Looking for Love Chicago 1890s

By Phoebe Matthews

Chicago 1890s, was a time when the Columbia Exposition opened and all the little boys in the neighborhood first saw and fell madly in love with Lillian Russell. And then they grew up and found more suitable loves. Except Rudy. He grew up but he missed the next step. While Rudy floundered, his cousins, Florrie and Leona, each hoped  for a man who would give her everlasting love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LostLoves Books
• Release date: Jun 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513022659

Phoebe Matthews

Phoebe Matthews is currently writing three urban fantasy series. Her novels have been published by Avon, Dark Quest, Dell, Holt, LostLoves, Putnam, Silhouette, and Scholastic.

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Looking for Love

Chicago 1890s

Phoebe Matthews

LostLoves Books

Third edition

Copyright © Phoebe Matthews

Cover Design Copyright  © LostLoves Books

Illustration is by Howard Chandler Christy for the cover of The Ladies Home Journal, August 1900.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of well-known historical personages, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Looking for Love

Chicago

1885

Florence Verlag was seven years old that summer and more sure of herself than she would ever be again.  Honey-brown curls framed her pink-cheeked face, dimples flickered at the corners of her full little mouth.  She grasped the wrought iron railing with a small, plump hand, descending the wooden porch stairs carefully to avoid scuffing her white kid boots.  She marched happily across the street, up the block and onto Clark Street, her head high, knowing she was watched and admired. Picking her way along the dusty sidewalk, she headed for the bakery to fulfill the errand on which her mother had sent her.

Her mother had said, I don't know what to do.  There's no one else to send.

Florrie had thought, it's up to me, then.  She had said, I'll go.  I'm old enough.

My darling, you'll have to cross the street alone.

I know how to do that.

Yes, certainly you do, but the pie will be heavy.

I can carry it, Florrie said in her firm way.  She was small for her age and disliked to have anyone say anything that might infer she was too small.  She walked with her head high, her back straight, to give herself additional height.

Be very careful, her mother said.  You look so pretty, my darling.

Florrie knew this was so.  She was not particularly vain.  She simply knew that today, with her curls brushed into sausages and topped with silk ribbons, and dressed in layers of white ruffles edged with her mother's exquisite tatting, she would be told by the expected dinner guests that she was very pretty, and she would smile and thank them nicely, as she had been taught to do.  Her sister Leona would stammer and blush and escape to the nursery as soon as possible, for reasons beyond Florrie's understanding, and her cousin Rudy would talk too much, showing off, until Florrie's father gave him one of his firm looks, but Florrie would behave exactly as was expected and be much admired. 

She didn't behave well to annoy Leona and Rudy, who were both older than herself, or to show them up.  She behaved well because she knew no other way to behave.  At age seven she had the purpose of life clearly worked out in her mind.  She knew that her mother was perfect.  Therefore, if she behaved exactly like her mother, she would grow up to be a perfect lady, too.  That's how simple life was.

And until now, life had not betrayed her.

Gus Brunner and Rudy Schillmann knelt on the Brunner parlor floor, hunched over, their eyes at the level of the second story window ledge, so that they could peer beneath the open window sash and watch Clark Street below them without being seen.  The Brunners occupied the upper two floors of their large house and rented out the lower level which had been divided into four small apartments and a tailor's shop.

Chicago was a city of clattering trains hissing their steam into the midsummer heat, pulling foul-smelling box cars filled with livestock and coal and the raw materials and finished products of its burgeoning factories, pulling mahogany-lined parlor cars decorated in velvet and mohair and white linen cloths and lit by kerosene lamps. Its train depots resembled cathedrals topped with clock towers. Chicago's flashier men hung out at Chapin and Gore's restaurant where the steaks were chosen by the customers and cooked over coals and the conversations contained references to strawberry blondes and sporting houses. The guest lists of Mrs. Potter Palmer were the city's unwritten social register.  Horse-drawn carriages bounced over cobble stone streets while pedestrians stumbled on wood-planked sidewalks.

Across from the Brunner house was a row of flat fronted buildings, two storied, the lower levels shops, the upper levels apartments, build of wood and stone and brick intermixed in rigid patterns, all clean with newness, all built since the fire, like the Brunner house and the rest of the houses on that northside section of Clark Street.  From the window the boys had a clear view of the produce market, the butcher shop, two taverns, the bakery, and the narrow side stairs leading to the closet-sized upper level shops of the clock repairman and the milliner.

Gus was the youngest of seven sons, tall for his ten years, fair haired, large boned, Germanic at first glance. But he was Chicago born, with none of the reticence of his immigrant parents.  He spoke rapid, idiomatic Chicago English, so that at times his parents could not understand him.  Unlike his brothers, he seldom spoke German, though that's what he had been taught first.  He moved with the speed and coordination of a boy raised to play games in the streets while dodging carriages.  He and Rudy wore knee pants and dark stockings that itched in the summer heat and short, laced boots.  Gus had rolled up the sleeves of his faded blue and white striped shirt waist. a hand-down from his brothers. Rudy's shirt was white linen with pearl buttons.  Even with every button closed, he was as casual as he dared be.  No matter what the weather, his Uncle Rudolph insisted that a gentleman never removed his jacket in public.  Public was any place outside one's own bedroom.

Hey, there's one, Gus whispered, his face shining with anticipation.  His mother was at the back of the house in the kitchen, clattering pans, and did not know the boys were in her parlor.  Every morning Mrs. Brunner brushed the black horsehair sofa and its matching chair, broom-swept the red Turkish carpet, and carefully polished with an oiled cloth the dark piano and the many small tables.  The piano was her treasure, saved from the fire and not to be touched by young boys.  After doing her morning cleaning, she never entered the parlor again unless she had a caller.

What if your mother catches us?

Not hardly. She's in the kitchen.

What if somebody knocks on the door?

We can see the front walk from the window.  If anybody comes, we can scat outta here before they can get up the stairs to our door.

Cradling a cherry bomb in his hand, Gus shrugged at Rudy's fears.

Rudy, who lived in terror of Gus's mother, managed a weak grin. He was smaller and darker than Gus, with large brown eyes shadowed by thick lashes.  He whispered, Dare ya, which was what he knew Gus wanted him to say.

Gus pulled back his arm, aimed, and threw the cherry bomb from the window to the street's center where it exploded on impact in front of a carriage.  The horse shied, letting out a shrill whinny. The driver rose in the box, gripping the reins and shouting. 

Gus and Rudy collapsed giggling beneath the window ledge, their hands over their mouths, their eyes on each other, shining with excitement.  They listened breathlessly to the angry voices, first of the driver, then of a woman telling him to mind his language. 

Wow, didja hear that?

Who was it?  Mrs. Cheneldorph?

Don't know.  Maybe.

Boy, if she ever catches us, we're goners.

Slowly Gus rose, peering carefully over the ledge, keeping his face down as far as possible.  The horse had quieted, the carriage moved on.  Across the street, old Mr. Cheneldorph, whose son and daughter-in-law owned the produce market, leaned on his broom and turned his head slowly, gazing up and down the street, his shaggy white eyebrows drawn together in mild puzzlement. His shirt sleeves were pulled up by elastic bands above his elbows, and his pants bagged at the knees beneath the hem of his dark apron, but his high collar was properly buttoned.  From within the store behind him, a woman shouted.  He shrugged and bent forward, pushing his broom methodically. 

––––––––

When small Florence Verlag approached, Mr. Cheneldorph paused again to lean on his broom and wish her good morning.

Her mind on her errand, she returned his greeting with barely a trace of her usual smile.  Guten Morgen, Herr Cheneldorph.

He watched her as she went by, nodding to himself, until she turned into the bakery shop doorway.

With the outside canopy shading the shop's two tall narrow windows, light filtered dimly, tracing a path across the flour-dusted wooden floor. The counter was as high as Florence Verlag's chin. Behind it she could see the floor-to-ceiling metal cooling shelves. The shop itself felt like a bake oven, the hot air heavy with the rich smells of fresh breads and pastries.

Florrie stretched to full height, lifted her small firm chin, gazed up at the baker from her wide brown eyes, and said in German, I am here to pick up the pie for my mother.

The baker tut-tutted over her, wiping his hands clean on the broad expanse of his spotted white apron, calling her Fraulein Verlag, smiling widely.

His wife, at his side, said,  Such a dress!  Look at her!  Pretty as a princess!  Your mother must be expecting very fine company, Mrs. Potter Palmer herself, perhaps!

Florrie had no idea who Mrs. Potter Palmer was.  She said, Mr. and Mrs. Bergstel are coming to dinner.  Who is Mrs. Potter Palmer?

The baker's wife laughed and the baker said, Pay no attention to her, Florrie, she is talking foolishness.

Florrie nodded, her face solemn to match the responsibility of her errand.  She was rarely sent alone to the shops, and never before to pick up the dessert for a dinner at which there would be guests.  But this morning, with her mother supervising the kitchen and the maid doing a last minute polishing of the glass globed gaslights, and Rudy gone off without permission, and Leona in tears over a torn seam, Florrie was the only one dressed and ready and free to send on an errand.

She had always known she was capable of doing any errand.  But until this morning, her mother had not given her such an important one. 

The baker lifted the pie down from the cooling shelf, ran the edge of his apron beneath the pan to remove any crumbs or oil, and wrapped a white linen towel around the outer rim of the pie before placing it carefully in Florrie's outstretched hands.

Hold it well in front of yourself, he said in German.  It would be a shame to spot that dress.

Of course she would be careful.  She didn't need to be reminded.  She kept her eyes down, gazing at the lightly browned upper crust with its cut pattern darkened by the oozing juices of the blackberries.  She thanked the baker solemnly.  And then the fragrance wafted up to her.  Unintentionally she smiled, her nose wrinkling in pleasure.

Straight-backed, she marched carefully out of the shadowed bakery into the sunlit street, holding the pie firmly in her small hands.  Who was Mrs. Potter Palmer, she wondered.  Was it possible that her mother had asked a new guest to dinner?  Perhaps this dinner was more special than Florrie had been told.

On her return she never lifted her gaze, but watched the pie and the sidewalk, stone paved in places, but made of uneven boards in others, and filled with edges that could trip a careless person.  Florrie knew the hazards and was cautious. 

She was halfway down the block when Gus Brunner popped up in his second story bay window, peered over the ledge, and saw the sort of target he'd never dreamed possible.  Never having wasted a second glance on small girls, he had no idea who she was.

He rose quickly, took perfect aim, and dropped back below the sill, only his eyes and forehead exposed.

The cherry bomb exploded on the sidewalk in front of Florrie's white kid boots.

Florrie screamed in surprise and folded her arms to her chest, clutching the berry pie.  The crust crumpled and the purple juice spread across the tucked and embroidered bodice, ran down the skirt with its layers of tatting-edged white ruffles, and slowly dripped onto the white stockings and the kid boots.

Gus Verlag slid to the floor doubled with laughter, his hands pressed over his mouth to hold in the sound.  Beside him Rudy Schillmann rose to take a quick, cautious peek over the ledge, drew in a shocked breath and flattened himself on the floor.

His eyes were wider and darker than Florrie's, and at that moment, he was possibly the only person on Clark Street more horrified than Florrie.

He whispered, Gus, that's my cousin!

That morning Gus Brunner and Rudy Schillmann swore each other to a secrecy that bonded a friendship that would last a lifetime.

CHAPTER 2

1890

In the privacy of her own front parlor, with the door closed and the housemaid in the kitchen, Margrethe Verlag asked her friend, Gretl,  Did you hear what the papers said?

Neither Margrethe Verlag nor Gretl Bergstel could read English papers and the German-language paper, Arbeiter-Zeitung, was more concerned with national politics than gossip.  But each had her sources.  Gretl had an Irish housemaid.  Margrethe had hired an English speaking tutor, a young woman, to help her daughters and her nephew, Rudy, with their school work.  Conversing in English with the tutor was a slow, painful chore for Margrethe, done dutifully twice a week over afternoon tea before the children returned home from school. She was rewarded by the tutor reading some of the Chicago paper aloud for her.

Now Margrethe and Gretl relaxed in each other's company, speaking comfortably in German.  They were both short and wide with large bosoms and long-lost waistlines, round, cheerful faces and dimpled hands.  Their silk taffeta dresses rustled, their diamond rings glittered.  They were the proof of their husbands' successes.

The Rudolph Verlag family lived in a house a block off Clark Street that looked somewhat like the Chicago and Northwestern Station with its corner tower of bay windows, and even more like the Prairie Avenue home of millionaire John B. Sherman whose house had been designed by Burnham and Root, a pair of young architects destined to soon amaze the world with their designs for the Columbia Exposition.  The millionaire's house had twenty-foot high ceilings and a wide stone entranceway.  The Verlag house was also three storied, constructed of  sandstone blocks and brick, and was on a corner lot, as was the Sherman home. It had a similar narrow front garden bounded by wrought iron fencing, and was only less pretentious in its dimensions, built on a smaller scale. Its entry was a simple porch of wooden steps and iron railings.  Verlag, who was not particularly creative, was extremely clever at imitating success.  He had made his fortune knowing fine woods and copying popular designs in his mantel factory.  The inside of the Verlag house was a monument to his success, paneled with the finest woods, ornately carved, and every banister and doorframe and windowsill exhibited the skills of his best craftsmen.

Margrethe refilled the fragile porcelain cups from the silver coffeepot, and cut fresh slices of streudel for her friend and herself.

Gretl tasted the streudel, smiling and lingering over the pleasure of its sweetness, savoring her reply.  Yes, I heard what the papers said, she replied.

You heard that the judge cleared the courtroom before Mrs. Carter testified? Margrethe asked.  With nervous fingers she smoothed the velvet trim on her high collar.

Yes, I heard that.  Gretl paused to sip her coffee and to let the tension build.  She even commented on the streudel and let her gaze wander around the parlor, knowing Margrethe would return to the same topic.  The Verlag parlor was an Aladdin's cave of richly glowing mahogany wall paneling carved in the Verlag factory, a marble fireplace surrounded by the best of the Verlag mantels complete with an imported German bevel mirror, small marble topped tables with ornately carved Chinese bases, and, most heartbreaking to Gretl whose husband refused to part with their old horsehair set, a genuine Turkish parlor suite of overstuffed, wonderfully comfortable sofa and chairs upholstered in the finest sapphire-blue silk damask to match the ecru and blue Chinese silk carpet.

And that the judge wanted no one under thirty-five to be admitted? Margrethe said, prompting her to go on.

Gretl nodded.  Yes, I heard that, also.

But do you know what Mrs. Carter meant?  Margrethe asked.

Meant by what? Gretl asked.  She knew to what Margrethe referred.  They'd had the same discussion many times during the past year, since the very public divorce of the Leslie Carters.  Less timid Chicagoans had stood in line for courtroom space to hear the case.  Mrs. Leslie Carter, a beauty with Rapunzel-thick locks of burnished gold and the popular hourglass figure, plus an aristocratic Kentucky mother, had married enough money, it was gossiped, to allow Mrs. Carter and her widowed mother to continue to live beyond their means.  The marriage faltered early on, and after several years of separations and rumors, the Carters headed for the court, each hoping to retain a comfortable share of the Carter fortune.

Margrethe wiggled her round body in its bindings of tucked and scalloped and pleated silk taffeta morning dress.  She said slowly, What she charged him with.

Gretl shook her head.  In the end, she was always the one who came right out and said it because Margrethe was too shy to repeat a phrase that she suspected referred to unspeakable conduct.  Gretl, of the two, was the earthier, though not by any great measure.  She said, Unnatural acts.  That's what she charged.

Margrethe leaned forward and peered into her friend's face, her brow creased with bewilderment.  But what does that mean? she asked.

Margrethe's daughter Florrie was twelve years old, still short for her age, round faced, with a full mouth, a creamy complexion, and a graceful carriage.  Now it wasn't only the neighborhood adults who admired her.  When she crossed Clark Street on her way to Miss Claridge's School for Young Ladies, in the company of her sister Leona, the boys looked past tall, awkward, fifteen-year-old Leona, with her mousy straight hair and angular face, to stare awestruck at the shiny gold-brown curls