Faithful

Table of Contents

 

 

Nothing about Tom felt familiar. He was hard to measure against the other men I knew. His opinions were confusing, and his teasing—I didn’t know where I stood. I hadn’t found a way to speak to him without feeling like a fool.

And he looked like he’d just stepped out of the backwoods. His shirt was clean, but plaid. I’d wager Edward thought plaid belonged in Scotland, not on his back in a dining room. And hiking boots in the National! Really, Tom was ridiculous.

Yet I wanted to reach across the table—right then, reach my arm over both our ice creams—and lift that lock of hair off his forehead, and then see him smile for me. Only for me. I would have followed his sea eyes into the bear’s teeth.

He glanced up. “Good?” His index finger pointed at my ice cream, now dripping down my fingers while I mooned.

I flushed right to my toes. “Thanks. It’s delicious.” I licked my fingers and I grasped for the sparkling wit that seemed to elude me in his presence. “Are you in Yellowstone for a while?”

“The whole summer.”

“You help your father?”

“Yes. I love this place.” He put his ice cream down and leaned across the table, as if to share a secret with me. “I wish I could just stay right here forever.”

I took a breath. Only six inches spanned the distance between our faces. “Why?” I whispered.

SPEAK

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Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010

 

Copyright © Janet Fox, 2010

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ISBN : 978-1-101-56642-8

 

 

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ISBN : 978-1-101-56642-8

To Jeff and Kevin, for their unwavering faith in me.

I KNOW A PLACE ON THIS EARTH THAT CONTAINS wonders enough to stop the breath. A place where the very rocks whisper and whine, where the rivers boil and the snow-studded peaks thrust into a bowl of blue; where great shaggy beasts press the earth with cloven hooves or threaten with claw and fang; where new life and lurking death coexist in the shallows of varicolored pools.

I went to this place to search for what I had lost, but instead found a life unexpected.

May 31, 1904

THE TRAIL WAS TOO CROWDED FOR A HARD RIDE. Too groomed, too manicured. I wished I could fly, could gallop away from my raging confusion, but I couldn’t give Ghost my crop and set him off at a canter. I urged him into a fast trot instead and even then I saw it in the faces we passed: the raised eyebrows, the surprise, the disapproval. Disapproval draped over me like a funeral crepe.

I pressed my lips together. I imagined the glares I’d receive if I rode astride instead of sidesaddle. Mama had worn a split skirt when we rode. When I was little I’d thought it fun—they all watched her, my mama! But when I reached my teens I saw the attention for what it was. The eyes had skimmed from Mama to me. I was guilty by association.

I sighed as I slowed Ghost to a walk, then bent forward and caressed his silky neck with my gloved fingers and stuffed my warring thoughts all the way down.

Ghost twisted his ear toward me. “You’re always ready to listen, aren’t you? I wish you could come with me. That would be such a comfort. But I have to go, and you have to stay. It’s not forever, old friend. Only a little trip. I promise I’ll be back.” Promise. Like Mama had promised me. I squelched that thought, the misery of broken promises. My lips drew tight. “I promise.”

Ghost tossed his head; he understood. I sat up in the saddle and thought it all through again.

Papa’s plans, having come from out of the blue two days ago, had thrown me into conflict. First, I’d felt excitement.

“There is some suggestion—only a possibility, mind you,” Papa had said. I tensed, waiting. “Your mother was there before. We took a trip out west, right after you were born. You stayed in Newport with your grandparents, but we went west. Did I ever mention it? No? Well. Your mother and I were there, years ago.”

Papa’s eyes had grown bright; he leaned toward me with a smile. “Your uncle John’s been investigating. He’s made some discoveries. There may be a chance, only a chance . . .”

“What?” A chance she was alive? My breath quickened. I reached out my hand, tugged his shirtsleeve. This was the thing I’d prayed for these many months. “Papa, are you saying she’s alive and we can find her?”

But Papa looked away; he didn’t answer. He bent and picked up the train schedule, flipped it open, and pointed. “If we leave within the week, we’d be there by the middle of June.”

“Wait. So soon?” My mind twisted in another direction, my feelings in conflict. Elation turned to shock.

Leave within the week. This week. Be somewhere out west in the middle of June. And back—when? To find Mama was my greatest hope. But to leave Newport at this very moment, even to find her, was . . . I pressed the heel of my palm against my forehead to quell the ache. We’d be gone well into the start of Newport’s season.

“Papa, wait. How long will we be away? You know I have so much to do! Kitty and I have so many plans!” It was my season, and it should have been Mama planning with me. The conflict in me began to boil and my voice rose with it. “There are the clothes, and the orchestra, and the flowers, and the invitations . . . all the little details to manage.”

It was my sixteenth spring, the eve of my debut. This was the summer I’d dreamed about for as long as I could remember, the summer in which my future would finally be sealed. A debut required hundreds of preparations. The ball alone would take weeks to plan. Most girls planned theirs with their mothers, but my mama was gone. I was on my own, with only Kitty to help me. Yet now, here suddenly was the possibility of Mama . . .

Mama. I wanted to know what my uncle John had learned, out there in the wilds of Wyoming. For the past year I’d stubbornly insisted that Mama was alive; now Papa had given me fresh hope.

I felt dizzy. My hand clutched at Papa’s shirt, twisting the cotton. My stomach twisted, too.

It was unfair that this was happening now. That Uncle John and Papa would make this unnamed discovery now—it was unfair! I didn’t expect Papa to understand how much my debut meant to me. If Mama had been here she would have understood. I like to think she would have understood.

Ghost whinnied and brought me back to the moment. I caught the eye of Mrs. Wolcott as we passed on the trail. I smiled; her return was faint, not quite a sneer yet not a smile. I stiffened. A glittering debut with all the right trappings was one of the few things that might make the Mrs. Wolcotts look at me new. Since Mama had left, I’d tossed and turned at night, alone with my wretched thoughts. And now, when I’d finally begun to make some peace with my life, to let go of my desperate insistence that she’d be back, now everything was about to change.

I’d asked Papa two days ago (two days! A lifetime!), “Can we be back in time? If we’re back by July, that would be all right. Maybe Kitty can manage till then. But Papa, we have to be back by then.” I remembered tightening my hold on his sleeve.

“Yes, yes,” Papa said, waving his hand, the train schedule flapping, brushing off my questions. He paused and looked at the floor, tugging his mustache with two fingers. “There’s something else, Mags. Listen. You must promise not to tell anyone that this is anything but a pleasure trip. You must promise especially not to tell your grandparents.” He looked up at me with a piercing gaze.

I was taken aback. “Not tell? But . . .”

“It’s important, Margaret.” Papa took my free hand. “You must promise. I don’t want to give them false hope.” He searched my face, his eyes unusually bright. “Lord knows your grandfather is angry enough with me.”

His grip tightened around my hand, so I put my other hand on his and lied. “I understand.” Why wouldn’t he want my grandparents to know that he may have found their daughter?

“Good girl. Now, I have some things to do, eh?”

“But, Papa. I want to hear what Uncle John . . .”

“Margaret, please.” And he ushered me out of his studio and shut the door. I stood in the dark hall, alone, my lips pursed in frustration.

Ghost snorted and I stroked his neck again. He knew me better than anyone, my Ghost. “I have to go.” I sighed. “I’ll miss you, my friend.” I would miss the pleasure I took in our daily rides. I’d miss our unspoken connection.

There were many things I’d miss. Like Kitty. And the first round of parties that Mama should have been here to help me prepare for. Sad, gray, boring winter had yielded at last to spring—my spring. In only a few weeks the wealthy from all over the East Coast would descend on Newport to hunt, sail, mingle, and play the complicated social game.