes when she was done. “All set.”
Veiled in Smoke Page 30
