The Jewel Cage

by Jane Steen

  “Nell, my dear.” Mrs. Parnell stared earnestly at me as she folded her letter. “You surely see the sense of staying here until this moment of trial has passed. I suppose Mr. Rutherford must go to Chicago—I can’t imagine my own husband altering his routine one whit—but there’s no reason to involve the womenfolk.”

  “I’m grateful for your hospitality.” Martin gave Mrs. Parnell a brief smile as he rifled among his papers. Finding the sheet he was seeking, he flipped open his notebook and wrote a few lines before looking at Mrs. Parnell again. “Joe Salazar—our general manager, you remember—has sent his wife and children to visit with friends in Door County. He maintains that nothing will happen in their part of Chicago, but he doesn’t want to take any risks.”

  “Sarah and Tess—and Miss Baker, of course—can stay here with my blessing, for as long as Mrs. Parnell will have them.” I glared at Martin. “I’m not going to be the only partner in the store—apart from Mr. Fassbinder—who’s not present during this crisis. Why should being a woman make a difference?”

  “Fassbinder is complaining about being excluded from the fun.” Martin laid his hand on a piece of paper closely written over in Mr. Fassbinder’s quaint European script. “But he concedes he has plenty to do establishing temporary quarters away from St. Louis and ensuring it’s business as usual in the frontier stores. He’s having his daughters and their children stay with him while his sons-in-law guard the buildings in St. Louis.”

  “You see?” Mrs. Parnell said to me.

  “We’re reinforcing the fencing around the new store and hiring extra men to protect it,” Martin informed us. “Joe’s already obtained boards for the windows of the temporary store, and many of the male staff volunteered to patrol for fires all night.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The real nightmare is supply. It might be possible to get shipments from the East Coast without using the railroads—I’ve written letters—but our silks come from San Francisco, and that’s two thousand miles away.” He sighed, moving the various sheets of paper around with one hand. “Madame Belvoix has much to say on the subject of silks.”

  “Is she leaving Chicago?” I asked, hearing the edge in my voice.

  Martin huffed. “As if I were able to persuade her. She’s having a bed made up in one of the women’s dormitories—”

  He stopped as both Mrs. Parnell and I cried out, she in dismay and I in triumph.

  “I fear you just talked yourself into losing the argument,” Mrs. Parnell groaned.

  “He most definitely has.” I grinned at my husband, who had thrown himself back in his chair. “So I too will stay at the store. What about the other women?”

  Martin ground his teeth. “Those who wish to are staying,” he admitted. “Several of the younger women’s families asked Joe to allow the women home for the duration of the troubles, and of course he’s agreed. But we’ve welcomed those who’ve expressed a desire to stay and help. They will receive an extra dollar or two in their pay packets. The women who go home will be on half pay, except for embroiderers who take work with them.”

  “Ha.” I felt smug. “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Husband dear. You can’t apply the principle of sending the women away selectively. Volunteers are staying—and I’m a volunteer.”

  “She’s got a point.” Mrs. Parnell reached for the coffeepot that a maid had just brought in along with fresh cups. “But I hope you’ll be sensible and reserve a suite at the Palmer House. You’ll need somewhere to go when you’re tired of camping in the store.”

  “Already done.” Martin gave me a sidelong smile. “A suite fit for a married couple. I don’t suppose I ever truly imagined I’d get away with leaving you here.”

  The next day we were both back in Chicago—and back at work.

  “Oh good.” I barely glanced at Martin before writing “July 23rd” at the top of the sheet of paper on which I had just executed a sketch. Despite the currents of panic and rumor that buffeted the store with every new arrival of a customer or merchant, the atelier was working as busily as ever, even without its full complement of seamstresses. I had plenty to do and was busy doing it. Martin, faced with a dearth of customers on the sales floor, was spending most of his time meeting with the other merchants and making plans. I was happy to see him return from his latest meeting, and, given his deep understanding of his own trade, I was never reticent about seeking his opinion on my designs.

  “Tell me what you think about crimson satin bows here, on the back of the dress.” I indicated their position on the sketch. “And at the back of the cuffs. If we line them with gold satin to match the flowers . . . I’ve been getting telegrams all day from my customers, if you can believe it. These disturbances have created a few new social occasions.”

  I looked up, realizing that an odd silence and tension was hanging around Martin like a cloud. My heart sank a little.

  “Don’t tell me it’s a fire. Not like in Pittsburgh.” I rose to my feet, my pulse racing. Fire was our greatest dread, and in Pittsburgh the mobs had decided to drive off the military by setting the railroad depots on fire. There were depots immediately to the north and south of the Chicago business district. Every merchant knew how vulnerable our stores were to fire. Martin and I knew it personally.

  But Martin’s only answer was to shut the door behind him. It wasn’t until I heard the key turn in the lock that my alarm turned to a black knot of dread. When my husband put a gentle arm around my shoulder and cupped my cheek with the other hand, the dread formed itself into a sharp spike that pierced my heart.

  “It’s not the strike, is it?”

  “No.” Martin closed his eyes for a second and then, looking me full in the face, drew a deep breath. But I perceived what was coming.

  “It’s the Lombardis. You’ve heard. Oh, not all of them. Please don’t say it’s all of them.”

  I had the strangest sensation I was in bed having a nightmare I’d had before, and I knew what Martin’s response would be. He was going to say, “All of them,” wasn’t he? I couldn’t feel my feet.

  “Not all of them.”

  “N—not?” I stared at him. Was I hearing right?

  “Not all of them,” Martin repeated. “At least the Pinkertons don’t think so.” Martin’s hand moved down to my waist, steadying me. “Teddy and Thea are not . . . there. The mission is deserted except . . . except for three graves. I’m so sorry, my darling.”

  Both of his arms were around me now, gathering me close to him, his lips brushing my forehead.

  “Catherine?” The question emerged in a whimper, and I felt Martin swallow hard.

  “Catherine, the pastor, and Lucy.” His voice strengthened, as if once the worst of the news was over, he could tell the rest easily. “Their resting places were marked with their names and dates on boards. Somebody had buried them with care. I can’t help suspecting that was Teddy’s work—at least I hope so. That would mean he’s alive and strong.”

  “Catherine, the pastor, and Lucy,” I whispered into Martin’s waistcoat. If I could just turn time back ten minutes—five—to when I still assumed I was mistaken, worrying too much. If only I could turn it back—how long?—and not be so consumed by my own selfish concerns. If I had insisted, really insisted, that they left Kansas . . . might it not have worked? But I’d never had the right to insist.

  The image of the dates written on those far-off boards emerged from the swirl of despair. “When?” I asked.

  “The beginning of June.”

  Seven weeks? Eight? Not long after our wedding. If I could just make time go back eight weeks . . . To think I had been so happy and so absorbed in my life, when they . . .

  “Pastor Lombardi went first.” Martin’s words broke into my horrified reflections. “Then Lucy passed, then Catherine. One of the Pinkertons rode day and night to break the news to me in person. The others went in search of the missing children. They won’t give up until they find them.”

  “It wasn’t Indians, was it? Or bandits?�
� Was that my voice? “Oh God, Martin, were they beaten or tortured or . . . ? Lucy was thirteen. Only thirteen.”

  And with that terrifying picture, the tears fell, scalding my cheek as they made their way downward to soak into Martin’s jacket. A great sob shook me, and then another. How had I not known? Catherine was my second mother . . .

  Martin waited, still and silent with his arms tight around me, until the worst of my tears was over. Then he loosened his grip and held me a little away from him, fishing in his pocket for a clean handkerchief.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t anything like that, Nell.” He shook the linen out and wiped my cheeks. “They didn’t all die at once, and Teddy—probably Teddy—buried them. It’s unlikely to have been an attack. Perhaps the Kansas malaria, but I guess it’s more likely to have been an epidemic. Something bad enough to make everyone else leave the mission. Or maybe they sent everyone away. You know what they are—were—like.”

  “Yes.” Martin’s common sense was steadying me, and the visions of horrific, violent death were fading from my imagination. I commandeered the handkerchief and used it more effectively, blotting my eyes and blowing my streaming nose while I thought. “Catherine and her husband would have sent everyone away if they hoped it would save them from catching the illness. Teddy would stay no matter what, the dear brave boy. And Thea—yes, I imagine Thea would have gone.” I wiped away a fresh rush of tears. “That would mean they’re separated.”

  “And Teddy’s first concern after he buried his mother would be to ensure Thea was all right. They may be anywhere, Nellie.”

  “Anywhere,” I echoed. I sniffed one last time and looked up at my husband.

  “I’ll be all right.” I straightened up. “The first shock is over. I can grieve for Catherine later—all my life—but we need to find her children. They may be in Wichita. Or Springwood—have you sent someone to the Eternal Life Seminary? Teddy wanted to apply for a place there one day once his parents no longer needed him at the mission. It would be an obvious place of refuge. I should write to Dr. Spedding.”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me to tell the Pinkertons about the seminary.” Martin’s eyes lost their focus on me. “You’re right, but let me telegraph Dr. Spedding instead. There was a telegraph office in Springwood, if I recall.”

  “They may have headed east too, or they may be trying to get there. Their parents were from New York.”

  “Wherever they are, they won’t find traveling simple at present. It’s likely that every railroad from the East Coast to the West is shut down, and the strike’s affecting the steamboats. I hope they have a horse at least.”

  “Teddy might travel on foot, but you have a point. If Thea were with him, he wouldn’t make her walk.” I frowned. “But why didn’t they wire us? They can’t possibly think they can manage by themselves.”

  Seeing that I had recovered my composure, Martin unlocked the door. “Teddy’s a man,” was his next remark. “Old enough to work and look after both of them. He might not even be planning to seek help. His father liked to stand on his own two feet, and Teddy resembles him.”

  “Teddy’s only seventeen. Thea’s not fifteen yet. Even if you’re right, we must find them and offer our help and support. I owe that to Catherine. They must come and live with us.”

  Martin looked at me a little curiously. “I’m not sure we should go that far. Help, yes; money, as much as they want. We can supply all their needs until they’re back on their feet. But they’re too old for mothering.”

  “I wasn’t when Catherine treated me so kindly. When she held my hand as I gave birth to Sarah because Mama wasn’t there. I was seventeen—”

  “But you’d had a gentle upbringing. These two were obliged to take on responsibilities you’d never have dreamed of at that age. Thea’s been teaching school and keeping house since she was very young, and Teddy’s been doing hard physical work. You can’t judge their needs by your own.”

  “Every child needs a mother.”

  “You say that, but you were inordinately fond of yours. I worry you’d be taking on too much. Out of guilt.”

  “Guilt?” I blinked; my eyes were sore and my head pounding.

  “Guilt that you didn’t solve the Lombardis’ problems. That you couldn’t convince Catherine to act against her husband’s wishes.”

  “I never tried—” I stopped short as a sudden wave of emotion threatened a return of tears.

  “I’m sorry.” Martin’s face registered dismay. “I’m a brute, lecturing you at a moment like this.” He kissed me gently on the lips. “I’ll go to the Pinkerton bureau straightaway and give you some time to yourself.” He hesitated. “Don’t forget that they all had faith in a better place than this life, and now they’re there. Comfort yourself with the assurance that they are free from illness or pain, my darling. May they rest in peace.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me to stare at the walls of my room as if I no longer recognized it. The sketches and notes on which I’d been working lay in a disordered heap, the smart day dress that had so absorbed me just half an hour before now a matter of little interest.

  “Oh, Catherine,” I whispered. “Yes, you must rest in peace now. I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough to help you. I’m sorry I put my needs before yours and let you down.”

  Just as I’d let down my own mother—of whom, Martin was right, I’d been inordinately fond. I’d let her down by bearing a child out of wedlock; by refusing to utter Jack Venton’s name and solve the problem with a hasty wedding; by putting my own desire for freedom over the morally correct course of action.

  Well, I would have no more mothers. I didn’t deserve them. But we would find those children, and I would do everything in my power to further their interests. Such was now my duty.

  6

  Strike

  I spent the night alternately weeping for Catherine, the pastor, and Lucy and worrying about Teddy and Thea. I had finally fallen asleep when Martin rose at four, fretting over his stores old and new, and woke me up. By the time the working day drew to its close, we were both exhausted.

  “They’re asking for a lot.” I tried to put aside the headache that had dogged me all day and concentrate on the sheet of paper Martin had given me. “Text of the Addresses of the Chicago Workingmen’s Party” was set in heavy type at the top.

  “A great deal but demanded with commendable brevity. It’s smart of them to ensure it fits on one page.” Martin jerked the window closed and resumed his seat on the corner of his desk.

  “I had a letter from Miss Baker,” I said. “Sarah and Tess are well. Miss Baker says that although she knows we’d let her have time off to come to Chicago, she realizes she’s left it too late for the trains. She won’t countenance putting Mr. Nutt or Donny in danger to drive her here as they are working men too.”

  “And so am I.” Martin stretched, yawning. “Do you think I could demand an eight-hour day?”

  “I could just see you walking away from a three o’clock meeting with Madame because you’d been at the store since seven.” I felt a faint grin tug at the corners of my mouth. “But you’re not being oppressed by the robber barons.”

  “I am a robber baron, or so you tell me the world believes.” Martin yawned again. “I happen to sympathize with the idea of an eight-hour shift in some circumstances, as you very well know.”

  “And as some of our women have cause to thank you for.” I patted the bony knee nearest to me. “I’m more in favor of that demand than of the government taking possession of the railroads and telegraph lines.”

  “Morgan and the Vanderbilts and their ilk would soon set up companies producing flying machines to compete with their former businesses, and then we’d have strikes of the flying machine workers. They could drop grenades on us from great heights.” Martin mimed the action he was describing.

  A rap on the door of Martin’s office prevented our conversation from proceeding, and just as well—we were both too tired to talk sensibly. Joe Salazar en
tered, his tall hat in his hand.

  “And there you have it,” he announced. “All railroads officially closed. I hoped the Chicago and North Western would hold out at least. This is now an open strike.” He placed his hat on Martin’s desk. “It’s like an oven in here. Why don’t you open a window?”

  “I thought it would be better to roast than breathe the Chicago air. But anything to oblige.” Martin got down from his perch to push up the lower half of the sash. I wrinkled my nose at the stink that was blowing toward us from the stockyards.

  “I possess one of those announcements,” Joe replied as I tried to pass him my piece of paper. “They won’t get anywhere. The way to change is through the ballot box, not violence. Not in this country at least.”

  “The violence won’t come from the railroad men either.” Martin resumed his seat and took the sheet from me, folding it and stashing it in his pocketbook. “As Mayor Heath has noted, they’re not the ones to fear. It’s the toughs, the deadbeats, and the loafers who’ll pick a fight with anyone that we should worry about. Although the inflammatory language the strikers are using will get some of the younger men riled up. It’s easy enough to accept you could die fighting when you’re young.” He nodded at Joe. “You know that better than I do.”

  “You’re plenty ready to fight, if it comes to saving your store.” Joe reached over to punch Martin on the shoulder. “And my army experience won’t amount to much when we’re barricaded behind the shop windows.” He grinned. “My army rifle might though.”

  “And I have my hunting guns.” Martin nodded. “A few of the other men have brought guns from home. If anyone threatens my store or the people in it—damn it, Joe, I wish we’d insisted on sending the women home.”