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
Lizzie 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 mi
ddle 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.”
“We both do.” The white woman’s tone lost its scolding edge. She clasped her hands under her chin and looked at Lizzie’s hair. “May I unbraid your hair and try something?” She patted her skirt pocket. “I brought a comb and some pins. . . .”
Lizzie frowned. “Pins?”
Vivian pulled a handful of black squiggly things from her pocket. “Hairpins. To put your hair in a bun.”
Lizzie circled Vivian, examining her red-gold hair. Swooped away from her face and twisted into a knot that resembled a bird’s nest, it looked complicated. She pinched the puff of hair on the back of Vivian’s head. “Like this?”
Vivian twisted her head slightly and stepped away from Lizzie’s reach. “Yes. May I?”
Lizzie shrugged and dropped onto a chair. She fiddled with a loose thread on the dress’s skirt, trying to sit still while Vivian pulled the comb through her hair and poked her head with the little pins.
Finally, Vivian moved in front of Lizzie and smiled. “There! All done, and I must say, it looks wonderful.”
Lizzie carefully fingered the thick, coiled bulge at the back of her head. The light touch pulled the hair at her scalp, and she winced. “So I must wear a dress and build a nest of my hair. . . . What else will I learn today?”
Vivian touched her arm, and Lizzie met the other woman’s gaze. Her cheeks bore a stain of pink, but her lips softened into a crooked half smile. “Lizzie, an important thing you should remember . . . a lady only disrobes in private or in the presence of a maidservant. Women who bare their bodies to others are considered”—she gulped, the color in her face brightening again—“indecent.”
Another new word. Lizzie crunched her forehead. “Indecent—that’s bad?”
Vivian nodded rapidly. “Indecent women aren’t accepted in polite society. And this is what you want, isn’t it? To be accepted?”
This time Lizzie nodded, but slowly, her thoughts tumbling. Mama had never hidden herself when undressing. For the first time, Lizzie experienced a rush of shame when considering nakedness. Maybe undressing freely was one of the reasons Pa had said Mama wouldn’t fit in his world. Lizzie vowed to never remove her clothing in another’s presence.
But Vivian had fastened the buttons up the back of the dress. How would Lizzie unbutton them on her own? She opened her mouth to ask, but the white woman began tugging at the shoulders of Lizzie’s dress, her eyes roving across the bodice and down the skirt.
Finally, Vivian stepped back and put her hands on her hips. She nodded. “The hairstyle is becoming yet simple enough for you to fashion yourself, with some practice. And the dress fits you very well. The color . . .” She smiled. “I knew it would bring out the blue of your eyes. You look lovely, Lizzie.”
Lizzie’s chest tightened. When she reached San Francisco and located her father, would he recognize her by her sky-colored eyes that matched his own? “This dress . . . it is suitable for living in California? For San Francisco, California?”
Vivian’s eyes sparked with interest. “Is that where you want to go?”
Lizzie nodded.
“You know someone there?”
Again, but with hesitance, Lizzie nodded.
Vivian looked the dress up and down, her brow pinching. “This dress is rather simple—more suitable for living on a farm or for small-town life.” Her face brightened. “But I have several gowns in Oklahoma that would be appropriate for San Francisco. I’ll write to Mother and ask her to send them. I have no need for them any longer, since I have no intention of ever leaving Alaska.”
“You . . . will stay here forever?”
Pain seemed to flash across Vivian’s face. “Yes.”
“But why?”
Vivian tipped her head. “Why do you want to leave?”
Lizzie decided she’d rather not answer. Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, she rose and took a cautious stroll around the hard-packed dirt floor. The skirts brushed against her legs. The fabric felt strange yet not unpleasant against her skin. It swirled around her ankles and made a soft swishing sound. She frowned at the folds of fabric. She wouldn’t be able to move silently in this dress. “It makes noise,” she said.
“Noise?”
“Yes. A whish-whish. Animals might be frightened away when I hunt.”
Light laughter trickled from Vivian’s throat. She covered her lips with her fingers and stilled the sound. �
��In San Francisco, you won’t need to hunt.”
Lizzie supposed Vivian was right. She changed direction and started another loop.
“Don’t hold your legs so stiffly when you walk.” Vivian hurried to Lizzie’s side and linked elbows with her. “Walk the same way you would if you were in your buckskin clothes. You have a very natural grace.” She urged Lizzie across the floor.
Lizzie tried, but her legs refused to cooperate. The feel of the loose skirt was so different from her slim-fitting leggings. She tugged free of Vivian’s light grasp. “Dogidinh—thank you—for fixing my hair and for bringing the dress. But I will put on my own clothes now.” She turned toward the bed.
Vivian captured Lizzie’s arm and drew her to a halt. “Oh no, you don’t. If you truly intend to live in San Francisco, you must become accustomed to the clothing worn by white women.”
Lizzie puckered her face into a scowl.
Vivian smiled. “I know it feels strange, but truly, you’ll be comfortable in no time.”
Lizzie raised one brow, uncertain.
“Please leave it on. You look lovely. I can’t wait until Clay sees you—he’ll be so surprised and pleased.”
Heat rose in Lizzie’s face at the notion of Clay finding her appearance pleasing. But she shouldn’t want to please another woman’s man. She pushed aside images of Clay’s thick curling hair and easy grin and focused on the skirt. Catching hold of the folds of fabric, she held it away from her legs. “I won’t remove the dress, but I will wear my leggings underneath.”
Color streaked Vivian’s cheeks. She tangled her hands in her skirt. “Very well—your leggings can serve as drawers until which time I can stitch a pair for you.” She scurried toward the door. “I’ll wait outside while you . . . you . . .” She bustled out.
A Whisper of Peace Page 7