The Firebrand (13 page)

"Time to go," she said to Maggie. "But my village—"

"We'll come back to see if it's still here tomorrow." "It never is. Someone always ruins it."

"And you always build it back up."

Maggie stood and brushed off her trousers. "Where are we going?"

Lucy shook out the blanket, lifting it high to hide the anguish in her face. "We are going visiting."

After the fire, Bellevue Avenue had been transformed into a fashionable enclave of the comfortably well-off. As Lucy and Maggie passed through the soaring wroughtiron gates of the district and rode their bicycles up the paved lane, they passed formal gardens that looked too verdant, too perfectly groomed, to be real. It was like riding directly into a Watteau painting; they expected at any moment to see people in powdered wigs strolling the grounds.

Yet as she counted off the house numbers, Lucy felt like a condemned prisoner crossing the final mile to the executioner's block: 362, 366, 372...her destination. Taking a deep breath, she turned her bicycle into the curved driveway of the Higgins house.

"Look, Mama, a statue!" Maggie veered off the driveway, wobbling along a footpath flanked by box hedge trimmed as precisely as cut stone.

Lucy was going to call her back. Trespassing and snooping was not their purpose today. But she shared Maggie's curiosity. Built after the fire, the homes and estates were even grander than they had been in her father's day. The home in which she'd been raised now housed a relative of the railroad car magnate, Mr. George Pullman. She hadn't been back in years.

The fact was, the people of the affluent enclaves shunned her. They were shocked by her radical politics and considered her a bohemian. She'd trained herself not to feel stung by their disregard, but her mother cared deeply. Sometimes Lucy felt guilty for being an embarrassment to the woman who had once dreamed of her daughter making her debut at a White Ball in New York City. The once-proud Colonel's wife had been one of Chicago's leading hostesses. Viola had lost more than her husband in the fire, she had lost a way of life.

Maggie dismounted in her usual spring-loaded fashion, leaping from the seat and landing on the grass while the cycle toppled behind her.

She scampered over to the small statue, an alabaster angel with a cherubic face and blank eyes turned to heaven. A small fountain burbled at her feet, the stream spilling into a little lily pond. "See how pretty it is, Mama." Skirting the pond, Maggie dropped to her knees at the edge, parted the reeds with both hands and leaned over to peer into the water. "I wonder if there are fish in here."

She didn't wonder long—Maggie didn't do anything for long—but jumped up and went to inspect the statue.

"She's all bare-naked," Maggie announced loudly, using one of her favorite words. "Naked as a jaybird. Naked! Naked!" She ran in circles, startling a few robins from a nearby tree.

"That will do," Lucy said, biting her lip to stifle a laugh. "We had better go to the door before we're arrested for trespassing."

"Like you got arrested for voting that time," Maggie declared. She traced a grubby finger around the base of the statue. "There are words carved in the stone." She brushed away some old leaves. "Ch-Chris— Does it say Christmas, Mama?"

Lucy peered over her shoulder and nearly choked on her own breath. "Does it, Mama? Does it say Christmas?"

"It says 'In loving memory of Christine Grace Higgins. June 24, 1870 to October 8, 1871.' And there's a phrase. 'All hopes and dreams lie buried here.'"

"Your voice sounds funny, Mama. Why does your voice sound funny?"

Lucy kept staring at the date.
That's your birthday, Maggie. I know your real birthday now.
She knew the true date Maggie had been born, and the name she'd been given.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, holding out her hand. "We really should—" A deep, malevolent growl bit the air.

Lucy whirled around to see a massive creature bounding toward them, jaws opened wide to reveal rows of sharp, dripping teeth.

"Look, Mama." Maggie clapped her hands. "A dog-gie."

She rushed forward before Lucy could snatch her up. Child and hellhound met and clashed on the lawn. Lucy dived for her daughter but stumbled and missed, falling to the ground. The dog tackled the child. Lucy dragged herself up, horrified to see Maggie pinned to the ground by the marauding beast.

But instead of screaming, Maggie giggled. The huge dog licked her, then lay belly up in the grass as she scratched its chest.

"Maggie, be careful," Lucy said.

"He's harmless," said a deep voice. "Though I can't vouch for the child."

Lucy picked herself up, plucking bits of grass off her cycling dress. Randolph Higgins strode across the lawn toward her. In the verdant setting, he looked even more imposing than he had at the bank. The perfection of the spring day highlighted his rugged appeal. He wore dungarees and a loose blue shirt, the morning breeze lightly toying with his rich brown hair. The informal garb suited him, somehow.

Her heart skipped a beat. It didn't seem to matter that years had passed since she'd first felt this wild attraction to him. It didn't seem to matter that he was

married and that extraordinary circumstances had brought her here today. He simply made her light-headed with a feeling only he could inspire.

"I apologize for Ivan," he said, indicating the dog. "His appearance is startling, but I assure you, he is as gentle as a spring lamb."

"Look, Mama," Maggie crowed. "He likes me." The dog stretched and quivered in ecstasy when she petted it. Maggie had always wanted a dog. She'd begged for a puppy for years, but in their tiny quarters over the shop, they had no room for one. Silky the cat was a beloved pet, yet Maggie still longed for a dog.

"He gave me quite a scare," Lucy said. "He's a great brute of a thing."

"Ivan is an English mastiff," Mr. Higgins said. "Though I believe his dam dallied with some sort of retriever or bird dog. He can sniff out anything."

She couldn't keep her gaze from Mr. Higgins. His sleeves were rolled back to bare his forearms, and sweat glistened on his neck and in the open V of the shirt collar.

"We weren't expecting visitors," said Mr. Higgins, mistaking her stare for disapproval. "I was just doing some gardening. I like...to grow things." He seemed to regret revealing something personal, so he turned gruff again. "Tell me, is showing up unannounced a habit of yours?"

"He
is too
a giant," Maggie whispered. "A real live giant, just like in the story."

Ignoring her, Lucy checked to see that her small satchel was still secure in the basket of her bicycle. She brushed at her wrinkled skirts, trying to compose herself. "I realize we're intruding, sir." Heavens, how was she ever going to do this? "But I have a matter of some importance to discuss."

"Your loan is still under consideration, I assure you," he said. "Nothing's changed from yesterday, so there is no need to—"

"May we come in?" Lucy blurted.

His lips thinned in an expression of displeasure.

"Please," she added. "It's important. I assure you, I have something monumental to tell you."

"I want to hear the monumental thing, too," Maggie said, trying out the new word.

"Very well," he said, helping Maggie pick up her bicycle and wheel it along. "I suppose I can offer you a glass of lemonade. This way."

Behind him, Lucy watched the small child next to the large man, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze gusting in off the lake. Rolling the bicycle between them, Maggie and Mr. Higgins walked side by side with no notion whatever of their relationship.

She followed him to the house For Lucy, an eerie familiarity haunted the wide sandstone steps leading to the entranceway. She'd grown up in a house like this; she recognized its staid formality and hushed halls gleaming with beeswax polish.

A gauntlet of servants used to assemble in the vestibule in preparation for the Colonel's daily inspection. Mr. Higgins's home was much the same in formality and perfection of order, she observed. His wife must be an expert household manager.

"Look, Mama." Maggie's voice rang through the paneled halls as she raced into the foyer and skidded to a stop in front of a statue set in a niche at the base of the stairs. "That boy is peeing." She dissolved into gales of laughter as she regarded a small fountain fashioned to replicate the famous Mannequin Pis of Brussels.

Lucy's lips twitched with the urge to laugh or at least smile, but then she glanced at Mr. Higgins. He appeared baffled, as if Maggie were a life form he'd never encountered before. Lucy had been watching him for a single spark of recognition, but there was none. Too much time had passed.

But still, this man had known her as a baby. He'd held her, surely, touched her hair and smelled her smell. How could he fail to recognize his own child?

Perhaps, thought Lucy, the moth—Mrs. Higgins would respond to Maggie. A woman knew her baby more intimately than a man, particularly in a tradition-bound family. Mr. Higgins had probably stayed well away from the nursery, seeing his child for only a few moments each day.

"What in heaven's name is all this ruckus?" demanded a stern, female voice from the top of the stairs. The tip of a walking cane punctuated each descending step, stabbing at the carpeted stair. Lucy heard a thunk and then a shuffle, the eerie, measured rhythm filling the cavernous space of the foyer.

Never one to possess any patience, Maggie bounded up the stairs, shouting, "I want to see the ruckus, too!"

Lucy could find no voice to call her daughter back. She stood stiffly, as if taken by a sudden frost. The hem of a dark dress appeared, belled out by layers of petticoats and followed by a gloved hand grasping the head of the cane. Lucy didn't dare move as she waited to see the lovely, fair face of Mr. Higgins's wife.

"I'm Maggie," the child said, meeting her halfway up the stairs at the turn of the landing.

"You are loud," the woman said. "What's your name?" Maggie inquired. "You may call me Mrs. Higgins."

Lucy could find no air to breathe as she waited.

Maggie grabbed the woman's free hand and they descended the stairs together.

When the two of them emerged from the shadows, Lucy stared in shock.

Dear God, Randolph Higgins's wife had turned into a crone.

Lucy forced herself to close her gaping mouth. The terrible ordeal had changed the coolly beautiful Mrs. Higgins into this wretched old—

"Grandmother," Rand said when she reached the vestibule, "I'd like you to

meet Miss Lucy Hathaway. Miss Hathaway, this is my grandmother, Grace Templeton Higgins."

Lucy thawed out so quickly that her knees felt like water. Holding in a sigh of relief, she extended her hand. "How do you do, ma'am?"

"I cannot shake hands with you," the old lady said imperiously. "Both of mine are occupied. One with my cane, and one with this...this..."

"Maggie," Maggie repeated. "I
told
you, that's my name. Here. You can have your hand back."

"Thank you."

"Why do you wear those black things?" Maggie demanded.

"These are lace mitts made in Belgium. They are considered fashionable, and they also keep my grip from slipping on my cane."

"Oh. When I want to grip my baseball bat, I just spit on my hands, like this—" "Maggie, please don't spit in the house," Lucy said.

"I was going to spit in my hands."

"What sort of creature
is
this?" Mrs. Higgins demanded. "Where on earth did she get such atrocious manners?"

"Mama keeps meaning to order me some from the mail catalogue, but she hasn't done it yet." Maggie had always thought the reply enormously clever and delighted in using it. But Mrs. Higgins looked so severe that Maggie flushed. "I thought you might want some help getting down the stairs, on account of you're crippled with that cane."

"I am crippled
without
the cane. With it, I can get around quite well, thank you very much."

"You're welcome." Maggie seemed determined to make up for her manners now.

Lucy simply held her silence. Maggie was...Maggie. She always had been. Her exuberance often burgeoned into mischievous behavior or cheeky remarks, though she didn't have a malicious bone in her body. Sooner or later, the Higginses were going to learn her true nature, and it might as well be sooner.

Lucy was surprised by the expression on Mr. Higgins's face. His lips strained taut as if he were holding in a cough... or laughter.

"What is that you're wearing, child?" the old woman demanded. "Trousers?"

Maggie plucked at the rough fabric. "I always wear trousers. Mama and I believe in equal rights for women, and she lets me dress as comfortably as any boy."

"Hmph. So you think boys' clothes are more comfortable." "Yes, and I can ride my bicycle easier, too."

"Bicycle."

"I have a two-wheeler and I can ride all the way down State Street to the river, faster than the horsecar."

"Boys wear neckties," Mrs. Higgins pointed out. She put an imperious hand on Maggie's shoulder and steered her down a hallway toward the back of the house. "Why aren't you wearing a necktie?"

"Neckties are dumb," Maggie said, gamely going along with her. "No one should ever wear one, boy or girl."

"Where are they going?" Lucy whispered to Mr. Higgins.

"I imagine Grandmother will take her on her daily walk, if that's all right with you."

"Of course," she said, relieved that Maggie wouldn't be around when she made her announcement.

"Don't worry about a thing. Grandmother isn't any more vicious than Ivan. But she can be just as frightening to those who don't know her."

"Maggie isn't afraid."

"True. Your daughter seems quite fearless." "Thank you. I take that as a compliment." "It's meant as one."

She shifted the leather case in her arms. "Mr. Higgins, do you suppose we could sit down somewhere?"

He brushed at his grass-stained shirt. "As I told you earlier, I wasn't expecting company."

"I realize that. But as you might guess, Maggie and I are rather informal." "Very well." He pressed a small bell in the vestibule. A moment later, a maid