The Great Plains (4 page)

Edmund leant against a washstand. ‘You best tell me, Father. I can keep your counsel.'

‘Your cousin, Philomena, has a daughter.'

A muscle twitched in his son's jaw. ‘Is she …?'

Aloysius twirled the tumbler between his palms and then sat the empty glass on the desk. ‘Apache? Yes, I gather so.' He rarely let his thoughts stray to the inevitable violation of Philomena, but the knowledge of a daughter was physical proof of her treatment at the hands of those who had taken her.

‘It's not unexpected, Father, considering the circumstances.'

‘It is to me.' Aloysius was surprised at how calmly Edmund received the news.

His son sipped at the flask, wiped his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Indians and whites do marry, Father.'

‘And that is supposed to make me feel better? That there is the possibility of such a union with church blessing? Whose blessing and what church? Philomena was abducted by a bunch of murdering, renegade Indians.'

‘I have read of captured white women who marry. Some are, in fact, very wealthy.'

Was the boy simple? ‘These Apaches are prisoners of war, Edmund. At the very most your cousin is an Indian's squaw and mother to one.'

Edmund grew innately interested in the silver flask he held. He turned it slowly, deliberately. ‘The word squaw is extremely derogatory.'

‘There is more.' Aloysius experienced a surge of disgust. ‘The daughter is with child herself.' He swallowed the bile in his throat. ‘God forgive me,' he muttered, ‘but how can I bring such shame upon the good name of this family?'

‘With child?' Edmund spluttered. ‘But she herself must be scarcely out of short dresses.'

‘Fifteen years of age, the doctors advise.'

‘Fifteen?' Edmund's voice had risen an octave. ‘And with child and she is coming here?'

‘They were already en route by the time I received word of the daughter's existence. Apparently Philomena would not be parted from her. There was quite a scene. And we must not forget that the daughter and unborn child are of Wade blood too.'

‘Philomena is of Wade blood,' Edmund corrected. ‘A captured white woman is one thing, Father. No-one would expect you to turn Philomena aside despite the insinuations the gossipmongers will delight in. But an Indian child? A baby? What do we do with them? We can't very well introduce them into society. We may well be bringing Geronimo's blood into our home.'

Aloysius examined his hands as if the answer to the questions stored in his brain could be found in the creases of his palms. ‘Well, what would you have done?'

Edmund didn't reply.

November, 1886 – Dallas, Texas

Aloysius waited impatiently in his study for Dr Harry Fitzgerald. Philomena and her daughter had arrived yesterday and, although he'd agreed to a period of rest after their long journey, he'd barely slept during the night. His mind kept returning to his youth, to a time when schooling and hard gallops on the outskirts of Charlestown were the extent of his and Joseph's worries. Horses, reading, writing and arithmetic moulded their early lives. Arguments were frequent, their fights physically painful. Even then they were competitive, not for a father's attention but for the sense of exhilaration that came from bettering one another. Wins were sweet when they came at the cost of beating your brother.

A maid announced the doctor's arrival and Aloysius beckoned the man to the chair opposite his desk. The doctor was of middling height and looks, and with no remarkable feature to single him out from the masses. Aloysius found himself wondering at his level of ability.

‘How is my niece? Of good health, I hope.'

‘Distraught, as to be expected, but otherwise quite healthy,' the doctor advised, crossing his legs. ‘You have heard from Mrs Samuels, the owner of the boarding house?'

‘I have, via a rather irate telephone call. She tells me that her tenants are complaining and threatened to throw my niece and daughter out. But tell me, how is Philomena really? When can I see her?'

‘You employed me, Mr Wade, in my capacity as consultant physician to oversee your niece's assimilation back into society, did you not?' The doctor plucked at the cloth of his trousers.

‘Indeed,' Aloysius agreed irritably. Answering a question with a question was not a form of dialogue he enjoyed.

‘If I may, Mr Wade, the first concern is how you view this rather delicate situation.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Mrs Samuels is worried about Philomena's mental state, not to mention her daughter. Secondly, objections have been raised as to the issue of cleanliness. It appears mother and child are infested with lice.'

‘So have them deloused, my good man. They have been living on a reservation.'

‘Mr Wade, Mrs Samuels is most sorely aggrieved at having not been informed in advance that your “guests” are in fact Indians.'

Aloysius slapped his hand on the desk. ‘My niece is most certainly
not
an Indian.'

‘She arrived dressed as an Indian and is still so attired.' The doctor leant forward in his chair. ‘I understand how difficult this is for you.'

‘Do you?' Aloysius's voice dropped. ‘When can I see my niece?'

The doctor sighed. ‘They must be moved. Mrs Samuels refuses to house them. May I suggest the asylum. As you know I am a consultant there and –'

‘They are not delinquents!' Aloysius replied furiously.

‘Unfortunately that depends on your definition of the word. You can't install them here, Mr Wade, not in their present condition. As it was they had to be locked in their room at the boarding house so they wouldn't escape.'

The thought of Philomena trying to run away after the years he had hoped for her return stunned Aloysius. He stalked the length of the study. In business he prided himself on his ability to negotiate and control, to manipulate events to his advantage. Now he was stymied by the fates, unsure of his next move.

‘A difficult situation, Mr Wade.'

‘This is new to me,' Aloysius mumbled. ‘Uncertain outcomes are new to me. Very well,' he reluctantly agreed. ‘Promise me that they will be kept well away from the mentally unstable and I want them in a private room with all necessary comforts.'

‘I have such an area with a private sitting room.'

Aloysius rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Now that you have spent some time with my niece, do give me the benefit of your expertise.' Aloysius rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and accidently pushed a brass sconce against the gilt frame of the landscape hanging above. The knock of metal against timber went unnoticed. ‘I have had my fill of supposed experts. Crane and Holt, for example, cost me a pretty penny when they went to the reservation, and they returned with the most disparaging of reports. I am expecting a true and honest account from you, Harry, if I may call you Harry.'

‘Of course, Mr Wade. However, I must warn you that my findings will not gladden you.'

Aloysius waved a hand, signalling the doctor to speak.

‘Your niece's prospects are limited. She is a white woman in appearance only and I believe that she is far too damaged by the many years spent in captivity to ever be capable of resuming her place in society. I have prescribed bromide to calm her distressed state.'

Aloysius felt the study walls shrinking around him. The air seemed denser, difficult to breathe.

‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such distressing news.'

He remembered his niece as a cherubic baby. Cradled in her mother's arms, they appeared like Madonna and child. ‘And Philomena's daughter?'

The doctor gave a singular shake of his head. ‘She appears to be lacking in mental capacity. Although both she and the unborn child appear well enough, if a little malnourished, as is your niece.'

Although tempted to punch his fist into something hard, Aloysius considered the diagnosis. ‘Is it not possible that some memory may return, some small recollection that, although fleeting, could spur Philomena to recall her past, albeit gradually?'

‘From the previous cases I have studied in readiness for your niece's arrival, it seems unlikely.'

‘But not impossible.'

‘Nothing is impossible, but the Apaches have always been warlike and nomadic. Had Philomena been found sooner, had she been with a tribe who mixed more freely with others, had –'

‘Stop it. I am not interested in hearing negatives, Harry.'

The doctor flipped his crossed leg backwards and forwards.

Aloysius believed in the power of family. He was sure that once he met his brother's lost daughter and talked to her, a small flame would be lit, a flame that could be fanned into a fire filled with memories, a fire that would burn out the Indian part of her soul. ‘Despite your opinion, I am still hopeful of some form of reconciliation.'

‘And I am committed to doing my very best to help Miss Wade.'

Finally assured, Aloysius resumed his seat.

‘May I suggest that we be mindful of the days of travelling she's endured. Rest, sustaining foods and attention to her person are important considerations before she is faced with the momentous day of reunion.'

‘Very well,' Aloysius decided, ‘I see the benefit in this. A gradual introduction to her old life and perhaps some quiet time at the asylum in your care will calm Philomena and pave the way for our meeting. I will arrange for a seamstress to ensure that my niece is clothed in the appropriate fashion. I am at fault in this regard for I'd given no thought to her limited personal possessions. Philomena is a Wade and she should be dressed accordingly.'

The doctor responded with a cursory smile.

‘I will leave them in your care for one week, Harry, before I make my presence known to her.'

‘I can only do my best.'

‘You must break through the mantle of savagery cloaking my niece,' Aloysius urged as he walked the doctor to the front door, ‘and reach the heart of the white woman within.'

Closing the door behind the doctor's retreating figure, Aloysius placed a hand against the timber panelling of the entrance hall and rolled his neck from one side to the other. He listened to the squeak of leather and then the sharp clip-clop of horse and dray as the doctor left, then, with a strength of purpose he did not feel, he walked through the house in search of his wife.

Annie was in the drawing room. Arranged comfortably in the chaise-lounge under the bay window, she was reading a newspaper, the pages angled to collect the best of the mid-morning light. Aloysius noted the masthead immediately. The
Tribune
was the
Wade Newspaper
's major competitor. Although she knew how he detested her reading it, Aloysius relied on his wife to advise him if the
Wade Newspaper
had missed a story of interest. Pouring a glass of lemon syrup, he added water from the pitcher on the table and waited as Annie sat her spectacles on the rose-patterned seat cushion.

‘What did the doctor say? How is Philomena?'

Aloysius winced as he swallowed a mouthful of the syrup – the drink left a bitter aftertaste. ‘He was not hope personified.'

‘I am sorry.' She patted the seat cushion.

‘Let me stand, my dear. I seem to have spent a lifetime sitting and waiting.' He observed the slight puckering of his wife's mouth. She never had been of a sentimental nature, however, there was something else bothering her. He glanced at the folded newspaper and sat the unfinished drink on the table. ‘Dr Fitzgerald and I have reached agreement on a settling-in period of one week. We both think it a good idea. It gives Philomena time to become more acquainted with her changed surroundings. She is to be moved to private quarters at the Dallas Asylum.'

Annie's brow furrowed. ‘Ah, we come to the truth of the matter. What happened at the boarding house?'

‘What? Nothing, apart from being cramped, noisy and filled with busybodies.'

‘I see.' Annie opened the
Tribune
, perched her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and began to read:

Annie looked pointedly at Aloysius before continuing:

‘Page four has an article regarding the abduction of Philomena and –'

Aloysius ripped the newspaper from his wife's hand, crumpled it up and threw it on the fire.

‘Aloysius!'

He stared as the pages burned. ‘I wish to God I could hide her from the world.'

‘What were you thinking, sending Philomena to Mrs Samuels' dressed like a, well, like a –'

‘Savage?' Aloysius finished. ‘I didn't think. I only thought of her safe passage and well-being, not her appearance.'

‘It is one and the same in civilised society.' Annie puffed out a breath of annoyance. ‘It will be all over the city by now. Heavens, Aloysius, I thought you would handle this matter delicately, carefully … An army escort? Was that necessary? Did she arrive as a prisoner?'

‘I can hardly obliterate the girl's past. The damn
Tribune.
Those reporters are all scandal and gossip, they care nothing for decent folk.'

Annie tapped her reading glasses on the arm of the chaise-lounge. ‘Well, the child is safely here at last, the repercussions of which we will have to address as they arrive. Now tell me, who is the Indian with her?'

Aloysius prepared himself for a scene. He noted the box of smelling salts on a side table. ‘Philomena has a daughter.'

Annie lifted a handkerchief to her lips. The silence between them stretched for such a length of time that Aloysius wondered if he should speak first.

‘How long have you known?' Annie finally asked.

‘For some weeks.' Aloysius concentrated on the vase of greenery that reflected prettily in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

‘Is she …?'

‘Native? Yes, fifteen years old and, I am told, of limited mental capacity.'

‘Oh heavens.'

Aloysius mixed a glass of lemon syrup. ‘Drink this.' He waited dutifully until a semblance of colour was restored to her cheeks. ‘It was the last thing I expected. I mean, obviously I had given thought to her treatment, an innocent child growing into a defenceless young woman, but the repercussions, well, my thoughts never extended to this.'

Annie sniffed, dabbed at her eyes and sniffed again. ‘That poor girl. Those heathens, a fine young girl like that.'

‘There is more. You best hear it all.'

Annie took a sip of the lemon drink, grimaced and then nodded for him to continue.

‘The daughter is also with child.'