Faithful (15 page)

“The Tour through the Park is worth taking, if you can get away.”

“Then I’ll think about going. Since you recommend it.” I hesitated. “But didn’t you say something about highway robbers?”

He laughed, just as I’d hoped he would. “You’re an easy girl to tease.”

I blushed. I liked being easy to tease. I liked Tom’s laugh and the way his eyes met mine.

“Maybe I’ll see you around tomorrow.” He waved his hand at the springs.

I tossed the knotted grass as I remembered what I had to do tomorrow. Annoyance pricked me. “Probably not. Tomorrow I have to learn the art of shooting a gun from that dreadful Englishman.”

Tom’s face darkened. “I see.”

“I don’t want to go. I’d much rather . . .”

“Rather see a live bear than a dead one?”

Not exactly, but I kept that thought to myself. I smiled. “Rather be somewhere else.” With Tom. I looked at my feet.

“Well. Enjoy.” He swung away, lifting his hand. “Look out for magic, Maggie.”

I stood in the shadow of the Cottage Hotel watching Tom as he walked down the road past the National. I wondered if he felt my eyes on his back, and if it pleased him. I watched him until he was out of sight behind the other tourists who wandered between the buildings and up into the springs.

I liked Tom. Really liked him in a way that felt so different from Edward. Edward. He now seemed so far away. Was it only last summer that I had kissed him? I walked along the front of the hotel until I found a rustic bench and sat down, gripping my knees in a hug. A coach passed by—the well-dressed woman inside turned a quick eye at me and then away. I knew I looked a fright with my hair loose and my boots dusty, no hat or gloves. I didn’t look like a proper young lady. Edward, if he was here, wouldn’t even notice my existence.

All the familiar trappings of my world had turned topsy-turvy. For most of my life I’d pictured myself in a privileged, if sheltered, marriage with a wealthy husband like Edward. For almost a year I’d clung to the promise of my season as my saving grace. I’d blamed Mama for her behavior, for her madness. And for abandoning me. Now it was clear, I’d have no season and no Mama. And in my current situation, what respectable man would marry me? Perhaps that repulsive George Graybull, desperate for who-knew-what. Yet here I’d met Mrs. Gale, who worked. And Tom Rowland, who was nothing like Edward Tyson—or George Graybull. It was all so confusing.

I sat on the bench and watched steam from deep in the earth curl into the sky like a question mark. My heart seemed to be moving, but in what direction I was not at all sure.

June 23, 1904

DINNER THAT NIGHT WITH PAPA WAS A STIFF AFFAIR. The only dining was in the National, which was fortunate because the orchestra filled the silence. And I slept restlessly yet again; buffalo and bears crowded my imaginings.

Papa came to my room before breakfast the next morning. He stood in the doorframe, hat in hand. “I’ve got some good news.”

I said nothing; the thought that floated through my mind was,
What now?
I distrusted my father after his lies. But then there was still the matter of the yet-undisclosed news from Uncle John; I wasn’t ready to give up on finding Mama alive. I sat in the one chair in the room and folded my hands in my lap and stared at Papa.

“Mr. Reamer is leaving the Park soon, but the superintendent likes my work. I’ve been asked if I would supervise some projects here. That means I have a permanent position, Maggie.” He squared his shoulders, as if lifting off a burden.

I leaned forward. “Does that mean I can afford to return to Newport?” Perhaps we could get our things back, our home. My Ghost. Had Mina found other employment already? Mama had promised she’d return to me, to Newport. If she wasn’t here, then perhaps she was there. I felt a spark of hope that my world might soon be righted and my confusion banished.

Papa smoothed his mustache. “The salary is not enormous, Maggie. It will allow us to live satisfactorily here, for now. And I’ll need your help until I’m settled. My papers are . . . disorganized.”

I felt as though a rock had dropped into my stomach. “Fine.” He’d made a mess and wanted me to help him clean it up.

“Now that we have some income, perhaps you can take the Tour. Explore the rest of the Park.”

I said nothing. Even if the Tour was something I wanted, I knew he was only trying to buy my forgiveness.

“The other news is that we now have lodging elsewhere. It’s one-half of one of the officers’ cottages, but it will give us privacy and more room and we’ll be settled.”

A tiny frame cottage.
Half
of a tiny frame cottage. Compared with our Newport home—I tried not to roll my eyes.

“George Graybull is taking you shooting today, yes? I’ve arranged for our things to be brought over to the cottage while you’re out.” He paused. “Maggie, I hope you’ll be polite with George. He’s a man of considerable wealth and influence. In fact, it’s his influence that secured the cottage for us.”

“I’m always polite.” My voice was like cut crystal.

Papa didn’t miss my insolent tone, but looked surprised. He sighed. “He could offer you opportunities, Mags. George Graybull may be the answer to your prayers.”

I sat up. I had been expecting this, and still the hollow in the pit of my stomach opened wide. George Graybull was repulsive; regardless of what he could give me, I could not bear him. I pretended not to understand. “How so?”

“He can offer you what I can’t at the moment. Money. Social standing. A return to Newport, or New York, or wherever else you’d like to be.”

A chill settled over me. “George Graybull.”

Papa examined his hat, flicking off pieces of lint.

I rose out of the chair. “He’s . . . he’s . . .” I clenched my hands into fists.

“He’s a respectable single man with a great deal of money. I know that he’s a bit older, but given a long engagement . . .”

“Engagement!” I clenched my hands tight, my arms rigid against my sides. “I haven’t even made my debut! How can I have an engagement?”

Papa held his hand in the air. “A debut would not be necessary, under these circumstances. Your grandfather would approve this match. You would have your inheritance as a dowry. And George—he is influential. You would have a place in society. He can help me get back on my feet.”

I was speechless, in shock. What about what I wanted?

Papa’s eyes met mine straight on. “Ultimately, Margaret, you must do as I ask. And I ask you to be polite to George Graybull. He is important to your future as well as to mine.”

I had no choice. He was leaving me no choice, no say in my own future. I turned my back on my father and walked to the small window. “I need to change for my outing, Papa.”

“Yes. Of course.”

I waited until I heard the door close, and then I sank back into the chair and rested my forehead on my palm.

I should be at home in Newport riding my horse and preparing for my debut. I should be attending parties and flirting with men—with Edward—and dancing and being wooed by potential husbands of my own age. I should have fine clothes, made for me. And Mama should be there, instructing me and guiding me through all of it. Instead I had no mother and my father was trying to recover from financial ruin. I had a suitor who repulsed me. I could return to my life back east with him, but at what cost? I was trapped in Yellowstone by bad fortune and by my position as a woman.

The only thing here that made me happy was Tom Rowland, and that was . . . impossible.

I tried not to think about the impossible as I changed into my gray excursion suit, the closest I had to hunting attire. I waited for George Graybull in the lobby of our hotel. The men who passed barely tipped their hats; there were no ladies of my class in this hotel. I was out of place everywhere.

“Here we are.” Graybull arrived. “Shall we?” He took my elbow in his viselike grip and steered me out the door to a small waiting carriage. His voice dropped. “Will be nice to get you into decent accommodations, eh?” I looked at him as he grinned. “I’ve arranged with the park superintendent—he’s a friend of mine, you know—to allow you into the military target range. Just a little practice today, get you started.”

I tried not to shy away from him, but I couldn’t manage a smile.

To my relief, once we set off I didn’t need to talk. Graybull drove the carriage and rattled on and on about his hunting exploits and his travels. He bragged about his connections, his possessions, his homes in London and New York, his “cottage” in Newport. He was dull as dry toast. I could let my mind wander over the landscape of tall pines and banded-rock outcrops, and watch an eagle soar high above, and follow the
swish-swish
of the horse’s tail in front. I could at least admire my velvet prison.

We passed a broad semicircle of tents spread across a meadow. Children ran laughing through the camp; women hung wet clothes from lines strung between trees; men stacked firewood next to low campfire rings.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“One of the Wylie tent camps.” Graybull leaned toward me as if to share a secret; I suppressed a shudder. “How the other half experiences the Park. Much less expensive. Mostly teachers, young families, single men, that sort. The hotel staff calls them ‘sagebrushers,’ I presume because they tumble about the landscape.” He winked at me.

I peered around Graybull. At first, I felt guilty for having complained about the Cottage Hotel. I could hardly imagine sleeping in a tent, out of doors. But I could see that the encampment was tidy; the tents were gaily striped; the women wore dark skirts and white shirtwaists, looking perfectly decent. There was a rugged charm about it.

“I believe your young friend is staying here.” Graybull’s voice lifted slightly and I detected a dismissive tone.

“My young friend?”

“That boy. With his geologist father.” Graybull clicked his teeth with his tongue. Tom. He meant Tom! Graybull turned to look at me, and I avoided his eyes, sneaking another look at the camp. I had to be careful not to let him know how much I’d rather be in this carriage with Tom.

As we passed the tents, something caught my eye: it was the same girl, the girl with the long dark braid I’d seen from the hot springs. I was certain it was her. I watched her stride through the encampment, a sack in her arms. Her long braid swung from side to side. Why I was drawn to her so, I couldn’t say. There was something compelling about her, almost magnetic. It was something that pricked at me . . .

Graybull snapped the reins and brought me out of my reverie. “Not too far now to the range.” The horse picked up its pace.

The range was primitive and barren. While I had a good eye for the target, I found the rifle heavy and tiring to hold. But Graybull grew increasingly animated as I grew more restless and exhausted. He especially enjoyed steadying my arm. At one point, I couldn’t help thinking about Tom standing that close to me and the warmth that flooded me caused me to miss the target altogether.

After a while, clouds masked the sun and the temperature dropped. Rain threatened as a low rumble of thunder echoed through the mountains. I protested that I was growing bruised from the rifle butt in my shoulder and was relieved when Graybull finally took the hint. On the way back to the hotel, he waxed enthusiastic about my “native ability with the gun.”

I tried not to laugh. It wasn’t as if I’d ever shoot anything. “You enjoy the out-of-doors? Of course you must. Why we get along so famously, I expect. We shall have to explore more together. Skeet shooting is a fine sport. Have you any favorite activities?”

I thought about Ghost. I sighed, missing him. “I love to ride.”

“Riding. Very civilized. How many horses do you have?”

“None, at the moment.” I didn’t try to hide my bitterness, and loss filled me as I looked over this landscape. Ghost would like this place. It would be beautiful to ride here, beneath those dark blue mountains with their snowcaps, to weave among the pines, the forest silent and expectant.

“Perhaps that will change. In the west and all that.” He glanced at me sideways, but I turned my head away from him.

Graybull insisted upon buying lunch. Papa joined us, much to my relief, and was talkative, having moved our belongings into our permanent lodgings. It was the perfect excuse to leave Graybull at last—to go unpack my things.

The little frame house we’d moved into was solid and plain. Behind the small parlor to the left of the door Papa had commandeered the dining room. His papers were spread over the table, a crate of books lay in the middle of the floor, and rolled blueprints were stacked in the corners.

I recalled the golden light that played across his drafting table at home in Newport, the papers strewn across the two broad, oak assistants’ desks, the bustle that attended important projects. The parlor there was large enough for our fancy-dress party at Christmas, and for my sixteenth birthday party only last year. I could still see the Tiffany lamps, Stickley chairs, and the cozy niche near the fireplace where I’d lie on green velvet while Mama read to me.

All of that was gone—the velvet, the oak, the bustle, Mama. Replaced by bare walls and tiny rooms and the absence that was the largest hole in my life and my greatest longing. Sometimes this past year, back in Newport, I’d wake up in the earliest dawn and in my half sleep I had forgotten that she was gone; my eyes would catch the familiar room, my wardrobe, my window, and I’d think she was still there with me. Here in this stick house in the wilderness, there would be no dreaming.