The White City

by Grace Hitchcock

  The car thumped and swayed as someone hopped onto the back of the already moving car, and she twisted around to see Baxter doubled over in the back. She blinked. She had forgotten about him.

  He slipped into the vacant seat beside her, panting. “I barely knew you had left before you hopped on the car! You could’ve left me. Where are you off to in such an all-fired hurry?”

  She bit back a laugh at his labored breaths, thinking it would not be charitable. “We’re off to do a good deed.”

  At the knock on the door, Jude groaned and heaved himself out of bed, praying it was only his mother and sister coming for a visit and they had forgotten their keys. He held his stomach and slowly shuffled to the door. Once he was well, he would find the barkeeper who gave him that rotten meat sandwich and throw him in jail for obstruction of a lawman doing his job. He shook his head, regret trailing his every step toward the door, wishing he’d never stopped for a late-night snack at that germ-infested pub on the way home from dropping off Winnifred.

  Opening the door, he felt the blood drain from his face at the sight of Winnifred, standing in his door, looking radiant in his drab hallway with an armful of food, and Officer Baxter standing behind her. Of all the officers in the station, she had to bring him. I will never live this down. He’ll spread it all over that a sandwich laid waste to me. “Miss Wylde!” He ran his hands through his tousled hair, thankful that he had at least managed to put on a clean shirt this morning. His hands fumbled to fasten the top three buttons.

  Her cheeks turned a rosy hue as her lips parted, and she averted her gaze from his open shirt front to his face. “Detective Thorpe, I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help but feel that you needed some soup.” She extended the small jar to him with the tips of her gloved fingers. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  “How kind,” he managed to say before the scent of the hot food wafted to his nose, sending his stomach tumbling as he accepted it, gripping the jar from the lid. Dear Lord, please don’t let me get sick in front of her. He ran his hand over his scruffy chin and tried to give her a lighthearted grin. “I would ask you in, but …” But he couldn’t think of an excuse as his body gripped in pain.

  She nodded, taking a step back, obviously repulsed by his appearance. “Maybe another day when you are feeling better.”

  “Thank you for stopping by,” he said all in a rush, snatching the pie from her hand and quickly closing the door to the sound of Baxter’s snorting laughter. Jude leaned his head against the door and wished she could have been left with the image of him in his fine coattails the night before, not the pale, sweating—The aroma of the soup was too powerful and sent him lurching for the necessary.

  While her visit wasn’t nearly as romantic as it had played out in her head, Winnifred was glad she was able to put her mind at ease that Jude wasn’t fever ridden. Leaving Officer Baxter at her front door, she spotted Aunt Lillian’s favorite wrap hanging on the coatrack. Oh no. What on earth is she doing here a month early?

  “There you are. What took you so long? Clara said you should have been home two hours ago.”

  “Aunt Lillian,” she said, embracing her aunt. “I’m sorry. I was dropping off some soup to a sick friend.”

  Aunt Lillian plunked her fists on her still girlishly slender hips. “I know who your sick friend is, Winnifred Rose Wylde. I’ve just returned from the police station where your father mentioned that your bodyguard has been in this very parlor every day for the past two weeks while I was away.” Aunt Lillian pinched the bridge of her nose, not waiting for a response. “I thought you would like Percival. His mother and I are great friends from finishing school, and when I told her that you loved this certain author’s writing, she told me in confidence about her son’s true occupation.” She sank onto the settee, motioning for Winnifred to join her.

  “So, you did know.” Winnifred perched on the edge of her seat, wishing she had stopped by the bookshop instead of coming home to accusations without Father to defend her.

  “Of course. Now, please tell me, what is the problem with this one?” She counted off her fingers. “He’s handsome. He’s young. He’s wealthy. He loves books. What more can I do for you? Why would you put that all in jeopardy by attending the symphony with a lowly detective?”

  Ignoring Aunt Lillian’s barb at Jude, Winnifred scowled. “How could you have possibly found out about that?”

  Aunt Lillian threw her hands over her head. “I was stopping by here before I left for Newport for the rest of the summer when I ran into Percival’s mother. Do you know what she told me?”

  It must’ve been something, to cause you to purposefully miss your train and delay your trip. She grimaced. “No.”

  Aunt Lillian crossed her arms. “She told me that Percy is very attracted to you and has even gone so far as to call you his muse.”

  Well, that doesn’t sound like terrible news.

  As if she could read her thoughts, Aunt Lillian nodded. “Which I thought was wonderful news, but then, she continued to say that she didn’t think you were enthusiastic about the match after all, because Percy’s friends saw you at the symphony with another man last night. And not just any man, but a man obviously from the lower classes, judging from his worn coattails.”

  Winnifred heard the rattle of keys and nearly sagged with relief that her father was home, but he must have heard Aunt Lillian’s high-pitched voice and seen her wrap, because Winnifred could make out the delicate tap of retreating footsteps. Aunt Lillian must have heard too. She rustled to the parlor door and called into the hallway after him, pointing her finger. “Randolph Wylde. Don’t think you can escape. You tell your daughter what you told me,” she said, pulling him into the room.

  Winnifred would have laughed at the discomfort on her father’s face if not for the topic of conversation. She gave her father wide eyes, silently begging him to end Aunt Lillian’s rant.

  “Your father said that the man escorting you was none other than that detective of his, Jude Thorpe.”

  Winnifred suddenly became fascinated with the lace at her cuff. “Why would that be a problem? Jude is my bodyguard whom Father personally selected for me.”

  “The problem is that you can’t be seen gallivanting around with a detective. I have worked tirelessly to set you up to return your family to high society where you belong. Where your mother belonged. And you will drastically hurt your chances of continuing your climb if you start associating with the middle class.”

  Winnifred’s mouth gaped. She had taken the lessons, obeyed her aunt, and remained respectful even when she didn’t feel like it was warranted, but this was too far, to insult her father’s roots along with Jude’s. “How can you allow her to say things like this? She is insulting your trade!” She twirled away from her father to Aunt Lillian. “Detective Thorpe was a perfect gentleman. Percy cancelled on me at the final hour and Detective Thorpe kindly stepped in and escorted me to the Chicago Orchestra. It took me hours to dress to perfection, and there was no reason for me to miss a perfectly good symphony because Percy’s inspiration struck at a most inconvenient time.”

  Aunt Lillian frowned, crossing her arms as she paced in front of the fireplace. “Be that as it may, if you are being seen by Percival Covington, you are not to associate with that detective outside of him escorting you about town while he is acting as your guardian for the duration of the world’s fair. I understand the need for him to be with you when you take your walks and such, but I don’t see why he has to be with you all day every day if you’re attending tea parties like you should be—”

  Winnifred lifted her hand. “Aunt Lillian, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you were supposed to be gone until the end of August, and Father and I have a plan for how we wish to spend our time. Father, please explain.”

  “Lillian, you were never supposed to find out,” her father said in a tone that revealed he was rather afraid of his wife’s sister.

  “Oh Randolph.” Lillian paused in her pacing, gaze locked on h
im. “What did you tell Winnifred she could do?”

  Father rubbed his hand over his sideburns, crossing over his chin and back.

  “Randolph?”

  “I told her she could go undercover as a secretary for six weeks to investigate a suspect that she brought to me.”

  Aunt Lillian threw her hands in the air. “Really, Randolph. I do my best for this family. I have given up years of my life.” She reached out, stroked Winnifred’s cheek, and softly added, “Albeit gladly. But if my opinion is not going to be considered, I feel it might be best if I be on my way and return to my role as Winnie’s aunt and not her stand-in mother, guiding her.”

  “Lillian, you know we couldn’t manage without you.”

  Winnifred sighed. Even though she didn’t quite see eye to eye with her aunt, she did love her. When her mother died, Grandmother and Aunt Lillian had been her anchor when her father was too consumed with grief to see beyond his own pain. And when her grandmother passed away when Winnifred was fifteen, her relationship with her aunt had shifted from one of comfort to one of preparation for marriage. If only I can get her to understand.

  “Very well then, I shall cancel my Newport plans. I will stay and help repair the damage Winnifred has done to her reputation by neglecting to pay morning calls in my absence. Winnifred, you are going to have to come with me first thing in the morning to call on Mrs. Covington.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have already committed my mornings, and I will not give them up. This assignment is far too important. I can make calls in the late afternoon, but that is all. I’m sorry, but that’s final.” She rose, feeling like it was not her place to battle any further with her aunt, and slipped away to her room.

  Sinking onto her window seat, she took a deep breath and exhaled her anger, still hearing her aunt’s agitated voice trailing up the stairs to her room. She reached for her book and attempted to lose herself in Lady Rowena’s love story, but every line reminded her of Percy being her only viable option in her father and aunt’s opinion, and every reference to those fiery amber eyes made her think of the man she could never have.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.”

  ~Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby

  Officer Baxter was no Jude, and Winnifred found herself missing her detective more and more as each day passed, thinking that she might have taken his company for granted along with the sense of security Jude gave her. Baxter was always ready to flirt, yet he never really engaged Winnifred in much talk outside of complimenting her, which was kind of him, but she ached for a conversation.

  On the third day, after a long morning of looking over papers, she had a pounding headache from her constant retyping of documents and from her search for facts and details, trying to capture Holmes in a mistake, but she had discovered that he was a careful man. Her desk was always piled with rabbit-trail receipts that led to little more than nothing, and as Owens never left his desk unattended while she was working, she was beginning to think Holmes had instructed him to always be near.

  Closing her eyes and rubbing her temples, she sighed. She only had an hour and a half left to work today, but the pain had finally become too much for her to bear without medication. “Mr. Owens, I might pick up some headache powder from downstairs and take a walk. Hopefully between the medicine and the fresh air, I will feel better soon, but if I don’t, I’ll make up my time tomorrow.”

  Having no authority over her schedule, Owens shrugged. “Better be back before Mr. Holmes returns from his errands.”

  “He won’t mind if I move my hours to Saturday if necessary.” She jotted down a note, explaining that she would only be gone for a couple of hours, but quite possibly the rest of the day if her headache did not get better, and that she would make up the hours on Saturday morning. She handed Owens the note and, with her hat in hand, hurried down to the drugstore and ordered a packet of headache powder and water.

  She stirred the powder into her glass of water and downed it, smacking her mouth against the bitter taste. Picking up a small box of her favorite chocolates, she retrieved a bill from her reticule and purchased it as well, hoping the sugar would soothe her throbbing head into a peaceful state again. She popped a candy into her mouth as she stepped out onto the street, discreetly licking the tips of her fingers clean and casually glancing about for Baxter, but he was nowhere to be found. Her heart thudded. Where is he? She looked over her shoulder as stealthily as she could, growing agitated at the thought that she had been inside without someone listening if she cried for help.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain of the midday sun and threaded her decorative pin through her hat to keep it in place. Not daring to go back inside Holmes’s building without someone on the outside to protect her, she ambled into a nearby park, seeking comfort in the soothing green glow of the trees as she nibbled on the chocolates. It was difficult not to think of Holmes following her, but Winnifred doubted that anyone would dare accost her in the middle of the day with people milling about.

  Since she hadn’t explored this park yet, she chose a path that looked well-traveled, hoping it would take her in the direction of the fair or to a grip car. But, turning the corner, she found that the path led deeper into the park, not toward the fairgrounds. Trying to decide which way to turn, her neck bristled with the distinct feeling that someone was watching her.

  Remembering Jude’s advice, she casually dropped one of the candy wrappers on the ground and bent to retrieve it. She glanced for Baxter and in the secret corner of her heart, hoped to find Jude, but Winnifred didn’t see him, or anyone for that matter. She shrugged off the sensation, thinking it must be her nerves getting to her or possibly the headache powder was dulling her senses. Instead of continuing down the path, she collected a small bouquet from the wildflowers growing alongside the gravel path, humming to herself and feeling comforted by every passerby and every piece of chocolate that passed her lips.

  She saw a girl beneath a cherry tree reading one of Percival’s novels and remembered that he was coming to dinner this evening. In her concern for Jude and her work, she had nearly forgotten. Come to think of it, Percival hasn’t come to see me lately on the job either. He’d been more than excited to stand guard outside the building while Jude was there, but maybe Baxter wasn’t his cup of tea either. The thought made her duck her head and laugh into her bouquet.

  She’d paused to retrieve a stunning burgundy wildflower when she heard footsteps behind her. Someone was following her, and it wasn’t one of her father’s detectives. Plucking the bloom, she sank onto a bench and pretended to be absorbed with the beauty surrounding her, praying she did not look like someone who was aware someone was hiding in the bushes. Nearby, a nanny pushed a pram and three children skipped about. Two men in business attire strode briskly past her. She looked beyond the obvious and found him standing at a vendor’s cart, ordering a cup of lemonade.

  Her heart raced at the sight of the lean man’s thick mustache beneath a familiar bowler hat. Why is Holmes following me, and why hasn’t he come up to talk with me? If he had only happened upon me in the park, he would speak with me, wouldn’t he? Her stomach dropped as her body tensed. It’s about to happen. Baxter is nowhere to be found, and Holmes is going to take me like he took the woman in green. No one is going to know where I went! She slipped her hand into her reticule, the cool metal giving her the confidence that at the very least, she could defend herself.

  Rising, she strode down the path with purpose in her step even though she had no idea where to go beyond getting to the grip car line. She couldn’t return home. Her family’s safety would be compromised. And she certainly couldn’t go to the police station. Maybe she could lose him if she took the car to the fake apartment that Jude had rented for her. It’s only two miles from here. But if I am cornered … She shivered. She would be in trouble.

  She reached into her purse to retrieve enough coins for the grip car ticket. But she fel
t nothing. Her knees weakened as she realized that she had inadvertently left her change on the drugstore counter. She couldn’t go back. If she did, she would be there on her own at Holmes’s mercy, so she kept walking, the shadow following her every step. Thinking quickly, she read the street sign, thanking the Lord when she realized that Jude’s apartment was about a mile away. She could walk there if she just kept far enough ahead of Holmes.

  Her heels clicking on the sidewalk, she fairly trotted, praying for the Lord to protect her and that Jude would be home. She breathed a prayer of relief when she saw Jude’s apartment building, and took the stairs two steps at a time, nearly gasping for air as she pounded on his third-floor door. “Jude!” she whispered, nearly in tears, “Jude.” Oh Lord, please let him be home. Let me not have cornered myself.

  Her frantic whisper clawed at him as he wrenched open the door, revolver at the ready. Winnifred slipped inside and slammed the door shut behind her, eyes wild as she sank with her back against the door to the floor, a withered bouquet and a box of chocolates tumbling from her arms.

  “Winnifred! Are you hurt?” He knelt on the floor beside her and holstered his firearm in the back waist of his pants, not wanting to move her until he was certain she was well enough.

  She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking. “Baxter wasn’t there. I couldn’t find him, and Holmes was after me. He’s behind me now. I’m sure of it.”

  “He’s in the building?” He scowled at the door as if he could burn a hole into it and see who was lying in wait beyond in the hall. He moved to rise, but her hand reached out, clasping his in her clammy grip.

  “Don’t. Please don’t leave me again.”