A Whisper of Peace (10 page)

Vivian folded her blue gingham dress over her arm and pushed aside the blanket that shrouded the hut’s doorway. Stepping from the dim light of her hut into the sun’s brightness made her squint, and she almost didn’t see the two women bending over her small fire pit. She let out a little squeak of surprise.

The pair straightened and fixed her with sober looks. “You fire—it go out,” one said in English as broken as Vivian’s Athabascan.

Vivian smiled, trying to alleviate their concern. “I will light it again at suppertime.” The days had warmed as June advanced—although when compared to the sweltering summer heat of Oklahoma, the temperature could still seem cool. Even so, Vivian’s shawl provided adequate barrier against the morning chill. She had no need to hover beside a flame to warm herself. Besides, keeping the coals alive was an endless chore—one neither she nor Clay relished. He’d finally suggested they light a fresh cooking fire at mealtimes. Since he’d had the foresight to bring a good supply of matches, they could afford the luxury of beginning anew as needed.

The women murmured to each other, shaking their heads in dismay. Outside each of the Gwich’in cabins, a pit held coals that were carefully tended by the women. Thanks to Lizzie’s tutelage, Vivian was beginning to feel more at ease in the village, but she wasn’t and never would be Gwich’in. There were some things the natives would simply have to accept her doing differently.

The second woman pointed to the dress hanging from Vivian’s arm. “You go to wash again, Viv-
ee
-an?” She extended Vivian’s flowing name into three distinct sounds, emphasizing the middle syllable. When the natives spoke her name, it sounded guttural. They also seemed amused by her frequent trips to the river for wash water. Vivian wanted to ask Lizzie why bathing was so humorous to the Gwich’in, but she didn’t want to offend her new friend.

She now contemplated how best to answer the women’s question. So far, she’d managed to keep her visits to Lizzie’s cabin a secret to avoid creating conflict with the villagers. More than half a dozen times over the past two weeks she’d slipped away without causing much concern—the natives assumed she was gathering berries, collecting firewood, or fetching water, since she always returned with something in hand.

Today, however, she wanted to take Lizzie the dress she’d modified to fit the native woman’s more slender form. If Lizzie wanted to learn to live in the white man’s world, the buckskin tunic and leggings would have to go. Vivian had brought three extra frocks from home, and she chose the one sewn from blue gingham for Lizzie because the color matched the woman’s unusual eyes.

She bounced the dress slightly, unwilling to lie to the curious native women but fearful of telling the truth. She finally settled on a simple reply. “No, no washing today.”

The pair shrugged and turned away, ambling toward the edge of the village where several other women worked in a communal vegetable garden. Blowing out a breath of relief, Vivian hastened in search of Clay. The sound of an axe connecting with wood alerted her, and she found Clay behind the mission school, turning fallen trees into firewood.

When she called his name, he set the axe aside, much to her relief. How she hated the sight and sound of an axe—it raised too many unpleasant memories. Despite the chill in the air, Clay’s forehead glimmered with perspiration, and sweat created damp circles under his arms. Fixing her eyes on his flushed face, she informed him of her morning plans. “I left dried beef and a pan of corn bread in my hut for your lunch.” Guilt panged when she considered how unsatisfying a cold lunch would be for a man who worked as hard as Clay did. She added, “Or you could come to Lizzie’s cabin at noontime. I’m sure she’ll fix something better.”

She hoped the promise of a good lunch would entice him to visit Lizzie. Despite her frequent prodding, he hadn’t been to Lizzie’s cabin since the day they’d sampled her sugar cookies. Each time she’d requested he accompany her, he frustrated her by making an excuse—he needed to work on the mission, or he needed to gather more firewood, or he needed to attend to some other pressing task. She didn’t doubt the validity of his reasons, yet she grew impatient with them at the same time. When he’d finally completed every detail of the mission, would he find the time to visit Lizzie with her, or would he allow fear of retribution from the tribal leaders to dictate his actions? She wished she had the courage to confront him.

Clay reached underneath his shirt and removed the pistol he carried in the waistband of his trousers. “Take the gun.”

Vivian disliked carrying the gun Clay’s father had sent with them, but she understood the necessity. She held no hope she’d actually be able to hit anything at which she fired, but the noise should be enough to scare away any creature that might consider attacking her. The loud pop certainly frightened her. She took it gingerly and held it by the grip, aimed away from her body.

“That thing’s loaded,” Clay reminded her, his eyebrows high, “so be careful.”

Vivian resisted rolling her eyes. Sometimes Clay fussed worse than a mother hen. “I will. ’Bye now.” She shifted the folded dress to conceal the weapon and wove her way into the trees, skirting the village to avoid encountering any other villagers.

Humming, she followed the now-familiar path to Lizzie’s house. Even though she’d traversed the woods safely several times, her heart still pounded in trepidation. Her gaze darted everywhere, her fingers twitching on the gun in case she needed to use it. Walking through the trees reminded her too much of a journey into the woods in the Dakota Territory many years ago. Clay had assured her no snakes lived in Alaska—it was too cold—yet she still feared a snake might slither through the leaves at her feet, as it had that day.

“Keep going,” she urged herself, forcing her feet to move forward. “There are no snakes in Alaska—Clay said so, and Clay knows. I’m safe. I’m safe.” But she knew a part of her would never be safe again.

To her relief, she reached the clearing beside Lizzie’s cabin without incident. The dogs—accustomed to her presence by now—didn’t even bark. They sat in their pen, looking at her with their tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths, almost as if they were smiling. For a moment, Vivian considered approaching the pen and trying to pet some of the beasts. How she desired the comfort of a warm, welcoming touch. But Lizzie had warned her to avoid the pen because the dogs’ protectiveness might cause them to attack. Looking at their pointed teeth, Vivian decided not to test Lizzie’s theory.

She glanced around, seeking the native woman, but she was nowhere in the yard. She peeked in the cabin’s back door, which was propped open, as always. Empty. Had Lizzie forgotten that Vivian promised to visit this morning? Vivian cupped her hand beside her mouth and called, “Lizzie?”

Seconds later, Lizzie stepped from the trees at the back of the property. She moved with graceful ease, once again awing Vivian with her natural beauty. If attired in a velvet gown, with her hair in a sleek chignon, Lizzie would easily match society’s most aristocratic members in appearance. Then Vivian noticed what the woman held, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. No aristocrat would carry a fat rabbit by its ears in place of a beaded handbag.

Lizzie lifted the hare aloft as she approached, a sign of triumph. But she didn’t smile. Lizzie rarely smiled. “I caught him in one of my snares.” Although Lizzie had taught Vivian a few Athabascan words, she always addressed Vivian in English. “I’ll show you how to skin and gut a rabbit and then cook it. You’ll be able to please Clay with a fine meal.”

Vivian’s stomach roiled. She’d eaten rabbit before, but she’d only seen it after it had been cut into unrecognizable pieces. She had no desire to observe the process by which a rabbit was made ready for the frying pan, even if it would please Clay.

Lizzie, seemingly unaware of Vivian’s discomfiture, pointed to the dress on Vivian’s arm. “What did you bring?”

Vivian carefully placed the gun on the ground before straightening and shaking out the dress. “Remember when I took your measurements? I wanted to make sure I had a frock that would fit you. I had to tailor it.”

Lizzie’s forehead crunched. “Tailor?”

“Adjust its size,” Vivian explained. “Your hips are narrower than mine.” She didn’t add that she’d needed to let out the seams at the bust. There were some topics best left unaddressed. She waited for some sort of response, but none came, creating a small niggle of discomfort within Vivian’s chest. Although she’d spent several hours with Lizzie, she still hadn’t found a place of complete ease with the native woman. Lizzie’s stoicism held Vivian at a distance.

Lizzie dropped the rabbit, enticing a chorus of whines from the dogs. She clicked her tongue on her teeth, and they fell silent. Gliding forward on moccasin-covered feet, she reached for the dress, then held it at arm’s length and looked it up and down. Her sober expression divulged nothing of her thoughts. Then, still holding the dress in front of her like a shield, she spun toward the cabin. “Bring the rabbit and come inside.”

Too surprised to do otherwise, Vivian pinched the rabbit’s nape between her index finger and thumb and snatched up the pistol with her other hand. With the pistol low against her thigh and the rabbit held well away from her body, she scurried after Lizzie.

Chapter Eight

L
izzie moved directly to the rope bed in the corner, dropped the dress Vivian had given her at the foot, and skimmed the tunic over her head. She tossed it in the middle of the bed and stepped out of her leggings. A scented breeze drifted through the open door, chilling her bare limbs, and she reached eagerly for the blue-and-white-checkered dress.

A startled gasp sounded behind her, and she stifled a sigh. What had frightened the white woman this time? Spiders, a dog’s sudden yip, an owl flapping its wings—all of these things had brought a distressed reaction on past visits. Lizzie turned around. Vivian stood in the doorway, holding the rabbit the way Lizzie might hold a porcupine. Her cheeks glowed red, and she stared openmouthed.

Lizzie scanned the area but found nothing amiss. She angled her chin to the side. “What is it?”

Vivian deposited the rabbit and gun on the bench by the door and flapped her hands in Lizzie’s direction. Her gaze bounced around the cabin, as frantic as a fly bumping against a windowpane. “Where are your . . . your . . . ?” She danced her fingers across her bodice. Her neck blotched as bright as her face.

Lizzie glanced down at her own length, puzzled. “My . . . ?”

“Undergarments,” Vivian whispered.

Lizzie processed the English word. It was new, but she understood
under
and
garments
. She pointed at the discarded leggings on the floor next to her feet.

Vivian cleared her throat, seeming to examine the rafters. “I refer to drawers. And a chemise. I realize you couldn’t wear a petticoat beneath your tunic, but . . .” She sucked in her lips as if she’d tasted an unripe rose hip and then spun around, presenting her stiff back. “Kindly cover yourself. The door is wide open, and—” She folded her arms across her ribs, reminding Lizzie of a turtle shrinking into its shell. “Quickly, if you please.”

With a grunt of irritation, Lizzie turned the dress this way and that. How did a person find her way into such a voluminous costume? Donning her tunic was easy—pull it over her head and let it fall to her knees. But this dress, with its yards of fabric, defied entry. She marched across the room and thrust the wadded-up dress over Vivian’s shoulder. “Help me.”

Vivian let out a little yelp of surprise. She kept her arms pinned to her sides. “In polite circles, one requests assistance rather than demands it.”

Lizzie pursed her lips tight.

Vivian said, “You should say, ‘Would you help me, please?’ ” Her voice lilted sweetly.

Lizzie repeated flatly, “Would you help me, please?”

Vivian’s head bobbed in agreement. Her gaze low, she plucked the dress from Lizzie’s hands. With a few deft flicks of her wrists, she created an opening and popped the dress over Lizzie’s head. Lizzie wrestled her arms into the long, tight-fitting sleeves, and then Vivian bustled behind her and began fastening the buttons that marched from the base of her spine to her neck. Such a lot of fuss, wearing this dress.

“You really shouldn’t wear a dress without a chemise, drawers, and a petticoat,” Vivian said in a scolding tone. “I had no idea you were . . . er . . . lacking such basic garments.” She cleared her throat, and Lizzie imagined Vivian’s face flooding with pink again. “I don’t have extra to spare, but at my first opportunity I will prevail upon Clay to travel to Fort Yukon and purchase some batiste or lawn . . . or muslin if those fabrics aren’t available. We must sew proper undergarments for you.”

Lizzie stood silently while Vivian completed the buttons, contemplating wearing all of the unknown items the woman had mentioned. The dress felt strange enough—she had no desire to wear something else unusual. But if women in San Francisco wore chemises and petti-drawers, she would, too. She smoothed her hands over the full skirt and turned to face Vivian with a sigh. “I have much to learn.”