Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

  “Actually my friends call me Rand.”

  She most definitely wanted to be his friend. “Very well, Rand. And you must call me Lucy.”

  “This is a very odd conversation, Lucy.”

  “I agree. And I haven’t even made my point yet.”

  “Perhaps you should do so, then.”

  “Make my point.”

  “Yes.”

  Ye gods, she was afraid. But she wanted him so much. “Well, it’s like this, Mr.—Rand. Earlier when I spoke of passionate feelings, I was referring to you.”

  His face went dead white. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  “You see,” she rushed on, “I’ve always wanted to have a lover. I never did encounter a man I wanted to spend my life with, and if I took a lover I would simply have no need of a husband.”

  “Lucky you.” Some of the color, and arrogance, returned to his handsome face.

  She could sense suppressed laughter beneath his wry comment. “But I wouldn’t want a love affair just for the sake of having one. I’ve been waiting to meet a man I felt attracted to.” She looked him square in the eye. “And I’ve found you at last.”

  The humor left his expression. “Lucy.” The low timbre of his voice passed over her like a caress.

  “Yes?”

  “Lucy, my dear, you are a most attractive girl.”

  She clasped her hands, thoroughly enchanted. “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “That is wonderful. No one has ever thought me attractive before.” She was babbling, but couldn’t help herself. “My mother says I am too intense, and far too outspoken, and that I—”

  “Lucy.” He grasped her upper arms.

  She nearly melted, but held herself upright, awaiting his kiss. She’d never been kissed by a man before. When she was younger, Cornelius Cotton had kissed her, but she later found out his older brother had paid him to do it, so that didn’t count. This was going to be different. Her first honest-to-goodness kiss from the handsomest man ever created.

  Late at night, she and the other young ladies of Miss Boylan’s would stay up after lights-out, whispering of what it was like to kiss a man, and of the ways a man might touch a woman. One thing she remembered was to close her eyes. It seemed a shame to close them when he was so wonderful to look at, but she wanted to do this right. She shut her eyes.

  “Lucy,” he said again, an edge of desperation in his voice. “Lucy, look at me.”

  She readily opened her eyes. What a glorious face he had, so alive with character and robust health and touching sincerity. So filled with sensual promise, the way his lips curved into a smile, the way his eyes were brimming with…pity? Could that be pity she saw in his eyes? Surely not.

  “Rand—”

  “Hush.” Ever so gently, he touched a finger to her lips to silence her.

  She burned from his caress, but he quickly took his finger away.

  “Lucy,” he said, “before you say anymore, there’s something I must tell you—”

  “Randolph!” a voice called from the doorway. “There you are, Randolph. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Lucy turned to the back of the salon. There, in the doorway, stood the most stunning woman she’d ever seen. Petite, blond and willowy, she held her lithe body in the shape of a question mark, clad in a beautiful gown bearing the trademark rosettes of Worth’s Salon de Lumière. In a rustle of perfumed silk, she moved toward them, hand outstretched toward Rand.

  “I’ve found you at last,” the gorgeous blond woman said, her words an ironic echo of Lucy’s.

  Rand’s pallor quickly changed to dull red as he bowed over her hand. “Miss Lucy Hathaway,” he said, straightening up and stepping out of the way, “I’d like you to meet Diana Higgins.” He slipped an arm around her slender waist. “My wife.”

  TWO

  For a few seconds, only the wailing of the night wind filled the silent void. Something, some bizarre state of nerves in those endless seconds, gave Rand a heightened sensitivity. The pads of his fingers, resting at the small of his wife’s back, detected the smooth, taut silk over the armored shell of her corset. From a corner of his eye, he saw Diana’s expression change from mild curiosity to keen nosiness. And although she probably did not mean to be audible, he heard Miss Lucy Hathaway breathe the words, “Oh. My.”

  Just that, coupled with an expression probably shared by Joan of Arc at the moment of her martyrdom. She looked as though she was about to vomit.

  Foolish baggage, he thought. This was no less than she deserved for making outrageous proposals to strange men.

  “How do you do, Miss Hathaway?” Diana said, unfailingly polite as she always was in social situations.

  “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Higgins. It’s a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Lucy didn’t shrink from Diana’s probing gaze.

  Despite his opinion of the radical young woman’s views, Rand could not deny his interest. She was not only the most annoying creature he’d ever met, she was also the most compelling. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, she had a heart-shaped face. Her pointed chin, high brow and wide eyes gave her an expression of perpetual wonder. The passion and sensual awareness she’d spoken of so boldly seemed to reside in the depths of those velvety dark eyes, and in the fullness of her lips.

  Yet as quickly as she’d shocked him with her outrageous proposal, she seemed to come to heel like a spaniel trained to obedience when thrust into a social situation. She dutifully exchanged pleasantries with Diana, who described their recent move from Philadelphia, and chatted about the unseasonable heat that plagued the city, robbing Chicago of the clear, chill days of autumn.

  “Well, I must thank you for keeping my husband entertained,” Diana remarked. “He was quite certain this would be a hopelessly dreary evening.”

  Rand shifted beneath a mixed burden of guilt and irritation. During the argument they’d had prior to his coming to the evening’s event, he’d claimed she’d be bored by a bombastic evangelical reading, and that the only reason he was attending was to make the acquaintance of the prominent businessmen of Chicago.

  The irony was, he’d really meant it.

  Lucy Hathaway clasped her hands demurely in front of her. “I’m afraid I’ve failed, then,” she said. “Your husband doesn’t find me at all entertaining. Quite the contrary. I fear I’ve offended him with my…political opinions.”

  “You’re not offensive, Miss Hathaway,” Rand said smoothly. “Merely wrong.”

  “Isn’t he charming?” Diana laughed. Only Rand, who knew her well, heard the contempt in her voice.

  Miss Hathaway moved toward the door. “I really must be going. I don’t like the look of the weather tonight.” She curtsied in that curious trained-spaniel manner. “It was a pleasure to meet you both, and to welcome you to Chicago. I hope you’ll be very happy here.” In a swish of skirts and wounded dignity, she walked out of the salon.

  “What an odd bird,” Diana remarked in an undertone.

  What a strangely charming bundle of contradictions, Rand thought. He was intrigued by women like Lucy. But he was also discomfited by a surprising and unwelcome lust for her. He’d engaged her in what he thought was a harmless flirtation, nothing more, but she had taken him seriously.

  “How on earth did you get stuck with her?” asked his wife.

  He’d seen her sitting alone at the back of the salon, and pure impulse had compelled him to sit down beside her. He thought about the way Lucy had taken his hand later, captured his gaze with her own and confessed her attraction to him. But to his wife, he said, “I have no idea.”

  “Anyway, you did well,” Diana declared. “It’s important to impress the right people, and the Hathaways are undoubtedly the right people.”

  “What are you doing here? Is Christine all right?” he asked.

  “The child is fine,” Diana said. “And I came because I am the one who is sick, not our daughter. I am positively ill with boredom, Randolph. A
ll I’ve done all day long is sit by the window watching the boats on the river and the traffic going over the bridge to the North Division. I’m so tired of living like a gypsy in a hotel. Shouldn’t you have started work on the house by now?”

  “You’re sure Christine’s fine,” he said, ignoring her diatribe. Their fifteen-month-old daughter was the bright and shining center of his life. Earlier in the evening she’d been fretful, a little feverish, and he’d convinced Diana to stay at Sterling House rather than leave Christine with the nurse.

  “The baby was fast asleep when I left,” Diana said. “Becky Damson was in the parlor, knitting. I thought you’d be delighted to see me, and here you are, flirting away with the most famous heiress in Chicago.”

  “Who? Lucy?”

  “And on a first-name basis, no less. The Hathaways are an Old Settler family. Her father is a war hero, and her grandfather made a fortune in grain futures. If you hope to be a successful banker, you’re supposed to know these things.”

  “Ah, but I have you to keep track of them for me.”

  “Apparently I need someone to keep track of you,” she observed.

  Already regretting the brief flirtation, he vowed to devote more attention to his increasingly unhappy wife. No matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. She’d been dissatisfied with their life back in Philadelphia, so he’d moved her and their baby daughter to Chicago.

  He was trying to launch a career in banking while Diana frantically shopped and planned for the grand house they intended to build on the fashionable north shore. But even the prospect of a palatial new residence failed to keep her discontent at bay.

  “Come and meet Mr. Lamott,” Rand suggested, knowing she would be impressed, and that Jasper Lamott—like every other man—would find his wife enchanting.

  As he escorted her into the reception salon, Rand fought down a feeling of disappointment. When he and Diana had married, he’d been full of idealistic visions of what their life together would be like. He had pictured a comfortable home, a large, happy family putting down roots in the fertile ground of convention. They were things he used to dream about when he was very young, things he’d never had for himself. But as the early years of their marriage slipped by, Diana paid little attention to roots or family. She seemed more interested in shopping and travel than in devoting herself to her husband and child.

  He kept hoping the move to Chicago would improve matters, but with each passing day, he was coming to understand that a change of venue was not the solution to a problem that stemmed from the complicated inner geography of his heart.

  He caught himself brooding about Lucy Hathaway’s bold contention that women were stifled by the unfair demands foisted upon them by men who shackled them with the duties of a wife and mother.

  “Do you feel stifled?” he asked Diana.

  She frowned, her pale, lovely face uncomprehending. “What on earth are you talking about, Randolph?”

  “By Christine and me. Do you feel stifled, or shackled?”

  She frowned more deeply. “What a very odd question.”

  “Do you?”

  She took a step back. “I have no idea, Randolph.” Then she fixed a bright, beautiful, artificial smile on her face and walked into the reception room.

  * * *

  Rand couldn’t help himself. He kept trying to catch a glimpse of Lucy Hathaway, but apparently she and her friends had already left the hotel. For the past forty minutes, he’d wanted to do the same, anxious to get back to Sterling House and his daughter. She would be asleep by now, but that didn’t matter. He loved to watch Christine sleep. The sight of her downy blond curls upon a tiny pillow, her chubby hands opened like stars against the quilt, always filled him with a piercing tenderness and a sense that all was right with the world.

  Diana had never been quite so well-entertained by their daughter, although she was proud of Christine’s beauty and loved the admiring comments people made when they saw the baby. At the moment she was gossiping happily with the mayor’s nieces and showed no sign of wanting to leave.

  Restless, Rand went to the tall windows that framed a view of the city. Gaslight created blurry stars along the straight arteries of the main thoroughfares and the numerous tall buildings of the business district gathered around the impressive cupola of the massive courthouse.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” asked a slender, vaguely sly-looking young man.

  Philip Ascot, Rand recalled. Ascot, with some combination of Roman numerals after his name to prove to the world that the family hadn’t come up with an original name in several generations.

  It was a mean, petty thought, borne of impatience. Still, he had a low opinion of Ascot, who claimed to be in the publishing business but who, as far as Rand could tell, intended to make his fortune by marrying one of the debutantes of Miss Boylan’s finishing school. Lucy? he wondered, recalling Diana’s assessment that the Hathaways were stinking rich.

  Rand stifled a grin. Lucy would make duck soup of a fellow like Philip Ascot.

  “It is indeed,” he said at last. Flipping open the gold top of his pocket watch with his thumb, he checked the time. “It’s a bit late for sunset, though.”

  “Oh, that’s another fire in the West Division,” Ascot informed him. “Didn’t you hear?”

  A cold touch of alarm brushed the back of his neck. “I heard there was one last night, but that it had been brought under control.”

  “It’s been a bad season for fires all around. But I can’t say I’m sorry to see the West Division burn. It’s a shanty-town, full of immigrant poor. Could stand a good clearing out.” Ascot tossed back a glass of whiskey. “Nothing to worry about, Higgins. It’ll never get across the river.”

  Even as he spoke, an explosion split open the night. From his vantage point, Rand saw a distant flash of pure blue-white light followed by a roaring column of pale yellow flame.

  “It’s the gasworks,” someone yelled. “The gasworks have blown!”

  Rand crossed the reception room in three strides, grabbing his wife by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Randolph, you mustn’t be rude—”

  “We’re leaving,” he said. “We’ve got to get home to Christine.”

  THREE

  The big, blocky coach with the crest of Miss Boylan’s school on the door lumbered through streets jammed with people. Every few feet, the driver was obliged to stop and make way for the firefighters’ steam engines or hose carts.

  “It’s spreading so quickly.” Phoebe Palmer pressed her gloved hands to the glass viewing window. “Who could imagine a fire could move so fast?”

  She clearly expected no answer and didn’t get one. Both Lucy and Kathleen O’Leary were lost in their own thoughts. Kathleen was particularly worried about her family.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come,” she said, her customary easy confidence shaken by the sight of the fleeing crowds. “I shall burn in hell entirely for pretending to be a great lady.”

  “If we don’t start moving any faster,” Phoebe said, “we shall burn right here in Chicago.” She yanked at the end of the speaking tube and yelled at the driver to hurry. “There’s an abandoned horsecar in the middle of the avenue,” she reported, cupping her hands around her eyes to see through the fog of smoke and sparks. “Driver,” she yelled again into the tube, “go around that horsecar. Quickly.” With a neck-snapping jerk, the big coach surged forward. Phoebe scowled. “He’s usually better at the reins,” she commented peevishly. “I shall have to speak to Miss Boylan about him.”

  As the coach picked up speed, Lucy patted Kathleen’s hand. “None of this is your fault, and you’re surely not being punished for a silly prank.” To distract her, she added, “And it went well, didn’t it? Everyone at the reception believed you were a famous heiress from Baltimore.”

  Just for a moment, excitement flashed in Kathleen’s eyes. How beautiful she was, Lucy thought. What would it be like to be that beautiful?

  But then Kat
hleen sobered. “I lost my reticule. Miss Deborah’s reticule, actually, for haven’t I borrowed every stitch I have on except my bloomers? And I made a fool of myself altogether over Dylan Kennedy.”

  “So did half the female population of Chicago,” Phoebe pointed out, sounding unusually conciliatory.

  “All those worries seem so small now.” Kathleen turned her face to the window. “Blessed Mary, the whole West Division is in flames. What’s become of my mam and da?”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Lucy said. “You’ll find them once everything is sorted out.”

  “’Tis easy enough for the two of you to relax. Your families, bless them, are safe in the North Division. But mine…” She bit her lip and let her voice trail off.

  Lucy’s heart constricted. Inasmuch as she envied Kathleen’s beauty, Kathleen coveted Lucy’s wealth. How terrible it must be to worry and wonder about her parents and brothers and sisters, living in a little wood frame cottage, her mother’s cow barn stuffed with mill shavings and hay.

  Lucy thought of her own parents, and Phoebe’s, secure in their mansions surrounded by lush lawns and wrought-iron gates. The fire would surely be stopped before it reached the fashionable north side.

  She’d grown up insulated from the everyday concerns of a working family. She knew better now, and in a perverse way, she wanted to repent for her privileges, as if by being wealthy she was somehow responsible for the ills of the world. Phoebe thought her quite mad for staggering around beneath a burden of guilt. Phoebe just didn’t understand. Because women of their station were complacent, ills befell those who had no power, women forced to endure drunken abuse from their husbands, giving birth year in and year out to children they could not afford to raise.

  Lucy patted Kathleen’s hand. “I’ll help you find your family if you like.”

  Phoebe pointed out the window. “Not tonight you won’t. Honestly, Lucy, I believe you would try to save the entire city if you could. You and your crusades.”