“What could that smell be?” I asked Judah in a low voice, not wanting to offend the little man.
“The Union Stock Yards,” he said. “A euphemism for slaughterhouse, since Chicago is becoming known as the hog butcher of the world. Wellington, of course, finds this a profitable appellation. ’’
“Imagine having to live with it.”
He gave me a small smile. “Never fear. When the wind dies, the odor will disappear.”
The hotel in all its plush splendor awed me, the handsome, skylighted rotunda, the thick Turkey rugs, the carved woodwork, the prismed chandeliers, and the barber shop (a tourist attraction) where silver dollars had been set in the tessellated floor. If I had thought the women on the street fashion plates, the three who sat on the gilt-backed sofas, talking to a gentleman in a claw-tailed frock coat as we entered the lobby, must have come straight from a Parisian showroom. One especially aroused my interest, if not envy. Dressed in a plum-colored day dress with a patent-leather belt and a little Florentine straw hat trimmed in ribbons of the same plum shade, she had such an air of sophisticated detachment as to make me feel quite countrified.
The next day, while Judah went off to discuss tractors, or whatever, I asked the hackney driver to take me to the finest store in the city.
“That will be Field, Leiter and Company, on State and Washington, ma’am.”
Armed with the unusually generous purse Judah had given me, I spent a glorious afternoon roaming the store, choosing gloves, underskirts, a nightdress, a robe, and patent-leather shoes. For Page, who had a passion for horses, I bought a set of carved ivory ones. But the pièce de résistance was the gown of sea-green satin, looped and draped, its overskirts caught up with off-white silk roses, an outrageously priced purchase I could not resist.
When I got back to the hotel, Judah was already there. “You just missed meeting Wellington and the groom.”
“Oh?” I said, removing my gloves. “Well, I shall see them tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“You’ll never guess . . .,” he began, but I had moved into the bedroom to change for dinner and did not catch the last of his remark.
It was still beastly hot with a smoky orange haze in the sky when we set out for the First Presbyterian Church the next morning. My green satin gown felt like a suit of cast-iron armor in the stifling confines of our carriage. In addition, the hot wind still blew, and the awful stench of slaughter managed to permeate through the closed windows. It was a long ride. As we crossed the main branch of the Chicago River, Judah pointed out the McCormack Works and farther along the banks acres and acres of stacked lumber awaiting shipment.
We finally arrived at the church, where the shadowed interior banked with autumn flowers provided a welcome relief. We took our assigned seats as friends of the bride, though I had never seen her and did not even know her Christian name.
The rows of pews fluttered with handkerchiefs and fans as the assembled flushed-faced guests sought to move the tepid air. The organ trilled and moaned, the chords now crashing, now receding, like waves on a distant shore. During a lull a tenor voice soared. “Abide with Me,” he pleaded, the hymn rolling forth, swelling, drowning the sounds of shuffling feet, the rustlings and murmurings. A little girl in a starched dress of white poplin, her bonnet askew, ran down the aisle, then turned and skittered back again like a frightened rabbit. The black-clad ushers stationed at intervals along the sides and at the rear stood solemnly like pallbearers at a funeral, their foreheads beaded with sweat.
In a whisper, Judah pointed out the notables: Horace White, editor-in-chief of the Times; Dr. Stimson, secretary of the American Academy of Sciences; Mr. and Mrs. Potter Palmer, our landlords; and Colonel Mason, mayor of Chicago.
At last—thankfully, for it was beginning to get uncomfortably warm now—the organ broke into the wedding march. Heads craned as the flower girl (she of the poplin dress) tripped by, eyes downcast, little cheeks flaming, tossing petals of late white roses along the red plush carpet. The bridesmaids in rustling tulle escorted by their unsmiling, tight-collared, and white-gloved male counterparts followed.
And then came the groom.
My first stunned reaction was, Why hadn’t I been told? Later Judah insisted that he had told me, but I had gone into the bedroom to change for dinner and apparently not heard. Had I known, I never would have come. Never. For a few moments, the heat, the shock, and the muffled beat of my heart beneath the tight corset threatened to overwhelm me. The church swam in a sickening haze. Quickly, with clammy, trembling fingers, I dug into my reticule for the little vial of sal volatile carried more for fashion’s sake than necessity.
“Are you ill?’’ Judah asked.
“No. It’s just the heat. I’ll be all right.’’
Oh, if it had only been true!
Ian Ramsey Montgomery stood at the altar now, his back straight, the tawny hair catching the cerise ray of angled sun shafting down from a high, stained-glass window. Watching him I felt that death would be a blessing. I never dreamed that seeing him again would evoke such a violent reaction, one made infinitely worse by the circumstances. He was getting married to someone else. He had found his heiress.
She advanced slowly down the aisle on the arm of her father. As she passed, I saw her face beneath the veil: a creamy oval under a smooth brow, the cheeks delicately pink, the large gray eyes luminous with a happiness that pierced me with lacerating envy. Ian’s bride, his “fortune,” was not old, nor ugly, nor fat, but young, slim, and lovely, her youth and beauty the last cruel twist.
I had no desire to go to the reception. On the verge of telling Judah I didn’t feel up to it, I changed my mind. It would be cowardly to run away, craven to bolt. But that wasn’t the only reason. I wanted to see Ian again. I wanted to see his face, hear his voice. Perhaps proximity might cure me. Five minutes of conversation might make him seem less than the romantic figure he cut here amid the pomp and circumstance of a wedding. With any luck I might even find him quite ordinary.
The Wellington house was in Lakeview, a section of the city along Lake Michigan’s shore given over to the homes of the wealthy. Surrounded by a high wall and set back from the street by an acre of parkland, the house stood five stories high. Its narrow gothic windows, mushrooming towers, and crenellated ramparts imitated a European castle of indeterminate period.
“Rather impressive,” said Judah, whose tastes had always run to the grandiose.
Inside, under a gaslit crystal chandelier, the butler took our wraps and led us across a marble-tiled floor to a pair of opened doors.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harrison!” he announced loudly.
Ian was in the receiving line. As I approached him I became two people, one a girl whose heart thumped violently against her ribs, who wanted to swoon, to wrap her arms around the man’s neck and cling to him; the other, a woman who moved with a cool self-assurance, murmuring the appropriate polite words.
He took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “It has been a long time, Mrs. Harrison.”
“So it has,” the woman inside me said lightly, while the girl wanted to shout, Why did you do it? “I will have to catch you up on the latest happenings in Virginia.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
I went on to say good evening to Mrs. Wellington, mother of the bride, a plump person whose face beamed with the unabashed satisfaction of one who has just played a trump card, won, and raked in the winnings. Her daughter had married a title.
I moved away, the girl and woman in me fusing as bitterness clogged my throat. Nothing had changed. Ian was still the one man in the world who could make me weep. He was still the one man in the world I could hate—and love.
I danced the first dance with Judah. Afterward I sank down into a chair near the window where a slight breeze cooled my heated face. Judah introduced me to a stream of business acquaintances who stopped to greet him. I flirted with all of them and soon was surrounded by an admiring circle of males, each vying with the others to f
etch me a cup of punch, or a glass of champagne, each asking me to dance, this waltz, that reel. It was like holding court. Never had I been so witty, never so quick to laughter, never so near to tears. I knew I was the object of raised brows, the scandalized exchange of hushed words between the more soberly dressed matrons. But I didn’t care, and Judah did not mind either. If other men found me attractive, it only complimented his own good taste.
I did not dance with Ian, but I had my conversation with him. I had gone outside for a breath of night air and my two escorts had both rushed back inside to get me a dish of ices the minute I’d mentioned wanting some.
I don’t know if Ian had been watching for his chance to speak to me alone, though later I felt it was highly unlikely. At any rate, I was staring out toward the darkened lake when I heard a step and, turning, saw him.
Again my heart began to race.
“Deirdre,” he said in the old thrilling way, his lips curving into the same dimpled smile that once had charmed me so (and still did). “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed. No, that’s wrong—you are more beautiful than ever.’’ He stood close to me, and from the light streaming through the tall windows I could see the fire leap into his eyes. For a moment I thought he would lean down and kiss me. But instead he said, “I never knew you were married. My congratulations. A little late, I presume?’’
“Almost four years.”
“Are you happy?”
“Deliriously so,” I bubbled in a voice that I had never, even in my green, girlish youth, used. “Judah is the perfect husband. He’s wealthy, as you probably know, attentive, kind, generous. And ...” I hesitated slightly, for this was the sort of confession a proper lady would only make to her most intimate woman friend, but I wanted to wound, to hurt. “And a wonderful lover.’’
Did he wince? I hoped so. I hoped the lie set him on fire imagining Judah and I in a naked, passionate embrace, mouth pressed to mouth, loins joined, moving ecstatically in the rhythm of love.
“Then I must congratulate you doubly,’’ he said in a tight controlled voice.
“Thank you.’’ I searched his face, but a shutter had come down over it, leaving it expressionless.
We fell silent. The orchestra was playing the haunting refrain of a Viennese waltz. I thought he would ask me to dance and was already framing my refusal when he said, “Have you thought of me?”
“Now and then,” I answered casually. “And you?”
“On occasion,” he said in a voice as noncommittal as mine.
“What have you been doing besides pursuing Miss Wellington these past few years?”
“I’ve been in England mostly. Father has not been well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s better?”
“Much, but not enough to make the journey for the wedding.”
“What a pity.”
Perhaps his poor health did prevent it, or perhaps he was simply reluctant to put his aristocratic feet upon our barbaric shores. Suddenly I hated the old man, secure in his crumbling Penhames, ordering his son to bring home a rich wife.
I turned my face toward the blue-black water shimmering under a star-hung sky. A leaf falling from a nearby maple came to rest on the parapet before me. I picked it up, twirling it by the stem.
Ian reached out, his fingers closing around mine. The crumpled leaf fell as I turned to him.
“Deirdre ...”
Before he could say more the two young men who had run off to fetch me a dish of ices burst through the French doors. “Here we are! Thought we had forgotten?”
“Of course not.”
Ian bowed slightly to the two men, took my hand, but did not kiss it. “Good evening, Mrs. Harrison.”
“Good evening.”
Judah and I left shortly after, and I did not see Ian again.
Chapter 7
When we crossed the river on our way back to the Palmer House we noticed a red glow in the western sky, paling the stars like a false dawn.
“Looks like a fire somewhere,” Judah remarked as the smell of ashes wafted by on a sudden gust of hot wind.
At the hotel the clerk explained that the fire had started in a lumberyard either on Canal or Van Buren streets—he wasn’t sure—but that he had heard it was confined to an area bounded by the river.
“It’s the drought, sir. We’ve had so little rain since July. A very hot, dry summer. But I’m told the fire company is in command and putting it out.”
I slept badly that night, starting up from intermittent jumbled dreams to dwell on Ian, obsessed with memories, one minute hating, the next loving him, now forgiving, now damning him. Finally I fell into deep slumber, and when I awoke it was morning. From the sitting room came the aroma of coffee and the clink of china. I rose from the rumpled bed and slipped on a dressing gown.
“Good morning, darling.” Judah kissed my cheek. “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast. There’s sausages, eggs, ham, fish in sauce . . .,” he enumerated, lifting the domed lids of the various silver dishes laid out on a sideboard next to a damask-covered table.
“I’m not very hungry, Judah. I didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s the heat. The paper”—he indicated a folded copy of the Tribune next to his plate— “says it was eighty-two yesterday.”
I poured the coffee, adding a dollop of cream from a silver pitcher. “Can’t we go home today?” I asked.
“I’d like to, sweet. But there is a man I must see tomorrow. We can catch the train after that.”
“Sundays are always so dull.”
“Hmmmm,” Judah agreed, picking up his paper.
I felt trapped. It was not just this Sunday but the prospect of a whole lifetime of Sundays, the same, predictable, dull, boring domesticity without hope, without love. I thought of Ian again, seeing him in my mind’s eye waking this very morning with that girl’s oval, pink-cheeked face on the pillow next to him, his naked shoulders, the nape of his neck, where the hair curled, as he rose on an elbow to lean over and kiss her, saw those muscled arms go round her, saw—
I got up abruptly and went to a gilt-framed mirror that hung over a marble-topped stand. My face was drawn and there were bruised circles under the eyes. “Do I look old?” I asked Judah.
“Nonsense! You look like a girl of sixteen.”
When we went to bed that night, the wind was still blowing. I had drunk a half glass of brandy before retiring to insure a good night’s sleep, but it seemed I had just closed my eyes when I was roused by Judah shaking my arm.
“Is it morning already?” I asked, groggy, peevish.
“It’s only one-thirty, but you must get up,” he urged.
“Why? What is it?”
“There’s a fire!”
I could hear shouts in the hotel corridor, the banging of doors. “Is the hotel on fire?”
“Not yet. But the city is. Hurry!”
On the other side of the wall a man yelled, “My valise! Where’s my valise?”
Fully awake, I got quickly into my clothes, not bothering with stays. From below on the street rose a clamor of voices, cries of “Fire! Fire!” and the stamp of running feet, the sudden clang of a fire engine.
Judah cried, “Hurry!”
“My jewels!” I scooped them up, stuffing a necklace and bracelet down my bosom, cramming the rest into a reticule.
Judah grabbed my arm and we were out in the corridor, where we were immediately carried forward by a crush of fleeing guests.
“Not the elevator, the stairs!”
I held on to Judah’s arm, afraid I would stumble as we poured down the staircase like flotsam in a rushing millstream. We were shoved along by men and women in every conceivable state of undress, from negligees, capes, nightgowns, and shirttails to blankets and hastily donned frock coats. Most had managed to save some object—a small portmanteau, a giltframed picture, a hatbox, a pet dog. Swept through the lobby, we surged out on to the street, lit up as if it were brightest day.
The fire was several blocks away but advancing from the west, a towering wall of spurting flame licking inexorably toward us, creating a lurid background for the dark figures milling in panic before it. For a few minutes we could only stand rooted, staring in awe at the macabre scene. Even from a distance the torrid heat struck us like the breath from a gigantic blast furnace.
Judah suddenly exclaimed, “God—the cashbox!” and started to run back inside, pushing against the flow of guests who were still coming out.
“No!” I caught his arm. “You can’t go back in there!”
A shout went up from the people on the street. “It’s coming! It’s coming this way!”
“Judah, please listen. It isn’t worth it. Don’t—”
“I’ve got ten thousand in gold up there!” he yelled over his shoulder. “I can’t let it go. I’ve plenty of time.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you’ll only hamper me. No! Let go!” He gave me a violent shove that sent me reeling. And then he was gone.
I stood there, hands clenched, my terrified eyes moving from the approaching fire back to the hotel’s garishly lit windows. Other guests huddled together beside me, bewildered, in shock, not knowing which way to run.
The fire had reached the corner of our block, roaring like an escaped beast, eating hungrily into wood, melting stone, twisting steel.
A sooty-faced man dressed in workman’s clothing, carrying a babe in his arms, was stopped by one of the hotel people.
“Where is everyone going?”
“To the lake!” he shouted, pointing with his chin, before he hurried on.
But, like me, the other guests were strangers to the city, and its geography was a puzzle.
“Where? Where?” the murmur went around.
Pride's Folly Page 7
