Whispers in the Reading Room (17 page)

She could only imagine what that would feel like.

“Ready?” He was standing at the door. Not holding it open. And that small gesture reminded her to get her head out of the clouds and remember who she had become. She was the servant of a very infamous man in Chicago. That was what she had become. It didn’t matter if she remembered how it had felt to be a sheltered young girl. In Vincent Hunt’s eyes she was no one.

After pulling her cloak from the hall table, she slipped it around her shoulders, secured the enclosure, and strode to the door. “Of course.”

“Let’s go on then. You know how Mr. Marks is when he is kept waiting.”

Nothing more needed to be said about that. Mr. Marks liked his way, and since she worked for him, she figured he had that right. “Why is he taking Miss Bancroft to the Grotto? She has no business stepping into the club, let alone making that trek down Camp Creek Alley.”

“I couldn’t begin to guess why.”

His voice was icy cold. “You sound as if you are angry.”

“I am not.”

She couldn’t resist needling him. “But you sound like it.”

“It is not for me to make judgments.”

Ah. “I didn’t mention judgments. With whom are you angry? Mr. Marks or Miss Bancroft?”

His lips pursed, and as they picked up the pace, she realized there was a very good chance that he was going to refuse to answer her. She didn’t blame him. His future was just as dependent on Mr. Marks’ good will as hers was.

And though he’d never said a thing, she had a feeling that he had
had a good dose of living in far worse situations and knew better than to wreak havoc on the very thing that had brought about the change in those circumstances.

Because she could still feel the tension flowing through his arm, she gave him an out. “I’m sorry for pushing for more information than you can share. I, uh, need to learn to be more circumspect.”

She laughed, realizing that she was speaking from the heart. “Actually, I should try to be more like you, I’m afraid. It’s best not to speak of the hand that feeds me. I know what it feels like to go hungry.”

“I’m displeased with both of them, if you want to know the truth,” he blurted.

“Why?”

“Why?” He looked flummoxed before saying caustically, “Because they go through their lives without a thought for consequences.”

“They?”

He nodded, the action stiff. “In her own way, Miss Bancroft goes through her days much the way Mr. Marks does. Neither tries to fit in with what society expects. Furthermore, they spend their days wishing for things they don’t have or can’t do instead of appreciating what they do have. Worse, they always seem to get them.”

Though she could see his point, she also thought he was being a bit harsh, especially when his criticism referred to Mr. Marks. Bridget knew for a fact that their employer worked long hours and didn’t spend much time—if any—daydreaming. “Well, now—”

“And look what has happened!” he exclaimed.

Because he looked so expectant, and because she had no idea to what he referred, she stared at him blankly. “I have no idea. What has happened?”

He gripped her elbow with one hand and curved the other around her back as a trio of gentlemen approached.

After they passed, he said, “Whatever their reason for going, their impetuousness has caused
him
to send
me
out to retrieve
you
. Like some fool errand boy.”

“Um. Well . . .”

“And now, here you are.”

“Yes—”

“Walking in the cold and dark, on the street late at night instead of safe in your room.”

This was true, but she wasn’t upset . . .

“Once more, he is going to make you escort
her
to the very last place you ever want to see again.”

His continued use of pronouns was becoming amusing. “Vincent, while it is true that I don’t care to work at the Silver Grotto, I really don’t mind this errand.”

“You should,” he retorted. “Bridget, you should resent the intrusion.” His voice rose. “You should be back at the Bancroft townhouse, sipping chamomile tea and resting. You should be comfortable and warm and dry.”

Bridget decided not to mention that since it wasn’t snowing or raining, she wasn’t in danger of becoming wet. Instead, she pointed out the obvious. “Please don’t distress yourself. My job is to take care of Miss Bancroft. You know Mr. Marks is paying me to be at her service. Every maid knows her lady’s schedule and whims are her own.”

“I’m sure Miss Bancroft knows it too,” he retorted. “I saw her face, Bridget. She was glowing. She was excited that I was getting sent to retrieve you. She gave no thought to your welfare or wants.”

As his words sank in, as she realized he had called her Bridget, the meaning of his rant became clear. “Vincent, you’re concerned about me.”

“Well, of course I am,” he bit out as they approached the front of the Hartman Hotel, then stopped.

Its marble façade gleamed in the moonlight, making it look magical. Bridget realized then how rarely she’d seen it at night. She also had to privately admit that she was glad she was getting the opportunity. It was a thing of beauty. If Mr. Marks had never called for her, if Miss Bancroft had never accepted Bridget’s appearance in her life, Bridget would have missed chances like this.

And it would have been one more item in a list of many that she would have never, or rarely, experienced if she hadn’t gathered her courage, approached Mr. Marks, and asked him for a job.

Perhaps she was being naïve, but she wasn’t going to start finding fault with the world or how the social classes treated each other. Bridget hadn’t grown up privileged, but her family had certainly been steps above her current station. She knew that if her mother had asked for their one maid to accompany her somewhere, all of them would have been shocked if the maid had shown reluctance. It simply wasn’t done.

“Thank you for your concern. However, I promise I am not upset about being sent for. I am well aware who butters my toast. For what it’s worth, I like my toast buttered. I’ve had it plain.”

Vincent rocked on his heels, a sure sign he was not happy. He was such a physical man, she thought. Taller even than Mr. Marks, and carrying at least an additional twenty or thirty pounds of muscle on his frame. Being around him made her feel safe.

But at the moment, with his looking like he’d just bit into a sour lemon rind, Bridget couldn’t help but reflect that he also amused her. In some ways, he was as out of place in the world as she was.

“You should not be taken advantage of.”

“I’m not being taken advantage of. I’m doing my job. As are you,” she added quietly when he looked prepared to protest.

He swallowed, looked like he was about to divulge a secret, then
sighed. “Let us go in then. Time and tide waits for no man. And neither does Mr. Marks.”

Lydia had just taken her fourth bite of the most sumptuous dessert ever created when she heard Mr. Marks give a sigh of relief. “At last.”

Turning, she saw his assistant and Bridget standing just outside the restaurant. “They made it.” With regret, she put down her fork. It was a shame to pass up the opportunity to eat a little bit more of the chocolate soufflé, but her waistline would probably not appreciate it. Corsets were uncomfortable enough without punishing her body by eating too many calories.

“Are you done already?”

“Yes. Are you ready to leave now, sir?”

He glanced at the soufflé again before looking at her directly. “What is wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Of course it is wonderful. Truly one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever enjoyed.”

“Then why didn’t you finish it?”

“I know you are ready to go.”

“Eat, Lydia. We will wait.”

“I hate the thought of inconveniencing you.”

“It’s not an inconvenience to watch you enjoy a treat,” he said quietly. “Eat a little bit more, Miss Bancroft. The chef will be disappointed if you don’t do justice to his efforts.”

His words were no doubt painting the truth a bit bright. But they also were persuasive enough to be all she needed to take another few bites.

It was extremely doubtful that she’d ever have the opportunity to eat this again anyway.

Things being what they were, she had a feeling that after Mr. Marks allowed her to see a little bit more into his inner sanctum, he wasn’t going to want to know her anymore.

She knew from experience that letting a person in meant becoming vulnerable. She also knew what happened then, at least to her. When people knew how bookish and socially awkward she was, they turned away.

She was sure Mr. Marks would be no different. Actually, the only difference would be how his rejection would make her feel.

More alone than ever before.

CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

From Mid-January 1894

Reported by Benson Gage

One should note that ladies of good breeding should never consider visiting Camp Creek Alley. Of course, one would assume that any lady of good breeding would never desire to go near such an area in the first place.

T
hey made an unusual quartet, walking as they did down the dark alleys and backstreets of Chicago.

Lydia was flanked by Mr. Marks on her left and Bridget on her right. Mr. Hunt, it seemed, was serving as their lookout. He by turns walked in front or behind them, depending on the corner they were on and how many people were around.

Though the streets were dark, there was enough light shining from the moon and gaslights and kerosene lamps glowing from the
occasional window to allow Lydia to see sights she’d never known existed in her hometown.

Men in natty suits spewing coarse language loitered outside of taverns. Women, some looking world-weary, others far more scantily clad, walked furtively next to buildings. Groups of boys, each one made braver by the company of his cohorts, laughed and tipped hats at passersby.

And everyone, truly
everyone
, seemed not only to notice them but to treat Sebastian Marks with a healthy dose of respect.

As for her escort, the deeper they traveled into the recesses of the slums, the more Mr. Marks’ posture and gait changed. Gone was his perfect posture and accommodating gait. Instead, he walked with a confident swagger. And when he wasn’t checking to make sure she was all right, seeming to forget that he was holding her elbow in a death grip, Mr. Marks was staring at every person they passed directly in the eye.

Lydia found his transformation fascinating.

So much so, she continually found herself watching him instead of their surroundings. The only drawback she could ascertain was that she had no idea where she was. She’d neglected to take note of a single landmark, street name, or corner store.

Though she’d lived in Chicago her whole life, she had become a stranger in a strange land.

Now that Mr. Marks had released her arm, she slowed, gazed into the empty storefronts, let herself watch a poor man stuff another piece of newsprint under his clothes for added warmth. He wore an eye patch and was missing part of one leg. She wondered if he had been a soldier.

“Please, Miss Bancroft,” Hunt pleaded as he stepped closer. “Try to be at least a little more aware of your surroundings.”

Though she was tempted to relay that she had been actively trying to do that, Lydia knew he was attempting to keep her safe. “Yes, Mr. Hunt.”

“You must stay in step with us,” he cautioned. “It’s for your safety.”

“I’m doing just that. I wanted a better idea of where I am going in case I get lost.”

“That is not going to happen,” Mr. Marks muttered under his breath. “The only time you will ever need to find your way through Camp Creek Alley is if Hunt, Bridget, and I all became incapacitated. And that would be a shame.”

“To be sure, sir,” Mr. Hunt agreed. But he punctuated his comment with another most meaningful glance her way.

“I’ll stay by your side, Sebastian,” she said quietly.

When his eyes met hers and he smiled, she thought she’d never seen a man so handsome.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” a voice called out, sounding both drowsy and amused. “Fancy you being here.”

It was enough to divert her contemplation of Sebastian’s cheeks and jaw.

When she turned to the newcomer, Lydia was taken aback. The man who approached was like nothing she’d seen before, outside of the carnival barkers along the World’s Fair Midway. He was outfitted in a tight-fitting, shiny black suit. Almost a parody of gentlemen’s evening wear.

But instead of remaining in unrelieved black and white, he’d added a splash of color in a magnificently embroidered vest composed of turquoise, magenta, orange, and azure blue. It drew her eye in the dark recesses of the alley, then upward to a man with slicked-back hair, piercing eyes, and olive skin.

To her shame, he watched her inspection with something that looked much like pleasure. His smile turned into a broad grin.

“Now, whom do we have here?”

Mr. Marks said nothing, merely glared.

“Come now. Surely you aren’t going to ignore me, are you, Marks?” the man continued, picking up his pace to stay by Sebastian’s side. “I would think twice about that. You know I don’t give up easily. If you don’t pay attention to me now, why, who knows where I’ll show up next?”