by Sarah Maine
‘It really is a marvel,’ exclaimed Clementina. ‘But what will happen to it all when the Exposition closes?’
‘They’ll clear the site.’
‘But the buildings, I mean?’
‘They’d not last the winter.’
‘Surely—’
‘It’s an illusion, ma’am. Straw and plaster over frames of timber and steel, then white paint and gilding. This time next year Jackson’s Lake will be swampland again.’
Evelyn absorbed and considered this information as they began the descent. An illusion? Counterfeit— And she thought of the brittle laughter on Jeb Merlin’s yacht the night before, and the anxious eyes. Straw and plaster, white paint and gilding—
The illusion shattered as they neared the ground, where the hot smell of humanity rose to greet them, overlain by the smells of animal dung and greasy food. They stepped out of the Ferris wheel car to find the afternoon had grown sultry.
‘Tomorrow, the Woman’s Building, I think,’ Mr Larsen said, steering them towards a table in the shade. He disappeared, returning a moment later followed by a waiter bearing lemonade chilled by ice from a giant icehouse, and handed them souvenir fans. So they sipped their drinks, refreshing themselves, and began to talk of returning to the yacht.
It was then that the little drama took place. Their route back ran past the wigwams of the Red Indian Encampment. Evelyn stopped before a small wooden cabin which had been tucked into a vacant space nearby, and read a tatty poster pinned to its side. HERE, DECEMBER 15TH 1890, THE LAKOTA CHIEF SITTING BULL WAS KILLED WHILST RESISTING ARREST FOR PLOTTING A BLOODY INDIAN UPRISING. EIGHT POLICE OFFICERS DIED THAT DAY IN THE COURSE OF DUTY.
‘And a great many more Lakota Sioux …’ muttered Larsen.
‘Just three years ago!’ Clementina looked at the encampment in sudden alarm.
A dejected figure in dirty rawhide sat on the cabin doorstep, scratching the dust with a stick. Was he too an exhibit? Evelyn wondered, unsettled by the thought. And then suddenly the cabin door behind him was flung open and two figures cannoned out onto the threshold, locked in combat, kicking and biting, cursing and tearing at each other’s hair; an empty spirits bottle rolled out behind them. The first man leapt to his feet and attempted to pull them apart, shouting angrily, but they flung him aside, sending him stumbling into the crowd which had quickly gathered. He tripped, lost his footing, and fell against Evelyn, knocking her from her feet, and then landed sprawling on top of her.
It all happened so quickly— She heard a shriek as she went down under the weight of the man, and lay there gasping, inhaling a mixture of stale alcohol and the musky odour of his hot skin. Delighted by the unfolding drama, the crowd closed in. The man had already begun to scramble to his feet when he was pulled abruptly off her and she heard an outraged voice. ‘Filthy brute—!’ And then the sound of a blow, and she saw the man sent sprawling in the dust. A stranger knelt by her side and placed his folded jacket under her head. ‘Are you alright?’ Dazed still, she looked up into a pair of startling blue eyes beneath a mop of fair hair.
‘Evelyn!’ Mr Larsen had pushed his way through the crowd. When she saw that he too was preparing to kneel, she sat up, mortified by all the attention.
‘No. Don’t. I’m fine.’ The fair-haired young man helped her to her feet and restored her parasol to her, repeating his concern. ‘Let me find you a seat. A drink? Some shade?’
‘Honestly, I’m quite alright.’
Then a whisper of anticipation went through the onlookers and they parted as the Indian came towards her again, his face and shirt blood-stained from his bleeding nose.
‘Stay back, damn you—’ Her rescuer took a step forward, raising his fist again, but the Indian stared unflinchingly back at him before switching his attention to Evelyn, and he held out her fan. It was broken and soiled, and he apologised with a quiet dignity. Then, called from somewhere, two of the Fair’s special constables pushed their way through the crowd, and seized him by the arm.
‘It’s alright, ma’am, we have him. There’s been trouble here already.’ One of them produced a pair of handcuffs.
‘No, wait—!’
The constable turned to Mr Larsen. ‘Are you pressing charges, sir?’
‘It was me that was knocked down—’ Evelyn protested, suddenly furious. ‘And of course he isn’t!’
The Indian began to struggle, resisting arrest. ‘No, you don’t, my friend,’ the officer said, but in restraining him he dropped the handcuffs. Without thinking, Evelyn picked them up and held them behind her back.
The constable, taken by surprise, must have loosened his grip, for his prisoner gave a final twist and sprang away, pushing through the crowd, and vanished.
‘Good! He had done nothing—’ Evelyn thrust the handcuffs back at the constable and began brushing the dust off on her skirts. The crowd appeared divided by this outcome; she glared at them and they began to disperse.
Mr Larsen took her elbow. ‘Come away now, my dear. Thank you, constable, but the lady is correct.’ He turned back to the fair-haired man who had been watching the proceedings with interest from the sidelines. ‘And thank you, sir, for your well-intentioned intervention—’
But Clementina, who had been hemmed in by the crowd, now stepped forward and put out her hand. ‘Good heavens, Rupert! It is you! I thought it can’t be …’
‘But it is.’ The fair-haired man smiled and, taking both her hands, gave her a peck on each cheek. ‘Large as life—’
Introductions were swiftly made. ‘Mr Larsen, this is Rupert Dalston, who lives not twenty miles from us. Imagine!’
Mr Larsen knew his father, Earl Stanton, it transpired, so there were exchanges of incredulous wonder that they should meet here, so far from home, and in such circumstances.
‘Actually I spotted Clementina a little while ago,’ the young man confessed, ‘and I’ve been shamelessly stalking you these past fifteen minutes. Not seeing old George anywhere, and not knowing your companions, I hardly liked to approach—’
‘Earl Stanton is a friend of your papa’s too, my dear,’ Mr Larsen told Evelyn as she continued to dust off her skirts.
The young man stared when they had been introduced. ‘Good Lord! You’re Charles Ballantyre’s daughter—’ He looked quickly around. ‘And is your father here too?’ Explanations were given, and his smile spread. ‘We used to come to you to shoot, you know, years ago. But you were probably still in the schoolroom.’
He had a beguiling, lopsided smile. ‘I expect I was,’ she replied, and smiled back.
‘Join us for dinner tonight, young man. We dine at Delrio’s,’ said Mr Larsen, and the invitation was warmly accepted. ‘And come aboard for a drink first. I’ll send the launch to collect you.’
Chapter 4
Larsen sat under the stern awning later that evening, dividing his attention between pipe and newspaper, and then put both aside to enjoy the spectacle of the setting sun, and to wonder how far Ballantyre would have got. The man was nothing if not driven! The first hint of a setback to his enterprise and he was off like a shot. And here he was, his first day in loco parentis and already put on his mettle. Brawling Indians and now a niggling concern that he was doing the right thing. He was out-of-date and out of practice; what was the correct way of dealing with young girls and young men who had never met? It had always been his dear departed’s province, and his own daughters were long grown and gone, mothers themselves. But there was surely no harm in offering a dinner invitation since the families were long acquainted, and the Lady Melton was able to vouch for the young man.
Evelyn came up on deck but failed to notice him, hidden as he was by the raking shadow of the awning, so he was able to study her unobserved. He thought of the portrait of her mother, which hung in the hall of Ballantyre Hall, and the smaller, more intimate one on Ballantyre’s desk. Caroline Ballantyre had been slightly darker than her daughter, and Evelyn had her father’s eyes, tawny and very clear, as well as his resolute chin.
She was going to be every bit as attractive as her long-dead mother.
Beauty, combined with wealth and an undoubted naïveté, attracted predators, though, as her father had recently learned. The cryptic message undesirable swain on the telegram asking to alter the original arrangements had told Larsen all he needed to know, and upon arrival Ballantyre had described how he had come upon his daughter seated beside a young man – ‘a groom from my own stables, damn him!’ – in a shady corner of the West Gardens below Edinburgh Castle. Larsen had listened sympathetically but had been unable to suppress a roar of mirth when Ballantyre went on to recount the difficulty which had arisen from the fact that Ballantyre himself had been escorting a delightful dancer from the Royal Theatre into the same secluded spot at precisely the same time. ‘Disconcerting for all concerned,’ he had said, a wry smile acknowledging Larsen’s laughter. ‘And a devil of a scene when I got her home.’
Larsen had wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘I can imagine, and it’s often the Irish in these cases, don’t you find? Groom or a coachman. Opportunism and opportunity, I suppose, and the fatal charm of that race.’ Ballantyre had made a grimace. ‘But I’m delighted that it gave you a reason to bring her with you, Charles. You should have done so anyway.’
‘I know. And then the whole wretched business might have been avoided.’
It had been one of those rare moments when Charles Ballantyre revealed the private side of himself, and Larsen had offered him his silence, a space for further confidences, should he wish for it. He liked Ballantyre enormously, and felt towards him as he felt towards few men, in awe of his energy and his intelligence, and over the years he had developed an almost paternal concern for the younger man’s well-being, which went far beyond their business dealings. Perhaps he saw himself in Ballantyre, that same drive and determination which had once spurred him on – and so it pained Larsen to see his friend looking so strained and weary. Ballantyre was a fine-looking man, tall with a lean, athletic form, but his face had become almost gaunt, making his eyes appear more hooded. Something was troubling him, something more than either the bank’s business or his fledgling daughter’s rash behaviour. Something deeper.
And he kept it close.
‘I’ve neglected her, Niels, these last years, let her slip away from me.’ Ballantyre had rested his forearms on the rails, watching zephyrs pass over the surface of the lake, roughening it to hammered silver. ‘I turned my back and she’d grown up. I should have been more aware – but at least I was able to save her from her Irishman.’
Larsen had let the silence lengthen. ‘Did you have to pay him off?’ he asked eventually, and Ballantyre had snorted.
‘My dear Larsen! He left with his hide intact and a very clear understanding of what would happen if I ever clapped eyes on him again.’ Larsen raised his eyebrows, and Ballantyre had smiled slightly. ‘Though, to be fair, I think the association was in its infancy. Evelyn swore she’d only met him alone that one time, and the lad said the same, adding, rather defiantly, that he’d felt sorry for her as she’d seemed lonely.’ Ballantyre had looked bleakly out across the waters of the lake. ‘And that’s the bit that stings, as I think he was probably right.’
Larsen had said nothing.
And now he reached again for his pipe and looked across at Evelyn where she leant against the rail as he carefully refilled it. Ballantyre might have protected her from her Irishman, but she was prey worthy of more than enterprising stable boys.
Evelyn watched the hawkers as they closed up their booths along the promenade, the more determined of them pursuing visitors as they left. She took deep breaths, grateful for the cooler air out on the lake. It was close and rather stuffy below, so she had come up on deck but still felt unsettled by the afternoon’s incident. It had all happened so quickly! First the fight and then being knocked to the ground – and then the horrid aftermath. She could still see the resentment deep in the Indian’s eyes as he came towards her, his face and shirt bloodied, and his expression had struck a chord in her memory. She had seen his face darken at the constable’s accusation, knowing he had already been judged and condemned, and that there was nothing he could do but flee.
As another man had fled—
And then the fair-haired man had appeared. Clementina’s friend. The Honourable Rupert Dalston. He had offered no apology, although later, at the landing, he had been fulsome in his regret for having misjudged the situation and had applauded her for her own action in taking the handcuffs. ‘Very plucky of you – and absolutely the right thing to have done,’ he had said, smiling as he handed her down into the launch before excusing himself, promising to join them later.
Clementina had spoken warmly of him when they had gone down to their staterooms: ‘Just fancy! George will be astonished when we tell him. They’re very old friends, you know, although George is better acquainted with his older brother. Rupert is quite charming, and, you’ll find, just the sort of man you ought to meet.’
What a pity her father was not here to see her, she thought, as the last of the booths shut for the night, doing absolutely the right sort of thing, and meeting just the right sort of man. ‘Evelyn, my child!’ Mr Larsen’s voice startled her and she turned to see him sitting under the shadow of the stern awning, beckoning to her. ‘Come and join me, and tell me that you really are unhurt.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Good girl.’ She sat down beside him and he tapped the newspaper with the stem of his pipe. ‘Another railroad company has just declared itself bankrupt! I’ve almost lost count of how many. Years of gross folly catching up with them all, and now the consequences to bear!’
They sat in silence for a few moments until she became aware that he was smiling gently at her. ‘Life without Papa becomes more bearable now, perhaps, with your young friends about you?’ She returned him a little smile. Papa was not so easily forgiven. ‘It was unfortunate what happened this afternoon, but he would have approved of your defence of that young Indian.’
‘Would he?’
Mr Larsen shifted topics. ‘Now tell me, my dear, whether the Midway lived up to your expectations?’ She dissembled, not wishing to appear ungrateful, and commented instead on the fine views from the top of the Ferris wheel. ‘Yes, indeed’ – he nodded – ‘and from there the illusion remains intact.’ His pipe had gone out so it took his attention for the moment. ‘And the rest?’
‘It was all very interesting, of course, but making real people into exhibits, and then treating them so badly seems wrong …’ He glanced up at her from under his bushy eyebrows as he struck a match and held it to his pipe. ‘It’s like a zoo for people – they must hate it.’
‘I’m sure they do.’ He flicked the match overboard. ‘But why are they there, do you think? These odd people with their strange animals and their exotic dress? To inform us, or to entertain? Like us, but different. More primitive—’
She looked across at him. That Indian had not been primitive, he had understood only too well what he was up against. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Mr Larsen returned her a wry smile. ‘Perhaps they serve to confirm our own superiority, my dear, and provide an excuse to civilise them, and to educate their children that this is how it should be. They console us.’
It was the sort of thing her father would say. ‘And is it? How it should be—?’
‘I imagine you know the answer to that, my dear,’ he replied through a cloud of pipe smoke.
Lights had begun to appear along rooflines and pediments back on shore, creeping over domes and columns, restoring an illusion which was becoming more difficult to sustain in daylight, but its faux beauty confused her now, just as the day’s incidents had done. ‘Straw and plaster,’ her host murmured, following her gaze. ‘A stage set, and a display of confidence which cloaks a troubled nation, made foolish by the realities. Your father was right.’ More lights appeared, sparkling bright against the blue-black sky, and the hum of the evening promenade drifted towards t
hem on the breeze, while overhead the beam of the arc light began its nightly scrutiny. And then he leant towards her, his eyes suddenly hard and intent. ‘You begin to question it all, I think. Excellent! You have your father’s brains – so make sure you use them, for just beyond the fairgrounds there are children who go to bed hungry, while their mothers lie sleepless and their fathers take their own lives in despair. Those who were lured here by high wages to build the Fair will be queueing for food handouts this winter, begging for relief while the politicians squabble in their drawing rooms.’
Evelyn recognised in his words the same fervour and conviction she had once associated with her father, and quite suddenly she found she missed him dreadfully.
Then Mr Larsen shook his head, as if in self-reproach, and took her hand, squeezing it in his. ‘But what am I thinking, God forgive me! You’re young, my dear child, and so it’s your duty to be idealistic! Forgive an old man’s ramblings – I should bid you instead to enjoy the beautiful White City with your young friends, and be hopeful. Hope is sometimes all we have to sustain us.’ He summoned one of the servants, sending him back for champagne, and they talked of other things and watched as a small launch set out from the shore and headed towards them. ‘It is well, I think, that you’ve found another companion here. I know his father a little, and I also know that your father has been a good friend to him over the years.’ The launch drew closer, and then the champagne arrived, and he took a glass, his eyes warm and wise, but he held it a moment before he gave it to her. ‘Try to forgive your papa for leaving you these few days, my dear. He’s at the stage of life when a man is driven by his work, and these are troubled times.’
