When We Caught Fire

by Anna Godbersen

  Dedication

  For Marty,

  who told me the best love story

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Before and After

  Before

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  After

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Afterword

  Historical Background of When We Caught Fire

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Anna Godbersen

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Before and After

  By morning the city had fallen. We had not seen the sky in a long time; even the sky was made of fire. The State Street Bridge was impassable, they said. The Rush Street Bridge, too. The streets were littered with objects that had once seemed valuable enough to carry, but now lay abandoned. The explosions did not frighten us anymore, for they came too frequently—sounds rang out, like a battle being waged one block over, every time a building went down.

  Some would never recover, while for others it was the beginning of everything. For the ruined and reborn alike, there was simply before and after. And the moment that divided these two eras—the moment that old barn turned to tinder—would become a source of wild speculation and grand mythology.

  Despite all the talk, it had been just us three when the fire started, and we would remain, forever, the only ones who knew what really happened.

  Before

  One

  The pleasure of your company

  is kindly requested

  for a small luncheon to inaugurate the celebration

  of the Carter-Tree wedding

  at the Carter residence

  Wednesday, October 4, 1871

  Noon

  The room was full of her name.

  In the two years that Emmeline Carter had lived with her father in the limestone mansion on Dearborn, north of the river, the big front parlor had never been as full as this—full of people, and full of iced delicacies, and full of servants lifting golden trays laden with champagne flutes above the heads of the guests. Full of ruffled skirts cascading over extravagant bustles, full of the confident talk of men in tailcoats custom-cut just for them. But mostly it was full of the name Emmeline, whispered with envy and approval from every corner, so that the edges of her ears went pink and her eyes became bright. Her step was light and her laugh was easy and her dress, of blush crepe de chine, floated around her slender limbs like a summer cloud. She did not think she had ever been so happy. By week’s end she would have everything she ever wanted.

  “Miss Carter, my dear, come along,” said Mrs. Garrison, whose name at birth had been Ada Arles Tree.

  Emmeline, never overfond of being told what to do, chafed at this command. But come Sunday she would be calling Ada “sister,” and now did not seem an advantageous time to contradict her wishes. So Emmeline banished her pout, clasped the hand of young Mrs. Palmer—to whom she had just been introduced—bowed her head, and made a low curtsy. “Thank you, truly, for coming to our little party,” she said with a modest fluttering of eyelashes. “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “No, no, contrary-wise, the pleasure is mine,” said Mrs. Palmer, who was sitting on the divan with the silk sapphire upholstery. Although the piece was quite old—Father had recently become something of a collector—the wooden armrests were polished to a high shine. “I find you quite charming. Will you come for a tea at the house tomorrow? I have a little afternoon every week, all the best girls. You must be one of us.”

  Although Emmeline wanted to clarify that by “house” Mrs. Palmer meant the massive hotel that bore her married name, she sensed that it would be gauche to do so. Rich people were always referring to mansions as cottages, to enormous carriages as buggies. And to be one of them, a girl had to adopt their funny way of talking.

  As they continued through the throng, Ada clutched Emmeline by the elbow and said in a hushed, excited way, “I cannot tell you what a coveted invitation that is. She would never have you into her set if she weren’t confident of your future success. Nobody is more discerning than Bertha.”

  Emmeline replied with a vague smile and a guileless tilt of the head, although she hardly needed any explication of Mrs. Palmer’s importance. The name Potter Palmer was carved with gold leaf into the lintels of several big buildings in the shopping district—all the ladies knew him, because of his department store—and when he married Bertha Honoré a year ago it was all anyone had talked about. As a wedding present, he’d given her an actual hotel, the brand-new and very grand Palmer House, on State Street.

  At this time last year, nobody had sent invitations to the Carters, a family of two who had installed themselves four seasons prior in the block-wide property between Huron and Superior, without having any social connection to the place. Emmeline had spent that fall greedy for every detail: of Bertha’s trousseau; the names of those invited to her wedding, and what they ate; the pattern on the specially designed luggage for the round-the-world honeymoon via ocean liner. And she had vowed that by the time she was Bertha’s age—twenty-one—she would have a wedding just as spectacular. But here she was, quite ahead of her goal—just eighteen and engaged to be married to Frederick Arles Tree, who was an even better groom than Potter Palmer: at twenty-four, he was two decades younger, and such a good dancer, and the son of a banker, besides. His uncle was a senator, and so might Freddy be one day.

  Senator Frederick Tree, didn’t that sound just perfect? She thought of him as Freddy, everybody did, although she would not say the nickname in his hearing. He preferred Frederick, and insisted on being called by his proper name.

  Married! She could hardly believe it. He had only proposed three months prior; she knew the date exactly. It had been July third—moody weather, with big drops pelting the windowpanes—and he had come calling at the Carter residence, and said that he wanted to announce their engagement at the Ogdens’ Independence Day picnic. The ring was a great cluster of diamonds that covered her finger from knuckle to joint, and she didn’t hear half of what Freddy said, so distracted was she by its shimmery light. She knew she’d never forget that day. It was the last she remembered rain.

  A servant in burgundy livery—he must have been hired for the party, for Emmeline did not recognize him—passed then with a plate of strawberries, and Emmeline took one and put it in her mouth. “Who shall we introduce me to now?” she asked Ada, lifting an eyebrow in giddy anticipation. She had just met the most socially discerning woman in Chicago, and was aflutter wondering who would be next.

  “Let us pause here a spell,” Mrs. Garrison replied, drawing herself up and casting her keen gaze across the parlor. They had reached the doorway onto the foyer. The clatter and bustle of preparations for a lavish luncheon could be heard from the dining room on the foyer’s far side.

  Everything before her was new, except the obj
ects that were expensively old. The herringbone floor gleamed, as did the gilt frames of the giant mirrors that hung on every wall. Emmeline caught herself in one of these, and admired the narrow waist and drooping sleeves of her gown, her full pink lips and sloe-eyed glance. Her brass-colored hair was parted at the middle and plaited at the crown, and it curled in little wisps along her forehead. Guests were still arriving, coming up the wide stone steps from the vast front lawn, and she felt annoyed with Ada, who could be so old and meddling and married sometimes. Emmeline had practiced for several solitary years to be the center of attention, and now that she had arrived there, she was impatient to meet absolutely everybody.

  “Goodness, what a showing.” Emmeline overheard one of the new arrivals saying from just outside the parlor. “The whole world is here.”

  “How the curious do flock to the scene of the crime,” replied another in an arid tone.

  “My darling Miss Russell, don’t be bitter,” admonished the first speaker. “In time, it will ruin your face. Look around you. What a fabulous to-do!” She stepped into the doorway, revealing herself as a petite woman clothed in widow’s black. “Mark my words, these nuptials will be the most talked about event in Chicago this year.”

  Ada leaned in toward Emmeline and whispered, “Mrs. Fletcher Fleming,” in quiet reverence. “The most admired beauty of her day,” she went on in a murmur. “In the drawing rooms of this city, her word is absolute.”

  Emmeline turned with naked curiosity to see the second speaker, who passed through the open pocket doors to join her interlocutor upon a sweep of vermilion skirt. She did not need to be told her name: it was Cora Russell, who had been escorted by Freddy at her coming out four years before, and who gossips said had waited too long for his proposal. In the spring, she had absented herself on a trip to Paris in order that his heart grow fonder, which was when it found Emmeline instead.

  “I don’t care what you say,” Cora said as she took Mrs. Fleming’s arm. “What’s all the fuss about? She’s new, that’s all. Freddy is always distracted by anything new.”

  “Pay no heed to that,” Ada whispered as the two women were absorbed into the crowd. “She is jealous, of course.”

  But Emmeline was untroubled by Cora’s words. They meant that she, Emmeline Carter, who two years ago had been a nameless nobody, was worth envying. There were so many eyes in that room, and they all seemed to search for her. The girls who had known Freddy since childhood and the men who frequented his club and the long-married women who entertained themselves by speculatively matchmaking the younger generation. On the far side of the room was Father, in a jacket of charcoal velvet, glancing at her now and then as though looking at his most prized possession. In another doorway Fiona hovered in her plain black pinafore, watchful to see if she were needed, her eyes shiny with excitement to match Emmeline’s own. But mostly there was Freddy, in a cutaway jacket of dashing blue, his tall, lean body forging a path through the crowd as he strode in her direction.

  Although Freddy had not called for the room’s attention, he had it, just by walking. He was six feet tall and his blond hair grew long—he had to tuck it behind his ears to keep it away from his sable brown eyes. Frederick, she reminded herself, but that sounded so angular and self-serious, and Freddy wasn’t like that at all. Freddy was wonderful. Whenever he came to see her he brought a dozen roses and afterward he’d take her out for rides in his fast little horse trap. People on the street stared, remarking, “There goes a handsome couple,” for Freddy always dressed with care. He had his clothes made for him in Europe, a place they would go together, he said, once they were married.

  Everybody turned toward him, ceasing their previous conversations. Upon reaching Emmeline’s side he took her hand. As she gazed up at him, he put his free hand inside his jacket’s lapel, and removed a leather-bound case—his every action smooth, as though for him the world contained no mysteries, and nothing he could not possess. With a flick of his thumb, the case popped open. Inside, resting on silk, was a golden diadem with a little ruby-dotted peak. Emmeline’s feet suddenly seemed very far away; the jeweled crown was the stuff of little girls’ dreams, almost too grand to believe. In the next moment, Freddy had placed it on her head.

  “It belonged to my late grandmother,” he said, adding, in an impressive tone: “to Genevieve Gage Arles.”

  The elegant guests were regarding her wide-eyed, as they had all afternoon, although perhaps more reverently. They very nearly gaped, as at a princess at her coronation. She beamed at her fiancé, unable to disguise her sense of triumph.

  “Oh, Freddy, thank you.” She gasped. “It’s perfect!”

  He was staring down at her with a look she’d never seen before. His lips parted and his eyebrows went together, as though on the verge of a very serious thought. A fear arose, that he was angry at her for saying his nickname out loud. Then she saw it wasn’t that at all. He wanted to kiss her; he actually might! He had never kissed her before—only on the hand and cheek, and that when no one was watching—although she had on occasion sensed that he wanted something more. But she had been careful, and always modestly demurred, the better to hold his interest, which had been Father’s advice. The trick is to have them always coming to you, Father said.

  Only once in her life had she been kissed for real.

  For a moment, the memory of that kiss was more vivid than her surroundings, than any of the people watching her, more vivid than Freddy himself, and Emmeline was afraid that the girl she used to be was plain for all to see, and that they would know she was an impostor.

  “A toast!” Emmeline heard her father’s voice, booming from the far side of the room. “To the affianced couple, and the merging of our families.”

  Freddy was smiling like nothing had happened, and he took her hand chastely in his. A fleet of liveried servants appeared with fresh glasses and bottles of champagne. Emmeline was given a glass, and she tried to smile. From every corner people were shouting.

  “To Frederick and Emmeline!”

  “To happiness!”

  “To love!”

  Emmeline knew she ought to be joyful. But she could not shake a sudden feeling that something, somehow, was all wrong. She was surrounded by so many bodies, and the room was warm with their breath. The air was stale and heated by the sun on the big windows. Her skin prickled. She raised her glass, not quite to her lips, and tipped it.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as though surprised. The champagne was cool down the front of her dress.

  Freddy glanced at her, sidelong. “Are you all right?”

  “A little overwhelmed, perhaps. How clumsy of me. Allow me just a few minutes to clean up.”

  A stark quiet came over the parlor as she hurried toward the doorway. Just as she reached it, she heard Cora Russell say, “Of course one can take the pigs off the farm. That is how ham is made.”

  There were many reasons that Emmeline was glad to have reached the door, the most pressing of which being that only a few people were positioned to see how Cora’s comment inflamed her cheeks. But she did not yet regret spilling champagne on herself, did not regret making a scene. All she wanted was to be alone with Fiona, and to discuss the precise wording of the message that Fiona must deliver. The memory of that kiss had opened a window onto her previous life, and she knew that, however perfectly she had conducted herself since meeting Freddy, she had left unfinished some business of her old self, with its old desires. But, with Fiona’s help, she could seal all that up and bury it for good.

  And then her true life would finally begin.

  Two

  When Clotilde felt Guillaume’s stare scorch the skin of her bare shoulder from across the room, she knew how it was for Joan of Arc—engulfed in passion, consumed by flames, eternally grateful to be in this way reduced to ash.

  —Aurelie Auber, The Loves of Clotilde

  “Why are you standing there like a fool? It isn’t happening to you, you know.”

  To Fiona Byrne, half hid
ing behind the mahogany doorframe onto the parlor, these words had the sound of a whip cracked at her ear. She had almost forgotten herself, so absorbed in reverie had she been, watching the Carters’ guests, trying to match them in her mind with the names on the list of invitees.

  “It is happening to me, too,” she shot back before she had a chance to think.

  The girl was unfamiliar, and just a maid like herself, outfitted in a white shirtwaist and long, plain black skirt much like Fiona’s, and carrying two richly embroidered wraps folded over her arms. Her lips twisted in mirth, but she did not laugh outright.

  “Oh, is it? How nice for you.” Her gaze shifted in the direction of the parlor and she pointed to a young woman, in a skirt of brilliant red with a little matching jacket, newly arrived and making her way to the center of things. “That one’s mine. Miss Cora Russell—just as fancy as she sounds. Everything that happens to her happens to me, too. You wouldn’t believe how exhausting it is being fitted for all those gowns.”

  For a moment, Fiona’s moss-green eyes got big. In the three years she’d worked as Emmeline’s lady’s maid, she had never had an item of clothing made for her. She was a good seamstress, and often repaired or improved the dressmaker’s creations for Emmeline, but she never had spare hours to make anything nice for herself. But a second later she realized that the other girl was being ironical, and blushed at her own stupidity. “I suppose it would be” was all she could think to say.

  The other maid appraised her. “Show me where the coatroom is,” she said, “and I’ll tell you the way of things.”

  By the time they arrived in the basement, Fiona had resolved not to say much. She knew that her situation was difficult to explain—it was really only she and Emmeline who understood it—and there was no reason to tell Cora Russell’s lady’s maid that, although Fiona was the one who helped Emmeline dress in the morning, and also later in the day if she was going to a party, and arranged her hair, and drew her bath, and served her tea if she was being called upon by somebody of importance, she didn’t think of Emmeline as her mistress. They were best friends, and had been as far back as Fiona could remember. The two of them, and Anders.