2
Greta

OCTOBER 1915

“Please, I am fine.” Greta made the pretense of dusting off her dress—no, Eleanor’s dress—if only to avoid Eleanor and her brother Oscar’s concerned expressions. She still felt woozy, and she also felt foolish. Foolish for drawing attention when the events of tonight were nothing at all about her.

“Greta, darling, I—” Eleanor bit off her words as Greta lifted her eyes and beseeched her to be silent. Eleanor didn’t understand, but she pressed her lips together and exchanged looks with Oscar that Greta couldn’t interpret.

No. Eleanor and Oscar wouldn’t understand. Greta looked about her. The audience was dissipating from the theater in a respectful, solemn manner, even though the authorities were standing guard at the doors with grim faces, there to manage any potential chaos.

With the evening cut short, wealthy guests from out of town were being escorted to the train station where they could catch a train for the two-hour trip back to their homes in the capital city of Madison. They were the ones who should be here, after all, basking in the opulent architecture Mr. Barlowe and his wife had financed in Kipper’s Grove. The Barlowes had been faithful to the small town, imagining the place to be as important as the surrounding, much larger cities.

It didn’t matter. The Barlowes. The wealthy out-of-towners. The social elite of Kipper’s Grove, which included the banker and his wife, investors in the railroad, and Eleanor’s family who were simply from old money. Money going back to Boston that had made its way through Eleanor’s father all the way to Wisconsin. Politics. Investments. No one knew exactly how Mr. Boyd made his money, but they all knew he had money. Lots of it. Enough that he hobnobbed with Mr. Barlowe himself, who not only had gifted Kipper’s Grove with their own theater that mimicked French architecture but also spent most of his money on Chicago’s edifices, which would one day, in Eleanor’s parroted words from her father, “touch the clouds.”

Greta simply did not belong. Eleanor was her dearest friend, generous to a fault. Even Oscar, who Greta knew less but admired equally, was a gentleman when many in his station wouldn’t bestow such kindness on her. Yet their world was not her world. What she lived was only in their nightmares, whereas what they lived was in Greta’s dreams. So tonight she should not have bore witness to what she’d seen. The traumatic event had touched both worlds and would mark all attendees. For Greta, it merely emphasized what was already deeply buried within her. That feeling. That awful, gut-twisting foreboding as she stared up at the marquee and its golden frame, and as she stood in the glow of the electric lamps that spilled from the doorway of the theater and lit the walk.

“Greta?”

Eleanor’s light touch on Greta’s bare arm between her glove and the sleeve, its rose-colored tassels tickling her skin, competed for her attention.

“Greta, are you all right?”

“I can’t be all right. Not here.” Greta felt faint again, black shutters crowding the edges of her vision.

“Go fetch our driver,” she heard Eleanor instruct Oscar.

She focused on Oscar’s retreating form, weaving his way through the throng, his arm outstretched in a wave at a carriage not far down the block. His evening wear was trim, stylish, his hat perched on his neatly combed dark hair. He wore round-rimmed glasses. He was lean, not strong, yet he was brilliant. Perhaps that made up for his not being particularly handsome. At least she didn’t think he was.

“Greta.”

Once again, Eleanor’s voice broke into Greta’s cloudy thoughts. It helped to focus on Oscar. On anything other than this place.

“Come with me.” Eleanor’s gentle prodding steered Greta from the main entrance down the sidewalk, where she tucked Greta under the lamplight of an iron post. “I never should have brought you here. It wasn’t sensitive of me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Greta breathed. “How were you to know what would happen?” She needed to get herself under control. She couldn’t allow her angst, her horror, her grief to spread to Eleanor, as if ungratefulness were the only payment Greta could offer the Boyds for their generosity. She was Eleanor’s childhood playmate, only because Greta’s mother had been a maid in the Boyd mansion that abutted the Barlowes’ yard. Their homes had been dubbed the Royal B Crest by the people of Kipper’s Grove. The two families overlooked the valley below, the windows of their storied mansions rising like beacons of economic hope for the small town.

Greta had grown up in their shadow, while Eleanor had grown up in their light. But they had grown up together, and Eleanor was of the firm belief that nothing in adulthood should change them. And Eleanor dreamed, while Greta was a realist. She had to be. Her parents had died two years ago and left Greta and her older brother, Gerard, to care for their four younger brothers. But now it was just Greta. Alone. Ever since this horrid theater had stolen Gerard from her too. He’d fallen from the scaffolding, they’d told her. He’d been helping set the crown molding during the theater’s construction, finished a mere six months ago. He was dead—the theater had taken him from her. In fact, it had taken several men during the fast and intense construction. But Gerard was her brother. Her constant.

“I never should have brought you here,” Eleanor said. “After your brother, I should have known better.”

“Don’t fault yourself,” Greta replied, trying to reassure her friend. No one could have imagined a mother would drop her baby from a box seat. Or that the theater floor would swallow the baby as if hungry to take further life. Where was Mr. Barlowe? He must shut the place down!

An irrational insistence built within Greta. Yes, the theater should be closed for the safety of the community! Only it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It had costs thousands to construct. All in plain view of the acreage on the outskirts of Kipper’s Grove that Barlowe hoped to detract attention from. The poorhouse, more politely referred to as Grove House, the place where they sent the riffraff of the area. The patients with minds that had gone awry, or widows with no money to support their children, bankrupt farmers, and even old folks dying of ailments no doctor could cure.

Grove House was where Greta was scrambling to avoid being sent. Her and her remaining four younger brothers. But Evelyn didn’t know this. She couldn’t. Greta would never tell her. She would play the part of Eleanor’s childhood playmate, dress in Eleanor’s clothes, and be appreciative of her friend’s charity. She would do all that for Eleanor because Greta knew that in Eleanor’s way, she wanted to bless Greta, even pamper her. It was heartwarming as well, if not a little terrible.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the lamppost. The team of chestnut horses clomped their hooves against the brick street. One of them snorted. Oscar Boyd hopped from the innards of the carriage and beckoned them forward. Eleanor led the way, taking her brother’s hand, gathering the sleek, lacy folds of her evening gown and climbing inside.

Greta hesitated.

Oscar extended his hand to her, as if that would convince her to accept his courteous gesture. Like the lady she wasn’t.

Greta shook her head and backed away a step. She noted the frown on Oscar’s angular face.

“Miss Mercy?”

“Thank you, Mr. Boyd, but I . . . I think I would prefer to walk home.”

His brow furrowed. “I could hardly allow that, Miss Mercy.”

She ignored his concern. “No, I am sorry. Sorry to have inconvenienced you with my histrionics.” Greta tugged at her elbow-length gloves, pulling her fingers from them. “These are Eleanor’s. Tell her I shall return the dress as well just as soon as I’m able.”

“Greta!” Eleanor leaned from inside the carriage, her beautiful features highlighted by the streetlamp. “You mustn’t walk home!”

Greta shoved the gloves into Oscar’s hand, ignoring his bewildered expression. “I-I’m so sorry, Eleanor. Mr. Boyd.” Whirling, Greta surged ahead down the sidewalk, ignoring Eleanor’s call. Tears could not be held back any longer. Tonight had been a night of death. She was far too much of a companion to death of late, and more than ever it reminded Greta that her brothers relied on her now. Her. Attending fancy shows and masquerading as someone she wasn’t helped them not even a little. Worse, being reminded of the boys’ vulnerability spurred Greta into a run.

She hoisted the silken skirts of Eleanor’s dress, hurrying down the sidewalk toward home. Toward the south side of town where the pretty homes slowly melted into ill-kempt streets, small houses that tilted on their foundations, boxlike and worthless.

The only thing of value in this part of Kipper’s Grove were her brothers, who were everything to Greta. The death tonight—the death of an innocent—stabbed Greta with the fierce reality of her circumstances. She must keep her brothers alive and free from the poorhouse. There was no time for play, or death would continue to harass them. With illness, or hunger, or with one of the boys having to take on a job that included danger merely to help feed them.

Tonight, the Barlowe Theater had taught her another horrible lesson. The innocent would always suffer at the hands of those who paraded in pomp and ignored the lesser ones suffering in their shadow.

She would not be that to her brothers. Despite Eleanor’s kindness, no more would she flirt with the Boyds’ wealth.

Greta ignored the hair that slipped from her chignon down the side of her face.

She couldn’t. The loss of Gerard and her parents had already been a price she’d not wanted to pay for nothing in return. That wasn’t entirely true. She had received in return, only it was sorrow, poverty, and the death of her own hopes for a future. She would not risk her brothers’ futures. The harsh truth was that sometimes God chose to bless others, and other times He allowed the wages of sin to run rampant and uncontrolled. She was left to wade through the chaos alone. For her brothers.

Leo met her at the door, his eyes eager, his face plastered with dirt and filth from not having bathed or washed in a few days.

Greta pushed past her fourteen-year-old brother. “Leo, you need to wash your face and your hands.”

His eyebrows drew together in a fascinated and unbelieving expression. “Did I hear right? Someone tossed a baby over the box at the theater?”

“Tossed is hardly an appropriate word, Leo. Are the boys in bed?” Greta skirted the question, feeling conspicuous in Eleanor’s dress next to her brother’s ratty clothes. She glanced back at the door as Leo closed it. The front porch had long since unattached itself and tipped to the side, ripping from the main roof. It had left a hole above the doorframe that Leo had attempted to seal with newspaper stuffed into the gap and a piece of tin he’d pilfered from somewhere. But Greta could still feel the autumn chill seeping into the room. The small stove in the corner was cold, its rusted pipe not snapping as its metal adjusted to the hotter temperature. “You let the fire go out?”

Greta shifted her attention to the dark room beyond. A mattress lay on the floor, where she saw the sleeping forms of her other brothers.

Leo hurried to a pail next to the stove. It had kindling in it, but there was no coal or additional firewood. “I figured we’d be okay tonight without a fire.”

“Oh.” Greta nodded. He was right. Conserve. Conserve and stop being a ninny. “Keep your back turned,” she instructed. Leo did as he was asked and stood facing the wall. Greta made fast work of struggling out of Eleanor’s dress. Then the corset, which was no small feat. She stood in her undergarments and reached for her gray cotton apron dress that hung from a peg on the wall.

“You almost done?” Leo was impatient for his sister to finish dressing.

“Yes.” Greta hurried to button the dress.

“So?” Leo pressed.

“So what?” Greta struggled with a broken button that didn’t want to cooperate.

“Did a baby get killed tonight?”

“Leo!” Greta reared her head up.

Leo shrugged. “What? That’s the word on the street.”

News traveled quickly in Kipper’s Grove, but on the south side it became oh so much crasser. Here, the ugliness of life was simply . . . life. They would all die. Whether as an infant or as an elderly person, it would happen. There was no mincing words.

“Yes.” She nodded and returned to buttoning her dress, no longer caring that Leo could see her shift underneath.

“Gosh.” Leo curled his lip in a wince.

“And I don’t want to talk about it any further.” She was firm.

Leo searched her face. “Yeah. Okay. I get it.” And he did. Greta knew he was remembering that day—the day one of the construction workers from the theater had arrived at the sagging front door and told them the awful news.

“So, what’s—?” Leo’s question was cut short by a loud, urgent knock on the door.

Greta felt a gust of chilling emotion, and she froze. Leo shot her a questioning glance, then headed for the door. A policeman stood on the other side, his mustache thick, his dark eyes somber.

“Is this the Mercy residence?” His voice was deep and sounded like gravel.

Greta met his eyes and was comforted only briefly by the gentleness she saw there.

“Yeah,” Leo answered.

“I’m Officer Hargrove. John Hargrove.” The offering of his first name was merely a peace offering. Greta sensed it, grappling for a hold on the back of a rickety ladder chair. She recounted the boys she’d seen in bed in the next room. Cecil, Alvin, Virgil . . . there were three forms. With Leo here, all were accounted for. She had no other family to lose.

“Miss Mercy, we were informed you witnessed tonight’s events at the theater. Is that true?”

Oh. Of course. She felt ashamed she was so relieved. That a mother had lost her infant was a tragedy beyond words, and yet now that she was home with the boys, Greta was beginning to find her foundation once more. “Yes. I did, Officer.”

Hargrove scanned the room. She knew what he saw and the questions that would come to mind. How could someone like her afford to attend a premiere event? Who had she attended with?

“Is there a problem?” Leo stepped in front of Greta. His lanky body was taller than her by an inch, but his voice still cracked with the onset of manhood.

The officer redirected his gaze to Leo. Man to man. Greta appreciated that. “No, son. I just have some questions for your sister.”

“It were an accident, wasn’t it?” Leo pressed.

“Questions are standard,” Officer Hargrove responded.

“Ask the rich folk next to her then. My sister didn’t do anything.”

“Leo.” Greta laid a hand on Leo’s shoulder.

“I’m not implying your sister is in trouble,” Officer Hargrove responded. “There’s just been some conflicting reports, so we need to hear as many accounts of what happened as we can. Miss Boyd and her brother gave a statement tonight and indicated you were with them, and you were quite upset at the scene?”

The officer’s brown eyes met Greta’s. He had long lashes with a dark shadow around his jaw. There was no question he was strong, his shoulders square, his neck and chest hinting at the muscles beneath his uniform.

“She was upset ’cause my brother died there a few months ago.” Leo’s words had a bite to them. “Now this. Whaddya expect Greta to be like? All la-di-da?”

“Leo!” Greta squeezed her brother’s shoulder sharply. He dodged her grip and glowered at her. She turned to Officer Hargrove. “Yes. I was there tonight when—” she squelched a sob—“when the babe fell.”

Officer Hargrove had an inscrutable look on his face. “The babe. Mm-hmm. And did you witness the child falling?”

Greta wanted to close her eyes against the scene that threatened to replay itself over and over again. Instead, she mustered her courage, ignoring the way Leo had ducked from her grip and was glaring next to her.

“Yes. The mother stood up and then just . . . well, it appeared as though she . . . she . . .”

“She what?” Office Hargrove encouraged.

“Well, it looked almost as if the woman flung the baby. Flung it over the balcony.” This time, the sob catching in Greta’s throat was audible. She pressed her fingers to her lips.

“And you saw the baby fall?”

The question was merely reworded from before. Greta nodded.

“Okay.” Hargrove glanced at Leo, then shifted his weight to his other leg. “Then what happened?”

Greta eyed him quizzically. “Well, the doctor—he was sitting in our row—was summoned by the stage lights. And there was panic. Everyone was crying and scrambling.”

“And what did you do?”

Greta frowned. She could remember, but she didn’t understand why her personal reaction to the baby’s plummet over the balcony had any influence on the situation. She answered anyway. “I-I cried out. Eleanor was horrified as well. You can ask her.”

“We did” was the officer’s response.

“And then I felt faint. Mr. Boyd, Eleanor’s brother, tried to catch me. He helped me and Eleanor make our way out of the auditorium onto the street.”

“Did you see the baby after it fell?”

Greta glanced at Leo, whose countenance was darkening by the moment, and she couldn’t understand why. The officer meant no harm or insult. “No. I-I mean there were too many people. They were gathering where the child had fallen. There was a woman, who was hysterical. I thought I saw someone pull her away. After that, I saw nothing more. We merely focused on exiting the theater.”

“Why the questions?” Leo interrupted.

Officer Hargrove caught Greta’s eye, and he looked almost apologetic. He rolled his lips together in resignation, and his broad chest rose in a subtle sigh. “The problem is, Miss Mercy, that there wasn’t a babe. No one fell from the balcony. In fact, no one was in those seats tonight.”

Greta’s breath caught in her chest, and she stared at the officer. Leo snorted. Officer Hargrove didn’t change his expression. Leo stopped his laugh of derision and gave Greta a sideways glance. Everything in her quailed at the attention. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head. “No. No, that’s not possible. I saw it. I saw it happen!”

Officer Hargrove held up a calming hand. “This is why I’m here. Folks in attendance said you stood up in the middle of the program and screamed. The chaos was in fact caused by your insistence that a baby had been thrown from the balcony.”

“Eleanor saw it too!” Greta almost shouted in eagerness to defend herself, to defend what she’d seen.

Hargrove’s intake of breath was riddled with hesitation. “Miss Boyd and Mr. Boyd both indicated they didn’t see it but only responded to your claims. As did the doctor in attendance and the other attendees.”

“They summoned the doctor! On the letter board!”

“Standard protocol in an emergency, Miss Mercy.”

“Are you sayin’ my sister is looney?” Leo interjected. His lanky frame stepped in front of Greta. “Huh? If she saw a baby fall, she wouldn’t make that sorta thing up.”

“I would never say that about your sister or anyone. I believe you that your sister has no ill intentions,” Officer Hargrove tried to reassure them. “But there was no baby. No one was injured at the theater tonight. There were no witnesses except to your sister’s outburst and the subsequent panic to save a would-be infant. Your sister’s . . . Miss Mercy’s outburst caused the panic. She was believed, and people rushed to the aid of the child, but there was no child. There was no woman in the box seat.”

Greta’s legs wobbled, weakness flooding through them. Officer Hargrove noticed, and he leaped forward, yanking out a chair from the table and urging her onto it.

He was closer to her now, and she could smell the warm scents of citrus and cinnamon on his skin. “Miss Mercy?” His voice was soothing. Greta lifted her eyes and met the officer’s. He held her gaze for a moment and then continued, “We’re not sure what you saw tonight, but the Barlowe family is considering pressing charges for the disruption of the performance.”

“Pressing charges!” Leo shouted.

Greta felt the cold, clammy wave of faintness wash over her.

“Disturbing the peace,” Officer Hargrove supplied, his watchful eyes not leaving Greta’s face.

“I didn’t mean it,” Greta whispered. She hadn’t meant to be disruptive. Eleanor had said nothing to shush her—or had she? No, she’d inquired about the baby as well. And Oscar had gone along with her. There’d been no reprimand.

She leveled her words on the officer, not waiting to interpret the expression of pity or tolerance or whatever it was on his handsome face.

“I saw a baby fall, Office Hargrove. I did not make it up.”

Officer Hargrove gave a deep sigh, and his response stilled Greta to her core. “Then where is it? Where’s this baby that no one has claimed, no one can find, and no one saw? Where, Miss Mercy?”