She hurried past the whistles and stares, down a long hallway, and emerged into a rear courtyard. Two men ran back and forth, lunging to smack a red ball against the brick face of the next building. The sweat made their shirtless backs shine, and the sound of the ball against the brick echoed over their grunting. When the bigger of the two missed, he shouted a word Fiona had grown unaccustomed to hearing.
The other man laughed, and when he turned to see where the ball went Fiona smiled at him, more than she had meant to. He was already smiling, and breathing hard.
Nobody said anything, and Fiona stood mute, eyes fixed on Anders. She tried, but failed, not to think of the night he’d kissed her. Several speechless seconds passed, and the reason she had come here at all escaped her. Then she remembered—Emmeline, of course, always Emmeline—and wondered what the famous Miss Carter would think if she saw Anders like this. The last time the three of them were together, Anders wasn’t much taller than Emmeline, and almost as slender. Now his chest was broad and his jaw was square. A scar made two halves of his bottom lip, where it had been busted more than once. His arms were muscled and his tobacco-leaf hair was shaved on the sides so that it grew, brush-like, over his forehead. Only his eyes were the same, that light blue like the noon sky down at the horizon line.
“And who might this be?” said the other man. He was older, with a full beard and a belly that overhung his trousers, and he spoke with the old country accent, as though he kept all his words in his jowls.
Anders grinned. “Fiona Byrne, all dolled up.”
The ball had rolled to her feet. To hide her blush, she bent to pick it up.
“Fiona, meet Jem Gallager. He’s training me.”
She glanced at the older man, gripped her skirts, and bent her head in a half-curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Fine manners on that one,” Jem Gallagher said in such a way that it was hard to tell if he was praising or mocking her.
Anders tilted his head. “What are you doing in a place like this, Miss Fiona?”
“Emmeline—”
“Emmeline?” he said, pronouncing the name slowly as though he were afraid of what it might conjure.
“Miss Carter—she sent me. She wants to see you.”
“See me?” He lowered his eyes and touched the place on his lip where it had split. “Why?”
“She wants to tell you . . .” she began. She had planned what to say, but it was difficult to remember the precise words now. Anders was holding his breath, and his eyes widened while he waited for her to finish. If he cared that Emmeline was engaged, she thought her heart might just stop. “She has something she has to tell you.”
“Ah. Emmeline Carter has something to tell me.” In an instant, Anders lost his easy, smiling manner. His shoulders drew taut and his eyes became dark and she saw the truth in what Jack said—Anders might well be the best boxer anywhere. He had fight. “That she’s engaged? I know. The whole city knows. It was in the papers.”
His voice was so forceful, Fiona had to glance away. “Yes. Of course. I think she just wanted to . . .” she mumbled. She felt embarrassed by the older man’s presence, over in the corner of the courtyard, but Anders seemed not to care if he overheard. “To tell you herself. Because it was always you two who were supposed to be married. . . .”
Anders was nodding, not quite in agreement. His throat worked, and she felt sorry for him. She wished he would say that was all childish nonsense, that that was all a long time ago. But he didn’t. For a while he didn’t say anything, and then he went on in a quiet way. “I suppose she might. She would want that now. But it’s been two years since I had a lone word from her, and she ought to have thought of that before. I’ve got a match tonight, so I’ll tell you plain: I don’t care what Emmeline wants.”
“Oh.” For a moment Fiona had no idea what she felt. She was only conscious of feeling presumptuous, and a little stupid, on Emmeline’s behalf. She nodded stiffly, and extended her hand with the ball for him to take. “I’ll tell her.”
Anders’s body relaxed again when he came toward her. His hand closed over hers, taking the ball, and she felt the press of his fingertips down the backs of her legs. “Tell her whatever you like. Or nothing. You, on the other hand—you are a welcome sight.” He grinned, tossed the ball in a high arc, and caught it. “Though you’re a hard one to get a word with.”
Like that, Emmeline was out of mind—that morning’s mission, the many tasks Fiona would perform over the long day ahead. All she knew was Anders, with his sharp dimples and taste for pranks; Anders who had been trying to make her smile since she was a little girl. They were just two children of the neighborhood, striving as best they could, laughing when they were able. They understood each other, and always had. With a courtly nod of his head, Anders turned back to the game. But he glanced over his shoulder, winked, and called out: “Don’t you make yourself a stranger around here, Miss Byrne.”
Fiona had no idea what she looked like then. His suggestion—that he had noticed her absence, and wanted more of her—caused such a riot of joy within that it was impossible to know what her outsides were up to. The best she could manage was a quick nod and a murmured “All right, then.” As she fled back through Jem’s, she scarcely noticed her surroundings, and when she crossed the threshold into the bright afternoon, she put her hand over her mouth to hide the smile that had spread quite involuntarily all over her face.
Five
The newly opened Palmer House shall soon be Chicago’s choice place to strike a deal or exhibit a new gown. Eight stories, two hundred and twenty-five rooms, the gathering places impeccably decorated with Carrara marble and French chandeliers. It is not only luxurious, but also a safe haven in a combustible city. Mr. Palmer has installed fire hoses on every floor, telegraphic alarms in every room, and claims it is the only fireproof hotel in the country.
—Foley’s Guide to American Hotels for Businessmen of Taste
“And for the honeymoon?” asked Bertha Palmer.
“We will go to the Riviera,” Emmeline replied. “Frederick has never been to that part of France,” she added hastily, to obscure the fact that she had never been anywhere.
“Very good,” said Daisy Fleming, over a low murmur of approval.
The drawing room in the penthouse suite of the Palmer House, where Bertha Palmer held her afternoons, was a study in gold. The damask wallpaper was gold and the sofas and divans were gold and the carpet was a pattern of interlocking ivory and gold lilies. Bertha and her guests—ten young women whose fathers controlled railroads and stockyards and newspapers—were wearing pale day dresses, and arrayed in twos and threes across the furniture. Emmeline sat opposite them, on an upholstered wing chair, in a dress of bright blue polka-dotted chiffon with billowing sleeves and a high neck. She had never understood before this afternoon how it could flay the nerves to be the focus of so much attention.
“And where will you live?”
“When we return from Europe we plan to take a suite at one of the hotels downtown,” Emmeline began. “Perhaps here.” Bertha nodded encouragingly, so Emmeline pressed on: “Eventually we shall build our own house, but that will take time, and we don’t yet know what part of town we prefer. The style will depend, I suppose, on what we see while we’re on the continent. . . .” Emmeline had never discussed this with Freddy—she was just making it up as she went along—but the other ladies’ faces lit up in admiration and approval. With every breath her voice became more sure, her plans more bold. “I intend to tour many grand estates, and learn a great deal about the decoration and maintenance of elegant homes. I don’t want to make any permanent decisions before I have absorbed all Europe has to offer. I want our home to be exquisite, and we will host a lot of parties and balls, so it ought to be pleasing to the eye and senses. You must all come!”
Bertha Palmer smiled. Daisy Fleming smiled. Ada Garrison very nearly split her face with smiling. Only Cora Russell glowered.
“An
d the dress?” Cora asked ironically as she lifted her gold-rimmed teacup to her lips.
“My wedding dress? Oh, it’s divine! I modeled it on Queen Victoria’s, with heaps and heaps of lace, and bare shoulders, and a very full hoop skirt and pink trim and . . .”
“My.” Cora placed her teacup in its saucer, so that it rang out like an alarm. A fraught hush came over the room. Cora’s mouth twisted at the corners. With chilly delight, she continued, “Now doesn’t that sound . . . interesting.”
Emmeline bit her lip and glanced at the others, waiting to see who would defend her against Cora’s bitterness. Several seconds passed in which no one would meet her eye.
“Well.” Bertha put down her plate and brushed her hands together, as though purifying them of crumbs. “You know you can’t wear that.”
Emmeline wasn’t sure if she was actually dying, or if she just wanted to die very, very badly. “What?”
Daisy was looking at her now, and it was worse than not being looked at. “You’ll seem old, dear.”
Ada’s gaze had been fixed on her lap, but she lifted her eyes—one twitching a little—to meet Emmeline’s. “That is a very old-fashioned style, Emmeline,” she said carefully. “It was thirty years ago that Victoria was married. You really ought to have a narrower skirt nowadays.”
“And a bustle.” Bertha picked up the small poodle that had been sleeping at her feet. “Not a hoop.”
“And the bare shoulders? Everyone will think Freddy found you in a house of New Orleans.” Cora giggled. “But then, maybe he did.”
“There’s still time,” Ada ventured, glancing at the others.
“Yes, but not much.” Bertha sighed. “She must go to Mr. Polk at Field and Leiter.”
“Mr. Polk, of course.” Ada nodded vigorously.
Bertha clutched her dog as she addressed Emmeline. “Mr. Polk does wonderful work. He will be very put out. It will cost a great deal. But I’m afraid there’s no other choice.”
The ladies settled deeper into their seats. They folded their hands and lifted their chins.
“Thank goodness I found you.” Emmeline forced a smile and hoped that her embarrassment didn’t show too much. She tried her best to appear like an earnest student, grateful to receive the lessons of a master. “I have so much to learn from all of you!”
“You do, darling, but don’t worry. We all must learn somehow.” Bertha smiled magnanimously. “I will send Mr. Polk a note of introduction myself this afternoon. Do not wait till tomorrow.”
“Of course not. Thank you. Thank you so very—” She broke off when she saw the figure hovering out in the hall. Fiona—good, constant Fiona. Emmeline gazed at her friend, tilting her head slightly in the direction of the other girls, with the thought that Fiona would quickly understand what a trial this all was, and give her a reassuring nod in return.
But Fiona must have interpreted Emmeline’s gesture a different way. Must have thought Emmeline was summoning her. For in the next moment, she entered the parlor in a hurry.
Ten elaborate coiffures turned in the direction of the intruder, just in time to see Fiona almost stumble on an enormous potted fern in her haste to cross the floor. Too late, Emmeline remembered what she had told her friend yesterday—“Go to Anders, and when you have news about him, find me, right away, wherever I am.” Though she willed Fiona to turn around, to disappear, she kept coming, all the way to the wing chair, where she knelt and began to whisper in Emmeline’s ear.
“I’ve talked to him. He already knew about the engagement, because it was in the papers. So you don’t have to worry, it’s all right with him.”
Bertha and her friends watched, their faces frozen in surprise at this interruption. Only Cora made an expression. She appeared quite happy, which was how Emmeline knew what a bad blunder it was. In the ensuing silence, Emmeline felt her stomach drop, and drop again. This afternoon had gone so wrong so fast, and she felt shocked, and rather snubbed, by Anders’s indifference to her message. Who was he, anyway, to turn her down?
Meanwhile, Fiona’s face bore a pleased, expectant look, as though she were waiting to be told what a good job she had done.
“Fiona Byrne,” Emmeline said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is quite inappropriate. Mrs. Palmer has not invited you in. When I am ready to leave I will call for you from the lobby.”
It took all of Emmeline’s power to turn away, toward the small gold side table where she had placed her teacup, and, with a show of casualness, pick it up. She took a sip, feigning that none of this had disturbed her much, and gave the party a rueful smile.
“What was I just saying? Oh yes, how much I need your help. I do apologize. And you see it is not just me but my maid who will be needing lessons from you in style and grace. She begs your pardons.”
To her relief, the company twittered with amusement. Fiona was on the other side of the room by then, and Emmeline was glad she did not have to look at her. It pained her to speak sharply to her old friend, as though ordering her about, and she hoped Fiona understood. For Emmeline was only doing what she had to do. Only keeping up appearances, after this disaster of an afternoon.
Later that night, lying unable to sleep in the darkness of her bedroom, Emmeline clasped Anders’s claddagh as though it might tell her what to do. She wished someone, or something, would. Since she had moved to Dearborn, she had conducted every day with a single purpose, which was to transform herself into what she was finally on the verge of becoming—a young lady of fashion and position—but now, propped up against goose-down pillows, with her hair brushed and bound in braids, she felt directionless.
Throughout her education in walking, talking, etiquette, and dress, Fiona had been her loyal companion. In fact, Fiona had always been better at understanding what was and wasn’t allowed in polite society, and who was who. Sometimes, when Emmeline’s interest in the interminable rules slipped, she would keep on just because she could sense that it pleased Fiona, sense that Fiona was charmed by all the decorum, all the million little ways a lady crafted her persona. But that afternoon, when it really mattered, Emmeline had failed as a specimen of fine manners, and Fiona had made the scene worse. On the ride home from Field & Leiter they had not spoken, and after dinner Emmeline had claimed headache, and said she would draw her own bath.
And so she had been left alone, with no one to talk to, trying in vain to understand Anders’s message. Perhaps the ring had no meaning. Perhaps Anders hadn’t cared for her anymore already, when she left the neighborhood. It was only a childish romance between them anyway, a fairy tale they’d told to entertain each other. What else could he have meant when he told Fiona it was all right with him that Emmeline was engaged? Anyway, it should be all right. Freddy was the ideal fiancé, and her life was exactly as she’d worked so hard to make it. Acting as though Anders had never existed should be easy. She twisted in the sheets, pulling the covers over her head, and wished that he never had. But that was when she saw the faces of Bertha Palmer’s “best girls,” lined up in judgment of her, smirking at the wedding gown she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl.
She threw herself to the other side of the bed, but she found that she was still holding tight to the ring, and that her fist was unwilling to let it go. She thought that if she only went to sleep, her palm would open, she would lose it in the sheets, one of the maids would shake it out in the morning, and she would be done with that part of her life. But the more she tried to sleep, the more relentless memories of Anders became: the sensation of his lips after he put the ring on her finger, the sweet promises they used to make to each other, that first taste of love. What a rush it had been to suspect and then know that he loved her, and to feel her own heart seeking him at all hours of the day. She had seen her own beauty for the first time reflected in Anders’s face, and she felt sad thinking he might never look at her like that again.
It had been love—maybe it wasn’t now, but it had been. That was the only explanation for why her mind wo
uldn’t drift to sleep, why her feet were carrying her across the floor, why she struck a match to ignite the gas lamp in her dressing room, the better to choose what to wear. She chose the cerise blouse with the loose sleeves and the fitted neck and wrists, which showed all the ways her figure had changed since last she saw Anders, and the long, dark skirt that skimmed her body like a mermaid’s tail. Her hair looked lovely already in its careless pile, so she pinned a few strands and then went down the servants’ stairs, holding her boots so that they wouldn’t clack. She was lacing them, perched on the edge of the narrow bed in Fiona’s small room, when Fiona stirred and woke.
There was a question in her eyes, so Emmeline spoke in a rush: “Remember those summer nights when no one cared very much what we did? We’d go wandering with Anders, down alleys and over rooftops? Shouldn’t we have a night like that—now, before everything changes forever?”
Emmeline could see that Fiona remembered those nights, for she shuddered a little at the memory—how Anders would lay down a board between buildings and they would dash from one to another, thrilled by their own fear. But Fiona must still have felt sore over the way Emmeline had spoken about her that afternoon at Bertha’s, because she seemed determined to tell her friend no.
“Come on, it will be fun,” Emmeline pleaded.
Fiona shook her head, and gestured at the walls as though they might be listening. “We couldn’t possibly,” she whispered. “Anyway, Anders is boxing tonight.”
Perhaps, on another night, Fiona’s reluctance would have held Emmeline back. Would have seemed sensible, and provoked her own fears. But she was already dressed up in such a way that she would have felt quite sorry for herself if she had to go back upstairs to bed, and she was determined to find Anders, to see his face and understand what he had meant to her life. It seemed suddenly like the only thing of any importance.
“Well that’s even better,” Emmeline replied, not bothering to lower her voice. “We can go cheer him on,” she explained with a grin, and Fiona didn’t have an answer for that.
When We Caught Fire Page 4
