by Jane Steen
“Almost.” Mr. Fletcher pulled a slip of paper from the ledger and studied it, occasionally looking up at me. Then he grinned.
“Mr. Rutherford’s description of you tallies exactly with the lady I see before me. To be absolutely sure, would you mind showing me your wedding ring?”
I pulled off my glove and held out my left hand so that he could see the ring. It was my stepfather Hiram’s ring, bought for his first wife, Emmeline, but too large for her fingers. It was incised with a delicate pattern of leaves and flowers, a pretty thing that Hiram had given me to maintain the pretense of widowhood. No doubt he had intended to recover it from my body after he’d thrown Sarah into the river, knowing I would try to save her and probably drown.
“Do I pass muster?” I shoved the memory of Hiram into the back of my mind. He couldn’t harm me now.
“Thank you for understanding. It’s rather a large sum of money, and in fact the paper you gave me is a little out of date. Let’s see—” He opened the ledger and indicated a recent page. “This is more accurate, although Mr. Rutherford never leaves capital idle, and your holdings increase daily. If it’s at all helpful to you, I can summarize that you can comfortably expect an income of a little over seven thousand a year as things currently stand. Of course, that’s without touching the portion that Mr. Rutherford has designated as available for your use should you wish to purchase a house.”
“Of course,” I echoed faintly. Seven thousand dollars a year! I always read the papers Martin sent to me, but I supposed I’d never really translated the figures into an income. Martin had once told me he’d worked to ensure I would be independent of him or any man, financially at least. He’d given me my freedom in no uncertain terms.
“I’m not sure whether I’ll buy a house in Chicago or elsewhere. My plans are somewhat uncertain at this time.” I tried to sound businesslike and brisk. “For the moment, I’m concerned about my current expenses—paying the hotel, money for meals and clothing, that sort of thing. I will need—”
How much exactly would I need? I had no idea how much I would spend by the week or month in Chicago. Fortunately, I had just spotted someone who would know.
“Miss Parnell!”
At my exclamation, Elizabeth, who had walked past us without seeing me because she’d been saying good-bye to two frilled and flounced acquaintances, turned and smiled broadly. I waggled my fingers to indicate she should come over. Mr. Fletcher rose to his feet, prudently shutting the ledger and slipping the paper back between its pages.
Elizabeth nodded graciously at the two of us as she approached, showing no surprise. Yet the gleam in her eyes suggested she was thinking of her mother’s unfounded suspicions. She looked lovely in a dark blue dress so richly patterned with deep-red roses that the overall effect was more red than blue. Ivory lace at the neck and cuffs set off her fresh, creamy skin and emphasized the rosy tinge of her rounded cheeks, which were dimpled by the mischievous smile she was trying to repress.
“Miss Parnell, may I call on you for help?” I indicated the bank clerk. “This is Mr. Fletcher of Briggs Bank. I need to tell him how much I require for living expenses, and I realized I haven’t the faintest idea. What does one need to live in Chicago? And there’s the hotel, of course.”
“Oh, the hotel’s no trouble at all—you can either have the bill sent to you and send it on to the bank for payment, or you can even have them send it directly to the bank if you prefer. Mr. Fletcher can speak to them and arrange things according to your wishes, I presume?” She quirked an eyebrow at the young man, whose hand she had briefly shaken before seating herself beside me.
“I’m entirely at Mrs. Lillington’s service,” Mr. Fletcher replied, but he didn’t sound at all subservient. There was something very pleasing about his air of confidence and quiet strength.
“That’s excellent.” Elizabeth’s bright blue gaze focused on Mr. Fletcher with a sharper interest than before. “Now, Nell, the first decision is the hotel bill.”
“Oh, anything from the hotel must be delivered to me first for review. My grandmother always lectured me on the inadvisability of letting tradesmen of any sort realize you were not scrutinizing their bills. And the larger the establishment, she said, the more careful one must be. My grandfather was a banker, you see. He and Grandmama were apparently in perfect agreement about money and made all their decisions as one.”
And if Mama’s illness had not made her rely too heavily on Hiram in money matters, I probably would never have had to go to Kansas. I still didn’t know exactly where Mama’s inheritance from her parents had disappeared to.
“That’s settled, then,” said Elizabeth. “Now do you want to live quietly or be fashionable? As far as dresses and so on are concerned, it’s easy enough to open accounts in all of the larger stores. Mr. Fletcher can provide a note attesting to your bona fides.” She looked at the young man, who nodded. His face was serious, as befitted his role, but there was a certain twinkle in his eyes that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the conversation. I was also amused—I supposed it was typical for a lovely young woman’s mind to go straight to articles of dress, but Elizabeth’s enthusiasm rather belied her claims to be a Feminist of the deepest dye.
“If you have a yearning for gaiety and excitement,” Elizabeth continued, “there’ll be numerous expenses in the way of carriages, tickets to entertainments, and so on. And if you pay a lot of calls, you’ll find yourself giving tips everywhere because people’s servants are far less eager to hurry and fetch your manteau, hold an umbrella, or find a carriage if you don’t grease their palms. That’s the trouble with this town—absolutely everything is business.”
“Do you have to grease the palms of the ladies you visit?” I couldn’t help asking and was gratified when both Elizabeth and Mr. Fletcher burst into laughter.
“Very good, Mrs. Lillington,” the banker said. “I see you understand Chicago completely.”
“And in a way, you’re correct.” Elizabeth screwed her mouth to one side in a wry expression. “There are ladies—those who hold the key to certain society gatherings or whose husbands might help other husbands along in the way of business—who are known to be so much sweeter and more obliging if you bring them nosegays or bonbons or an adorable pair of gloves that you just happened to see in Field and Leiter’s that made you think of them straightaway. They usually have the most rapacious maids too.”
“Oh dear,” I said, feeling a qualm at having to find my place in such a society. “Well, I don’t care for paying calls and will make just as many as I need to avoid accusations that we’re hermits. We may venture out to an entertainment two or three times a month, but not more than that—unless Tess and Sarah want to. Their happiness is of great importance to me.” I looked at Mr. Fletcher. “You know about my daughter and friend, I suppose?”
He nodded. “Mr. Rutherford was most thorough with his instructions.”
Of course he was, I thought. Martin was too conscientious by half. But I banished Martin—well, almost—from my mind and continued.
“I will need some money as soon as possible, for visiting the stores up and down State Street—Sarah and Tess are eager to buy a few gewgaws.” I was equally eager to go to Rutherford’s and make inquiries after Martin, but tomorrow was Saturday, and I knew Mr. Salazar, his general manager and the man I most wanted to speak to, did not work on Saturdays. “I was thinking of Monday for an expedition to the stores. Tess will be feeling more rested by then.”
“If you could possibly wait until Tuesday, I could act as your guide.” Elizabeth’s face brightened at the thought, but then her mouth tightened. “Mother’s gone and commandeered me for all of Monday morning, which means half the afternoon as well because she wants to introduce me to the son of a dear friend.” She sighed dramatically. “He’s just returned from Harvard University and is most charming. So we’ll have to sit through at least an hour of our Mamas trying to find common ground between us, and then we’ll eat luncheon together. Af
ter which, the matriarchs will suggest a stroll somewhere and positively rush ahead of us to allow the young people to get to know each other.”
Mr. Fletcher interrupted with a small cough, passing his hand in front of his mouth a tad too late to hide the grin that was trying to break out on his face. “The sum of money?” he suggested.
Elizabeth glared at Mr. Fletcher but then smiled with the air of a queen addressing her subjects. “Thank you so much for recalling my silly female mind back to the business at hand.” She was perched on the edge of her armchair, endeavoring not to crush the back of her gown, and gave a funny little bounce as she turned to fix the young man with a stony stare.
A lesser man might have blustered out an apology for his inadvertent rudeness, but Mr. Fletcher was clearly made of sterner stuff. He returned Elizabeth’s stare with cool poise and said gravely: “I think you’re anything but silly.” He left it at that, allowing the silence to lengthen until Elizabeth let out her breath and gave an expressive shrug.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I do tend to rattle on, and I suppose you must have other clients beside Mrs. Lillington. So, Nell . . .”
And she proceeded to involve both Mr. Fletcher and me in a complex evaluation of what the coming days might bring in terms of expenditure, arriving at a sum with which the banker agreed with a certain degree of respect. I felt I was witnessing two persons getting the measure of each other and arriving at a pleasant equilibrium.
“I’ll make all the arrangements with the hotel,” Mr. Fletcher concluded. “And I’ll have a sum large enough for the next few days brought confidentially to you in your suite—tomorrow morning?”
I agreed and supplied the number of the suite, which Mr. Fletcher wrote down in a small notebook. A general shaking of hands and a few pleasantries ensued, and Elizabeth and I were left alone.
“Well!” was her first remark, her eyes on Mr. Fletcher’s back as he made his way through the Grand Parlor. “That kills two birds with one stone. I can reassure Mother that you’re clearly a lady of some means—bank employees are never so obliging unless you have money. And you’ll have more than enough for Tuesday’s outing. Do you need to be fitted for a new dress?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “I spent the last month or two in Kansas sewing everything we needed.”
Elizabeth’s gaze suddenly switched from the doorway through which Mr. Fletcher had passed to my dress. In cinnamon and pale gold silk taffeta, it set off my hair nicely. The skirt was heavily swagged and ruched, but the bodice was almost entirely unadorned, giving it a businesslike look I had thought suited to the occasion.
“Are you telling me you made that?” she asked. “And the pretty blue you wore at tea yesterday? And your walking dress?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you’re far more fitted to be a dressmaker than frittering away your life paying calls. It would be a crime to waste such skill.” She frowned. “Heavens, what a dilemma. It’s positively an inconvenience to you to be rich.”
We both laughed, but my amusement was tinged with a wry sense that yes, in some ways my wealth would be an inconvenience. The very suggestion of a wealthy woman having a profession would make any society belle laugh out loud.
“Did you find Mr. Fletcher impertinent?” I asked by way of diverting my thoughts from my own troubles. “You seemed out of sorts with him for a moment.”
“Perhaps. No.” Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rose, almost matching her gown. “It was idiotic of me to take umbrage at him for simply trying to keep to the subject. I thought he was rather nice.”
“I rather thought you did. And I thought that he thought—”
“Oh, heavens, Nell, you’re not going to turn out to be one of those matchmaking women, are you?”
“Not in the least. Besides, your parents might object to a bank clerk as a potential son-in-law.”
“But he’s not a clerk, is he? Not if they let him loose to take instructions at the Palmer House. He must be doing quite well for his age.” She hesitated for a moment. “How old do you think he is, anyway?”
“Twenty-five? Perhaps a year or two older. But not yet thirty.”
“Hmmm. And besides, Mother and Father aren’t insisting that I marry into money or anything. Not that it was marriage I was thinking of.” She said the last part almost under her breath, and I sat up straighter.
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon? Elizabeth, you can’t possibly mean what I think you mean.”
Elizabeth’s only answer was to rise to her feet, smoothing down her skirts. “I believe we’ve done a good day’s work today, Nell. Thank you for trusting me for advice.”
“I hope you’ll trust me to give you good advice—when the time comes.”
“Of course, if I feel I need it.” Elizabeth widened her eyes into large, disarming blue circles and swept away into the main current of people departing and arriving in a ceaseless murmur of polite conversation, giving her skirts an expert twitch so that her train fell into place.
I followed her, but I wasn’t fooled. I too had large blue eyes and knew how to use them to dissemble as well as attract. Elizabeth hadn’t flirted with Mr. Fletcher, but she was definitely interested in him—and her head was full of nonsense about Free Love into the bargain. I supposed that if I’d heard about that scandalous topic back in my Victory days, I would have been fascinated by it too. But I had learned my lesson. I was very afraid that my impulsive new friend might turn out to be just as heedless at twenty-two as I’d been at sixteen.
6
Billy
On Saturday evening, something happened that erased all thoughts of Elizabeth’s intentions from my mind. We were in the Palmer House’s dining room, a cavernous space flagged in white marble inset with diamond-shaped pieces of a darker hue. Huge gasoliers—I counted twenty at least—lit the space with their brilliant hiss and flare, still much too bright to my eyes compared to oil lamps. The columns that marched down the room in regular rows were encrusted with leaves and flowers, a theme echoed by the overblown pink-and-blue frescoes. This was elegance of a sort, but elegance taken right up to the point of vulgarity, and I said so to Tess.
“I think it’s pretty,” was her response as she gazed at the bill of fare. This too was richly decorated with drawings of food of all kinds, and, rather alarmingly, proclaimed the Palmer House to be “thoroughly fire proof.” Considering that the ovens in the kitchens were no doubt roaring at their full capacity somewhere below us, and that our dinner was lit by a highly inflammable gas, I doubted that was entirely true.
“Sarah, would you like baked trout or ham?” I asked as our white-jacketed waiter headed in our direction. There were numerous waiters present, some white, some black, all under the command of a headwaiter of, I guessed, German origin. They proceeded at a dignified pace between the tables amid a clatter of plates and silverware and a babble of voices in several different languages.
“I’m going to have sugar-cured ham,” said Tess rather loudly. She had a tendency to be hard of hearing in large, noisy public spaces. “I don’t like the way a fish’s eyes look at me, and ham doesn’t have skin and bones to worry about.”
“I would like ham too, Momma, if you please,” said Sarah daintily. She appeared to be enjoying herself, especially as several of the waiters—and the gentlemen and ladies they were serving—had smiled at her and made kind remarks about her bright hair and pretty manners. She wasn’t exactly vain, but she did enjoy the attention that the contrast between her small size and nice behavior brought her, and always did her best to win people over. This tendency had begun with the servants at the seminary. Sarah was used to being admired and held up as a model child in a world composed mostly of adults.
“Then we shall all have ham,” I said to the waiter and proceeded to order the rest of the dishes. We had spent Saturday resting quietly with just one short outing to the park for Sarah’s benefit. With Alice’s help, we had stowed our clothes and belongings in
perfect order. I had celebrated the arrival of our money by consulting with Tess about her needs and allotting a small amount to Sarah, and we were all in good humor with one another.
As we chatted, the behavior of one of the waiters began to impinge upon my conscious mind. He was most definitely hovering. And that was strange because he was evidently assigned to another part of the room. Whenever he walked toward us on his way to the back of the restaurant, he spent three or four minutes dawdling while he scrutinized all three of us. His face, snub-nosed, serious, and plain, but not unfriendly, seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him from my years in Victory. I had begun glaring at him whenever he slowed his steps since I was starting to believe the focus of his attention was Tess, and I disliked it when people stared at her in public.
“I do like this hotel,” Tess said. “Although it’s not as nice as having our own house. But my bed is nice and comfortable, and I like having my own room—you get up so early, Nell, and Sary, you snore.” Her almond eyes crinkled, signaling to us that she was in a teasing mood.
“I make very little snores,” said Sarah with dignity. “And only when I have a cold.”
The waiter had stopped again, his mouth hanging open. Really, this was too much. I didn’t want to get the young man into trouble, but I was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“I can hear carriages in the street, but they sound far away, and they make me feel sleepy. Clip-clop, clip-clop.” Tess’s imitation of a horse set Sarah chanting “clip-clop, clip-clop,” but very softly. Always ready to proclaim her opinions when we were alone, she knew that an important rule of polite society was that children should be seen and not heard.
I narrowed my eyes at the staring waiter and made a peremptory beckoning motion to leave him in no doubt that he was to approach us without delay.
“That’s not our waiter, Momma.” Sarah tugged at my sleeve. “Our waiter’s over there. I’ve been watching which ones go to which tables.”
