Whiter Than Snow (11 page)

“That’s not true. I couldn’t have married you without it, but I do love you.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’d planned to ask you to marry me. I almost did once or twice. Then while you were away, my father found out that the Schuyler fortune is gone. I should have figured it out on my own, what with all these economies your father has effected, but I merely thought he was being eccentric.” He gave a mirthless chuckle.

“Why does the lack of a fortune matter if you love me? You have money.”

“Not a cent. We’re as broke as you are. My father lost everything on a business venture, and it’s up to me to restore the family fortune.” He laughed a little at the irony of it. “Isn’t it funny that we’re a pair of penniless fortune hunters and we fell for each other?”

Grace did not find it funny at all, nor did she consider herself a fortune hunter, although maybe she was. “You could work.”

George shook his head. “And just what could I do, Gracie? My education is as useless as yours. I was brought up to fish and play golf and mix a mean cocktail. Who’d hire me?”

“But you’re clever. You could do anything you wanted. I don’t need servants, and I could learn to cook and keep house.” The idea of being alone together, just the two of them in a little cottage not much bigger than the playhouse, appealed to her.

George took a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t want to work. And I don’t want to live in a nasty little bungalow. There it is. I like my life too much to give it up. I suppose it means I’m weak, but I’d rather live off someone else’s money than work for it.”

Grace looked out across the garden at the playhouse. She had left the door open. “Does Charlotte know—about your family, I mean?”

George shrugged. “I suppose her father does, but she wants me, so it doesn’t matter to them. They must feel I’m better than that sorry lot of young bucks sniffing around her.”

“But last night…”

“I’m sorry—for your sake, that is, but not for mine.” Without looking at her, George stood, but Grace could not. Her knees were weak. He squeezed her hand. Then he raised it to his lips. “I wish it could be different.”

He turned then and walked to his car, slowly at first, then, straightening up, faster, as if he had put his evening with Grace behind him. She watched him go, let the dust settle behind his motorcar, then got up herself and went to close the playhouse door. But she went inside instead and sat down on the dusty little chair, her knees almost to her chin. She put her arms down on the dirty table and rested her head on them. She did not sob this time; she did not have that luxury. Instead, she let the agony and then the shame and finally the horror of what she had done wash over her. She did not know much about pregnancy, but she was aware that she had taken a terrible risk, and that she must find a husband at once. She sat on the little chair for hours, and when at last she stood up, her legs cramped, she knew what she must do.

The wedding was a brilliant affair, and why not, because Charlotte’s family had spared no expense. But Grace barely noticed the flowers that covered the altar of the great cathedral or the lavish wedding supper prepared by a chef imported from New York. Tents were set up on the lawn of Charlotte’s family estate, in case it should rain on the guests, who had arrived from all over the country in private railroad cars.

Grace had grown up with such entertainments, and this one did not make an impression. She had participated in the wedding ceremony as if in a dream, a smile frozen on her face as she watched the couple exchange vows. Did she wish she was marrying George at that moment? Grace wondered. She now had a very different opinion of him. Did she still love him? Grace did not know. But those were not the thoughts that occupied her mind as she moved across the lawn in search of one of the groomsmen—James Foote, a distant cousin of Charlotte’s.

She had met him at the bridal parties, danced with him, flirted a little when she thought George was watching. He had found her intriguing, she knew, had told her she might be the only person in the room who’d ever read a book. He’d seemed flattered that Grace had taken an interest in him, and he’d even tried to kiss her, although Grace had slipped from his embrace and called him a bad boy. Jim had given her an odd look at that point, as though he found the “bad boy” cliché too brittle for her to use.

Jim Foote was older and already established as a mining engineer. He did not have money beyond what he earned himself, Grace realized, but she did not care, because that meant they would live wherever his work took him, instead of in Saginaw. She did not want people there to see her disgrace. Of course, he was not handsome like George, who had thick black hair and an almost pretty face. Jim was thin, with gray eyes, protruding ears, and long arms, and was already as bald as a brass doorknob. Grace liked him the best of the bunch of unattached males who were wedding attendants and even found him somewhat appealing, not that it mattered much.

She saw him standing by himself, an empty glass in his hand, and she picked up two glasses of champagne and went over to him, handing him one. “It’s awfully hot. I brought you this to cool off,” she said, watching him gulp the wine, then handing him the second glass. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

He looked down at her, because although she was tall, he was that much taller. “Not really.”

Grace acted taken aback. “It’s such a lovely party.”

“Oh, if you like this sort of thing.” He studied her a moment. “Do you really want to know what I think?”

She nodded.

“I think spending all this money on a wedding is appalling. Do you know what that money would do in the mining town where I work?”

“You’re a spoilsport,” Grace told him.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

He looked away, and Grace, remembering how he had not liked being called “bad boy,” decided to be less lighthearted. “What would you do with it, the money?”

“I’ll tell you.” He led her to two chairs that were a little ways away from the rest of the guests. They sat down, and Jim leaned forward earnestly and began to tell her about the poverty in Swandyke, Colorado, the town where he was superintendent of the Fourth of July, the area’s largest gold mine. He talked about the poor schools and the hard lives the miners lived. Grace looked at him wide-eyed, although she did not pay much attention to what he said. Each time a waiter came by, she nodded at the champagne, and the waiter took Jim’s empty glass and handed him a fresh one.

At last, Grace said, “It’s awfully hot here. Would you mind terribly if we went over to the pond, where it’s cooler?”

“I’ve bored you.”

“No,” Grace replied, lying. “I want to hear more. You’re the only person here who is serious about life, and I would like to hear what you have to say. But it’s very hot here.” They stood, Grace taking his arm and leading him to a secluded spot, where they sat down in the grass. It was quite dark now, and while they could hear the sounds of the orchestra and the chatter of the guests in the distance, they could see nothing but each other.

“I’ve never met anybody who is as concerned about other people as you are,” Grace said, putting her hand on his arm.

“Well, I never expected to find a girl at Charlotte’s wedding who would listen,” he replied.

They talked softly, Grace making sounds of sympathy and interest, because she knew how to flatter a man. Finishing school at least had taught her that. When he said something funny, she fluffed her hair and gave a tinkling laugh, and at last, Jim whispered, “Miss Grace—”

She put her finger on his lips and said, “It’s just Grace, Gracie if you like.” And she leaned in so that he could kiss her. After that, it was easy. She let him put his arms around her and caress her, and after a time, he pushed at her skirt, and she moved a little to make it easier for him. He knew what to do, and Grace thought later that she was not his first. Well, she probably had not been George’s first, either, because his father would have introduced him to brothels. Jim must have visited them, too, but likely on his own.

When they were finished, they lay on the grass beside each other for a long time. Grace was in no hurry to go home this time. At last, she sat up and said softly, “My God, Mr. Foote, what is it we’ve done?” It was the champagne, she told him, since he musn’t realize she was sober.

He put his head in his hands and apologized, saying he had had only the noblest intentions toward her when they’d found this place to talk. He seemed contrite, more than George had been, and Grace was forgiving, saying boldly that she shared the fault, for she had liked the way he’d touched her. And so she played him along, making him feel guilty but at the same time a little grateful for her understanding and forgiveness.

The next day, Jim called on Grace. “I haven’t slept,” he said, “and if anything…” He could not finish the thought. But he added, “I know my responsibility.” He left that afternoon, giving Grace his address, and a few days later, she received a letter from him, a formal one telling her how much he had enjoyed meeting her and saying he hoped she was well.

Two weeks after the wedding, Grace did not bleed as she had every four weeks since her nature first came to her, when she was fourteen. She did not tell Jim until another month passed and she knew for sure she was pregnant. She wrote, and within the week, Jim was in Saginaw. They eloped that day, Grace leaving a message for her parents that she could not bear going through the weeks of engagement festivities that had consumed Charlotte. Her parents were relieved. They could not stretch their declining fortune to cover the cost of a wedding like Charlotte’s. Perhaps they believed that Grace had eloped solely to save them the expense. So Nancy only sighed when her friends said how thoughtless it was of Grace to deprive her of the joy of planning her only daughter’s wedding.

Grace herself was glad to be away from Saginaw, although she had no idea of what lay ahead for her. She had read the popular Zane Grey novel
Riders of the Purple Sage
and thought Swandyke must be set in a glorious southwestern desert of sagebrush and piñon trees, with desperadoes and Indians. The two of them would go about on horseback, and Jim would be proud of her riding skill. He had written that the town was in a mountain valley, and she pictured pretty cottages and quaint people. The residents would be poor—she remembered that from the conversation with Jim—but they would be happy and would see her as Lady Bountiful. She envisioned herself visiting them when they were sick, taking along custards and beef tea that her cook had prepared, and handing out presents to the children at Christmas, just as her mother had done to the children of the servants.

When she arrived in Swandyke, however, Grace was stunned at the brutality and the ugliness, and then at the harshness of that first winter she spent at the Fourth of July. Still, she told herself, it was better than giving birth in Saginaw to George’s off-child, his bastard. Nothing could be worse than that. She had made a bargain with the devil, and she would keep her part of it.

Grace went into labor on a spring day, when the snow had stopped and the warmth of the sun and the sounds of birds came into the house. She was attended by the company doctor, a man who assured her he was well acquainted with childbirth. No society doctor for Grace Foote. Nor was there a white-tile bath to be turned into a birthing room. She gave birth in an old brass bed, tended by the doctor and a nurse, who later gave up the job to become an inmate at a whorehouse up the river in Middle Swan. The labor was an easy one, and the baby was a boy. The doctor held him up, and Grace blanched when she saw him, for he was the exact image of his father. And then the fruit of her deceit hit her, and she gave a bitter laugh. The joke was on her. The big ears, the eyes, the long arms, and even the bald head identified him as Jim Foote’s son.

Now, Grace stood at the window of the superintendent’s house, holding back the curtains with her long fingers, the nails perfectly varnished, looking down the treeless snow-covered slope below the Fourth of July Mine, remembering the irony that Jim, not George, was the father of her son. She had tricked her husband into marriage, when it hadn’t even been necessary. Poor Jim, she thought. He was so honorable. She had tried to be a good wife, but she was ill-prepared to be married to a mining man in such a dreadful place.

With Schuyler in school now, she had time on her hands and brooded about why her life had turned out the way it had, wondered if everything that had happened had been preordained, and whether the old black woman had seen that in her hand. And if the past had been set for her, the future would be, too. That was what concerned her now. Would she spend the rest of her life staring out the window at the endless snow?

A few weeks earlier, Grace had asked her mother to send her books on the occult, explaining that the local people were taken with superstitions. Grace wrote her mother long letters about the mine and the mountains and the townspeople, fantasy letters describing the beauty of Swandyke and the gentleness of its inhabitants. The letters were so entertaining that Nancy passed them around among her friends, and everyone said that Grace ought to have them published. Her mother had never been to Swandyke, and Grace saw no reason to let her know the real circumstances of life there.

John Schuyler had died—or had he committed suicide?—in a hunting accident not six months after Grace left Saginaw, and Nancy had married just a year later. The new husband was immensely wealthy, and the couple spent much of their time in Europe. Grace visited them in Saginaw, always taking Schuyler. She loved the boy and did not want to be away from him. He was the one good thing that had resulted from the awful mistake that had begun with George. She often encountered George and Charlotte on the trips. They seemed perfectly suited for each other now, because George had grown fat and dull, and Grace could not imagine what her life with him would have been.

Now, Grace glanced at the horseshoe that hung over the door; she’d explained to Jim she’d placed it there to ensure that spring would come. She set aside the needlepoint to stare out the window again, looking out at the long white slope sparkling in the sunlight, waiting to catch a glimpse of Schuyler coming home from school. And slowly, a sense of foreboding came upon her, and she thought again of the long-ago curse.