When We Caught Fire Page 2

  When Mr. Carter came into enough money to purchase the big house in the north section of town, and decided to make a go of a new way of life, Emmeline had a fit of temper and insisted she would not be moving away from her friends. They were almost sixteen, and changing fast, though still an inseparable band of three. Anders had been in love with Emmeline since they were children—if she had stayed, they would surely be married now. In the end, Mr. Carter convinced his daughter by saying that Fiona could come and live with them if she learned quickly how to comport herself as a lady’s maid.

  At first it had been strange to do things for Emmeline that they both knew she could do for herself. But at least the girls got to spend every day together, kept busy and excited by the task of transforming themselves into proper young ladies. Fiona was glad to live in bright, clean rooms that smelled of greenhouse flowers, and grateful to finally have a way of making some money of her own. Her family, back in the old neighborhood, was always in need of money.

  “My name is Mary,” said Miss Russell’s maid.

  “Fiona.”

  “Irish?” Mary asked.

  Fiona shrugged. She knew Mr. Carter was sensitive on this point—he would have preferred to hire no Irish—and it was easy to answer inconclusively.

  As they moved through the house, Mary made little clucking noises and let her fingers graze marble end tables and porcelain doorknobs. This annoyed Fiona—surely she would not behave that way in her own employer’s house—but she tried to tell herself it was only natural. The Carters were new, and how they lived was a topic of interest. Her own family was always curious for such details. And it was certainly possible that Mary was trying to be friendly.

  In the basement, beneath the parlor, the light of a few high windows illuminated a plain room with a long table, around which sat the few servants who had accompanied the Carters’ guests. Most had come without help, but some of those who had traveled from the South Side or from estates outside of the city limits had brought along a footman or a girl to hold their things. They glanced up at Fiona and Mary, and watched as they pulled wooden chairs up to the table.

  “So you’re Emmeline Carter’s girl?” Mary sat and removed a book and a small leather case from the pockets of her skirt and placed them on the table. The Loves of Clotilde was printed across the cover, by Aurelie Auber—Fiona always tried to read whatever sentences she came across, to keep up what letters she had. “If you could hear what Miss Russell says about Miss Carter, my word, your ears would burn. I rather like her, though. If she can crawl out of the swamp and convince Frederick Tree to marry her, it could happen to any of us. She must have some pluck. Not that I’d say anything of the kind to Cora, of course.”

  “Did you get that idea from your novel there?” said another maid, sitting a few chairs down with her elbows propped on the table to examine her needlepoint. She was older than Mary, with gray sprouts in her dark hair and purse lines around her lips. Without looking up, she continued, “That it could happen to any of us. That girl’s father is Ochs Carter. Yes, if my father were a cunning businessman and ran things as Ochs Carter does, I suppose I might buy a lot of pretty clothes and catch a rich husband, too.”

  Mary made a show of stifling a giggle, and opened the leather case to offer Fiona a rolled cigarette. “Want one?”

  “No, I . . .” Fiona began. Since they had left the old neighborhood, the two girls had spent countless days learning to walk and talk and dress in the manner of fashionable young ladies. They had learned that smoking was for gentlemen, that only certain kinds of women indulged in them. Not the kind of women she and Emmeline were trying to be.

  “Miss Russell developed a taste for them on the continent but she knows her mother would cut her allowance in half if she did it in public, so she has me carry them, and allows me as many as I like.”

  “Then it will be you that’s caught,” said the maid at her needlepoint. “And you that pays the price.”

  “Ignore her. They’re delightful.” Mary spoke loud enough that the whole room heard, and struck a match to light the cigarette between her lips. “She’s no fun. Though she’s right, of course. It’s just daydreaming to say that what happened to your mistress could happen to me, or you, or that one there with the sour face. What’s happening to little Miss Carter is not happening to you in the slightest bit, and don’t forget it. You should do as I do and catch what crumbs you can. For instance, when your mistress is bored of a dress, ask if you can alter it—not the really fine stuff, that they’ll never part with, but an old day dress, something she wears around the house—and if she asks you to hold her cigarette case, be sure that you’re allowed one from time to time. Here, try it.”

  Fiona disliked the smell of smoke, but she had grown up in a hard place and she knew what happened when you were new and showed you were afraid of something: The pack turned against you in an instant. Upstairs, the heels of dress shoes sounded across the floor. There was applause and awed gasps. Mary ceased her chatter, and—perhaps sensing Fiona’s reluctance—met her eyes with an intent stare. But Fiona took the cigarette expertly, balancing it between her middle and index fingers, and inhaled without so much as a cough. “That’s all right, I suppose,” she said with a shrug of indifference, and passed it back.

  Mary seemed perturbed that the cigarette had not more impressed Fiona. “I got this in Paris,” she said, gesturing to her novel. “When I accompanied Miss Russell to France. It’s about a noblewoman who is married to an old yawn of a colonel and she falls in love with this gallant young cavalry fellow but it’s a disaster and she doesn’t realize all along her cousin is in love with her, and he’s quite rich and has all kinds of castles and things. . . .”

  Fiona smiled vaguely. She didn’t mind if Mary wanted to prattle on. Upstairs in the parlor they were cheering now, stomping their feet and calling out the names of the bride and groom to be. “To love!” someone shouted, and Fiona’s heart surged, and she thought: It’s happening, it’s really happening, everything we’ve worked for is finally happening. Emmeline was a success, and would soon be quite advantageously matched. In a week she would be married to Frederick Arles Tree, of the Wabash Avenue Trees, and ascend to the ranks of Chicago’s very best people. Fiona found she was smiling. She was happy for her friend, truly, for Emmeline was finally to have everything she had worked so hard for, and Fiona was also happy for herself. For once Emmeline was Mrs. Tree, there would be no reason for her to think about Anders Magnuson, her sweetheart from the old neighborhood, in a proprietary way.

  The union of Emmeline and Anders had been a favorite story of their childhood, when they were a tribe of three, planning a future in some faraway place where Anders and Emmeline would be wed. It was only when they were older that Fiona began to wonder what that would mean for her. But then the Carters picked up and left the neighborhood. Emmeline cried every day and said she would die without Anders, until she began transforming herself into a young lady of fashion, and became enthralled with her new role. Fiona saw Anders in the old neighborhood, but of course she never mentioned Anders to Emmeline, nor Emmeline to Anders—it would be too painful for both of them.

  And then one evening, half a year ago, following the wake of one of Anders’s uncles—his mother’s youngest brother, the one who had died working on the construction of a big building downtown—he said he would escort Fiona home. They went on a walk at least once a week in those days, although they were careful not to talk of Emmeline, careful not to talk of the change that had come over their lives. As they walked, he talked meanderingly of all manner of things. Mostly how his father had met his mother—in Galway, after he left Stockholm, en route to America—and convinced her in a matter of days that they should be married.

  “She wasn’t from Sweden like my dad, did you know that? She was an Irish rose, like you.”

  Fiona’s face flushed in confusion, because of course she’d known his mother—who never lost her accent, the way Fiona’s mother and father had—but m
ostly because she hadn’t realized Anders thought of her as any kind of rose.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  The night was bitter, and the tip of her nose felt near frozen, but he seemed to mean something else, and she watched him and waited to know what it was.

  “I must be drunk,” he’d said, and stepped closer. She was so surprised by the longing in his eyes that she would have fallen over had the wall not caught her. His forehead pressed her forehead, and his hands spread over her waist. For the first time, she understood how strong he was. Then he kissed her, and she forgot the cold, and everything else. She thought her body might melt, but that it didn’t matter, as long as he kept kissing her just like that. As long as the kiss continued, they were one being, with no names or reputations to separate them. “I’m sorry,” he’d muttered, pulling away. He had seemed to want to look at her again, but didn’t. Instead he said he was sorry three more times, and disappeared down the darkened street.

  She couldn’t sleep that night, nor the night after. For several days she didn’t want to eat, but neither did she want to feel better. She wanted the agony to go on forever. She was in love with him—what else could this feeling be? Maybe she always had been. Every idle moment became a time to imagine his swaggering gait, the way a dimple appeared in his cheek when he told a joke, to fill her mind with any detail of Anders, no matter how minute. When she saw him in the old neighborhood and he spoke a familiar word, her face would turn a shameful shade of scarlet. But there was nothing to do: He was Emmeline’s first and always. It was only fate that had parted them, and Fiona was miserable with guilt over how much she had loved being kissed by the boy once promised to Emmeline. No, Fiona could never tell Emmeline about the kiss. She began avoiding their weekly walks for fear she would once again entice Anders into betraying their friend. But then Frederick Arles Tree began courting Emmeline, and Emmeline herself was thrilled by his attentions and never once let Anders’s name pass her lips, and Fiona saw how everything might end happily for her, just as everything was ending happily for her best friend.

  The joyful toasting sounded to Fiona like a celebration of her love, too. Her face tingled with it, and she smiled, and let Mary go on about some French people with a lot of desperate emotions a world away. She had no need for that kind of romance. She and Anders were simple people, but they knew each other well, and how to be happy, in simple ways, together. They would, if only she could find a way to tell him the truth.

  Ever since the engagement, she had been avoiding Anders—she was holding her breath for the week to be over and for Emmeline to be married. Then Fiona’s conscience would be clear. Then she could finally ask her friend’s permission to want Anders as she did. She resisted the places she might have run into him; she was afraid if she saw him she would blush, and it would be obvious how often he was in her thoughts. She did not want him to know her true feelings before she had Emmeline’s blessing.

  “Anyway, when I finish, I’ll lend it to you,” Mary concluded with satisfaction.

  “Fiona!”

  The servants sitting at the long table glanced toward the stairs. The party above them had gone quiet. Mary’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling and back at Fiona.

  “Fiona?” It was Emmeline, closer now. The stairs to the first floor groaned. “Fiona, are you down there? I need to talk to you!”

  Fiona was on her feet, unable to contain a spasm of pride over this show of familiarity between Emmeline and herself. She glanced at the other servants, startled and stone-faced at this intrusion upon their realm. Fiona thought how unmistakable her true situation was now—that she and Emmeline really were friends, despite their difference in station. She rushed to meet Emmeline on the top step.

  “Oh, Fiona, look what I’ve done,” Emmeline wailed, gesturing to the wetness that spread across the bodice of her dress.

  “Are you all right?” Fiona could not hide her surprise—Emmeline was not usually a victim of nerves.

  “Well.” A mischievous light played in Emmeline’s eyes, but they became earnest as she glanced up at her friend. Standing close together like this, Fiona always felt awkward and large—she was several inches taller than Emmeline, and not as fine-boned—even though Emmeline claimed it was she who was jealous of Fiona, with her full chest and long waist. “I might have been clumsy a little bit on purpose.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Mary was leaning against the doorframe. The bald curiosity of her expression made Fiona’s palms sweat. The pride of the previous moment was gone, overwhelmed by a presentiment of things going terribly wrong.

  “Come,” said Fiona. “Let me clean you up.”

  “Yes.” Emmeline clasped Fiona’s hand. “Let’s get cleaned up quickly, and while we do, there’s something I need to ask you to do for me.”

  “What is it?” Her dress stuck to the damp skin underneath the arms and her pulse became noisy while she waited for Emmeline to respond.

  Emmeline bit her bottom lip. Her gaze shifted. “I must see him,” she whispered.

  Fiona stared at her friend. She knew in an instant who him was. Her heart ached with the meaning of him.

  “Just once, to explain. Before it’s done. We did always promise each other. Can you find him?”

  Him. Him with the sideways smile, the stride and glint. Him with the strong hands. Him who had always been as dutiful to his family as she to hers. She would not have thought Emmeline had remembered that promise, not since Frederick proposed. But Emmeline was her best friend—Fiona had to agree to whatever she asked. And she was the one who paid her way—Emmeline never mentioned this, but the fact was always there, tugging at Fiona, telling her what she ought.

  After a moment Fiona nodded. “I’ll find him for you,” she replied, hoping that the dimness of the hall hid the dread in her eyes.

  Three

  What charming weather we are having! The long, dry summer has given way to sun-drenched fall, and the elegant families of our fine city have been afforded the opportunity to host lovely lawn parties and picnics and the like late into the season. . . . Let us hope the invitations keep arriving and that the rain stays away.

  —“Leisure Life” column, Chicago Crier, October 4, 1871

  “Is it real?”

  Emmeline’s eyes rose to meet Fiona’s in the mirror, but Fiona, transfixed by the gems shimmering in Emmeline’s hair, did not look back. She had just finished pinning errant strands beneath the diadem, and helped Emmeline into a new dress of mauve silk that gave a lovely contrast to the warm pink blooms on her cheeks.

  “Of course it’s real!” Emmeline touched the dainty crown and appraised her reflection. She knew it was vain, but she couldn’t help it—her reflection pleased her beyond words. With the ruby crown and the diamond engagement ring, the girls might have been posing for a royal portrait. Behind them Emmeline’s bedroom spread out, with its tall, third-floor windows pouring light over the canopied bed and Persian carpet and fur throws and magenta chaise longue. The room was full of rich objects, but none were as fine as Freddy’s gifts. “You should have seen Cora Russell’s face when he put it on me!”

  “I saw her, from the hallway, and then her maid came over and couldn’t stop chatting. She talked and talked about how jealous her mistress was of you.”

  “Did she really say that?” Emmeline bit her bottom lip in delight. “And they say our manners are rough. But there’s her, gossiping away about me. Isn’t that rich?”

  “Terribly rich,” Fiona agreed. “You look very beautiful, Miss Carter. If I may say so myself.”

  “You look very beautiful as well, Miss Byrne.” She did, too, Emmeline thought. Even with no special adornments Fiona was lovely, with her pale oval face and the constellation of freckles that spread across her nose, and the black pinafore tied tight so that it showed off her small waist. The sunlight brought out the russet tones in her hair where it frizzed. “And you may.”

  “We ought to go back, now.”

  “Must we?” Emmelin
e revolved on the velvet stool at her vanity, so that her heaping skirt twisted with her, and flicked her gaze upward at her friend. Fiona was right, of course. Lunch would be served soon, and there would be more toasts, and Cora Russell was probably chatting up Freddy by now. But at the moment what she really wanted was not to talk to all the fine people downstairs, but to talk about them with Fiona. It was so humid in the parlor with all those people crowded inside, and the atmosphere confused her thoughts. She couldn’t help picturing the way Freddy had looked when he had seemed to want to kiss her, and the memory that moment had ignited.

  Her mind kept wandering to a day when she and Fiona were doing laundry outside the Byrnes’ apartment and Anders had appeared and taken her by the hand and led her up the fire escape and onto the roof. They could see the whole neighborhood from there, and the wind pressed her skirt against her legs, and she felt a little frightened to be up so high. He knelt, and took the claddagh his mother used to wear out of his pocket. While he waited, his eyes grew wide and earnest. When she nodded, he stood, placed the ring on her finger, and took her face in his hands to kiss. He had gazed at her with such strong emotion that she was surprised by his lips, so soft and gentle when they met hers.

  A few weeks later, Father said the Carter household would be making a permanent move. Emmeline still had that ring, somewhere with her other jewelry. They had never said aloud what that ring meant, but it would be dishonest to claim she didn’t know. Certainly both of them thought of it as an engagement. In order to marry Freddy properly, didn’t she need to break off that other engagement first?

  “I’ll feel much better,” she said, trying to put away those confusing memories, “once I’ve seen Anders and explained things.”

  Fiona had been giving Emmeline her usual easy, encouraging smile, but now she frowned and glanced away. Was something wrong? Emmeline had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed Fiona’s mood at all. She was about to ask what the trouble was, but in the next moment she understood.