Faithful (17 page)

“There won’t be any bears at the backdoor tonight,” Tom said. “No matter what scraps they’ve tossed, the fireworks will scare all the wildlife away.”

No bears. Good. I drew my shawl up over my shoulders. “I wish people wouldn’t do that. Feed the bears.” I shuddered as I recalled the grizzly’s flat but mesmerizing eyes.

Tom turned and faced me, his eyebrows raised. “You listened to me. I appreciate that.”

I wasn’t motivated by the naturalist instinct, as he imagined, but by my fear. I wouldn’t let him know that. It felt wonderful to have his approval. “You’re a good teacher.” We exchanged a long look in which time seemed to stop before I had to drop my gaze. He did not look away, but lifted his hand toward mine.

“Would you like to dance?”

At last! I raised my head to agree just as the music stopped. Disappointment flooded me as he dropped his hand. I gave a small shrug. “Next time, I guess.” Next time, if we danced, I feared I’d become lost in his arms.

Revelers poured out onto the veranda, surrounding us, and the spell broke. Soldiers on horseback herded the elk off the parade ground. Suddenly, rockets roared into the night sky, whistling and screaming, fire in the blackness. The hills reflected the light, scattershot. People laughed and cheered and there were huzzahs and toasts to our nation’s birthday. I stood inches away from Tom and felt as though the fireworks came from inside me.

At one giant blast, I took Tom’s arm without thinking and felt his fingers fold over mine, warm and strong. Finally, when the last blast crescendoed and the night grew still, the crowd roared its approval and then began to disperse, drifting into carriages and hotels. The fireworks inside me had not quieted as Tom and I stood together, touching, not moving.

Behind us waiters and busboys cleared the hall. Outside, the evening faded into quiet with only a small number of laughing couples left around us. The stars reappeared in the black sky above. My hand still rested on Tom’s arm, his fingers still covering mine; the current between us was electric. I could not speak.

He broke the silence, his voice soft. “Can I walk you back to the hotel?”

I took a breath. “We moved. We’re in a house on Officers’ Row. That’s home, for now.”

“Good!” He pulled away a little, but he was smiling. “That means you’re staying.” I wanted to ask if that made him happy, but my tongue was in a knot. I was off balance once again with him, this time from shyness and longing. All I could do was smile.

We walked down the road in silence and I left my arm linked with his. We reached the cottage and he turned to face me.

As I looked at him something moved in the shadows behind. I stifled a yell, throwing my hand up over my mouth, and I backed away as Tom spun around. Fear gripped my heart.
Bear.

But it wasn’t a grizzly. Kula stepped into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.

“You!” I said, relief flooding me.

Kula glared and said nothing but turned on her heel and marched up the steps and in through the Millses’ door.

Tom started after her. “Kula!”

“You know her?” I had regained my bearings and was annoyed with her, both from the fright she’d given me, and also at what she’d interrupted. And there was still that haunting feeling she raised in me each time I saw her.

“I’ve met her a few times. She does washing. Comes around to the camp to take things up or drop them off every week or so.” He stared at the house where she had disappeared, and not at me. “Does she live here, then? I never knew.”

“She’s a maid. She works for the Millses.” I remembered the jealousy I’d felt when I heard that Isabel and Edward knew each other. This was far worse. I folded my arms over my chest.

“She does good work. She’s nice. I’ve thought maybe she was part Crow, with those cheekbones. Do you know anything else about her?” Tom still looked at the house, and not at me.

“I wouldn’t know a thing. She’s just a maid.” Jealousy made me speak without thinking. “She’s rude, as you can see. She doesn’t know her station.”

He turned and looked at me then, but his eyes were ice. “So?”

“She’s a maid.” I wanted to kick myself, watching his reaction.

He stepped away from me. All I could see was the reflection of light in his eyes, like two sharp pins. “You know, Maggie, just when I think you’re all right, you come up with these obnoxious comments.”

I struggled to keep the tears in. I wanted to say something, anything, to win him back, but words melted away like butter.

“Who are you, Maggie? A spoiled, rich debutante or a decent girl?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat was thick with stopped tears.

“I’d like to think you’re decent and you just don’t know any better.”

I could think of nothing to say. Nothing.

He took another step away and I wished I had the courage to reach my arm out to him. “See you around.” He moved off, and I felt the world collapse inside me.

He was yards away when I whispered, “Good night,” and dragged myself inside the house.

Instead of lighting the parlor lamp, I stood in the window and watched Tom as he walked beneath the streetlamps lining the row. He appeared, vanished and reappeared, as he drifted from one to the next pool of golden light until he vanished completely, swallowed into the inky dark.

July 5, 1904

“ISN’T THERE ANYTHING?” I ASKED THE CLERK AT THE mail depot. “Not a single letter?”

“Nothing,” he said, and turned away.

“Can you check on telegrams? Maybe a telegram has come and been misplaced.”

The clerk turned back, leveling his eyes at me. “Miss, we deliver telegrams immediately.”

I could tell I’d insulted him. “Of course you do.” I turned to leave, then turned back. “If anything comes . . .”

“I’ll let you know right away, miss.” He was most annoyed with me now. It was all over his face.

“Right. Thanks.” I made my way back to our lodgings through the clear morning light. I’d written the letter to Grandpapa two weeks earlier; I thought I would have heard from him by now. Since my awful parting from Tom last night, I knew I had to escape from Papa’s prison, no matter the cost.

There had been a few days when Yellowstone hadn’t seemed so bad. When despite the misery of Papa’s lies and Mama’s absence, despite Graybull’s obnoxious attentions, despite the low conditions in which we lived, despite the loss of my Ghost, my season, my things, when Tom had made this place appealing. But I could not rely on small moments that could be banished by Tom’s cold shoulder and Kula’s interference.

It was just a little spark of jealousy on my part, for pity’s sake. I spoke stupidly; but Tom’s response had been so harsh. Kula
was
a servant, after all. I kicked at a stone in the road. Ugly thoughts circled me like buzzards. Without Tom I had no reason to like Yellowstone, no reason to stay here. I wished for the hundredth time that I had held my tongue. I wished for the thousandth time that he hadn’t been so curt. He was probably gone from my life forever.

So I looked back to my grandfather to come to my rescue. To come and take me home to Newport, where at least my prison would be comfortable, and my future secured. Edward might like me again, and I could pick up the pieces of my life. Mama would come home as she’d promised. I kicked another stone in the road. I’d get over Tom, surely.

This waiting for my grandfather was frustrating. This mooning over Tom more frustrating still.

I arrived at our little house. Papa was off somewhere—he seemed to have endless appointments since we’d moved into our cottage. I hung my hat by its ribbons on the hall hat stand. The dining-room door was open and Papa’s papers were scattered across the broad table.

I drifted in. I’d never pried through his things, just helped him as he directed. Now my disappointments enclosing me, and my renewed desire to have my old Newport life back, sparked my curiosity. Perhaps Papa had some information here that I could use. I felt a sneaky guilt, sifting through his secrets, but also a reckless misery.

I lifted blueprints: They were additions to various hotels in the Park and sketches for buildings in the rustic style so popular here. Other papers were scattered in untidy piles. I picked up one stack and leafed through it.

A letter caught my eye. Attached were several copies of a photograph of Ghost.

I ran my fingers over the picture, feeling the tears well up. Ghost. It was high time I got Grandpapa to take me home. Beneath the photograph was a notice for a princely price on Ghost: $400.

I gripped the letter, wanting to rip it to shreds. Papa had no right to have done this to me. Ghost wasn’t property; Ghost was my friend, my only friend, it felt like now. I pocketed one copy of Ghost’s picture in a tiny theft. Hah! My jaw was tight, my lips were pressed together. Once I returned to Newport, leaving Papa alone, maybe then he’d suffer the way he made me suffer now. Maybe then he’d understand what it meant to lose everything you loved. I rubbed my eyes hard with my palm and went at my task anew.

There were dry business letters regarding Papa’s employment in the Park. There were bills and receipts; the numbers on these were shocking. I had not known much about our finances in Newport, but I could see here that Papa had not been lying: He had lost everything. Our debts were enormous. Some of the letters from creditors were threatening. If he had not sold our things, he’d be in prison.

I spent what felt like hours looking through these papers. They made me feel sick. I hadn’t seen how far he’d fallen after Mama left, how his work had suffered, all as a consequence of her disappearance.

I touched Ghost’s picture in my pocket, feeling painfully aware of my selfishness. Papa
did
know, after all, what it was like to lose what you loved. He and I both knew. I wondered what I would have done had he taken me into his confidence and let me know of our situation earlier. Would I have let go of Ghost on my own?

I rifled deeper. I uncovered a telegram, dated March 20, 1904.

I dropped the papers and placed my hands on the table, trying to still the room from spinning me straight off the face of the earth. I backed away from the table.

Complications. Dead.

My mind circled the words around and around. Mama. Papa had been searching for her and Uncle John had been helping him. But it didn’t make sense. Papa had been so happy that day he heard from John—there had to be more. I had to understand. I grabbed the entire stack of papers—letters, telegrams, documents—and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I locked the door and then spread all the papers out on my bed in a broad fan.

I prayed I could resolve the mystery, find the answers at last. The stories of Mama and my future were written in these papers. I could feel it.

Here: a long letter from Uncle John dated April 6. It was full of John’s ebullient descriptions of Yellowstone, his work, his companions, and on and on, of little interest to me, until

I reread the paragraph over and over. Of course Papa’s fixation was unhealthy, anyone could have seen that. But what direction, what evidence, what trail . . . ? My hands shook and I leaned over the papers and rested my fists on my bed and let my hair fall out of its pins and over my shoulders. I had to do this, I had to know.

I resumed my search, flipping page after page. Finally, this, from John on May 23:

It was dated after the telegram. After the “may be dead.” Mama could indeed be alive.

I sat down in the chair across the room, holding this letter in my trembling hand. “Success!” I read again and again. Mama could be alive. Papa was keeping all of this from me.

I grabbed another stack of papers, dropping the ones not of interest to me on the floor, careless now, desperate for news. Here was one, very early, addressed to Mama before her disappearance.

It was baffling. Mama had been searching for someone? But who? I was missing something, I had to be. I pawed fruitlessly through the remaining papers, tossing them aside in a general mess. Nothing. I sat on the floor, my head swimming, trying to pull myself together, trying to make sense of everything I knew.

It didn’t make sense. Both Mama and Papa had hidden things from me; and from one another, I suspected.

I got up on wobbly legs and took from the box on my dresser the folded letter that Mama had left for me that I’d kept these many months and buried it in the pocket of my skirt.

I threw my shawl about my shoulders and went outside. I needed air. I needed to clear my head, to think. I crossed the parade ground, making a wide arc around the four elk grazing languidly in front of a knot of tourists. Holding my skirts, I started up the hill to the springs and then veered off on the path that led into the woods.

“Miss!” The voice from behind me was unmistakable. I stopped and turned.