Shadows of the White City Read online

  “Historical romance fans will devour this newest novel from beloved author Jocelyn Green. An evocative tale about surrendered dreams and life’s unexpected bends in the road, Shadows of the White City satisfies in every way!”

  —Tamera Alexander, USA Today bestselling author of Colors of Truth and A Lasting Impression

  “History breathes new life in Jocelyn Green’s latest—a masterwork of immersive storytelling set against the backdrop of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. The story whisks readers into one vivid moment after another as characters navigate the complexities of a cityscape thrust on an eclectic world’s stage. With the gloriously independent heroine Sylvie, whose own story breaks the mold set for women of the time, and the steady Kristof, whose affable character belies a deep-seated strength readers will admire, Green intertwines romance and intrigue in a true symphony of words. From the lavish sights, sounds, and scents of the bustling exposition to the action-packed streets of Chicago’s underbelly, Shadows of the White City is a dazzling spectacle—worthy of the grand exhibition itself!”

  —Kristy Cambron, bestselling author of The Paris Dressmaker and The Butterfly and the Violin

  “With her trademark insight and skill, Green weaves an enthralling story with characters who beautifully combine the best of intentions with their own faults and flaws in a perfect echo of life. Shadows of the White City is a symphony of second chances sure to touch your heart and soul.”

  —Roseanna M. White, bestselling historical romance author

  “Sometimes when you lose someone dear, you end up finding yourself. So it is for Sylvie and Rose. Venture into all the magic, intrigue, romance, and even danger of the Chicago World’s Fair. Shadows of the White City is a delightful—though at times heartrending—read written by one of my favorite authors, the talented Jocelyn Green.”

  —Michelle Griep, Christy Award-winning author of Once Upon a Dickens Christmas

  Praise for Veiled in Smoke

  “A powerful and compelling novel about one family’s dramatic resurrection after the devastation of the Chicago fire.”

  —Elizabeth Camden, author, The Spice King

  “Veiled in Smoke offers a story line that draws the reader into the personal lives and historical events of nineteenth-century Chicago on the eve of the Great Fire. Jocelyn Green is a masterful storyteller who understands the power of the narrative tale and its impact on historical reality.”

  —Kevin Doerksen, CTG; owner, Wild Onion Walks Chicago; president, Chicago Tour Guide Professionals Association

  “In Veiled in Smoke, Green frames a story of loss and redemption with sensory details, a nuanced historical backdrop, and an intelligent eye for flawed and utterly engaging characters. Shadows of the ongoing War Between the States as well as a deep literary resonance underscore what is, at its core, a study of the fallacies and strengths of the human heart. Green’s eye for suspense is coupled with her passion for an American city on the rise. A thoroughly enriching and thoughtful reading experience by an absolute master of inspirational fiction.”

  —Rachel McMillan, author, Murder in the City of Liberty

  Books by Jocelyn Green

  THE WINDY CITY SAGA

  Veiled in Smoke

  Shadows of the White City

  The Mark of the King

  A Refuge Assured

  Between Two Shores

  © 2021 by Jocelyn Green

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2991-2

  Epigraph Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All other Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Map of the 1893 World’s Fair by Rob Green Design

  Author is represented by Credo Communications, LLC.

  To Bettina,

  Who loves fiercely,

  Who holds on, and lets go,

  Even when it hurts.

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Books by Jocelyn Green

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  World’s Columbian Exposition at Chicago, 1893

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!

  —1 John 3:1

  Prologue

  CHICAGO

  DECEMBER 1880

  “Look at them,” Sylvie Townsend whispered to her sister. “I wish we could do more.” The cold seeped through her cloak and into her boots.

  They shivered in the alley outside the orphanage. Meg, surrounded by her own three children, looked through the grimy window. “We’ve done what we can. For now, at least.”

  It felt like precious little.

  On behalf of the Chicago Women’s Club, Meg and Sylvie had delivered donations from local grocers for the Christmas holiday and were then quickly ushered out. Before they left, Sylvie couldn’t help peering into the dining hall at the children she longed to help.

  Her eyes burned as she watched the orphans and half-orphans—those who had one parent living. There were so many of them packed onto the benches, hunched over bowls of thin soup. This building wasn’t a home. It was a warehouse for unwanted goods.

  “So much children!” Five-year-old Hazel stood on her tiptoes to see, her nose red with cold. “Do all their mommies and daddies live here, too?”

  “Hush, Hazel
.” Walter, older by two years, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wool coat. “You don’t know anything.”

  Meg picked up her four-year-old, Louise, and held her close, though the child was getting too big for that. “Those children’s parents can’t take care of them anymore.”

  Frowning, Louise clasped mittened hands around her mother’s neck. Two braids the color of Meg’s blond curls trailed down her back. “Will you ever stop taking care of us?”

  “Never ever. Your father and I will always take care of you.” Meg gave Louise a squeeze before setting her down again. A raw wind cut through the alley, bringing with it the stench from the privies behind the orphanage. “Walter, take your sisters to the carriage while I talk to Aunt Sylvie for a moment.”

  Bending, Sylvie kissed three cold cheeks, then watched the carriage driver bundle them into the landau. The difference between those bright-eyed children and the wan souls inside the orphanage was so stark it stung. “Oh, Meg. It isn’t enough to bring extra food a few times a year. How far will that nourishment go when they need the nourishment of loving parents far more? I wish there was more I could do.”

  Meg tucked her hands into her muff. “I know how you feel.”

  Sylvie doubted it. Meg had a houseful of her own children and a husband who adored her. Sylvie had none of that. She was thirty years old, the sole caregiver for their aging father, Stephen. She owned a bookstore across from Court House Square and managed two rental apartments above her own, since they’d added a fourth floor to their building after the Great Fire. Though there was no husband on the horizon, Sylvie had plenty of space for a child in her home and heart. But the orphanage wouldn’t let her adopt one as a single woman.

  The waiting horses swished their tails, their breath small puffs of white. Meg turned her back to them. “Sylvie, I worry you’re taking on too much.”

  Sylvie laughed, and tiny crystals formed inside her muffler. “You’re the one who encouraged me to join the Women’s Club to begin with. You said I needed something else to do, something else to think and care about aside from Father and the store. And you were absolutely right. My world had become far too small.”

  “I fear you’ll wear yourself out, between your volunteering activities and taking care of Father and the store and your tenants’ needs. I don’t see anyone taking care of you.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” Not that Sylvie couldn’t guess.

  “There’s still time.” A lock of hair whipped about Meg’s collar, and she tucked it back under her hat. “You could still find someone to love you.”

  “You love me, and so do your children. Nate is like a brother to me. Father loves me, as do Karl and Anna Hoffman.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Sylvie folded her arms. “And you know where I stand on the subject of matrimony.” She didn’t need a husband in order to be fulfilled. Furthermore, she had no time for one. The fact that she’d had her heart smashed to bits by her first love years ago didn’t need to be mentioned. Since then, there’d been a couple of suitors, but she had only entertained the idea of courtship to please her father, who claimed he wanted to see her settled. Ironically, however, he’d declared neither suitor could pass muster. She’d agreed.

  “All right.” Meg rolled her lips between her teeth, hesitating. “I just don’t like to think of how lonely you’ll be after—well, Father isn’t getting any better.”

  Sylvie dipped her chin into the folds of her muffler. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t deny it. Her father’s health had been broken by his time in the Andersonville prison camp during the Civil War, and it only grew worse with each passing year. There was a reason he’d recently transferred ownership of the bookstore to her.

  She took her sister’s hands, Meg’s scar tissue a reminder of all they’d been through together, including and after the Great Fire that ravaged Chicago nine years ago. “I’ll adjust. And I’ll always have my sister.”

  Meg replied with a fierce embrace, then joined her children in the carriage and wheeled away. Sylvie would return home by streetcar.

  Picking her way between islands of slush, Sylvie emerged from the alley’s shadows onto the street the orphanage faced. The sun was bright in the powder-blue sky but held little warmth. While she paused at the front doors, a brawny man approached with a little girl who clutched an adult-sized peacock-blue shawl at her neck.

  “Excuse me.” The man tipped his cap to her with fingers chapped red at the knuckles. He carried the raw smell of keeping company with animals, living and dead. “The orphanage is open, yes?”

  Dread for the child tightened her chest. “It—it is,” she stuttered. “I hope you have no need of it.” It wasn’t her business. But if this child was to join the orphans in this facility, then she would become her concern in an instant.

  The man frowned. “I heard they take in children whose parents can’t provide for them well enough.” His voice was as gruff as his beard, his words thickly accented. Broken blood vessels spread tiny red webs across his nose and cheeks. “I heard they offer clothing, food, and shelter. They keep them safe. Is it not so?”

  The little girl tugged the hem of his unraveling sleeve and said something in a different language.

  He placed his hand on her uncovered head. “Not now, Rozalia.” He said the name with such tenderness, it sounded like a poem: Rosa Leah. He looked up. “My name is Nikolai Dabrowski. This is my daughter. My wife didn’t survive the journey from Poland. I cannot care for the girl on my own.”

  Rozalia brought his hand to her cheek and watched Sylvie from behind a tangle of dirty blond hair.

  “She’s lucky to have one parent living,” Sylvie said after introducing herself. “She needs a father’s love. Besides, the conditions inside this orphanage are deplorable. There’s not enough food or soap or tender care.”

  “I work fourteen hours a day at the stockyards,” Mr. Dabrowski said. “She stays in our shack alone, or plays in the street with other children. This isn’t safe or right. Believe me, Miss Townsend, I bring her here because I love her, not because I don’t.”

  But Sylvie could tell he wavered. “No one in that building loves her,” she told him. “They will not ask her what she likes to eat or sing her songs to soothe her.” She listed her complaints and described the orphans who had reverted to sucking their thumbs and wetting the bed. She told him of children wasting away and becoming mute with neglect and despair. “Do you really think she’d be better off there than with you, or perhaps a relative of yours who could care for her during the day?”

  His broad shoulders sagged. “We have no other kin here. The neighbor women have their own worries. They work at factories, or they do piecework at home with barely enough attention left to keep their own babies from falling into the fire. Rozalia is in danger almost every hour as it is.”

  Sylvie looked at the girl, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m sure that’s not—”

  “True? And how do you know what is true and what is not in the place where I live?”

  Heat flashed through Sylvie. He was right. They shared a city but lived worlds apart.

  Mr. Dabrowski’s hand cupped Rozalia’s chin. “She is already a beauty, no? And not yet five years old.”

  Despite the lack of hygiene, she was an uncommonly beautiful child, with delicate features and eyes an enviable cobalt blue.

  “People have noticed. Vile people.”

  Goosebumps lifted Sylvie’s skin. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that wicked men have tried to buy her from me, and next time they’ll make no offer before they take her to be raised in a brothel, trained for a life of sin. Now tell me, Miss Townsend, do you still believe my daughter is better off with me than she would be behind those doors?”

  On an impulse founded on years of thought and striving, Sylvie decided right then that she might not be able to change the system, but she could change the life of this one precious girl.

  “I can take her
.” Her heart hammered as she heard the words, but nothing had ever sounded or felt more natural. “For as long as you need, Rozalia can live with me and my father.” She described their home and the bookshop below it on the corner of Randolph and LaSalle Streets. She offered to show him their property for his approval. “I’ll bring her to see you any time you wish, and you’re always welcome to visit us, too.” She took his rough hand in hers. “Make no mistake. She is your daughter. I’ll only care for her until the two of you can be together again.”

  Grooves furrowed his brow. “I cannot pay you. But she can work for her keep, if that suits. You can dust, Rozalia, can’t you? Wash dishes? Tend the fire?”

  She nodded.

  Sylvie wasn’t after domestic help but had the sense to recognize a man’s pride when she saw it. She knelt, the cold creeping through her skirts to her knees. “That’s all fine, dear. But I will also want you to play. I have a very old cat named Oliver Twist, and he would love to have a little girl to keep him company. I would love to have a little girl to keep me company, and so would my father, I’m sure. Shall we try it and see what happens?”

  Rozalia loosened her grip on her father and gave another tentative nod.

  Mr. Dabrowski cleared his throat. “She isn’t so good with English now. The people in our neighborhood don’t speak it. But with you, she will learn English very good, yes? This is what I want for her. She’s an American now.”

  Sylvie unwound the muffler from about her neck and wrapped it around Rozalia. “I’m sure she’ll learn quickly.” She stood to address one more concern. She knew few Protestant Polish and wondered if her religion would pose a problem. “Mr. Dabrowski, I feel I ought to make you aware that I’m neither Jewish nor Catholic.”

  “Neither am I, miss.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “It’s been a long time since I’ve believed in anything. If you have faith of any kind, it will be more than the girl gets from me.” To Rozalia, he spoke in Polish. The girl protested. He replied with a stronger voice. To Sylvie, he said, “It is settled.”

  For a few weeks? A few months? A year? There was no way to know how long this arrangement would last. To Sylvie, it didn’t matter.