Susan Wiggs - The Mistress

“Susan Wiggs paints the details of

human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

—Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author

“Wiggs provides a delicious story for us to savor.”

— Oakland Press on The Mistress

“Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’

hearts and motivations to touch our own.”

— RT Book Reviews on The Mistress

“Once more, Ms. Wiggs demonstrates her ability

to bring readers a story to savor that has them

impatiently awaiting each new novel.”

— RT Book Reviews on The Hostage

“A quiet page-turner that will hold readers

spellbound as the relationships, characters

and story unfold. Fans of historical romances

will naturally flock to this skillfully executed trilogy,

and general women’s fiction readers should

find this story enchanting as well.”

— Publishers Weekly on The Firebrand

“Wiggs is one of our best observers

of stories of the heart. Maybe that is because

she knows how to capture emotion on

virtually every page of every book.”

— Salem Statesman-Journal

“Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance,

humor and compassion.”

—Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Marge Green,

who taught me cursive writing

and told me the story of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

Thanks to Joyce, Betty and Barb, for favors too numerous to count; to friends near and far, including Jamie for brainstorming a trading scam, and Jodi for therapeutic e-mail conversations; thanks to Jill for the Bunco book, and to the wonderful Martha Keenan, who always edits above and beyond the call of duty.

Special thanks to the Chicago Historical Society, one of the richest resources ever to make itself available to a writer.

Contemporary Romances

HOME BEFORE DARK

THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

SUMMER BY THE SEA

TABLE FOR FIVE

LAKESIDE COTTAGE

JUST BREATHE

The Lakeshore Chronicles

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

THE WINTER LODGE

DOCKSIDE

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

FIRESIDE

LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY

Historical Romances

THE LIGHTKEEPER

THE DRIFTER

The Tudor Rose Trilogy

AT THE KING’S COMMAND

THE MAIDEN’S HAND

AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Chicago Fire Trilogy

THE HOSTAGE

THE MISTRESS

THE FIREBRAND

Calhoun Chronicles

THE CHARM SCHOOL

THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

ENCHANTED AFTERNOON

A SUMMER AFFAIR

One dark night,—

when people were in bed,

Old Mrs. Leary lit a lantern in her shed;

The cow kicked it over, winked its eye and

said”There’ll be a hot time

in the old town tonight.”

~Anon.,

quoted in the Chicago Evening Post

The Contact

What is the chief end of man?

—to get rich.

In what way?

—dishonestly if we can;

honestly if we must.

Mark Twain, 1871

The Setup

It was beautiful and simple

as all truly great swindles are.

~O. Henry

Annual income twenty pounds,

annual expenditure nineteen six,

result happiness.

~Charles Dickens

Chicago

October 8, 1871

She looked older than her years from a lifetime of toil. The routine struggles of making her way in the world wore on her like the fading dye of her dimity dress. Up at dawn for the milking, feeding the hungry mouths that depended on her for every breath they took, keeping house, seeing to the livestock and navigating the unseen reefs and rocky shoals of everyday living had stolen her youth.

On a hot October night following a hot October day, Catherine O’Leary put the children down early. She washed up after supper, plunging her chapped and chafed hands into the tepid water. A high prairie wind roared through the shantytown that comprised her small world, across the river from the quiet, stately mansions of the grain barons and merchant princes. Her children had learned to sleep despite the boisterous, frequent celebrations of the McLaughlins next door. The neighbors were welcoming a cousin newly arrived from Ireland, and the thin, lively whine of fiddle music flooded through the open windows, causing the walls to vibrate. As she washed, Catherine tapped her sore, bare foot to match the rhythm of hobnail boots on plank floors emanating from the adjacent cottage.

Shadows deepened across the beaten-earth yard leading to the cow barn that housed the source of the family’s livelihood. Her husband was out back now, feeding and watering the animals. The dry, blowing heat caused brown leaves to erupt in restless swirls through the air. The wind picked up, sounding like the chug of a locomotive coming on fast.

Catherine dried her hands on her apron as Patrick returned from the barn, his shoulders bowed with exhaustion. She saw a flicker in the sky, a star winking its eye perhaps, but her attention was all for her husband. This week he had worked hard, laying in supplies for the winter—three tons of timothy hay, another two tons of coal, wood shavings for kindling from Bateham’s Planing Mill. Baking in the arid heat, the shavings curled and rustled when the aggressive wind stirred them. In this heat it was hard to imagine that winter was only weeks away.

She gave Patrick his supper of potatoes and pickled cabbage, wishing he’d had time to eat with her and the children. But families like the O’Learys did not have that luxury. Imagine, sitting down like the Quality, with enough room for everyone around the same table.

She took off her apron and kerchief. Pumping fresh water into the sink, she bathed her face and neck, and finally her sore foot; a cow had stepped on it that morning and she had been limping around all day. She drew the curtains and peeled her bodice to the waist, giving herself a more thorough washing. She braided her thick red hair, then went to check on the children. Scattered like puppies in the restless heat, the little ones lay uncovered on rough sheets she had sprinkled with water to keep them cool. There was another daughter, Kathleen, firstborn and first to leave the reluctant arms of her parents to work as a lady’s maid at Chicago’s finest school for young ladies. Perhaps in the turreted stone building by the lake, Kathleen suffered less from the heat than they did here in the West Division.

Ah, Kathleen, there was a fine young article, Catherine thought fondly. By hook or by crook, she’d make good. The Lord in his wisdom had given her the brains and the looks to do it. She wouldn’t turn out like her mother, overworked, tired, old before her time.

The sounds of revelry next door swelled, then quieted, mingling with the howl of the wind. Through the coarse weave of the sackcloth curtains, Catherine noticed a flash of light in the window.

“Let us to bed, Mother,” her husband said softly. Patrick kissed her and put out the lamp. Settling her weary head on the pillow, she listened to the rustling and breathing of her children. Then she nestled into the strong soft cradle of her husband’s arms, sighed and thought that maybe this was what all the toil was for. This one sweet moment of inexpressible bliss.