A Most Unsuitable Match (34 page)

Edmund said he was going to head over to Abe’s and make arrangements for Lamar to recover at the hostelry. He asked Edie to check on both men in a few minutes.

“I’ll send Pete for you if there’s any change,” Edie offered, as she put the lid back on the stewpot and shoved it to the back of the stove.

Edmund thanked her, smiled what Fannie took as encouragement her way, and left.

Finally, Edie turned around and said, “Would you like coffee?” She reached for two mugs in the makeshift cupboard. “Personally, I’d like a drink, but I suppose coffee will have to do.” As the dark liquid flowed from the pot into her mug, she said something about how long it had taken her to learn to make coffee. “I warn you,” she said, as she poured a second cup, “I make it strong.”

“There’s no such thing as strong coffee,” Fannie said, repeating a mantra she’d heard from Papa, surprised when Edie joined in with the words, “there are only weak men.”

“If I’ve heard Louis say that once,” Edie said, “I’ve heard it a thousand times.” She smiled. A sad smile, Fannie thought, as she accepted the mug of coffee.

Once seated opposite Fannie, Edie picked up the letter Samuel had been carrying with him. Unfolding it, she read aloud, “ ‘I’ve read the letters so many times now that I almost have them memorized. . . . Is it too much to ask you to come to Fort Benton before the last steamboat of the season leaves in October?’ ” Edie looked up and swept an errant blond curl off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Were you really willing to wait until October just for a chance to meet me?”

When Fannie nodded, Edie sighed. “It must have been a huge disappointment when you finally did.”

Fannie shrugged. “I might have even waited through winter if I’d known spring would mean meeting the woman who wrote those letters to Mother.” She took a sip of coffee, wincing at the bitter flavor of what was more sludge than drink. She got up and went to the cupboard after sugar. As she crossed the room, she recited a passage from one of the letters about Edith LeClerc’s dancing with the emperor of France. Back at the table, she sat down again and stared across at Edie. “Did any of the things you talked about in those letters really happen? Or was it all a fantasy? You seemed to suspect Mother wouldn’t ever let me read them, and it’s obvious she never answered them. So . . . why did you continue to write? What did you mean by ‘proving your devotion’ through Mr. Vandekamp? And why was Mother so . . . angry with you that I never even knew you existed?”

Reaching for something on the floor, Edie produced a small bag, brought out a cigar, and lit it. Closing her eyes, she drew in the smoke. When she exhaled, Fannie once again thought of Papa. It
was
the same tobacco. It had to be. Instead of answering Fannie’s questions, Edie said, “Tell me about the life you left. The one you’ll be going back to.”

Fannie glanced behind her, into the clinic and toward Samuel and Lamar.

“They’re resting,” Edie said. “I’ll check on them in a minute.”

“I’ve told you everything that matters. Papa and Mother are both gone.”

“And Hubert,” Edie said, flicking ashes into an empty mug. “Is he still handling things for the Rousseaus?” She chuckled softly. “I can just imagine what he had to say about your coming up here.” She smiled. “It speaks well of you that he didn’t talk you out of it, by the way.”

“I didn’t tell him I was coming,” Fannie said. “In fact, when I showed him the letter with his name in it, he . . .” She toyed with her coffee cup. “Let’s just say he wasn’t thrilled.”

“That would be Hubert,” Edie said. “He never was interested in anything remotely out of the ordinary.”

“It sounds like you knew him fairly well.”

Edie took a sip of coffee, then circled the rim of the mug with her index finger as she said, “To answer your question . . . yes. Every single one of the things I wrote about really did happen. The emperor’s name is Louis, and he favored me with a dance because I slapped someone at court who was particularly rude to the Empress Eugénie.”

Fannie frowned. She gestured around her. “And then you came
here
?”

“Only after going to St. Charles, hoping to see you and give you an amethyst ring.”

She took another drag on the cigar, blowing the smoke toward the corner of the room.

“But Hannah . . . told me she’d never met you. Didn’t know anything about you.”

“She didn’t.” Edie swallowed. “I’m sorry about your losing her, by the way. She was lovely.”

She looked up then, and met Fannie’s gaze. “I saw her once. You were with her. I was in my room at the little inn on Main, looking out the window. And there you were. Walking with that blind friend of yours. And Hannah. You all three went into Haversham’s. And I hurried to the house to see Eleanor.” She cleared her throat. Looked away. “It did not go well.” She put her cigar in the ashtray. “And so I left. I sent the ring with a messenger and a note begging Eleanor to give it to you on your wedding day.” She gestured around her. “And then I came to fabulous Montana.”

With a trembling hand, she opened the letter again and read, “ ‘Can we make amends for these twenty years?’ ” She gazed at Fannie. “Edmund tells me you know about Bonaparte’s.
Both
of them.” She paused again. “So I’d say that whether or not we can make amends depends entirely on you. I know I’m a great disappointment. As time goes on, you’ll find even more things to dislike. The letters aren’t lies. But still, I’m not the woman you thought I was.”

Fannie thought of E. C. Dandridge, pretending to be a gentleman . . . and men from all walks of life pretending to be miners . . . and Mother . . . pretending nothing was wrong financially when, in fact, the Rousseaus were on the brink of losing everything. Was anyone ever exactly who they seemed to be? She forced a smile. “I’ve come a very long way to find you.” She reached across the table and grasped Edie’s hand.

Edie gave a nervous little laugh. Tears gathered in her eyes. “Well, then. That’s fine.” She stood up. “Let’s go in and check on the patients.” As she and Fannie headed into the clinic, Edie said, “You know, Fannie, you could do something even more outrageous than leaving St. Charles in the first place. You could spend the winter here in Fort Benton.” She paused. “You could even stay at Bonaparte’s if you thought you could bear it. Who knows . . . given time, you might decide you like me.”

Voices . . . whispers . . . his name . . . Samuel could tell they wanted him to answer. And he tried. But he was at the bottom of a well and the weight of the water on his chest wouldn’t let him rise . . . wouldn’t let him breathe. He was too weak to even open his eyes. Where was he? What day was it? Indians! There’d been . . . arrows. War cries. And that half-wild cayuse had reared up and that was all he could remember until the voices . . . and drums.

Pain . . . such pain. He grimaced. Something cool on his forehead. Something moist pressed against his lips. That felt . . . good . . . soothing . . . but it didn’t last.

The pain swallowed everything.

I will look unto the Lord; I will wait
for the God of my salvation: my God will hear me.

M
ICAH 7:7

Samuel didn’t know how long he’d been in and out of consciousness. Reality came in snatches of light and voices he recognized, but he still didn’t have the energy to as much as open his eyes. He was alive. For a while he’d wondered if he was dead and trapped in some limbo state the Bible didn’t talk about. The Bible said absent from the world . . . present with the Lord. Didn’t it? It hurt his head to think about it. To think about anything but . . . sleep. He slept.

Lamar. Where’s Lamar
? Lamar was . . . talking. Somewhere. Just across the room? To who? A woman. Fannie! No . . . not Fannie. Someone . . . older. He’d heard that voice. Humming. Songs. Hymns. He sighed. Opened his eyes.

He and Lamar were in a room. He looked around in the flickering lamplight and recognized the clinic where he’d brought Fannie the day she fainted. Fannie . . . where was Fannie? He wanted to ask for her, but he couldn’t say her name. He squinted at the woman helping Lamar get a drink of water. She wasn’t Fannie, but her voice was kind. He felt . . . empty. Was it hunger? Maybe. He parted his lips and tried to moisten them with his tongue. Nothing but cotton there.

“Hey, my friend,” Lamar said, and the woman leaning over him turned quickly to look at Samuel.

She looked so much like Fannie . . . only . . . older. Her voice was low. Almost masculine. “Look who’s awake.” She smiled. She had a nice smile. He could hear water trickling back into the bowl when she wrung out a cloth and pressed it to his lips. He sucked eagerly.

“Whoa there, Parson,” she said. “Let’s see if I can do better than this rag.” She filled a glass and then helped him lift his head. He coughed most of the water right back up, but some of it slid down his throat. He’d never tasted anything more wonderful. And never worked so hard. He was exhausted. Just from swallowing a little water? It made no sense, but he was too tired to worry about it. He closed his eyes and slept.

When someone knocked on Fannie’s door in the middle of the night, she started awake, instantly terrified . . . Samuel was . . .
no
.
Don’t think it
. Flinging back the covers, she scrambled to the door and opened it.

“The parson’s coming to,” Edie said. “Doc’s with him. I thought you’d want to come see for yourself.”

Fannie threw a dress on and grabbed her wool cape. Her hair cascaded down her back, but she let it be. The cape would hide it anyway. As she and Edie scurried back to the clinic in the cold, she glanced toward the river. Her heart sank as she saw the golden glow of lamplight illuminating the transom windows of the newly arrived steamboat. She looked away. She couldn’t think about that now . . . all that mattered right now was Samuel.

He couldn’t talk. Everything came out wrong. Garbled. He tried to say “water,” but what came out didn’t sound a thing like the word
water.
Everyone was trying to act like it didn’t matter, but he knew better. He could see the fear in Fannie’s eyes and the worry in the other woman’s.
Edie Bonaparte.
He blinked and looked from her to Fannie and back again. Like seeing Fannie in twenty years. She’d still be beautiful. Something had obviously changed between the two of them. Fannie’s letter had said Edie didn’t want to know her. What had happened? He had so many questions . . . and he couldn’t talk. He grabbed the doctor’s arm. Gestured around the room, furrowed his brow.