Shadows of the White City Read online

  Too overcome for words, she held out her hand. Rozalia took it.

  “Keep her safe for me, Miss Townsend.”

  “I promise. For as long as you need.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHICAGO

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 4, 1893

  Sylvie hadn’t always leapt to the worst possible conclusion. But being a parent seemed to enlarge her imagination as much as it did her heart.

  Tightening her grip on her parasol, she paced the broad sidewalk parallel to the many-columned Peristyle—one column for each state of the Union—that stretched between Music Hall and the Casino. She squinted against the blinding white buildings, straining to find her seventeen-year-old daughter among the thousands of other visitors here at the World’s Fair.

  “You worry too much.” Beth Wright called to her from the shade of the Peristyle’s central arch, one hand planted on her hip. At forty-three years of age, the same as Sylvie, she’d already been a widow for five years but had no children. Sylvie didn’t expect her to understand the niggling dread Sylvie felt. “So what if she’s a few minutes late? What’s so urgent, anyway?”

  Sylvie returned to her friend, ducking into the shade. “Her violin lesson with Kristof was supposed to start at two o’clock. Right there.” She pointed to Music Hall. It was the off-season for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra right now, so Kristof and Gregor Bartok, her third-floor tenants, were both performing in the Exposition Orchestra at the Fair. Rose met Kristof between their two daily performances for her weekly lesson. He wasn’t her first violin teacher, but he was the best.

  Beth fanned herself with her hat. Coils of cinnamon-colored hair swayed at her neck, the only soft aspect of her otherwise wiry frame. “When we were children, the idea of a woman playing the violin was scandalous. The times are changing indeed, and I’m glad of it. But don’t tell me you go with her to her lessons.”

  Sylvie peered up at her friend, who had three inches on her. “I don’t. I just finished my tour early at the Manufactures Building.” The massive structure was adjacent to Music Hall.

  Most World’s Fair tour guides were men, but a select band of female guides, including Sylvie and Beth, were hired to lead groups of women. Two or three days a week, Sylvie conducted tours based on each group’s interests. On Friday afternoons, many of those tours overlapped with Rose’s lesson time.

  Brassy notes marched through the air, courtesy of the Iowa State Band. “Good group today?” Beth asked.

  “Very. Seventeen young ladies from New Orleans, with three nuns as chaperones. We visited the model of St. Peter’s Basilica on the Midway, Queen Isabella’s relics in the Woman’s Building, the Louisiana State Building, and the Catholic School Exhibit in Manufactures, among other things.” Tours were paid for per person, per hour, which made today’s work a valuable supplement to her rental and bookstore income. “The nuns work with blind children too, so I took them to see the inventor of the braille typewriter and his machine. While we were there, a girl who was both blind and deaf came forward—Helen, I think, was her name—and when she was introduced to the inventor, she gave him a hug and a kiss. It was so moving, watching them meet.” It was easily the highlight of Sylvie’s week.

  Beth gave a low whistle. “Lucky. My five ladies from Minnesota wanted to stay at the Stock Pavilion for two hours before they let me show them around the Agriculture and Dairy Buildings. I’ll have to wash my hair twice to get the smell out.” She brushed a piece of hay from her sleeve. “Anyway, don’t worry about Rose running behind today. It happens.” Her brown eyes were soft, but her opinions remained as plain as the tip of her nose.

  Sylvie prayed her friend was right, even as she scolded herself for being ill at ease. Still, she looked for Rose’s figure and golden hair.

  Lake Michigan lapped against the back of the Peristyle. Before her lay the marble-edged Grand Basin, surrounded by the principal exhibit buildings that bordered the Court of Honor: Manufactures and Liberal Arts, Electricity, Mines and Mining, Machinery, and Agriculture. The gold dome of the Administration Building reflected the sun at the opposite end of the Basin. Each of the colossal, classically styled buildings was designed to dazzle, all of them resembling white marble.

  But not everything at the Fair was what it seemed. Just as nearly every structure here was made of a temporary substance easily deconstructed, every well-dressed man was not necessarily as well-behaved as he appeared.

  “Come on,” she said, nudging Beth. “Let’s rest our feet while we wait.”

  Repinning her hat in place, Beth followed Sylvie down the steps and into the glaring sun. They sat on a bench beside the Basin where they could see the Roman Corinthian–style Music Hall and the matching Casino, which hosted no gambling or gaming, but only a restaurant, cloakrooms, toilet facilities, and other public comforts. From its roof, American flags snapped in the wind. People passing by in their Sunday best were dwarfed by both buildings, and they weren’t even the largest on the grounds.

  “Honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?” Beth asked. “There are twelve hundred Columbian Guards stationed at the Fair.”

  Sylvie didn’t want to think about the worst that could happen, let alone list the possibilities aloud. There had been a fatal accident at the Ice Railway last month, and a deadly fire at the Cold Storage Building. People stepped in front of speeding cable cars. Girls disappeared. Not my girl, Lord. Please not mine.

  Mastering her imagination, Sylvie limited her reply to Beth’s comment. “The Fair covers six hundred acres, and that doesn’t even include the Midway. That’s only two guards per acre, for pity’s sake.” She didn’t spot any of them now.

  “Do you want me to wait with you?” But Beth was already standing.

  “No need.” Sylvie waved a fly away. “I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Come to the suffrage meeting with me. It’ll do you good to set your mind on more important things. Wherever Rose is, she knows how to get home.”

  “Next time,” Sylvie said.

  Beth shook her head and took her leave.

  Rising, Sylvie walked around the edge of the Basin, weaving a path between other visitors. The Statue of the Republic reared up out of the Basin on its pedestal, nearly blinding in its gold-leaf brilliance. Passing under a massive arch, she entered Music Hall and closed her parasol. Rose had probably slipped inside unnoticed, and Sylvie had worried for nothing.

  Forgoing the grand auditorium, her heels tapped briskly up the stairs and down the hall toward the practice rooms, following the sound of strings to an open door.

  The small space was alive with music. Kristof’s tuxedo jacket was folded over the back of a chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms finely honed from a lifetime of playing the violin. A black bow tie flared at his collar. He exuded precision, control, command.

  “She hasn’t been here,” Sylvie said.

  Kristof’s bow lifted as he faced her. The last note bounced off the wall and fell. “Not yet. If she doesn’t come soon, we’ll have to reschedule the lesson.” A hint of impatience threaded his tone. He wasn’t really angry, Sylvie knew. He was punctual and expected everyone else to be the same.

  “If she doesn’t come soon, the lesson will be the least of my worries.” Sylvie snapped open a paper fan painted with the Court of Honor.

  Brows lowering, his expression shifted from a violinist strung tight to that of a compassionate friend, which was what the confirmed bachelor had become to her over the last two years. Reserved, yes, and somewhat preoccupied, but he was reliable and metronome-steady. He was safe.

  “Please, sit.” He laid down his instrument, then pulled out the piano bench for her. “What’s going on?”

  She remained standing.

  Sunlight shone on his dark brown hair, glinting on grey threads at his temples. “Is she on her own?”

  “She was meeting Hazel and some of Hazel’s friends—all responsible and a little older than Rose. It’s likely they lost track of ti
me.” Yet she could not keep the concern from her voice.

  Kristof walked to the window facing Lake Michigan. Sylvie joined him. Endless blue water extended to the horizon. Boats and watercraft of all kinds dotted the lake. Benches bolted onto a Movable Sidewalk carried fairgoers out along the Casino Pier nearly half a mile into the lake before bringing them back again. Rose had far too much energy to sit for a ride that moved so slowly.

  After rolling down his sleeves, Kristof buttoned the cuffs. “She could have misjudged the amount of time it takes to get from one part of the Fair to another.”

  Before she could reply, hurried footfalls sounded in the hallway. Sylvie stepped outside the practice room to find Rose heading toward her, violin case swinging from her hand. Relief surged, then ebbed away. A snap of irritation followed.

  “Where have you been?”

  Rose brushed past her and into the practice room. She smelled of a man’s cologne.

  Sylvie stared after her, unable to reconcile this. “Rozalia. Why—”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “Mr. Bartok, do you have time to listen to my pieces, or must you go down to the stage?”

  Kristof looked from Rose to Sylvie. “Sylvie would like a brief explanation first. I can step outside if you like, and then yes, I have a few minutes to spare, but not many.”

  “No need for you to leave. It’s simple.” After removing her gloves, Rose opened her violin case, tightened her bow, and began rubbing a block of rosin along the horsehairs. “I went to a lecture at the Palace of Fine Arts. They’re inaugurating the Polish art section today, and I couldn’t have left early without being rude. Since the Art Palace is clear at the northern end of the fairgrounds, I thought I’d take the electric elevated train to get here—and I did—but I just missed the one I wanted and had to wait for the next. Then there was a huge line at the cloakroom in the Casino where I’d checked my violin. I couldn’t very well come here without it, could I?” She set the violin to her shoulder. “I told you it was simple. I’m sorry you didn’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .” Sylvie said.

  Rose cut her off, sawing away on her D string, twisting a tuning knob until the tone rang true. “You don’t trust anyone.”

  Sylvie made no response, nor did she register Kristof’s reply, other than that it was in her defense. She couldn’t stop staring at a thumb-sized bruise on the inside of Rose’s left wrist.

  It hadn’t been there this morning.

  The performance was over. The applause had faded from Music Hall, and the audience trickled toward the exits. Kristof Bartok and the rest of the Exposition Orchestra should have been free to pack up their instruments and have the rest of the day to themselves.

  Instead, Maestro Theodore Thomas gripped both ends of his conductor’s baton and told them to wait where they were. This had been their eighty-third performance together since May 2, but it was the first time he just stood there, bushy mustache drooping, while the hall emptied. Behind him in an enormous horseshoe, a dozen mammoth Corinthian pillars soared from balcony to ceiling, each wrapped with laurel garlands to match those draping between them. Laurel wreaths topped and anchored each pillar.

  Papers shuffled on stands as one hundred and fifty orchestra members gathered their music into leather folders. Beside Kristof, his younger brother shrugged and stashed his violin beneath his chair, displaying the same lackadaisical attitude that pervaded every corner of his life. Kristof had earned the position of concertmaster and first chair violin, but only because Gregor—who had more natural talent by far—had no discipline. If only he cared enough to practice, if he cared about his potential half as much as their father had, he would be the star of the orchestra, and Kristof would literally be playing second fiddle to him.

  Even if the maestro didn’t know that, surely Gregor did.

  Kristof dabbed a folded handkerchief to his brow, then rested his instrument across his lap and waited for whatever Maestro had to tell them.

  Gregor made a show of yawning, then shoved a thatch of oak-brown hair off his brow.

  “Out too late last night?” Kristof asked, sotto voce, though he already knew the answer. Gregor was so loud coming home that surely Sylvie and Rose could hear him tramping above them. Just as he had heard one of the Hoffmans stirring upstairs after Gregor slammed the door to their apartment.

  Gregor rubbed his hand over his face. “No later than usual.”

  True. And that was the problem. There was always something to do, see, experience that was more alluring than home. Before Kristof could reply, however, Maestro Thomas rapped his baton on his stand.

  “I have an announcement,” he began. “You’ve all played well here at the World’s Columbian Exposition. Two concerts daily, plus rehearsals, for the last three months has been a grueling schedule. I have been proud to stand at the helm of this body as you’ve offered the public a more cultured, sophisticated music experience than they get anywhere else in the city.”

  Gregor leaned over and whispered, “This can’t be good.”

  As much as he wanted to disagree, Kristof sensed the same. Thomas’s demeanor was too sober for mere praise.

  “But as you’ve noticed, our afternoon concerts have suffered shamefully low attendance.” Thomas’s eyebrows knit together.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Gregor inserted, “but I’m not surprised. The public can attend our free concerts in the morning, plus hear bands throughout the fairgrounds, all included with a fifty-cent ticket to the Fair. Why, then, would they pay another dollar to attend the afternoon concert?”

  He had a point. The Exposition Orchestra’s morning concerts of popular music averaged thirty-five hundred patrons. The afternoon concerts: one hundred.

  “Why indeed?” Maestro echoed. “As the musical director for the Fair, my aim has always been to use music to both amuse the crowds and to elevate the more discerning European visitor. But I’m forced to concede that music as art and education has been an utter failure. Music as amusement is all the people want, and they won’t pay extra for it.”

  Kristof shifted in his chair, making a mental note to change the programming. As concertmaster, he would suggest more Wagner, Brahms, Dvořák, Tchaikovsky. Fewer of the longer pieces they’d played this afternoon from Beethoven and Liszt. He tugged his damp collar away from his skin. The ninety-six-degree heat lately hadn’t made the stuffy afternoon concerts more popular either.

  “As free music doesn’t pay the bills,” Thomas continued, “I’m resigning my position as musical director and disbanding the Exposition Orchestra.”

  “What about the contract?” Kristof asked quietly. It was a six-month agreement, and they were months shy of completing it.

  “We’re breaking the contract,” Thomas replied. “Cutting our losses, so to speak. The Fair officials agree that, in this case, the only way forward is to find the way out.”

  Kristof was out of a job. They all were, until the Chicago Symphony Orchestra season began the day after Thanksgiving. But it was only the start of August. The end of November loomed far away.

  Surprise rippled through the orchestra sections, but none louder than that from Gregor. “This can’t be happening.” He stood. “What about our salaries?”

  “The last concert I’ll conduct will be August 11, and that will be in support of the chorus at Festival Hall. After that, I assume none of us will be paid. I certainly won’t ask for money I didn’t earn. Will you?”

  “This is outrageous. You can’t do this to us. I was counting on that money. That is, we were all planning to be fully employed for the duration of the contract. Did you think of that—think of us—before you resigned?”

  Kristof kicked his brother’s shoe to silence him. “Sit,” he hissed. Nothing could be gained by attacking the maestro.

  “I regret any financial hardships this may cause you,” Thomas boomed. “But if you’ve been wise, you have saved some of that generous salary you’ve been paid all
summer.”

  Kristof had. One hundred fifty dollars a week was more money than he could possibly spend. Apparently his brother had found a way to do it.

  Gregor sank back into his chair and held his head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

  At thirty-five years old, Gregor ought to be able to take care of himself. But when Kristof looked at him, he saw the younger brother always getting into scrapes, always reaching to Kristof for rescue. He set his jaw, already frustrated without even knowing why. But he knew Gregor. That was enough.

  As soon as Thomas adjourned the meeting, Kristof swiveled in his chair to face his brother and braced for confrontation.

  “Did you know about any of this?” Gregor asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “He relies on you. If you had any idea, and you didn’t tell me . . . If I had only had some idea my funds would dry up—”

  Kristof leaned forward. “I’m a concertmaster, not a consultant. I mark the bowings on the sheet music, help with programming, and perform the violin solos. I am not the maestro’s confidant.”

  “If only I’d known, I would have—I wouldn’t have—” Cutting short his confession, Gregor shoved his fingers through his hair.

  “Tell me.” Kristoff kept his tone low. “What have you done?”

  And what must I do to fix it?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Corner Books & More was empty when Sylvie and Rose returned to it late that afternoon—aside from Tessa Garibaldi, the twenty-one-year-old woman Sylvie employed, and Tiny Tim, the little black cat with white belly and paws who had adopted Rose the minute he’d seen her.

  The walls were deep purple, which might have made the space too dark if the store’s corner position didn’t double the amount of natural light. Orange velvet drapes framed the windows, and copper ceiling tiles stamped with medallions reflected gaslight chandeliers. Above the bookshelves hung portraits Meg had painted of literary characters, from Fanny Price to Frankenstein’s monster, from Jane Eyre to Jean Valjean.