What the Lady Wants (3 page)

“Shall we see what all the commotion is about?” He motioned toward the crowd that had assembled near the windows, stepping aside so that she could precede him.

Delia looked for her parents and Abby as more people
squeezed in to look out the windows, watching what was growing into a raging fire in the southwest. Delia heard the alarm bells ring again as the partygoers
ooh
ed
and
aah
ed over the flaring flames in the distance. It was as if they were watching a fireworks display.

“I've never understood the morbid fascination with other people's misfortune,” said Mr. Field.

Delia glanced around, looking again for her family, and when she couldn't find them she followed Mr. Field off to the side. The orange glow from outside bathed the wall of windows near them. But Mr. Field wasn't watching the fire. Instead, he turned and gave her an appraising look.

“I know it's impolite to ask a lady her age, but exactly how
young
are you?”

“Seventeen. I'll be eighteen next month.”

He closed his eyes and patted a hand over his heart. “My oh my, but you are an enchanting creature, Miss Spencer.”

She smiled timidly, uncertain of what to say or do next. No man had ever spoken to her like that, had ever looked at her like that before, either. She stared at his hand covering his heart and noticed his crooked index finger. The joint just above his knuckle was hyperextended. Delia chanced another bashful smile just as a white-hot blaze cannonballed across the horizon. Even from where they stood they both saw it and rushed back toward the windows.

Seconds later there was a loud explosion that shook the building with such a force that the chandeliers clanked and a server dropped his tray. Delia shrieked and grabbed hold of Mr. Field's lapel as couples cleared the dance floor and the musicians put down their instruments. Delia saw a glimpse of Abby's blond curls before she lost her again in the crowd. Everyone squeezed
in around the windows, watching the night sky, alive and wild with streaks of red, blue and orange.

Delia released her hold on Mr. Field's lapel and clutched her chest. “I'm sorry. That frightened me so.”

He didn't say anything. His eyes were trained on the inferno. The winds had picked up, howling against the windows, feeding the flames. The fire was gaining on the city. There were more explosions and rumblings heard from miles away.

“Must have been the turpentine plants or else kerosene tanks,” said one of the guests.

“Don't forget there's half a dozen lumberyards over there, too,” said another man with a full goatee that hung from his chin like a whitewash brush.

The next explosion happened closer by and Delia watched in horror as a fireball appeared just blocks to the west and consumed an entire building as if it were made of paper. The room filled with screaming and shrieking. This was not like the fires of the summer. Delia was paralyzed with fear.

Before the flames got any closer, Mr. Field grabbed hold of her hand. “Come with me,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

Everyone at the party had the same idea, as they all quickly rushed for the doorways. Delia thought she spotted her father, but then he disappeared in the chaos. She saw Potter Palmer climb onto the stage where the orchestra had been. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he shouted above the panic and commotion. “Everybody—it's time to evacuate. Please, everyone leave the hotel now!”

The room exploded into even more mayhem as people shoved one another out of the way and rushed the doors. Hats and evening bags flew as people tripped over their own feet, trying to escape. Delia's gown rustled as she raced down the staircase,
holding tightly to Mr. Field's hand until someone pushed her from behind and she was separated from him.

“Mr. Field? Mr. Field—wait!”

She was caught in a blur of people shoving past her, rushing toward the exit. Delia thought about her manteau, but there was no time to get it. Frantically she searched for her parents and Abby, but all she saw was the chaotic barrage of strangers. By the time she made it outside, the street had turned to pandemonium as people fought to flee the buildings and restaurants nearby. There was no sign of Mr. Field anywhere. No trace of her family, either. She was all alone, surrounded by confusion. All she knew for certain was that the fire was growing closer and that she had to find a way to escape it.

D
elia soon found herself among a mass of people heading north. She'd lost track of time as alarm bells continued to sound and fire shot out of the windows and doorways she passed by. The flames rose from the ground up, reaching far above the rooftops and leaping over entire buildings.

People were hauling drays and carts filled with clothes and blankets, dishes and a jumble of other personal belongings. It seemed as if they had grabbed whatever they could find to fit inside their carts as they'd fled their homes. Even small children lugged suitcases at their sides, banging into their knees and shins as they ran. Spooked horses galloped madly, careening through the streets, dragging carriages behind them as their passengers desperately held on to the side rails.

Even as Delia steadily moved north, she could feel the heat rolling in from behind as the flames drew closer to her. The air was hot and thick with smoke. Tiny orange cinders alive with fire swam before her eyes, floating about like dust motes. The strong winds blew burning planks of wood across half a city block, setting off new fires wherever they touched down.

The heat soon became unbearable. Delia stepped onto a tarred walkway, her shoes sticking to the blistering, bubbling surface. Something stung her arms and legs and she noticed the sleeves and bottom of her dress were smoldering. She screamed,
frantically swatting at the live embers that landed on her. She'd never been so frightened in all her life as she slapped out the cinders with her gloved hands.

She trembled even after she'd extinguished the embers, but did her best to keep moving. The roads were becoming congested, crowded with carriages at a standstill while pedestrians like Delia squeezed their way around the clogged streets and walkways. All the while, she tried not to think about what might have happened to her family. She had to keep a watch on her emotions for fear that if she eased up, the panic would swallow her whole.

She lost all sense of where she was until she passed the post office engulfed in flames. Just beyond that, she saw a wooden swing bridge ignite and disappear within seconds, slipping beneath the water of the Chicago River. At last she recognized Courthouse Square. People stood in the fountain, trying to escape the suffocating heat. The alarm bells from the cupola continued to sound even as twelve-foot flames licked the sides of the building. Delia watched the guards marching prisoners from the courthouse jail out onto the street. Red-hot embers landed on one of the inmates, and before her eyes, she saw his uniform burst into flames. Terrified, she turned away and moved on, passing a series of saloons that had been broken into, their windows shattered by men helping themselves to every bottle they could get their hands on.

Though Delia was surrounded by people, could feel their steaming flesh pressing up against her own skin, she felt utterly alone. Another wave of tears rose up on her, but she pushed them back down as a blast of wind caught her from behind and carried off her hat. She watched it rolling down the sidewalk like a tumbleweed, gone forever. Her feet were blistered, her legs throbbed and she wasn't sure how much farther she could go. She was hungry and tired. The noise was deafening: people crying, hooves pounding the pavement, explosions going off and buildings collapsing. She couldn't comprehend the suffering she was witnessing: grown men sobbing, people and animals set aflame, women rushing back inside burning homes for their children. Delia didn't want to see any more. She wanted to go home. More panic rose up inside her and she feared she'd never see her parents or Abby again. She was fighting back another round of tears when a familiar voice called her name.

“Delia, Delia—” her father shouted from inside the family carriage as their driver pulled back on the reins and brought the coach to a stop. The horse's coat was shiny with sweat and foam oozed from its mouth. Part of its mane looked singed and she saw the blood seeping from a gash on its hind leg.

“For goodness' sake, child, get in.” He opened the door and grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up.

Delia couldn't speak. Her family finding her in the midst of the chaos was a miracle. As soon as she felt her father's arms around her, she released her tears, letting the fright she'd been trying to suppress come to the surface in full, gulping sobs.

Her mother plucked a handkerchief from her satchel and dabbed Delia's eyes while at the same time scolding her. “Why did you wander off alone? We were looking everywhere for you,” she said. “You scared us half to death.”

“Shssh, she's all right. That's all that matters,” said her father.

Abby scooted closer to Delia and reached for her hand. Her sister had torn her glove that evening and the seam along her index finger had opened. Even in the dark, Delia could see that Abby had bitten that exposed nail down to the quick.

The carriages were still backed up and it took an eternity just to round the corner. Once they'd made it around the bend, though, they picked up speed and traffic started moving again. Yet, everywhere Delia looked, there were more wagons, drays, even stray horses heading north. She realized they were just one in an endless caravan that night, trying to stay ahead of the fire.

When they reached the southern tip of Lincoln Park all the coaches came to a stop. Some of the horses, like their own, were injured and overheated from the flames, frothing at the mouth. Looking out the window, Delia saw hundreds of people sitting on the ground with horse blankets wrapped about their shoulders. Others used their suitcases as stools, their elbows propped on their knees. They were in the midst of a refugee camp that had sprung up out of nowhere. She was struck by all the different people—the Irish, the Germans, the rich, the poor—all united in their need to escape the fire. A man in a Prince Albert coat with a velvet collar streaked black from smoke stood next to a man in a fraying nightshirt and a tattered cap. It was the same with the women, some in ball gowns and hats and others draped in work dresses with babushkas covering their heads.

Delia joined her father when he stepped out of the carriage to stretch his legs. Everywhere she turned, she saw mothers sobbing because they couldn't find their children, while their husbands stood by helpless to console them. Her father said he was going to speak with some of the other men and Delia watched him walking away, his broad shoulders sifting through the crowd
until she lost sight of him. That was when a kernel of panic formed in her gut. She realized that she'd been expecting her father to fix this—this impossible catastrophe—just as he'd fixed her skate, or the roof on her dollhouse, or splinted her dog's hind leg after he was hit by a wagon. He'd always fixed every other problem in her life, but this was bigger than him, bigger than anything they'd ever seen. That terrified her but it also marked a change in her. She knew she couldn't afford to crumble and something deep inside her solidified. It was as if she could feel her inner core expanding with a force she didn't know she had. Looking back, she would remember this as the moment she found her strength and came to understand the meaning of self-reliance.

When her father returned to the carriage he told them that everyone had decided to wait it out. “We're far enough north now. The fire will never come all the way up here. We'll stay here tonight and in the morning, once they've put this beast out, we'll be able to go back home.”

Home!
It was the first time anyone had mentioned
home
and the very word brought to mind the question that had haunted Delia through the whole ordeal. It was Abby who finally asked, “What if our house is burned down? What will we do? Where will we go?”

“Now you listen to me,” Mr. Spencer snapped. “The fire's spreading north and all those buildings that burned were nothing but balloon structures. They were made of wood frames. Our house is stone and we live far enough south. Our house will be fine, you hear me?”

“Now not another word about houses burning down,” their mother said, giving both Delia and Abby a warning glance.

Delia tried to take comfort in her father's words, picturing their home among the other limestone mansions that lined Terrace Row. She listened to her mother and sister talk about
needing a hot bath, wanting a cup of calming tea, wondering if McVicker's would be open for that Friday's matinee show. Delia wanted to join in, but she couldn't take her eyes off the flames still breathing in the distance. It didn't seem possible that anything could stop the inferno.

When dawn broke Monday morning, the sky was still dark with thick black smoke. The only light Delia could see came from the flames, still shooting a hundred feet into the air. The fire looked to be about a mile away and that was too close. The carriages started moving again as the fire pushed their caravan farther and farther.

An hour or so later they stopped in a stretch of prairie land, surrounded by shanties and cottages. Delia was hungry and tired. Time seemed to hang in the air, just as thick and unmoving as the smoke. There was nothing to do but wait. A man who had salvaged his accordion began playing oompah music while other men passed around lager and whiskey that she assumed they'd taken from the looted saloons back in town. People were eating raw corn that they'd found growing in the nearby field, juice from the kernels dribbling down their chins. Her father commented that it was the first time he'd ever seen the Germans and the Irish tolerate one another's company. They had no choice.

As the day stretched on, Delia moved from the carriage to the field, where the blanched-out grass rose up past her knees, just waiting to feed the fire. But still, it felt good to walk around after being cooped up for so long. Their coachman was tending to their horse, inspecting the gashes on its leg, shaking his head as he muttered something to her father. Delia distanced herself from them, thinking how she couldn't bear another night inside that coach. She had barely closed her eyes the night before. The winds had howled so, beating against the sides of the carriage, rocking them to and fro. She'd been freezing one minute,
sweating the next. The sounds of the fire had terrorized her during the night, but now, in the daylight, she had become accustomed to the booming roars off in the distance. She thought only vaguely about it, just another lumberyard igniting or perhaps more buildings collapsing.

At dusk she had no choice but to retreat to the carriage again with the rest of her family. They all slept fitfully. It was almost midnight according to her father's pocket watch when they heard a steady
tap, tap, tap
on the roof. At first Delia feared it was cinders showering down on them, but then she heard the yelping and clapping. She looked out the window.
Rain!
It was raining. She held out her hand and let the droplets pelt her open palm. A gift from the heavens! The harder it rained, the more it lifted people's spirits. She watched them, young and old, standing with their heads thrown back, letting the rain wash over them. She could almost hear the hiss of the fire losing ground as giddy relief spread throughout her body.

•   •   •

B
y Tuesday morning, the fire was out and the black smoke had given way to a gray smoldering haze. Tears sprang to Delia's eyes. They had survived. They were going to be all right. These were the only thoughts circling her mind as their carriage slowly began making its way back through the city and toward their home.

“Everything's so quiet now,” said Abby, who had worried the open seam of her glove so that now two additional fingers were exposed along with their nibbled nails. When she started in on a fresh fingernail, her mother swatted her hand away from her mouth.

All was calm now but Delia found the stillness haunting. As they made their way back through Lincoln Park, she could see that the city had been broken to its core. The wooden sidewalks
were gone. The trees were gone. So were all the houses and buildings. The rain continued to fall, turning the streets, already filled with heaps of debris, into gray sludge. Without any landmarks to guide them, even Delia's father had difficulty knowing where they were. Through his clenched jaw he called out to the driver, trying to decide which paths to take. Despite the coachman's prodding whip, their horse was barely inching along. Block after block of buildings that had stood four and five stories high days before had now been reduced to piles of charred wood. Delia's mother kept her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes blinking back tears.

At last, up ahead in the distance, Delia spotted the turrets of the Chicago Avenue Pumping Station on Michigan Boulevard. Two days earlier, they'd simply blended into the background, but now they were everything, an anchor for her hopes. The pumping station was still standing. All was not lost! Hope rose up inside her.

“Look,” she shouted, her pulse jumping with enthusiasm. “It's going to be okay!”

But as soon as those words left her mouth their carriage came to a halt. The driver cracked his whip over the horse's hide, but it refused to move. Delia's father got out and climbed up onto the box. Again and again the driver whipped the animal until its legs buckled and it collapsed.

Delia and Abby cried out and their mother covered her eyes as the carriage violently jolted forward. Mr. Spencer and the driver jumped down off the box to check on the horse. Delia watched through the window. The horse was dead, its eyes bulging open, its mouth covered in froth, its coat slick from sweat and rain. Delia turned away, thinking she might be sick despite having nothing in her stomach.

Now they had no choice but to go the rest of the way on foot.
The mud and ash covered Delia's bottines as they walked, coming across odds and ends lying in the carnage. Delia saw a rag doll in the muck, her button eyes looking up to the sky, and a ceramic bowl or perhaps a vase, melted into a twisted shape. A pocketknife had survived along with a man's shoe, its tongue hanging out thirsty and covered in soot.