Free Tempest in the White City by Deeanne Gist Page A

raising his voice and holding his palm up in a signal to stop. “I’d hate for you to fall with those things in your mouth.”
    She ignored him completely, one hand holding a tiny white hat on her head, the other pulling one of the pins from her mouth. “I’m late.”
    He squinted. “Better late than becoming a patient in the infirmary you’re headed to.”
    Jabbing the pin into her hat, she nodded. “I’ll be careful.”
    He allowed the door to close and stepped in front of it, blocking her way. “All the same, I insist you finish what you’re doing.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She joined him on the landing, arms raised high, chin tucked down as she poked the back of her hat, trying to find a good spot to insert the pin.
    Her downcast eyes gave him an opportunity to take a quick survey of her dress. Sleeves hugged her like evening gloves until they reached the upper arm, at which point they poofed out like lacy balloons. Her position put stress on a passel of pearly buttons marching down her bodice. A white belt cinched her delicate waist, the chatelaine hooked over its lip. The thermometer case and nurse’s wallet hanging from it gave him a quick shudder.
    The only things worse than the instruments inside that wallet were doctors. He hated doctors. He’d seen too many men suffer at their hands. He much preferred to dig out his own bullets than let one of those quacks near him.
    Lowering her arms, she looked up, her lips tight. “Does that meet with your approval?”
    Blond hair with a hint of strawberry had escaped its bun in her haste to repair herself. The eyes that held his were none too happy, but it was their color he noticed most—a light brown, like coffee with way too much cream.
    He touched his brim. “Yes, ma’am. It most surely does.”
    A brow the same color as her eyes lifted. “Then make way. I’m needed inside.”
    Needed inside. He scoffed. He’d bet she was just the kind of female Mrs. Duke had been talking about. Stepping aside, he reached for the door, but she beat him to it, using every bit of strength she had to swing it open.
    He raised his hands to either side of him. If she wanted to pretend she was a man, he was happy to oblige. But with a shape like hers, he’d have to be blind as a post hole to mistake her for anything other than what God intended her to be.
    Catching the door before it closed, he followed her progress as she cut across the vestibule and hurried through a side door. Above it, a discreet sign identified it as the Bureau of Public Comfort. He shook his head. Doctors’ offices and comfort ought not be linked together.
    As long as he was inside, he figured he’d make his rounds. He paused just inside a giant rectangular room, its hushed silence reminding him of a library. Beams of sunshine slanted through its immense arched skylight, which roofed the entire structure and provided ample light for the wall-to-wall artwork composed by women. Mrs. Duke shuffled along rows of glazed cases that contained women’s work of all sorts.
    He shook his head. Not one single exhibit in the whole building had been made by the hand of a man. It was a wonder they hadn’t insisted on a woman guard, as if there were such a thing.
    A second-story gallery ran along the perimeter of the atrium. Visitors glided along it, some looking over the railing, others moving in and out of upstairs exhibits.
    Two ladies on the south end of the ground floor examined cases holding a manuscript written by some Jane Hausten-or-other. A mousy woman in a navy suit approached them, the string of pearls around her neck similar to the one his mother used to wear on Christmas.
    He wondered if she was a member of the Board of Lady Managers. They’d given the Commission plenty of trouble, insisting there be no nude art at the Fair. No lascivious dances. No alcohol. And no lurid spectacles.
    But Chicago’s directors had fought back and won. Directly behind the Woman’s Building was the mile-long