Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Because it seems we are both ready to relax and simply enjoy a few hours together. It will be a nice change. Everything between us seems so complicated.”

  The light in his eyes faded. “It is.”

  As if their feelings were conjoined, she felt that same lightness evaporate from her good mood. What were they going to do if their worst fears came to light?

  “Don’t,” he ordered. “Don’t think about it. Not yet.”

  She nodded. He was right.

  When a grip car came clanging forward, he held out a hand. “Good. It’s right on time.”

  With his assistance, she easily hopped on. It wasn’t very crowded. Also, the few men and women riding seemed happy to give them a wide berth. Lydia knew why. Even dressed in his well-tailored suit and silk-covered hat, Sebastian was a man who emanated power.

  She’d never felt more safe in anyone’s company.

  Since he didn’t seem inclined to talk or give her the slightest hint of where they might be going, Lydia contented herself with observing the sights and sounds around them. Day workers were scurrying on errands. Women were pushing buggies, and other women were walking in pairs, holding canvas bags of produce or meat.

  Faint smells drifted upward, both from the stockyards and the lake and river. There was a decided chill in the air, made more so by the faint breeze brought on by the grip car’s fast pace.

  When they stopped again, Sebastian assisted her off, then took her up a flight of stairs to the landing for the elevated train. Soon they were seated in a car, traveling over rails and bridges toward the outskirts of the city.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were alighting, and Lydia realized they were at Jackson Park, the sight of the World’s Fair that had closed at the end of October.

  The fair had begun with all the pomp and circumstance befitting an event anticipated around the world. In contrast, it had ended with little fanfare. Chicago’s mayor had died unexpectedly, and several fires had broken out in the White City, mainly due to the nature of the plaster and wood that had made up the majority of the area.

  To make matters worse, the Society Slasher had been abducting and killing women there, ending with his subsequent arrest when none other than the Illinois building had been burning down.

  These events manifested a certain amount of distaste and fear, and most everyone in the city avoided the grand structures.

  They were tainted now. Tainted by time and murders and fire and danger. And, perhaps, by the evidence that the structures’ beauty was on the outside only.

  Lydia shivered, thinking about how everything that had stood so ethereal and grand had been ruined by a few sparks.

  She was also confused. This was definitely not a place where most people decided to come on a whim. “What are we doing here?”

  “I thought we might enjoy visiting Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show. It’s closing this week. Have you been yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised. An inquisitive young lady like you? I would have thought you would have enjoyed the opportunity to see the real Indians.”

  “I’ve been more intrigued by the stories of Annie Oakley,” she admitted.

  “But?”

  “But you know how the prices have been. At the peak of the fair, it cost more to see the show than to get into the fair itself.”

  “Then by all means, let us rectify this omission.”

  They walked to the entrance of the Midway. Lydia was struck by the faded glory that it had already become. Several of the main attractions, like the native sword dancers and the infamous Streets of Cairo were already closed. Now there were only some desperate peddlers selling Cracker Jacks, some scantily clad women offering to tell their fortunes, and, of course, the magnificent, looming Ferris Wheel.

  After paying for their tickets to the show, Sebastian guided them to their seats and seemed content to simply sit quietly.

  She, of course, was far too interested in everything to sit so quietly. As it had been in the grip car and on the elevated train, all manner of people gave her a passing glance, took note of Sebastian, and then kept their distance.

  Because they still had some time before the show began, she turned to him. “What is it about you that alarms so many people, even men?”

  “I don’t think that is the case.”

  “No, it’s true. When men recognize your face, they look scared.”

  “Hardly.”

  “What do you do? Do you glare at everyone? Or do they know something about you that I do not?”

  “Your question is indelicate.”

  “I agree. But I would still like to know.”

  “It is most likely both things. I grew up on the streets, Lydia. I did not grow up imagining that anyone had my best interests at heart.”

  She shuddered to think how he’d learned that. She knew he had a right to his privacy, but now that they were engaged, she ached to know more about him. Even his dark secrets. “What was it like?”

  “It was nothing you need to be concerned about.”

  “I’d rather learn something more about you. Did your mother never shield you?”

  His lips pressed together. “She had no choice. For that matter, she did more for me than many. Many young boys and girls made their living as veritable mud larks, combing the banks of the lakes and rivers for debris that could be sold.”

  “Did you ever do that?”

  “From time to time.” His voice sounded carefully controlled.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said lightly. “I learned long ago that life is full of peaks and valleys. It takes both to build character. And, if the Lord is good, one has years to experience both.”

  His words made sense and spurred a memory of something she’d heard long ago. “My father used to say that we are not living in heaven.”

  His eyes lit up. “That is correct. We can’t expect only happiness here on earth. One must experience a bit of dirt and grime. Builds character, you see.”

  She knew she shouldn’t press him. Knew it was foolhardy to ask for more than he was offering, but against her better judgment, she asked, “How do you feel about your life now? Are you in a peak or valley?”

  He lifted her hand and slid his fingers in between hers. “There was a murder outside my club two nights ago.”

  “Yes.” She was such a fool for asking.

  “The police consider me a suspect.”

  “Forgive me.” She looked at the seats around them. Men and women from all walks of life were filling them. A few children were there as well, their hands holding containers of popcorn. This was neither the time nor the place.

  He continued. “Your reputation is in disarray, and furthermore, you’ve been put in danger. Both of those things are my fault.”

  “No, I am to—”

  “But in spite of all of that, I do believe right now, at this moment, I am at the top of a mountain.”

  “Sebastian? Truly?”

  He looked at their surroundings, as if truly noticing the horses at the edge of the stage, the Western riders in their chaps and tall hats, the, well, the incredible grandeur of it all.

  Then he stared at their joined hands and smiled. “I am engaged. To you.” His voice held a note of surprise. As if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “And because of that, my life has never been so good. Though things might change in a day, even in an hour? For this moment, I am grateful.”

  His words stole her heart. All her life she’d felt awkward and disjointed. Never good enough, never right.

  Until now.

  “I feel as though I am at a pinnacle as well,” she said quietly.

  “That makes me happy.”

  It made her happy too. Even though there was much she didn’t know about Sebastian, and some of what she did know made her rather uneasy, she completely agreed with his assessment of their situation. No matter what might happen in the future, for now, things were good. And that was something to b
e grateful for and to never take for granted.

  Even if that moment could be gone in practically the blink of an eye.

  CHAPTER 27

  CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

  January 26, 1894—Special Edition

  Reported by Benson Gage

  Aided by a new and strong police presence brought on by Jason Avondale’s murder, Camp Creek Alley is now rather safe to visit. However, as long as Sebastian Marks’ famed Silver Grotto is closed, there is little reason to go.

  Look who the cat brought in,” Gwen said when Bridget emerged from her room at the Hartman Hotel late in the afternoon.

  Once again, Gwen and Mabel were loitering outside her doorway, looking as eager as ever to chat and gossip. And, no doubt, collect some tidbits to relay to the other staff members.

  “Good afternoon to you both,” Bridget said, wondering why she’d ever been such good friends with them. Was it because she’d had no one else? Now that she was spending more time with Miss Bancroft and getting to know Vincent better, the women seemed to be nothing but trouble.

  Mabel smiled. “What have you been up to? We heard you’ve been holed up in there for a solid day.”

  “I was tired. That’s all.” Of course, it was so much more than that. She could only pray that Gwen and Mabel didn’t know about Mr. Avondale’s murder . . . and the fact that she was a suspect.

  Seconds later, Gwen squelched that hope. “Is it true what people are saying about him?”

  “You know I don’t gossip about Mr. Marks.”

  “Well, just to let you know, people are saying he killed the gent Jason Avondale right in his own club!” Her eyes glittered with excitement. “Did you see his body? Was it awful?”

  She suddenly felt faint. No doubt it was because she had seen Avondale’s body, the sight of which was more than awful. Then, of course, had come the questioning, which had been terrifying. “I didn’t see anything,” she lied. “I wasn’t even there.” She was never going to talk about that evening again if she could help it.

  The girls exchanged glances. “Now, that’s where we know you are lying. The newsboys are saying that the police have found several people of interest, and one was a certain brown-haired maid.” Gwen cackled. “I told everyone in the kitchen that had to be you.”

  Bridget smiled tightly. “Thank you for filling me in. However, I must be on my way.”

  Mabel reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “You know we’re simply teasing you, dear. Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must be going.”

  “Sure you do,” Gwen proclaimed as she took a step back. “We know you ain’t got time for us no more.”

  Bridget felt bad. She knew she’d hurt Gwen’s and Mabel’s feelings. Furthermore, she knew they hadn’t meant any harm, and they really had been only trying to be friendly. The right thing to do would be to stay with them a little longer and attempt to apologize.

  But the truth was she was so disturbed by everything that had been going on, she hardly trusted herself any longer. It was likely that she wasn’t worthy of friendship, or even capable of it. Her past had also told her that sometimes the very worst things happen even when one has the best of intentions. There was a very good chance that she was only going to make things worse between the three of them if she lingered.

  Therefore, with one last look of apology, she turned away and crept down the back stairs, holding her purse tight against her. She couldn’t afford to let anyone in her life right now.

  That was why she was going to Miss Bancroft’s house that afternoon instead of waiting to report back that evening as Mr. Marks suggested. She needed to keep her job there. If she succeeded, that would be enough.

  Feeling better about her plans, Bridget headed toward the Bancrofts’ townhouse with a determined spring in her step. She was going to be fine. She had to be.

  When she passed a man selling warm pretzels, she gave in to temptation and purchased one. And she had just swallowed her first bite when Sergio Vlas stepped out of a nearby crowd and smiled her way.

  She knew he and Mr. Marks were contemporaries, but that was where the similarities ended. Whereas she trusted Mr. Marks with everything she had, and even though Vlas had been nothing but kind to her on the rare occasions she’d seen him, now she suspected Vlas could be far more dangerous than she ever imagined.

  He had that watch. And he had looked at her so strangely when she’d noticed it when Mr. Marks walked her to the hotel.

  She slipped the pretzel and its paper wrap into a pocket and then gripped the lapels of her coat tightly together as he fell into step beside her. “Ah, Bridget. I thought that was you.”

  “Mr. Vlas. Hello.”

  “No reason for us to keep so formal. You should call me Sergio.”

  She smiled tightly, unsure of what to say next.

  Evidently, he didn’t suffer from such problems. “I am glad we ran into each other.” Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his bulky wool coat, he grinned openly. “The sun is almost shining through the clouds today. If it wasn’t so cold, it would be a nice day to be outside.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered politely, but even as she did, Bridget glanced around, getting her bearings. The Hartman was now three blocks behind her, and the Bancroft townhouse was still several more blocks to her east. Though they were on a main street, she felt as if she was vulnerable in a no man’s land. “Though the day is nice, it, um, makes little difference to me. I am on my way to work.”

  “Yes. To Miss Bancroft’s house, I believe.”

  She stumbled. “You know Miss Bancroft?”

  He reached out and steadied her arm. “Careful,” he cautioned before continuing. “I know you were escorting her through Camp Creek Alley the other night, but of course I don’t know her. A fine woman like that would never want anything to do with a man like me.” After removing his hand from her person, he brushed a stray piece of yarn from his overcoat. “I don’t blame her for that.” He laughed sardonically. “I wouldn’t want to know me either.”

  She certainly wouldn’t be too eager to be talking with him if she didn’t have other people around. “Well, then . . .”

  “But I’ve made it my business to know most everything that happens along Camp Creek Alley,” he declared, his accent becoming more pronounced. “And since she was at the Silver Grotto, she is now a person of my interest.”

  Remembering how they’d seen him the evening of the murder, how he and Mr. Marks had joined forces against those men, her footsteps slowed. The bit of pretzel she’d just eaten suddenly felt too big for her stomach. “Why is that?”

  “Well, she is a suspect in the killing of Jason Avondale. But of course you know that.” He leveled a look her way. “Since you are of interest too.”

  She shivered. “I am unsure how you know all of this.”

  “It is worth my time to know.” His voice came low and his lips curved upward, showing his distinctive crooked teeth. “Don’t worry, Bridget. You don’t have anything to fear from me.”

  She was beginning to feel like she had most everything to fear from him. He knew too much, and he was stepping by her side, and he was leering at her as if he knew a strange and dark secret that even she did not know. “I had nothing to do with Mr. Avondale’s death.”

  “Of course not.” He whistled under his breath. “A woman like you? Of course you didn’t.”

  They were only feet away from the Bancroft home now. Bridget stopped walking, causing Vlas to slow and turn toward her. She had to know what he was getting at.

  “Mr. Vlas, I am not sure what you are trying to tell me.”

  “Sergio,” he corrected. After a beat, he spoke again. “Only that it is better to forget and forgive than to dwell on things you cannot solve or fix.”

  “I am still confused.”

  He stepped closer, his hulking body looming over hers. “Darling, there will come a time when you might find yourself out of a job again,” he said
slowly. “You might find yourself alone and desperate. Maybe you will even feel as if you have no choice in anything, and that it is better to attempt to hide than to reach out to others.” He exhaled. “If that happens, remember that you can always come to me.”

  Gazing up at him, she felt her cheeks heat, just as the rest of her body felt as if she were being frozen stiff.

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  “If that is what you want.” His light-gold eyes shone.

  She knew why he hired women at the Bear and Bull. “Thank you for the offer, but I have no desire to become a prostitute.”

  He laughed. “I am not offering you that, Bridget. Never that.” He looked then at the townhouse ahead of him. “I wouldn’t want to share you with another man.”

  She gaped at him. His interest was of a personal nature? But what kind?

  He met her gaze, then blinked, looking a bit dismayed. “I know it’s hard. I know I’m not easy to look at. I’m not handsome and debonair like your Sebastian Marks. But you might find my rough looks helpful one day. And if not that, then perhaps you will find my devotion worthy of your attention.”

  Bridget wasn’t sure if he was being honest or telling her tales. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved to hear his offer or sickened by it.

  But she did know that for whatever reason, he had gone out of his way to find her. And to offer what small bit of support he could.

  “Thank you,” she blurted. “Thank you for what you just did.”

  A new vulnerability flickered in his eyes. “Of course, Bridget. Of course,” he said.

  As a rush of crowd surged around them, men holding satchels in their arms and women walking with children and their escorts, Bridget watched him depart, his pace much faster than it had been by her side. As he turned the next corner, she saw him unbutton his coat and pull something from his vest.

  She saw the gold chain, the one attached to the pocket watch that had looked exactly like Jason Avondale’s.

  After the Wild West show, Sebastian guided Lydia to the White City. Just a few weeks ago, someone had ordered the remnants of the city to be surrounded by chain-link fence. The fence was poorly executed and even more haphazardly placed in the ground, in no small part, he imagined, because of the time of year. The winter’s cold had settled into the ground in earnest, and driving so many stakes into the solid earth had to feel like one of the trials of Hercules.