Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) Read online

  “Have you seen the paper this morning?” Whitney broke from Gran’s grasp and tugged the wadded paper from her bag.

  “I don’t read that rubbish. Besides, you can find all the news worth knowing on the E! channel with that cute Seacrest fellow.”

  “That’s not real news, Gran, but this—”

  “Of course it is. Did you know Brangelina is thinking of adopting another child?” Gran moved into the kitchen and grabbed the tea kettle.

  “Brad-ga-what-a?” Whitney plopped her purse onto the kitchen table and sank into one of the crocheted cushions that adorned the chairs. None of them matched.

  “Oh, keep up honey, that’s what Seacrest calls Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie on his show.”

  Whitney spread the paper across the table. “I don’t think he actually owns the show.”

  “Do you know Seacrest used to be chubby when he was a kid? I saw a special on him once. People made fun of him and he just kept on trucking. Well, just look at him now. He’s an inspiration to all of us. Just goes to show you that a childhood doesn’t have the define you.”

  “Hey, Gran, about this newspaper…” Whitney tapped the picture of her great-great-grandfather. He was handsome in a devil-may-care way with full dark hair sticking up in an impressive bed-head manner, dark eyebrows against fair skin, and his head tipped back displaying an angular jaw. He wore an old-fashioned suit. What would possess such a man to spur an army of others to turn on those governing them? If only she could reach through time and ask him her questions.

  A plate crashed against the floor, splintering into a dozen jagged pieces. Whitney snapped around. Her gaze flew from the ruined china to Gran who stood a foot away, hands trembling.

  “Not again … .not after everything…” Gran lifted her hands to her face and shook as if she might start crying. “I won’t move again. He can’t run me out of my home again.”

  Whitney hopped up. “Are you okay?” She wrapped an arm around Gran’s waist. “Do you need meds?”

  “No. It’s that.” Gran gestured toward the picture of Lewis Ingram. “Why is that here?”

  Whitney guided her to a chair and Gran laid her head against the table.

  Whitney smoothed her hand across Gran’s frail shoulders. “I tried to tell you about the article. It took me by surprise today. Can you tell me more about him?”

  Gran lifted her head. “Newspapers lie. The media is a bunch of wanna-be actors and actresses with heads full of marshmallows. That’s why I watch Seacrest, even if he’s talking hogwash at least he’s nice to look at. Be a journalist like him someday, that’s all I ask.”

  Reaching over, Whitney picked up Gran’s weathered hand and cradled it in her own. She ran her thumb over the soft skin that bunched around Gran’s wrist. “Can you tell me more about Lewis?”

  Extracting her hand, Gran shook her head then pushed up from her seat. “Gotta clean up these broken pieces before Roscoe goes and gets himself hurt.”

  Whitney stopped her with light pressure on her arm. “I can do that. Just sit back down and tell me what you remember about Lewis.”

  Gran clutched her hands together. “I knew him as my grandfather. A kind soul, though much older than this photo shows him as. When he came around he used to play with me for hours even though that wasn’t a normal practice with children back in my youth. He always kept a tin of butterscotch in his coat pocket and he would sneak it to me when my parents weren’t watching.”

  “But the story accuses him of being a leader of some sort of anarchist uprising.”

  “We don’t talk about that.”

  “You have to tell me, Gran.” Whitney finished sweeping up the last of the tiny shards, then dumped them into the garbage can. “I need to know. Owen—”

  Gran harrumphed. “Let me guess, that boyfriend of yours finds this information a little hard to shape into one of his fancy campaign slogans?”

  “He threatened to dump me if I can’t make it go away. You’ve got to help me. I don’t want to lose him over a mistake some great-great-dead person made.”

  “That Owen isn’t worth the product in your hair.”

  Whitney crossed her arms. “I don’t have any product in my hair.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Tell me about Lewis.”

  “I don’t talk about him.” Gran’s hands shook harder than normal. “I’ve nothing more to say, and you can search the house but you’ll only find the one photo I have.”

  Bright Eyes sang out from Whitney’s cell. She pawed into her bag and found it. Didn’t recognize the number but flipped the phone open. “This is Whitney.”

  “Hi, uh, this is Nate.” Pause. “From the Chicago Historical Foundation.”

  “Of course. Did you find something?” Whitney mouthed to Gran that she had to run. She air-kissed Gran’s leathery cheeks then slung her purse onto her shoulder and walked out the front door.

  “You did say to call you even if I found the smallest thing.”

  A bus pulled up to the stop—thankfully, today the CTA buses were running on time—and Whitney jogged to get on. “What did you find?”

  “Are you okay? You sound out of breath?”

  “I’m fine. You have stuff on Lewis?” She looped her arm around a handrail as the bus chugged off into traffic.

  “Are you on your way?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll show you when you get here.”

  ***

  Whitney hurried into the fourth floor research area. The sight she encountered lessened the irritation of having to pay the five dollar fee again. Nate had set up a little area for them at one of the wide tables near the back. A box of papers rested at an angle and a single discolored page perched on a stand.

  Whitney clicked her phone to silent, ignoring a call from her boss Freddie. She’d already listened to his voicemail from earlier and didn’t need to hear him repeat any of his accusations. Lied about her past to weasel her way in and destroy his magazine? Right, because the last three years of long hours and working weekends spoke nothing about her loyalty.

  Nate glanced at her and dimples appeared in his cheeks, the right side a fraction deeper. Whitney’s heart sped up. Probably from taking the stairs too quickly.

  “You got here fast.” He patted the seat beside him.

  With a sigh, Whitney dumped her purse on the ground and took the chair. “They made me pay admission to get back up here again.”

  Nate cocked his pierced eyebrow. “I have guest passes. I’ll give them to you. It’s not like my roommates are ever going to come here. I’ve tried, believe me.”

  The single sheet on the stand drew her attention. Looping expressive cursive covered the paper and the left hand corner boasted two fervent doodles. She reached for it, but Nate captured her wrist.

  “If you want to handle any of the artifacts you have to visit the washing station first. Besides the photographs, we don’t require gloves, but we do ask for a full thirty seconds of hand washing.”

  “Thirty seconds, huh?”

  “A good rule of thumb is to hum row, row, row your boat three times.” He winked.

  Whitney raised her hands in surrender then tucked them together on her lap. “All right, you show me then. What do you have?”

  “It’s a letter written by a woman named Ellen to her cousin Alice.”

  “And it has to do with Lewis Ingram?” Whitney looked up from the document and locked gazes with Nate. With both of them hunched side by side the gold flecks in his eyes seemed to shimmer from only inches away.

  “Yes.” He traced a finger over the showy cursive. “You see, it says here that Ellen is Lewis Ingram’s sister.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chicago, April 27, 1886

  With added flourish, Ellen completed her signature. She folded the page, using her copy of Jane Austen’s Emma to form a crisp crease, and smirked.

  “And what could have you grinning like the Cheshire cat this early in the morning?”

&nb
sp; She knew the voice, and took great pleasure in causing him annoyance by taking her time to seal her letter before looking up. James Kent, her brother’s long-time friend, stood there, one broad shoulder propped against the doorframe. He raised his dark blond eyebrows in her direction.

  Ellen trailed her fingers over the desktop. “Just this letter I’m sending to Alice. I’m imagining her shock when she reads my declaration. Oh. I wish I could be there to see her face.”

  “And what declaration would that be?” Straightening, James looped his hands in his pockets and entered the room.

  Aunt Louisa set her teacup on the curio cabinet and fluttered her hands as if to shoo a fly out of the room. “Mr. Kent, a gentleman should show dignity in his reserve.”

  “Now what fun would that be? Besides, it’s only Ellen.” With a laugh, he captured Ellen’s aunt’s offered hand and inclined his head. “Good morning, Mrs. Danby, might I thank you again for allowing me to be a guest in your home?”

  Ellen rolled her eyes behind her aunt’s ample backside, and James rubbed his jaw to hide the telltale signs of a smile. If Aunt Louisa sniffed a hint of impertinence she would likely force Ellen and James to pack their bags, summon her carriage, and send them both to Union Depot to board the next train home to Wheaton posthaste.

  And home proved the last place Ellen wished to be.

  Aunt Louisa swept past James and picked up the blue and white delftware teacup she abandoned moments ago. “You’re only here because my sister begged me to host you as well. Why Ellen needs a family friend to accompany her when she’s staying with her own flesh and blood is beyond me, but far be it from me to refuse my sister anything. The poor dear hasn’t had the nicest life, you know.”

  It had taken Aunt all of two minutes of a conversation to begin speaking ill of Ellen’s mother. Her nails bit into her palms. Be kind. “Yes. James is right. Thank you for having us in your home, Aunt,” Ellen added.

  “You know, I’m quite happy that your mother remarried. With your brother gone all the time and with you being of a marriageable age, she would have found herself alone before long. I don’t believe she would have left behind your father’s dusty stables to move in with you or Lewis, which is really a pity. But no matter, above all, your stepfather seems like a nice enough man.”

  Nice like the mama skunk that dug a home and had her babies under the woodshed. Mother had sent Lewis to drown them in the DuPage River. If only she had exhibited the same sense before marrying Asa Holt. Ellen ground her teeth to keep from speaking.

  “Besides,” Aunt Louisa continued. “I’ve warmed to the idea of having young people around me to bring into society. Although”—she turned on James and jutted her teacup in his direction—“why you are not doing something more useful with your time is beyond me.”

  “I’m set to start at my father’s bank when my parents return from their travels.”

  “Your parents seem to be forever on a journey. It would do them well to pay more attention to their responsibilities.” A shaft of light sneaked between the almost closed curtains and sent a ray of sunshine across the drawing room floor. Dust motes swayed in the air as Aunt Louisa twisted her teacup in her hand.

  James yawned. “At three and twenty, I think I’m long past the point of needing parental supervision.”

  “That is immaterial. It is my understanding they’ve been gone half of every year for a decade. And, to my knowledge, they have never brought you along.”

  James yanked at his vest. “They have not.”

  With a nod of the head she dismissed him. “Ellen, am I correct to assume that you have not had a proper debut yet?”

  She should have known her aunt would launch a full investigation their first day in town. And of course, Aunt Louisa would not like what Ellen had to tell her. “No. It’s still very country around Wheaton. People would consider it snobbery to host a formal debut.”

  “Well, it’s too late for a formal one here, but let us consider tonight at the Cobb’s ball your debut. Just between us, of course. As your chaperone I’ll allow you to dance with any man of your choosing. How would that be?” Aunt Louisa nibbled a sweet biscuit. “Now, you do own a proper bustle?”

  Ellen fought a grin. “Yes, ma’am, I couldn’t have graduated from Madame De Molineus School for the Enrichment of Young Ladies without one.”

  “Very good. At least your mother had the intellect to send you to finishing school. Oh, don’t look affronted. You know as well as I that your mother chose a simple life when she could have married a different suitor than your father. It’s still beyond comprehension as to why she chose him.” Her aunt sipped her tea. “Where’s my help? This has gone cold.”

  “Yes, but if my mother hadn’t married my father then I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

  Her aunt huffed and sloshed tea over the edge of her cup. “Don’t speak about such things in public.”

  “But you just said—”

  James took a seat on the horsehair sofa and extended his long legs, crossing them at his ankles. “What is the fascination with bustles anyway?”

  Aunt Louisa’s eyes popped wide open. “Mr. Kent, I know you fancy shocking me, but really it is impolite and vulgar to speak of women’s attire in such a flippant manner.”

  He shrugged. “No offense meant. But it confuses me, one minute a girl looks normal, as Ellen does now”—he gestured her way—“and then you see the same girl two hours later and the costume she’s donned could knock vases off of tables when she turns if she’s not careful.”

  Aunt Louisa put up a hand to block James and turned toward Ellen. “You can waltz? You were taught proper dances at that school? It is my belief that a woman should not appear in society at all unless she is physically equal to the occasion.”

  Ellen pushed away from the secretary, securing the drop leaf before she bent to adjust her skirts. “Yes, ma’am. I am accomplished in the popular forms of the waltz, quadrille, polka, and cotillion. I can also walk across the room with a book and a piece of china balanced on my head if you’d like. Another one of Madame’s rules.”

  Rocking to her feet, Aunt Louisa clasped her hands together. “Imagine my dear, if you marry well, your entire family could be launched into high society. No one needs ever to know that your father dabbled in the horse races.” She patted Ellen’s cheek. “The matchmaking mothers all over town will adore you, I’m sure. The bluebloods are forever searching for new worthy families to add to their circle. It gets to the point where everyone in the top echelons are related, you know.” Her aunt stepped back to regard her. “And as long as a man can forgive your freckles, the rest of your features are quite striking. At least in an exotic way, with those enormous blue eyes set off by such dark hair. Don’t you think so, Mr. Kent?”

  James scuffed his shoe across the Oriental rug. “I’m rather fond of Ellen’s freckles.”

  Aunt Louisa tapped his shoulder. “Be serious, young man. We need an honest opinion from a member of the male species. Unfortunately, you are all we have at the moment.”

  “I’ve always considered Ellen a beauty, even when she was all knees and elbows at ten years old, trying to force me to play Indians with her.” He winked at Ellen.

  When Aunt Louisa turned to fan herself, Ellen stuck her tongue out at James.

  He rubbed his chin. “And if I remember right, you didn’t even need the headdress to be chief, because your hair stuck up so much it looked like you already had one on.” His gaze locked with Ellen’s and held. “Wasn’t your mom always getting after you for playing in the mud? What a sight you made with it streaked down your arms and face.”

  Ellen balled her fists. “I could still skin you alive.”

  Her aunt sniffed. “I hope you two won’t act like this in company.”

  James offered a lopsided grin. “Not to worry, Mrs. Danby, Ellen and I only try to kill each other in private.”

  “It’s good to know you can behave yourself some of the time. In the meanwhile, if you fe
el the need to wage war please refrain from spilling any blood on my cushions. Those gold tasseled ones are a particular favorite of mine. They were a gift, a long time ago.” As if forgetting her point to the conversation, she stared down at her cold cup of tea. “Where is my help? Don’t they know I can hire a new staff at any time?” Aunt Louisa hustled out, teacup in hand.

  Ellen glared at James. He laughed. She shook her head. The man was such a menace.

  Truth be known, she didn’t mind his ribbing, not really. A certain comfort came from having a friend intimate enough to pester. In the past twelve years, James spent more time living in the Ingram household than the Kent residence and his presence was now more expected than her own brother’s, who always found a need to be away. Well, at least in the past six months. Not that Ellen blamed Lewis.

  If she carried the sense of shame that she knew Lewis felt, she’d make herself scarce, too.

  James ran a hand over his short-clipped blond hair. “What’s that you were reading?”

  “It’s the third volume of Emma. I finished it only moments ago.”

  “What did you think of the story?” After grimacing, he reached behind his back and pulled out the cross-stitch pattern Aunt Louisa had worked on last night. A hideous image of a boy with a sheep—the sheep looked more like a howling banshee though. With a flick of his wrist James tossed it onto the table then rubbed his back, mumbling about a tingling backside.

  No one understood her fascination with reading. Aunt Louisa told her a woman who read became patronizing at best, and at home, mother snatched books from her, demanding to know where Ellen apprehended them. She’d never tell that her best friend Margaret kept her up to date with the latest dime novels. Even now a copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was safely hidden under her mattress, begging to be yanked out later tonight. Oh, she could hardly wait for the next chapter.

  At least James cared enough to engage her in conversation about her hobby. No one else did.

  “I found it inspiring, to a point.” Taking up her book, Ellen crossed the room and sat on the chair across from James.