My head was whirling. Everything was happening too fast. In a twinkling of an eye, I was changing from a pretend boy and poor traveler, to a privileged woman of means. I hated my so-called mama for stealing me away from a loving brother and wealthy family to live a life of hardship moving from place to place with no friends or family. And yet, I knew if that had never happened, I never would have met Wawee’ne. Knowing him had filled my life with awe. It was the one good thing that had happened to me because of all this.
I turned the key over in my hand, looking down at it, knowing if I left here with my brother, it would be the end of my past and the beginning of an unknown future. There was no way I could send word to Wawee’ne. I would have to leave him in my past as well, I decided.
I slowly climbed the stairs and found the room that matched the number attached to the key. I stumbled in and fell face down on the bed and started weeping. I didn’t know if it was in sorrow or in happiness. It just seemed like so much had happened to me, and my life was being swept away out of my control down a road I had never counted on. Was it God, I kept asking myself? Or was it Fate? How would I ever learn the answer to that question?
I fell asleep remembering the last words Wawee’ne had said to me… “I will keep your soul next to my heart.” I had nothing of him to keep next to my heart, I thought sadly.
CHAPTER SIX
The rocking of the stagecoach lulled me to sleep. I wished I could sleep and forget about my life, but my dreams were filled with Wawee’ne’s face and his lips caressing my body. Those dreams seemed to comfort me, though, so I looked forward to them. Then a jolt of the wheel as it hit a rock or rough spot in the road would jar me awake again.
I was wearing a simple gingham dress Patrick had gotten from the hotel owner’s wife. Even so, it was much nicer than any dress I had ever owned. I wore a small bonnet, covering my curls which had grown down below my ears by then. Patrick was dressed impeccably in an expensive suit with sharp creases down the legs. I wondered how long they would last in the hot dusty weather along the trail the stagecoach was following? He constantly looked in my direction, like he couldn’t believe I was sitting beside him. He also took his watch from his pocket, every so often, looking at the time, as though he wanted the journey to go faster than it was.
Fire Cracker was securely tied behind, and I often looked out the window to make sure he was all right. Bandit was on my lap, to the disapproval of the woman that sat across from us. Even Patrick did not seem to approve of my dog, but he at least tolerated Bandit. The stagecoach stopped three times a day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, at coach stops where the food was offered. Sometimes, when the terrain was rough, we had to get out and walk, only then, Patrick would help me up on Fire Cracker, like he believed I was this feminine girl who wasn’t used to roughing it all her life and wasn’t able to walk along the rough, dusty trail like all the other passengers.
He treated me so special, it was starting to get on my nerves. Only I knew he was so happy he had found me. He wanted to pamper me and show me the life I had missed for the last seventeen years or so. He spent the time telling me all about the family home he was going to bring me to. By his description, it sounded like it was filled with more servants than members of the family living there. He said it was in the country on the outskirts of New York City. It was built like a Scottish Manor of stone, and much of the material had been shipped from Scotland from buildings being dismantled there. He said it was like a little piece of Scotland in the middle of New York.
Patrick told me that his family traveled to Scotland on a regular basis visiting relatives there. I had cousins and uncles and all sorts of relatives now, only most of them were in Scotland. There was only my immediate family in New York and he was eager to introduce me to all of them. I had to get used to the fact that my name was now Helen McGovern. I was no longer Haley Macalister. I had never really been her, I thought sadly.
I would be a sensation, Patrick told me. I was the long, lost daughter returning home. His mother, I suppose my mother now, was already preparing to throw me a welcoming Ball, where all the gentry of New York and all our friends would gather to ogle over me, I assumed. The more he described the life I would soon be leading, the more frightened I became. It was almost worse than contemplating living in a Shoshoni village, I thought.
My life may have been hard, but it had also been simple. Now I would have to learn all those graces expected of a highbred American woman. It seemed more complicated than trying to figure out how to shoot an arrow. But I had managed to learn to shoot arrows, so I figured I could get through this too.
Patrick gave me books to read to entertain me along the way, and they were much different than reading the Bible, I discovered. Some were poem books, and others were the latest novels. One of the books was the written account of a woman who had been captured by the Comanches. Her life had not been enjoyable, yet she professed love for the Indian who married her. Only her husband had seemed indifferent about her, even though he valued her as a wife. It made me wonder how Wawee’ne would have treated me as his wife, had I agreed to marry him?
If the stagecoach happened to stop at an Inn along the way, we would stay the night, in order to give Fire Cracker a rest. The coach horses were changed regularly, and always fresh. Even though Fire Cracker did not have to pull a heavy stagecoach, he did have to keep up the pace and I didn’t want to wear him out.
Patrick always got us separate rooms, when possible. I would toss and turn in the strange beds worrying about the future and thinking about the past. I kept having the same dream over and over again. I dreamed I heard a knock on the door. I had been feeling lonely and out of sorts. I ran to the door to answer it, but a servant got there before me, flinging the door open. When I looked to see who it was, the sun was shining through the door behind the person’s back. I couldn’t see their face. Then I would wake up. The dream always disturbed me because I never could discover who was at the door. Maybe I didn’t want to see who was at the door, I thought to myself. Maybe who was at the door was my future, and I didn’t want to face it. I kept hearing Wawee’ne’s words to me…”I will keep your soul next to my heart.” If he ever tried to find me, he would never know where to look. Even if he did know, there was no way he could come to New York. Wawee’ne and everything else surrounding that life would have to be left behind, just like my papa and my dead mama. Patrick promised future happiness for me. I hoped he was right.
By the time we reached Missouri, I was eager to be rid of the stagecoach forever. Missouri brought back sad memories for me though. The death of a mother that wasn’t even my real mother, my struggles to get to the Platte River and follow it so I could find who I believed to be my papa. Life was so deceiving at times, I thought. One never knew what it would bring. Maybe I should consider that God took pity on me, letting me find my brother and meet my real mother and father. I was excited and fearful at the same time. If it was God leading my path, why did I feel so confused?
When we had a chance to rest in a very fashionable hotel, once we got across the Missouri River, Patrick took me shopping. I thought he would never tire of buying clothes for me. I tried on dress after dress, walking primly in front of him to gain his approval of the purchase. His green eyes lit up, each time I stepped out to model a new outfit. With each new gown, he insisted I looked prettier in it than the last one I had worn. There were hats and bonnets, shawls and scarves, jewelry, gloves, and shoes, not to mention fancy under things I had never worn before. When I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognize myself. All my life I had always thought I wasn’t very pretty, and now suddenly, I was discovering I was rather nice looking in all that finery.
“There is only one thing that needs improving,” Patrick said, as his eyes appraised my new traveling suit. “You must learn to speak with less of that Missouri twang in your voice, and you can’t use crude words like dang, and damnation. The word ‘ain’t’ is not considered proper. Neither is ‘gonna’. You can’t d
rop the g at the end of words ending in ing, such as seein’ findin’ leavin’. If you are going to become a proper lady, you have to start speaking like one.
I blinked at him when he told me that. I started wondering what other things he didn’t like about me? I soon started to discover them.
“You have spent too much time in the sun which is the cause of all your freckles,” he accused. “A treatment of lemon juice should help minimize them and then you must be sure to wear a bonnet or hat so your skin can return to a lustrous white again, instead of a dark tan. I almost mistook you for an Indian when I first bumped into you, your skin is so dark! And you need to start putting on weight. You would have a lovely figure and a tiny waist if you had a little meat on your bones.”
It almost reminded me of when the shopkeeper, where I got my gun, claimed I was scrawny and looked like a boy. Suddenly I didn’t feel so beautiful any longer, no matter how nice the clothes looked on me. I was still the same misfit, only this time it was the other way around. I had a family now and knew where I came from, but I was afraid I would not fit into it correctly and they would end up being like Papa and thinking things got worse when I showed up.
My spirits started to fall. I wanted to please Patrick, but at the same time, I wanted him to love me for who I was, not what he hoped to turn me into, once we got to New York.
I discovered I had a nephew and a niece. Patrick was married to a woman named Loretta. His son was called Ian and his daughter, Mary. He and his family all lived with his parents, his aunt, and uncle and their son, Gavin, at McGovern Court, which was the name of the family mansion.
The mansion was situated on the coast, Patrick told me, and had a beautiful view of the ocean. While it was made of old stone and looked ancient, it was actually rather modern, he beamed.
Once we had bought all the wardrobe Patrick could fit in three trunks, we continued our journey by train. Fire Cracker was loaded up into a boxcar. He did not seem very happy about it, but it was the only way we could transport him to New York. Patrick assured me there was a large stable where he could be kept, once we arrived, and the land was spacious enough to take long rides along the coast and upper acreage. Bandit was regulated to a traveling case and would have been put in the baggage coach, but I insisted he would be happier if he was put in the same boxcar that Fire Cracker was in.
Once we boarded, I tried to calm my nerves. The farther we got away from Wyoming the more anxious I felt. If I ever wanted to return, I didn’t know how I would go about it? Patrick was accustomed to traveling and making arrangements like putting Fire Cracker in a boxcar, but I knew nothing about those kinds of things.
The three-day journey was filled with Patrick having me read poetry aloud, as he corrected my use of words. I had been raised by a school teacher, but Patrick seemed more intent on teaching me all there was to know about proper language, by the time we reached New York, and he was relentless in his constant correction of every word that came out of my mouth. I was beginning to hate having an older brother. I thought I would enjoy his company, but he never wanted to listen to any stories about my childhood, because he claimed it pained him too much to discover what I had to go through by the hand of his tutor and her husband. He told me many stories of his privileged childhood and all the things I missed growing up, which made me feel sad, yet a little happy I had as much freedom to be who I wished to be, growing up. There seemed so many rules and protocol attached to being wealthy, I began to discover. When I did speak to him, he was constantly interrupting me to correct my usage of words.
He explained if I expected to find a suitable husband, I could not speak like a barmaid, and must present myself in as much of an approving light as I could manage, and he was going to make sure I did that, so my future could be secure and happy. I wondered if all the work was worth it? Since I was an heiress, I reasoned, my future was already secure, and perhaps I could choose whoever I pleased, instead of expecting someone to approve of me for a future wife.
Patrick quickly put that idea to rest, explaining it was the man who asked the woman to become his wife, and he would need the approval of my father. My father would not let me marry just anyone who came along. All the money in the world could not get me a suitable husband if I could not be the kind of woman a suitable man would wish to wed. I wondered what kind of woman that was? Was she like the religious rules of marriage, modest and happy never to look upon her husband’s nude body, only to be chosen for the sole purpose of bringing forth children and only willing to copulate for that reason alone? Was she not to enjoy marriage, the same way she was not supposed to enjoy the “act” of bringing fort children? I thought of how it felt when Wawee’ne touched me, and decided there was more to the “act” than just needing to conceive children.
When we finally arrived in New York, I had had it up to here with learning how to be a “proper” lady and just wanted to be me. It got to where I wouldn’t even open my mouth, and would merely nod when Patrick addressed me. I had read the poem book aloud so often I had almost memorized every poem. My gun was properly stored in Patrick’s luggage since it was not something a woman should be carrying around, whether she knew how to use it or not. I could barely breathe for having to wear a corset that endeavored to make me slimmer than I already was. However, it did push my breasts up so they looked a little more alluring.
As I stepped down from the train, Patrick gave me his hand and helped me to the platform. I waited in my yellow lace dress while he went to get someone to bring Fire Cracker and Bandit. Patrick brought Bandit on a leash, and he was so overjoyed to see me, he started jumping up on me and ripped the lace of my skirt.
“Bad dog,” Patrick growled, giving Bandit a slap.
Bandit started barking at him with his hackles raised, standing between me and Patrick.
“If you can’t teach your mutt better manners, he will have to be contained in the kennels with the bird dogs,” Patrick informed me.
I gave him a look of surprise. He had been so tolerant of my dog sitting in my lap during the stagecoach ride, but then I was wearing an inexpensive borrowed dress. Now I was dressed in expensive clothes that cost a pretty penny. Bandit was not used to being a proper dog, I thought to myself, and I didn’t like being a proper lady either.
I was carrying a parasol, which matched my dress, beside wearing a traveling bonnet, and I opened it and twirled it on my shoulder, not because I was worried about the sun getting in my eyes, or on my face, but because it gave me something to do to calm my nerves.
Patrick offered me his elbow and helped me up into a buggy, driven by one of our family servants, which had been waiting there for us. Patrick must have sent word ahead to let them know when we were coming. The driver was hitching Fire Cracker to the back of the buggy, and then he came around and mounted into the driver’s seat. A separate vehicle was there to load our trunks on, and it followed behind, as we headed out through the city.
New York was overwhelming and scary to me, but at the same time, it intrigued me. The magnificent buildings, hotels, and mansion-like houses caught my eyes. Fancy dressed people on every corner, horses and coaches clogging the streets, the noise of clopping horse hooves against paving, hawkers calling out for people to buy their wears, children begging for money, running alongside buggies and coaches with a cup held out to catch the offerings, all amazed me and filled me with wonder at the diversity of the place.
Patrick seemed amused by my astonishment at everything I saw. I kept forgetting about using the proper English he had endeavored to teach me, as I exclaimed excitedly about what met my eyes.
Bandit sat on the floorboards of the buggy, no longer allowed to ride in my lap. Fire Cracker tossed his head since he was not used to the hustle and bustle of big city streets since, in all my travels, we had always frequented small towns when we moved from place to place. He seemed excited to be out and walking on solid ground again, though.
The buggy turned off the main city streets and headed out away fr
om the city. As we got closer to the coastline, I could smell the fresh, salty air. I had never lived near a coast before and I wondered what it was going to be like? Patrick pointed out other noteworthy mansions and homes we passed along the way, owned by people with old money or new money. All the money seemed to buy whatever the owners desired, I thought, so what difference did it make where the money came from?
“I hope you remember everything I taught you,” Patrick said as we turned into a long drive. “I don’t want anyone thinking I picked up a little beggar on the street and am trying to pass her off as my long, lost sister. I must warn you about Gavin, though. He is not actually related to us. A cousin in name only. My uncle’s first wife died. He married a widow who already had a son. His last name isn’t even McGovern. It’s Maxwell. Don’t let him turn your head. He is suave and a womanizer. Even though his mother has married into money he doesn’t stand to inherit anything. He’s looking for a rich wife, and you may become his target.”
“A pity, because I’m not looking for a husband, and even if I was, I am certain your father, or should I say my father wouldn’t approve, right?”
I looked sideways at him. I was beginning to believe that Patrick and my new family were going to take over all my choices, whether it be how I spoke or who I chose to marry.”
Patrick laughed.
“You are probably right, but it would be tricky, considering he is supposed to be family, and it would be an insult to my Aunt if her son was turned down by her husband’s brother. It is probably just safer not to let it get to that point.”
He gave me a look that demanded obedience, and I realized my life was not my own any longer.
The house came into view. I was surprised that it was so ugly. All the other houses we had passed were grand with turrets, and fancy architecture, elaborate trim, various wings adding splendor, making the houses seem spacious and appealing. This house stood cold and stark, a square structure, all of stone, balancing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. No fancy statues or carved window crowning. No pillar-supported porch with rows of steps leading up to it. No arched windows, or diamond-shaped window panes. Just three stories of ancient stone, plain, square windows, several chimneys and gabled roof. The only attempt at decoration were gargoyles staring down from over the entrance door. It reminded me of something from the Gothic era. If this was what ‘old money’ bought, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a part of it.
Gedi Puniku- Cat Eyes Page 8