Miss Townsend took a bite and closed her eyes. “This is good.”
Satisfaction filled him. She was much more agreeable now than when they’d first met. If he’d had a role in easing any part of the Townsend family’s lives, he was grateful for that. “But then, what did you shake at me not ten minutes ago?”
Swallowing, she unfolded the newspaper and shoved it across the table at him. With two fingers, she thumped a column. A letter to the editor from today’s paper. “Did you see this?”
He hadn’t. Quickly, he parsed the text.
People of Chicago, do not be fooled. Mr. Stephen Townsend, of the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, may have fired a musket, he may have survived Southern captivity, but what is that to us today? Today he is no hero. He is a madman, given to violent tempers and abusive threats. Shame on reporter Nathaniel Pierce for associating such a man with honor. More investigation, Mr. Pierce, and less sentimentality would serve everyone far better.
Heat flashed across his face. He looked up to find Miss Townsend watching him, heartache sketched across her expression.
“Keep reading.” She took a sip of coffee and pinned her gaze to the paper.
Judge for yourself from his behavior, of which I am an eye and ear witness. He leaves the running of his store to his two daughters, both of whom are young and unmarried, while he plays in the dirt in his backyard, shouting obscenities to anyone who passes by his rickety fence. Not even children are safe from his abuses. He paces the roof of his building at night, shunning slumber for a chance to hunt ghosts. Who prefers darkness over light, except he who has darkness in his heart?
Watch yourselves, fellow citizens. The city is not safe when lunatics are named heroes, unaccountable for their crimes. Watch him, fellow neighbors. What will it take before we insist he is locked up for his good and ours?
Anger coursed through Nate. He folded the paper, hiding the hateful slander.
“Well?” Miss Townsend asked him. She pushed her plate to the side of the table, the remains of the pie drowned in a vanilla puddle. “You talked to my father. He told you things he never told my mother or my sister or me. Do you think—that is, from what you know, do you believe he ought to be locked up? Be honest.”
He could see that it cost her even to ask. “No.” He held her gaze. “And you should know that I am honest whether told to be or not.” To his shame, he’d learned at the start of his reporting career how easy it was to deceive the public through “embellished” reporting, and how damaging that could be. He’d devoted himself to the truth ever since.
A sigh slipped from her. “Then what on earth do I do about this? This is your newspaper, and the writer has slung mud at your name too. What are you going to do?”
Brow furrowed in thought, he ate the last few bites of his pie, swiped the napkin over his mouth, and wrapped his hands around his mug. “I’ll discuss it with my editor, but I stand behind my article. The writer of this opinion piece is anonymous, which indicates a lack of confidence. He or she refutes no facts from my article. There is nothing in my feature story to correct, so there’s no need to print any type of retraction.”
She leaned forward, nodding at his every word. “Will you respond to the accusations at all, in a rebuttal of sorts?”
“Miss Townsend . . .”
“Call me Meg.”
“Right. Thank you. Then you must call me Nate.”
“You were saying?”
He watched the steam rise from his coffee, choosing his words with care. “The things this writer said about your father . . . some of them are true. It may be best to let the letter die a natural death. Let the next day’s news eclipse it.”
“But I can’t imagine allowing it to go un—” She halted as the waitress approached and refilled their coffee, then carried their dirty plates away.
“Do you have a solution in mind?” Nate asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here asking you for one.” Meg crossed her arms, clearly frustrated. A light sprinkling of freckles fanned across her slightly upturned nose, reminding him of his stepsister Edith.
Edith was Meg’s age but had been married for four years now and had two children just outside Chicago. Edith’s younger sister and brother had both remained with Nate until just this summer. Harriet taught school in a small town in Iowa now, and Andrew, only eighteen, had gone west to work on a railroad.
During the years he’d been their sole provider, Edith had often said they weren’t related to Nate anymore since their parents weren’t alive to make them a family. She’d been angry about how life had turned out for her. She missed her father and stepmom. He didn’t blame her. But he did gently tell her that while it was true Nate was not a blood relative, if he took them to the orphanage, the three siblings would likely be split among separate homes. It had been Edith’s freckles—an adorable spray she’d long since outgrown—that reminded Nate that underneath her surliness, she was just a little girl. One who had lost too much, too soon.
Freckles notwithstanding, the woman sitting across from him now was no little girl.
“Listen.” He ran his hand over his stubborn cowlicks. “You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it to you. Let it go. Don’t engage with an anonymous attack. I get the impression your father doesn’t read the newspaper. Is he around people who might bring it to his attention?”
Meg shook her head. “He keeps to himself.”
“So I’ve gathered. The people who know your family best will not believe what is untrue. If you’re worried about business suffering from the slander—don’t be. With Bertha Palmer as a patron, others will follow suit.”
With a resolute nod, she pinned her hat back into place. When she stood, so did he. “Thank you, Nate.” She shook his hand and smiled.
“You’re welcome. Now, if you will allow me.” He took the maligning newspaper from her. “I’ll put this rubbish where it belongs.”
Thankful the matter was so easily resolved, he bid her good-bye and wished her family well.
He meant it. The struggling Townsend family had touched a chord in him, more so than the other veterans he’d interviewed. In fact, he had half a mind to follow up with the Townsends later, to see how they were getting on.
But their welfare was not his responsibility. He’d had his share of that raising Edith, Harriet, and Andrew. At last, the only one he was truly responsible for was himself. Did he miss his stepsiblings? Sure. What he didn’t miss was the burden of knowing three vulnerable souls depended upon him for provision and guidance. While he’d invested all his spare energy to their upbringing, his coworkers had snapped up stories he didn’t have time to chase, and they still had time for leisure.
Now it was Nate’s turn to focus on his career, to sleep at night without worrying how to make ends meet. Maybe he’d even pick up a hobby—or at the very least, a good book.
The Townsends were on their own.
Chapter Four
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1871
The fire bell was ringing again.
Meg groaned. With this incessant clanging, her father wouldn’t be able to rest tonight. Again. If only he could, he’d be more at ease, more himself. But it was wrong of her, that her first thought should be for this small comfort, when others might be in harm’s way.