Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

  “It’s good to know you’re clever about some things,” Father Michael said. “But even kings get lonely. Come, I’ll show you around.”

  The weird feeling persisted and strengthened as he walked along the aisle, admiring the new pews, side chapels and shrines to those who had perished in the fire. Memories battered at him like wings against a window, and he sensed they were about to break through.

  “Sit down,” Father Michael said, studying his face. “You’ve something on your mind.”

  Dylan sat, but tried his best to dismiss the feeling. “It’s probably fatigue from all the travel.”

  Father Michael leaned down, his voice very soft as he said, “It’s more than that. Open your mind, my friend. Unburden your heart.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Kathleen,” he blurted out, appalled by his own admission.

  “That’s the way love works,” the priest said, completely unsurprised. “It’s no sin.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know what love is? A word. Something I say to a woman to get what I want from her.” Panic hissed in his ears. “And why the hell would anyone—” He broke off, angry with himself for what he had almost said.

  But Father Michael finished the thought for him. “Why would anyone love you? I suppose because of the worthy person you are.”

  He moved aside, and Dylan looked up at a colored window, high over the altar. And then the strangest thing happened. He felt himself going toward that round disk of light, to a place that smelled of old stone and incense. He shut his eyes, trying to run from the memory, but that only made it more vivid. Soft, mournful music echoed through his mind. Time rolled away and he was nine years old again, a small boy left in a railway waiting room by a mother who had never come back.

  All these years he had refused to understand what had transpired. Now finally, in this searing moment, the truth became clear. She had left him to wait at the station while she sought help, but by the time she had found a church, she must have been too ill to return. Perhaps she’d only had time to send a priest to fetch her son before collapsing. He had been taken to a church that night. He remembered now, remembered his pale mother lying in a pine box while the priest asked him her name, and Dylan had refused to give it. From that moment onward, he had regarded himself as something damaged, something not worth keeping.

  “I never knew she was so sick,” he whispered, lost in the pain-tinged memories. “I never knew.” When he opened his eyes, Father Michael was gone and Dylan’s cheeks were wet. He felt drained, but curiously at peace. For the first time in memory, he knew beyond doubt that, long ago, someone had loved him. Her name had been Frances Kennedy. She was lost to him, but the knowledge of her love burned like a fire inside him.

  Father Michael returned, looking not at all surprised by Dylan’s state. “I believe this belongs to you.” He handed him a worn, folded paper. “I saved it from the night of the fire.”

  Dylan looked down at the battered paper in his hand, studying the ornate document and the signature of Kirby Lane, the court clerk who had died that night with a smile and a woman’s name on his lips.

  TWENTY

  Under her homemade dimity dress, Kathleen secretly wore a French garter made of silk and lace. Not the most appropriate article of clothing for doing barn chores, but she had kept the frilly thing, taken from the Pullman car, as a memento of her love affair with Dylan Kennedy. Some lovers gave each other elaborate tokens at their parting, but not Dylan. He had tried his best to leave without a trace. It was silly in the extreme to wear something so fine to do the milking, but no one would know.

  Ah, but he had left an indelible memento, she realized, hefting a bucket in each hand. The memories of loving him were forever etched on her heart, her soul. Those images would never ever leave her. She tried not to think about the fact that the most exciting part of her life was over. She tried to take joy in the ordinary and not compare it to the extraordinary time she had spent with Dylan Kennedy.

  But he would forever be a memory, she thought with a heavy heart. At least she had a family to give her the patience, the wisdom and the time for her wounds to heal. Now that she was home, working at the dairy, she was learning her place in the world. Her family had moved to Canaryville, east of the Union Stockyards. She had folded her dreams away and gone with them.

  Finally, she understood that life was about loving what she had, not coveting something that dangled out of reach.

  Over the hard, busy winter and spring, she had learned to savor the small joys of everyday living—a new litter of kittens in the barn, her little sister’s lost tooth, the sound of her parents laughing together on the front stoop. Things such as these had meant nothing to her before. Now they provided a source of contentment and comfort in the wake of her wild affair with Dylan Kennedy.

  The price of her newfound wisdom was the pain of having loved him beyond all reason. She kept waiting for the hurt to go away, but sometimes, on a dazzling April day like this, it seemed even worse.

  She finished her chores and went to the kitchen to give the little ones their morning tea. Her father sat at the table, a stark white envelope in his hand.

  “What’s that, Da?” she asked.

  “Pegleg Sullivan dropped it off last night.” He held it out to her. “Here. I ain’t much for reading.” But the gleam in his eye hinted that he knew what was in the letter.

  Her hand trembled a little as she opened it. The words blurred, and she had to blink to clear her vision. “It’s an invitation, Da. We’re all to come to a dedication of the new steeple at St. Brendan’s.”

  Her father eyed the card. “We don’t dare disobey a summons from the Lord, then, do we, colleen?”

  * * *

  The spire rose over the tops of the trees, stark and stately in contrast to the puffy clouds riding the lake wind. Kathleen couldn’t stifle a jolt of emotion when she saw the steeple. She recalled Dylan’s mad gymnastics the night of the fire, then his rash promise to restore the ruined steeple. He had surprised them all by keeping that promise. When he’d disappeared, he had left every cent of his earnings with the church.

  In the shadow of the new steeple, a flower garden bloomed, and parishioners and honored guests milled about. Kathleen stepped through the wrought iron gates, spying a lovely gazebo drenched in sunlight. She bit her lip to hold back tears, for the chapel garden was so like the one she had once described to Dylan that it brought back every moment she had spent with him. Swallowing hard, she called herself a fool for turning so soft and sentimental.

  Father Michael appeared, wearing his finest raiments, his young face wreathed in smiles. “A lovely day,” he declared, greeting everyone. “A lovely day for a wedding. Right this way, please, there we are….”

  Kathleen frowned, turning to her parents. “I had no idea about a wedding,” she whispered.

  “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” Bull Waxman’s deep voice was round and mellow with good cheer. He wore a new suit of clothes and a shiny top hat, looking dapper as he led the way to rows of white benches. Father Michael had convinced Bull to stay in Chicago, and he worked at the Quimper Shipyards.

  She was startled to see Vincent Costello standing beside his daughter Faith and Barry Lynch. It couldn’t be their wedding, for they were already married.

  Her confusion mounted as she greeted Judge Roth and Mayor Mason, whom she had not seen since the night of the fire. Lucy Hathaway and Phoebe Palmer from Miss Boylan’s were there, dewy-eyed and whispering behind their hands. Miss Emma Wade Boylan herself, birdlike and excruciatingly proper, tried to glare the others into silence. Kathleen’s former mistress, Deborah Sinclair, had astonished everyone with her marriage to a backwoodsman, and she now lived on a lake island far to the north. So many changes, thought Kathleen with a twinge of wistfulness. Nothing ever stayed the same.

  “Pardon me, miss,” said a masculine voice behind her, “but I believe there is something in your hat.”

  Kathleen froze in her trac
ks as a chill raced up her spine. She told herself to turn and look, but couldn’t move. Vaguely she was aware that her family moved past her and took their places in the chapel garden. And then he was there.

  Dylan Francis Kennedy—looking even more urbane and handsome than he did in her dreams. With the low, throaty laughter she remembered from their first meeting, he reached beneath the brim of her bonnet and produced a small, shiny object. “Ah, you see. There was something in your hat.”

  She tried to remember how to speak, and finally managed to say, “I—I had no idea you’d be here.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew.”

  They stared at each other while the moment filled with birdsong and murmuring voices from the gathering. Without taking his eyes off her face, Dylan lifted her hand and slid on the ring he had “found” in her hat.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she whispered, trying not to feel the wild hope in her heart.

  “Ah, love. You know.” He astonished her further by dropping down on one knee, eliciting a few female gasps from the crowd. Then the world fell away as Kathleen gazed down at him, into the face she loved so well, into the beautiful blue eyes she had never forgotten. “I have nothing to offer you,” Dylan said. “Nothing but this ring, and my heart.”

  She had wished for riches and fine things, but when he stood and took her in his arms, she knew how wrong she had been.

  “That’s all I need, Dylan,” she said, so full of wonder that she thought she might burst. “It’s all I’ve ever needed, you great fool. Didn’t you know that?”

  He stood and kissed her, then leaned down and put his mouth very close to her ear. “You’ll have to remind me.”

  Feeling as though she were walking on clouds, she took his hand and walked to the sun-dappled gazebo. There, in the company of friends and family, she renewed the vows she had made to him the night of the fire. Phoebe and Lucy sobbed daintily into embroidered handkerchiefs, while Kathleen’s parents bawled happily and lustily, grinning through their tears.

  “I love you,” Dylan whispered, for her ears only. “I’ve always loved you.” He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, a featherlight promise of deeper kisses to come.

  Kathleen closed her eyes, dizzy with joy. This is it, Gran, she thought. This is my dream.

  And in a final miracle that could only be a gift from her dear gran, a dozen white doves, released into the cloudless sky, took flight.

  Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen six, result happiness.

  Charles Dickens

  EPILOGUE

  April, 1873

  It was an hour before dawn, but Kathleen’s baby daughter had no regard for her parents’ slumber. Little Bridget Frances Kennedy howled as if pursued by a chariot full of banshees, making more noise at three months of age than the city’s new alarm relay system. Kathleen groaned and reached for a pillow to pull over her head. But there was no pillow to be had. Dylan had captured both of them, one for each ear.

  She sighed and lit a lamp. “You’re a lazy article, you are, Dylan Kennedy,” she grumbled, “and your daughter’s inherited your impatient, demanding nature.” She donned her scuffs and robe. She and Dylan had discussed hiring a nurse and a nanny for little Bridget, but Kathleen couldn’t bear the thought of surrendering her baby to the care of another. Certainly it was the way rich folk did things, and at one time, it had been her dream to be rich. Now she understood that she had riches beyond measure, and the most precious gifts had nothing to do with money. It was the lessons she learned in the bosom of her family, not in the employ of the very rich, that stayed with her now. Regardless of fashion, she wanted to be present for every second of her daughter’s life. They had shared a heartbeat; now they would share each day to come.

  But at four-thirty in the morning, she was open to further discussions about the nurse.

  Dylan had given her all that she wanted, and more. He’d kept his seat on the Board of Trade, and had bought her a snug house with a garden, a shed with a milk cow, a few chickens and a horse that went too fast for Kathleen’s taste. But there would always be a bit of the daredevil in her husband.

  When she walked into the baby’s room and saw the dainty limbs flailing, her heart constricted with love. “There, there, girleen,” she crooned, crossing the room.

  The baby hushed instantly at the sound of her mother’s voice. By the time Kathleen had changed her nappy and was seated in the rocking chair, Bridget was smiling and cooing with a charm so delightful that Kathleen couldn’t help laughing. “Ah, I love you so, I do,” she whispered, putting the baby to her breast. “You are the very best part of me, Bridget Kennedy, and always will be.”

  Her happiness brought a wave of emotion as it often did since she had become a mother. Bridget drew from her all the aching tenderness of a new mother’s heart, and lately she seemed to find a special sentimentality for the beauty of simple things—the bluish sparkle of the stars at midnight, the quiet cooing of her child’s voice, the warmth of her husband in bed each night. In the past, the sight of a beautifully crafted piece of jewelry used to move her. Now she wept at the shadows of moonlight on her baby’s cheek.

  Bridget finished nursing and blinked sleepily at the semidarkness. Kathleen grew hungry as well. Nursing a baby gave her cravings the pregnancy never had. She wanted a glass of warm milk, and was about to put down the baby and go out to the shed when a tall shadow fell across the room.

  Her heart lifted when she saw him, her handsome, clever devil of a husband. “Typical man,” she scolded softly. “Late as usual.”

  “You have a talent for troweling on the guilt, Kathleen O’Leary Kennedy,” he muttered. “Pillows or not, I can’t sleep when I know my two beautiful ladies are awake.”

  “That was the idea,” she said unapologetically.

  “Give the little one to me. I’ll rock her to sleep and put her to bed.”

  A toothless smile lit the baby’s face when Dylan took her in his large, careful hands. Kathleen let him have the rocker and stood watching them. They were the most wonderful thing she had ever seen, the big man with the tiny baby cradled next to his heart, her little fist batting at his smiling face.

  “Are you all right with her, then?” Kathleen asked.

  “We’re fine, love.”

  “I was just going to get some warm milk,” she said. “Nursing makes me hungry.”

  “I’ll go—”

  “Heavens to betsy, no. I can surely fetch a pail of milk on my own, Dylan Kennedy. It’s in my blood, after all.”

  “My point exactly,” he said.

  She tried not to crack a smile as she lifted her chin with mock haughtiness. Holding the light in front of her, she said, “I am off to milk the cow.”

  “Fine,” he said, “but be careful of that lantern, my love.”

  * * * * *

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  Though no other fire created the sensation of the Great Fire of 1871, there were several more catastrophic blazes in Chicago in the 1870s. However, I’m relieved to report that none of them started in anyone’s milking shed.

  In The Firebrand, Lucy Hathaway loses her fortune but gains a chance to follow her dream of opening a bookshop. Five years after the fire, Lucy unravels the haunting mystery surrounding the child she rescued and adopted. When wealthy banker Randolph Higgins claims to be the little girl’s long-lost father, their mutual love for the child brings together the most mismatched couple in town. Will Lucy do battle for her child, or surrender her heart to her enemy?

  Please watch for The Firebrand.

  Until then, happy reading,

  www.SusanWiggs.com

  Susan Wiggs

  P.O. Box 4469

  Rolling Bay, WA 98061-0469

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Joyce, Betty and Barb, for favors too numerous to count; to friends near and far, including Jamie for brainstorming a trading scam, and Jodi for therape
utic e-mail conversations; thanks to Jill for the Bunco book, and to the wonderful Martha Keenan, who always edits above and beyond the call of duty.

  Special thanks to the Chicago Historical Society, one of the richest resources ever to make itself available to a writer.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-6397-4

  THE MISTRESS

  Copyright © 2000 by Susan Wiggs.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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  Praise for the novels of Susan Wiggs

  “Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

  —Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fans of historical romances will naturally flock to this skillfully executed trilogy.”