The Great Plains (17 page)

‘And that's an excuse for his actions?'

‘No, but it goes some way to explain them, don't you think? And you must understand, Edmund, that there were no fierce battles with the white man until the soldiers came.'

‘The soldiers came to restore peace,' Edmund argued.

‘They came to protect the white man who would take land, food and water from the Indians.' Beads of moisture gathered above her lip. ‘When the soldiers arrived in Arizona they caused trouble and blamed the Indians so Geronimo fought with his people against them. Not long after the soldiers invited the Apache to a conference at Apache Pass, near Fort Bowie. The Indians were attacked and many fine leaders were killed. This was the beginning of the end.'

Edmund didn't know what to make of Philomena's story. He had heard of some of the things she talked about but it was obvious that his cousin felt sorry for the Indians.

‘Did your soldiers or officers ever explain to the government when an Indian was wronged? No, every skirmish, every argument, every fight was caused by the Indians. The only deaths that were important were white deaths. I have lived in two worlds,' Philomena concluded. ‘By belonging to neither, I have a clearer view than most.'

‘So you forgive Geronimo?'

‘There is nothing to forgive, only much to regret.' Philomena pushed the tray to one side. ‘Geronimo was not always a warrior, not always a leader. Once he was a respected medicine man.'

A vision of a smoke-filled teepee, frightening face masks and strange power came to Edmund. ‘But in the end he was a murderer.'

‘Geronimo does not understand the white man's way.'

‘And yet he is something of a personality now,' Edmund challenged. ‘Perhaps he is cannier than you think.'

‘Oh, he is shrewder than most. On that point we do agree.'

Philomena's voice slowed. She was tiring. Edmund removed the tray and sat it on the table. As she leant into the pillows cradling her shoulders he noted the darker hue of her nightgown. It was patched with perspiration. ‘Do you need anything?'

‘No,' she whispered. ‘I do not wish to die in your house, Edmund. I have these many years been accustomed to the wind on my face, to being sheltered by the trees and warmed by the sun.'

Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, Edmund took Philomena's slight hand in his. Tonight, the harsh years his cousin had endured were etched about her eyes, the protrusion of her collarbone angled beneath the cream nightgown and her cheeks were hollow. ‘Shush, you have many years ahead of you. I have been thinking that a change of climate would benefit you, a trip with an ocean breeze.'

‘I would not make the journey to the edge of this land.'

‘Nonsense,' Edmund argued, ‘I can see you on a deckchair, a rug over your knees, looking out to sea. Just imagine, weeks of fresh air and the thought of a new country to explore.'

‘This is a pretty fiction, Edmund. Where is this place we travel to?'

‘Australia.' Edmund squeezed her hand. ‘The English have been buying up land down there for years and making a fortune. I intend to purchase a sheep property and ship the wool back to our textile mills here. My father left me a small fortune and I would like to extend the Wade businesses and increase his legacy for my son's sake. The world is getting smaller; it's time to take another piece of it before someone else does.'

‘What of your wife?'

‘My brother Joe and I correspond irregularly. My mother is not long for this world and I've not seen my sisters for many years since they married and moved back east.' Edmund grew animated. ‘Think of it, Philomena. And I have a man, the son of an old friend of my father's. Hugh was here earlier and he would be just the person to take on the job of sourcing a ranch in Australia. Granted, he's reasonably new to property acquisition but I'm sure he'd be interested in the position and I know he could do it.'

‘And Chloe?'

‘I do not speak of a woman who is wife to me in name only.'

‘Thank you for giving me a glimpse of another life, Edmund, but we both know better.' Philomena pulled her hand away. ‘This is just a gentle halt in proceedings. The disease has only lessened its hold for a brief moment and for that I am grateful.'

There was a finality to her tone, a certain inevitability that Edmund had heard in his mother's voice.

‘Will you be with me in the end? Will you hold me when my spirit leaves this place?'

‘I would do anything for you.'

‘You are kind to me, Edmund.'

‘Philomena, in another time and place …'

‘To know comfort at the end, to know acceptance, to know love, that is enough.'

‘It is not your time yet, Philomena.'

‘No,' she agreed. ‘When the spring comes again and the days grow long and fragrant with hope, then I think I shall take my leave.'

Outside it began to snow.

March, 1903 – Oklahoma City, Oklahoma Territory

Edmund now slept on the settee in Philomena's room. The night sweats came at any time and her breathing was often ragged. Not even the little food Helen and he coaxed her to swallow seemed to help. This fine woman was wasting away before him and the tragedy of their short time together gnawed at him. He couldn't fathom how his cousin could awake from days of exhausted sleep as if recovery were imminent, only to weaken again. Dr Hubert simply shook his head, but Edmund refused to have his spirits dampened by the dour man. What did he know except for what he had read in a book? Was it so impossible that after all Philomena had endured that she would not have the strength to fight off the ills that ravaged her?

Helen pressed Edmund to eat a little more, to get a proper night's sleep, to take heed of his own needs, but he disregarded her concern. His mind was continually drawn to the woman in the bedroom above his father's old office, to the dreadful calamity that befell her and the harsh, sad life she had lived to date. At the very worst of his reflections Edmund envisaged her supple skin, the soft flesh of her breasts cupped by the hands of a savage and he was overcome by anger and something far worse, jealousy.

‘Mr Edmund?' Helen, pale and anxious, stood in the study doorway. ‘You must come. Miss Philomena is out of bed and asking for you.'

Edmund dropped the monthly newspaper figures he studied and, walking past Helen, took the stairs two at a time. He knew she would recover. Dr Hubert's diagnosis of consumption was clearly incorrect. Philomena simply needed a little more rest. He rubbed his hands together. He must speak to his mother, for clearly Philomena would be staying in this house. Chloe, of course, must be considered; however he would not be dictated to by her. Besides, his mother remained the head of this household and she would give her blessing whatever he decided.

Edmund knocked at Philomena's bedroom door, running fingers through unkempt hair. He found her on the settee, a blanket bunched to one side, her concentration directed at the window where the spring sun reflected off the balcony railings. The drapes were tied back and the window open. Edmund could smell the sweet scents of a new beginning. ‘You are better?'

‘You have been good to me, Edmund.' Philomena was ashen faced. She clutched at the settee as if she would fall at any minute.

Edmund knelt before her. ‘You know why.'

She smiled and in that moment Edmund saw the beauty that so enamoured him, that still affected him, but now it was deeper for he knew the person within.

‘There is one more thing I must ask of you. If Serena ever comes here, please don't turn her away. Please?'

‘Yes, yes, of course,' he conceded.

‘You should not lie so badly, Edmund. There are things I know that are beyond explanation but I tell you truthfully that while you may wish to be free of your Apache cousins after I have left this world, it will never happen.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘My children and my children's children will suffer all their lives but one will find freedom, a girl. Remember her name. When she is birthed Serena will call her Abelena.'

‘How on earth could you know such things?'

Philomena cupped his face with her hands. ‘I have lived with people unsullied by material possession, people who are open to all possibilities. There is one more thing. Your son Tobias will love her until his dying day, but she can never be his.'

Edmund told her to rest, to save her breath now that she was feeling a little better.

‘It is a beautiful day, I would like to see it but I don't think I can walk out to the garden by myself.' Her words were filled with sorrow.

For a moment Edmund didn't understand the significance of what his cousin was saying. ‘But you are up and dressed, Philomena. What nonsense is this?'

‘You made a promise to be with me at the end. I wish to be buried in the ground the first night I no longer walk the earth.'

‘What?' Edmund frowned. He tried to laugh. ‘You are sitting here before me alive and well.'

‘The garden, please.'

It was as if the most substantial part of her had already left as Edmund carried his cousin downstairs to be too soon bombarded by daylight. Edmund scowled at the sun, wished for winter, wished for the one thing that he had no control over, time. It was a clear, warm morning as he stepped off the porch with Philomena in his arms. He sensed Helen watching from the upstairs balcony and turned towards her.

‘Mr Wade, it is your mother. She asks for you,' she called down.

‘Tell her …' He looked at Philomena, who in turn weakly pointed toward the pecan tree in the garden. ‘Helen, you must tell her of Miss Philomena's condition.'

Helen nodded apologetically. ‘I fear, Mr Wade, that your mother suffers a similar ailment.'

‘Tell Mother that I am doing my duty as Father would have wished and that I will be with her directly.' Edmund carried Philomena across the grass. In the distance children were laughing, there was the clip-clop of a lone horse travelling the road beyond as he settled Philomena on the grass, her face tilted to the sun. Sunlight covered them in a latticework of light and shade.

‘It has not been such a bad life, Edmund.'

‘Please rest.'

‘I would be buried here, in this garden, wrapped in a blanket, my possessions with me. Keep nothing of mine, Edmund, no keepsake, only memories, such as they are.' Her smile was bittersweet.

Edmund wrapped an arm about her shoulders, drew her close. ‘You wish to be buried like an Apache?'

‘I wish to rest straddling two worlds, as I have lived. I have no need for memorials. I know not where I go or what awaits me, but I am content to leave. I have not the strength to continue.'

‘You know I would give my life for you, Philomena.' Only at the end did he comprehend the strength of his emotions.

She squeezed his hand. ‘It is a gift I would not accept.'

The wind warmed them. Edmund leant his head against the tree trunk and thought of the void slowly nibbling at the edge of his world. He wanted to ask Philomena so many things, little things; what her favourite food was, her favourite colour, what she liked playing as a child. He wanted to know if the Apaches were kind to her … if she did lie with Geronimo. He couldn't help it. The question remained unasked and unanswered in his father's journal and it haunted him still.

‘It has been a long winter.' Philomena struggled for breath.

‘Were you with Geronimo as a man is with a woman?'

Philomena tipped her chin toward him. He cupped her face and kissed her softly. He would love this woman for all to see had he the chance. The slightest of sounds, like a soft wind through summer dried leaves, disintegrated into the air.

Edmund knew at once that he was alone.

‘Mr Wade?' Helen found Edmund still holding Philomena beneath the tree. She lifted a hand to her face. ‘Is she?'

‘Yes,' Edmund replied, ‘she is gone.' His fingers stroked Philomena's still warm cheek.

Helen waited, red-eyed and tearful. ‘Mr Wade?'

‘Yes, yes.' All he desired was a few more precious minutes, then he would carry his cousin indoors and make the preparations for her laying out. It would be a brief affair, an afternoon only; time enough for he and Wes to dig Philomena's grave and then bury her according to her wishes. It was not what he wanted. He would have her interred next to his father, not buried hastily in a garden grave. ‘Tell Mother I will be there shortly.'

‘There is no need, Mr Edmund,' Helen blew her nose noisily, ‘your mother has already gone.' She stared at him accusingly, her bland face gaunt.

His fingers tightened on his cousin's lifeless shoulders. ‘Did my mother say any final words, Helen?'

‘Yes.' The woman straightened, squeezing the handkerchief between her fingers. ‘She said that you were your father's son.'

Edmund got to his feet and lifted Philomena in his arms. ‘She is right,' he agreed bluntly as he carried his dead cousin towards the house. ‘I am.'