Every Hidden Thing (4 page)

“How much is inside that envelope?” I asked.

He opened it and did a quick count. “Enough to mount an expedition.”

I gave a whoop of joy, and Father looked at me sternly, but only for a moment.

“We can't disappoint the Friends, can we?” I said. “Not after all the faith they've shown in us.”

“No, we can't,” said my Father, his face becoming especially foxlike with his wide smile.

“It seems we're headed west,” I said.

Papa delivered me to Aunt Berton's the day before he was to leave for the territories. We all had tea together in her parlor. I knew Father didn't like Aunt Berton any more than I, but he was painfully polite, almost groveling. He relied on her financial support and good regard. Uncle Berton had died several years ago, leaving his widow to watch over the family fortune like a gargoyle atop a jeweled spire.

After tea I said a curt good-bye to my father. A maid took my luggage up to my room. I did not unpack.

My aunt and I had a quiet and almost comically mirthless dinner. She would occasionally cast a disapproving eye at me, and I would smile back brightly, which seemed to irritate her all the more.

“You're disheveled,” she finally said.

“Am I?”

“You are, child. You will not attract a husband at this rate.”

“I suppose not.”

“You mean to be a burden to your father his whole life?”

“I am not so expensive to keep,” I said.

“Being motherless is a great misfortune,” she said, as if I'd brought it on myself. “Your father has let you become odd. I plan to make you more presentable this summer. It's no easy thing to find a husband these days, after the war took so many of our young gentlemen. The men can have their pick. And who will they pick?”

“The prettiest and richest they can, I imagine,” I said.

She actually looked pleased. “Precisely. Now, the worst position to be in is to be both plain and poor. You at least are not poor. There is hope for you. You should take heart.”

“Thank you, Aunt Berton, I feel very cheered up.”

Aunt Berton went to bed early. Her room was just down the hall from mine.

None of the snakes I'd brought with me were poisonous, though one of them was very good at hissing and feinting like he meant to bite. I waited for an hour and then walked quietly down the hall, opened the door to Aunt Berton's room, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

My aunt slept soundly, though noisily, her skull encased in a nightcap. I let the three snakes out beside her bed. Some enthusiasts have claimed snakes are affectionate, but I believe they are just fond of warm places. I wasn't sure how much heat Aunt Berton's wizened frame produced, but it was a safe bet my snakes would find it ample. They quite liked armpits. I returned to my room and read a book until the screaming began.

Early next morning, my father was summoned to take me away.

Aunt Berton did not come downstairs to see us off. She remained in bed, exhausted by all the screaming she'd done last night.

“You did this on purpose, of course,” Papa said, as we drove off in the carriage.

I said nothing. I had learned his trick of just looking with an
impassive expression. It was rare to see him flustered, but he was now, and angry.

“How could you do such a thing to your aunt?”

“I'll need to come west with you now.”

“You think you should be
rewarded
for this escapade?”

“There's nowhere else to go. No one will take me in on such short notice. I don't imagine anyone would want to, anyway. Given the snakes.”

The horse clopped along.

Helpfully I said, “I suppose I could get a job as a tutor, or a companion for an infirm—”

“Stop it,” my father said. “Your aunt may change her mind.”

“She said under no circumstances was I welcome to sleep under her roof in the foreseeable future.”

He twitched the reins. “You have put me in a very awkward position.”

“You can't just leave me unchaperoned. Think of the mischief I might get up to.”

My father sighed.

“I am looking forward to being an excellent helpmate to you,” I said, and took his arm.

T
HREE SLEEPLESS NIGHTS ON TRAINS, AND I
was ragged when we arrived in Omaha on the overnight from Chicago. Father had bought coach seats to save money—
my money
, I liked to think of it—and they were about as comfortable as a pew. He'd promised we'd get proper berths in the Pullman car for the last leg on the Union Pacific.

The station was an enormous cowshed. A confusion of tracks. Clang of rolling stock being shunted in the rail yards. At least we were out of the sun. It was still early, but you could already feel the day's heat budding and blossoming. Hot wind carried the smell of creosote, and hops from a brewery somewhere.

At the ticket office, the clerk told us the Pullman Palace Car was already full.

“In its entirety?” Father asked.

I heard singing from somewhere.

“It's a large party, sir. They booked it two days ago. I can offer you comfortable seats and berths in the second carriage. You will, of course, have access to the parlor car and dining car.”

The singing was getting louder. I slouched across the platform with our luggage, feeling like a yak.

“We should've booked in advance,” I said reproachfully to my father.

Suddenly a dozen young men in college blazers burst onto the platform, belting out “Come in Old Adam, Come In.” They looked so energetic and well rested that I hated them on sight. I wasn't sure if their arms were linked, but they gave the impression of moving toward us like a chorus line.

“Isn't that Professor Bolt?” one of them called out.

My father turned and squinted. He was nearsighted and too vain to wear glasses except when at work.

Abruptly the singing stopped. “Professor Bolt!” exclaimed another fellow respectfully. “What a pleasure to find you here, sir!”

My father smiled: Nothing made him happier than being recognized. Even though he really wasn't a professor, he was still quite famous. Or infamous, depending on who you talked to. I'd once heard some college students describe him as a “militant scientist.”

“What brings you gentlemen to Nebraska?” my father asked.

“Well, sir, we just took a few days to get kitted out, and do some target practice, and now we're on our way west to search for fossils.”

“Is that so?” my father said, and he looked at me with a sly grin. In that moment we were both thinking the same thing. A work crew, eager to toil for a well-known paleontologist.

“They're with me, actually,” said Professor Cartland, emerging from behind the tallest of his students.

“Ah, I see,” said my father, the goodwill instantly scoured from his face.

Cartland looked crisp and freshly shaven and as dapper as his sturdy frame allowed: vest, jacket—and one of those Western string ties like some of his students wore.

“Good morning, Bolt,” he said.

“And a very good morning to you,” my father replied, standing up straighter.

For just a second I wondered if they'd start brawling again, right here in Omaha Station. But they managed a few more pleasantries before I stopped hearing them. Because Rachel Cartland had just appeared beside her father.

Even after all the weeks of preparations, the busyness, my dreams of digging the
rex
from the rock—she'd still stitched her way through my thoughts. I'd conjured her many times, but the picture was always imperfect. Mostly it was just details. The gap between her teeth. Always the eyes, looking up at me so studiously. I couldn't piece her all together in my memory. After all, I'd seen her just the one night.

Now she was right in front of me. Taller somehow than I remembered—was that the boots? And she wore a hat. Her clothes were simpler now, a white skirt and a blouse in the
hundred-degree prairie sun. Her face was flushed, and she looked healthier and prettier than she had at the academy.

I realized I was smiling. She stared back at me like a wary cat.

“Hello, Miss Cartland,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

I wrenched my eyes from her and took in the students with even more dislike. Here she was with these strutting fellows. They'd all be fawning over her.

Behind their party, several porters with dollies moved their luggage toward the train and began loading it into the baggage car.

“You're taking the Union Pacific westbound?” I heard Cartland ask my father.

“We are,” he replied tightly.

“Ah,” said Cartland. “Then we shall see you on board.” To his students he said, “This way, gentlemen,” and marched ahead to the Palace Car.

I stole one last look at Rachel and then helped Father heave our own modest bags onto the baggage car. We boarded and took our seats in the second carriage. I patted at the careworn upholstery.

“These seats aren't so bad,” I noted cheerfully. My heart was still beating hard. I was absurdly happy. I was on my way out west, to lay claim to the biggest dinosaur on earth. And Rachel Cartland was on the same train. There'd be lots of chances to talk to her. I felt like I'd been given a Christmas present in the middle of summer.

My father stared out the window, his mouth moving like he was gnawing a bit of gristle. “We should get off this train.”

“What?” I asked in alarm.

“We can take the next one.”

“But why would we . . .” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “You can't think he's following us.”

“No?”

This was paranoid, even for my father.

“They booked their tickets before us,” I reminded him. “The stationmaster said so.”

Father seemed not to hear me. “He has a habit of moving into my territory.”

When he saw my blank look, he hissed, “New Jersey!”

I remembered now. Father meant the marl pits where he'd found his
Laelaps
years ago. The pits were owned by a fertilizer company. And after Father's find, Cartland had quietly talked to the owner, slipped him some money so he'd alert Cartland if his digging crews uncovered anything juicy.

“But he can't know where we're going,” I whispered, then frowned. “Have you told anyone?”

“Of course not. You?”

“No!”

“But where
is
he going?” He jabbed his finger at me. As if I knew the answer. “
That's
the question that should worry us.”

His intensity was starting to alarm me. “Are you saying—”

But suddenly Father looked past me, lifted his hat. “Good day, ma'am.”

I turned just as a woman passed us in a pleasant breeze of lavender.

“Good day,” she said, and smiled. She was very attractive and seemed to be traveling alone. My eyes followed her to the end of the coach. With a slender, white-gloved hand she opened the door to the single private compartment and stepped inside. I turned back to Father. His gaze lingered outside her door, a private smile on his lips.

And just as quickly his attention was back on me. Warily he glanced all around. Like he was making sure none of Cartland's people were nearby. He leaned closer.

“I asked the conductor where they were going, but the fellow was tight-lipped.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You're actually worried they're going to the
same
place as us?” It was a terrible thought—that they somehow knew the location of our colossal tooth. But impossible. The West was huge. States and territories stretching for hundreds of miles in all directions. “You said most of his finds came from Nebraska and Kansas. He's probably headed there.”

“Maybe he's going farther afield this time. Maybe he's got a lead on a good bone bed.” Father fingered the rim of his hat. “And he's certainly got enough free labor with those students.”

“They'll probably smash more than they find,” I said, hoping to console him.

Despite his boundless energy, Father often got despondent—and when he did, it fell to me to jolly him up. There were days he'd refuse to get out of bed entirely. But I'd grown used to these, and he always rebounded. Waking early, and waking
me
, to go for a walk and take the morning air, all energy and plans.

“There was another fellow with them,” he said now. “Did you
notice? A little wisp of a man. Too old to be a student. He wasn't wearing a blazer anyway. Can't be a scientist; I'd have known him. And you saw he brought along that plain daughter of his.”

I felt a sting of indignation. Obviously he hadn't noticed her eyes. “I think she's a keen collector herself.”

“What was he thinking? Unchaperoned. Bringing her at all!” His eyes narrowed. “I want to know where they're going.”

I sat back, straightened the crease in my trousers. “I could make conversation with her.”

My father tilted up his chin, intrigued. “You talked to her at the academy.”

“Just a little bit. Before your lecture. And, well, during the brawl.”

He nodded. “She'd no doubt be grateful for your attention. She may let slip her father's plans.”

“I'll do my best,” I assured him.

The train gave an eager forward pull as it left the station, and I felt exultant. Everything I wanted was on this train. My geological hammer, the promise of discovery, and Rachel Cartland.

My father winked. “Hold your friends close, but your enemies closer, eh?”

“Much closer,” I said, and chuckled.

“You are flushed,” Papa said to me. “I worried the heat might be too much for you.”

“I'm perfectly fine.”

Seeing Samuel on the platform had given me quite a jolt; I'd honestly thought I'd never set eyes on him again, especially not
after that disgraceful incident at the academy. Over the weeks, he'd barely entered my thoughts.

“I'll have some water brought,” Papa said, stepping into the corridor to summon a porter.

I hadn't asked for a private compartment, just a regular berth like everyone else—but Papa had insisted. I should have objected more, because I didn't want anyone to think I required special treatment. It was quite luxurious. The upholstery was plush. There was deep red carpet and mahogany paneling and a gaslight. The shade had been pulled down to block the sun, but there was hardly any air coming through the open window. I was glad of the pitcher of water the porter brought. I took a long drink, trying to order my thoughts.

I heard my father's voice as he helped his students settle into their seats. It sounded like they were gearing up for another song. He returned after a few minutes and sat down in the other armchair.

“So it seems Professor Bolt and his son mean to do some prospecting of their own.”

Samuel had just stood there on the platform, smiling at me, like we were old friends, like he wasn't the son of the man who'd assaulted my father. A family of brawlers.

“I had no idea old Bolt had the funds to cobble together an expedition,” Papa said, fanning himself with his hat. “There must be something yes yes very promising out there, to get him traveling.” He looked up at me. “Still it seems a meager enough effort, if all he's got is his boy.”

I sniffed. “He told me he could put together any skeleton. Faster than anyone.”

“Ah. Modest, like his father.”

“Insufferable,” I muttered.

“Now, listen,” Papa said. “I've already warned my students, but if the Bolts try to speak to you, especially Samuel, tell him nothing of our plans.”

“I don't intend to speak with him.”

“Nonetheless,” Papa said, holding my gaze with a rare grin, “Bolt is a talkative man, and his son's no doubt cut from the same cloth. Talkative people can be quite informative. And you've always been such a keen listener, my dear.”

I stared at him in surprise. “You mean I should try to find out their plans?”

“Only if he should let something slip. Why not? I wouldn't be surprised if they were trying to follow us.”

He must have seen me hesitate, because he added, “Only if you can bear it. I know you're naturally shy.”

I wasn't afraid of being shy; I was afraid of being charmed. A foolish part of me still wanted to talk to him, to see his eyes and his smile. He was a distraction. I wanted—I
needed—
to impress my father on this trip, to prove myself.

“Of course,” I said. “I'll see what I can learn.”

All I had to do was close the gate on Samuel's charm. The problem with a gate, though, was this: Even though it slammed shut with a very impressive bang, you could still see through the bars.