Hiram tapped his walking stick on the inlaid hardwood floor. “If I have any influence, he’ll stay indefinitely.”
It was the second time Hiram had answered for his nephew, Sylvie noticed, and she felt a kinship with him over that, for she had said but one word so far, herself. She wasn’t miserably shy, as the Brontë sisters were said to have been. Sylvie was simply reserved until a topic was introduced to which she could contribute. Perhaps Mr. Davenport was the same.
“The house can surely accommodate,” Hiram was saying. “But I won’t pressure him. Not all young men want to lodge with an old man like me.”
“I do hope you stay awhile,” Sylvie blurted, surprising herself. “What I mean is, it is so nice to see Hiram so happy.” Hiram had longed for family of his own ever since they’d known him. Now that his memory was so unreliable, his nephew’s presence could help immeasurably.
Mr. Davenport’s thin lips curved into agreement. “We get along fine, that’s for sure.”
“There’s nothing more important than family,” Hiram added. “Speaking of which, your dear wife could not join us today?”
Sylvie glanced at Stephen, whose face had the look of granite. His hand shook as he pulled at his beard. “Not today,” he muttered.
“Pity, that. Do give her my best.”
Sylvie stirred her steaming oyster stew, dreading the first bite. She could barely abide the smell. Her gaze drifted from the rams’ heads carved into the floor-to-ceiling fireplace to the tiles covering the top half of the wall above walnut panels. A repeating pattern of passion flowers on the tiles brought a semblance of life to an otherwise dark room.
“Mr. Townsend, if you don’t mind my asking, where was it you fought?” Mr. Davenport asked. “In the war?”
Stephen replied with the names of battles she’d heard a thousand times before saying he wound up in Andersonville.
Mr. Davenport caught a drip on his chin with a snow-white napkin. “You have a fascinating history.”
“Fascinating is not the word that comes to mind when I think on those days.” Stephen slurped another spoonful.
“A crime against humanity, that’s what Andersonville was,” Hiram muttered into his stew. “I know Camp . . . Camp David. No. Camp Douglas, that’s what I meant to say. Camp Douglas here in Chicago was no Sunday picnic for the inmates either, but at least . . .”
Mr. Davenport looked at him intently. “So they had food enough here, Uncle? I suppose so, given the wealth of Chicago, especially when compared to the poverty of the entire Confederacy. The men here had enough clothing, I trust, to help them through the winters?”
There was something about the way he asked these questions, like they’d never discussed it in all the years that followed the war. Sylvie wondered how estranged they had been, and why, and what had brought Mr. Davenport back now. But it would be the height of rudeness to ask. She sipped at her stew, avoiding any rubbery bits of oyster.
The corners of Hiram’s mouth plunged down. “Oh, no. I’d be lying if I agreed with that description. And I didn’t run the camp, I just served as a guard with a regiment of other older men not fit for combat.”
At the opposite end of the table, Stephen pulled a second roll from the basket and slathered it with butter. “Tell us, Mr. Davenport, how did you spend the war?”
“Fighting. From the start.”
“The very beginning?” Sylvie calculated in her mind. “Were you old enough to fight ten years ago?”
“Fifteen was old enough for me and many others.”
Sylvie smoothed her napkin in her lap. “I mean, did you need your parents’ permission to enlist before you reached the minimum age?”
A chuckle sounded in Mr. Davenport’s throat. “Permission? Where I come from, every man signed up to defend his country, whether he needed a razor in the morning yet or not. It was an honor to do it. It would have been shameful not to.”
Stephen nodded, but Sylvie could tell it was reluctant.
“My nephew knew his duty,” Hiram said. “Before he was old enough to vote, he fought. That’s more than can be said for many here in Chicago, isn’t that right, Stephen? You recall the weaselly fellow, Otto Schneider? Why, he was in his prime during the war and didn’t volunteer.”
“Who was Schneider?” Mr. Davenport asked, his tone more courteous than curious.
Hiram wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned forward. “I purchased stocks from him at a low price. He was only too grateful to have the cash, sure we were on the brink of another financial panic like that of ’57. But we weren’t.” He shrugged. “I bought up everything Schneider offered, invested wisely, and enjoyed a healthy return. Would you believe he sued me for it? Claimed I swindled him and that the fortune really ought to be his. All through the war, when he could have been fighting for his country, he was fighting to get at my money instead. The waste of it all.” Hiram shook his head.
Mr. Davenport’s politeness had turned to true interest. “So what happened to him?”
“Oh, he’s still around, but just scraping by. The legal fees bankrupted him. He blames me for that too, as he’s told me in more than one angry letter. I pity his wife and children, with such a desperate man at the helm of their family.”
Sylvie caught Meg’s gaze across the table and shared a look that expressed their weariness with the familiar story. Surely they could talk about something else.
Apparently Stephen agreed. “You got through all four years unscathed?” he asked Mr. Davenport, effectively putting the subject of Schneider behind them.
The young man took a long drink of coffee and set it down before responding. “I wouldn’t put it that way, quite.”
“Wounded, then? Captured?” Stephen asked. “Or disease?”
A tight smile flicked over Mr. Davenport’s countenance. “I wager there are more suitable topics for mixed company.” He turned to Sylvie. “Have you read any good new books lately?”
Whether or not he held a genuine interest in reading, he must have known she’d have an answer to this, and she appreciated that he included her in this way. “As a matter of fact, I have. Louisa May Alcott published a brand new novel this year called Little Men. You’ve heard of Little Women, of course? In the new book, Jo and her professor husband open a home for little boys. It lacks the gravity of Dickens’s work, but it’s a delightful read, sure to appeal to—” She paused, noting the small smile on Mr. Davenport’s face. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”
“Never heard of it,” Hiram inserted. “But what about Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Now, that’s a book everyone’s talking about.”
“Well, they were,” Meg said. “I believe the furor has died down quite a bit by now.” Stowe’s novel had released nineteen years ago.
“What do you mean?” Hiram leaned back as the footman removed his bowl. “It can’t be more than a few months old. Our president himself gives it high praise.” A plate of cucumber salad was set before him.
“That’s not surprising for a man like Grant,” Mr. Davenport said as his bowl was replaced with the next course.