A Most Unsuitable Match

by Stephanie Whitson

  Rosalie studied it for a moment. “Who’d you say this is again?”

  “A friend’s aunt.” Quickly, Samuel recounted how he’d met Fannie and how she’d found the photograph.

  “And your friend—what did she say her aunt’s name is?”

  “Edith LeClerc,” Samuel said. Something was wrong. He went back to his coat and withdrew Fannie’s letter, then handed it to Rosalie. “I was supposed to give this to Miss LeClerc if I found her.”

  Rosalie read the letter. Finally, she glanced over at Lamar, then back at Samuel. “You are telling me the truth about all of this. Right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Samuel said.

  She handed the letter and the photo back. “I knew her, but not by that other name. To me and everyone else up this way, that’s Edie Bonaparte.” Rosalie gestured around. “I bought this place from her last year. She was headed—somewhere. I don’t really know where. She and some of her best girls.” Rosalie shrugged. “I’ve heard whispers of a place down Fort Benton way, but none of my regulars talk about it, and in this business …” She paused. “This is not a business where people are given to discussing their plans, Reverend Sam. Only fools like Johnny Chadwick do that. And you know how that went.”

  After a restless night, Fannie managed to stay busy through most of the morning. She took a walk after lunch. Read her Bible. Wrote another letter to Minette. Still, the hours dragged. That afternoon she went into the kitchen and, nodding at the mountain of spuds piled on the worktable, asked Abe, “Do you think I could graduate to peeling potatoes today? I’m going to go crazy waiting for Edmund to get back and tell me his news.”

  When Abe agreed, she donned an apron. He handed her a knife. “It’s sharp,” he warned, “and the doctor’s not here to sew you up, so you take your time.”

  Fannie nodded. She picked up a potato and held it out to Abe. “Please don’t roll your eyes at me. Just show me how.” He did, and Fannie perched on the stool beside the table and went to work massacring the mound of spuds.

  “I’ve got to fumigate one of the rooms out back,” Abe said. “Take all afternoon if you need it.” He put a bean pot on the table. “Once they’re peeled, cut them into quarters and put ’em in here. When the pot’s two-thirds full, cover them with water and set them on to boil.”

  While she worked, Fannie’s thoughts flitted in every direction. She worked steadily, but when she had the first pot of potatoes settled on the stove top and the fire going, she went in search of Abe. He was hauling the bed ticking out of a room. When he caught sight of her, he held his hand up.

  “Don’t come any closer.” He pointed to the ticking. “Fleas. Can’t decide whether to treat it or burn it.” He dropped the ticking in the sun and headed back her way.

  Taking Edmund’s note from her apron pocket, Fannie read it aloud. “Are you sure you’ve never met the Bonapartes?”

  “I think you need to wait until you hear from the doc.”

  It took Fannie the rest of the afternoon to peel her way through Abe’s mound of potatoes, and she was grateful. The hours still dragged while her mind raced from possibility to possibility, from Aunt Edith to Mother to Emma Pilsner to Samuel and back again, but at least she had something worthwhile to do while she obsessed. Once, she thought she heard Edmund’s buggy and raced to the front door. Lame Bear was sitting in the shade beneath the boarding house overhang, but there was no buggy.

  The sun went down and the moon came out, and still there was no word.

  “He told you he might be a day or two,” Abe said when Fannie worried aloud. “Take this out to Lame Bear.” He handed Fannie a plate of food.

  Later, when she went back to get the plate, Lame Bear was licking it. For the first time, Fannie realized how thin he was. The idea that she hadn’t ever noticed made her feel ashamed. How could she have seen the man as often as she had and not wondered if he might be hungry?

  Fannie waited up reading by lamplight until she began to nod off. Finally, she turned down the lamp and went to bed. Whatever was going on out at the Bonapartes’, it must have been a difficult case. She couldn’t help but think about Patrick. Maybe the Bonapartes had children. Hopefully he wasn’t terribly bored.

  The outrageous idea arrived halfway through Fannie’s sleepless night, and it would not be argued away. Abe knew more than he was saying about the Bonapartes. The longer Fannie waited for Edmund to return, the more obvious it became. Something about the word made Abe uncomfortable. Fannie thought she knew what it might be … but he was never going to admit it. It was going to be up to her. Her idea was outrageous, but not nearly as outrageous as climbing aboard a steamboat headed into the unknown. Finally, Fannie gave in to it.

  She got dressed in the dark and made her way toward the front of the boarding house. Lame Bear was still there, leaning against the boarding house wall. His head was bowed when Fannie first stepped onto the board porch, but at the first creak, he was on his feet.

  “I want to go to Dr. LaMotte,” Fannie said. “Will you take me?”

  The Indian shook his head.

  She pulled Dr. LaMotte’s note out and read it to him. All of it. “The news he has is about my aunt.” She spread her hand on her chest. “My mother is dead. She has a sister. Here.” Fannie gestured around. “Possibly at the Bonapartes. I need to see her.”

  “Bad place.” Lame Bear shook his head again. “Bad for you.”

  For a moment, Fannie was so shocked that Lame Bear had actually spoken English, she didn’t know what to say. But finally, she found her voice again. “Edmund is there with Patrick. I’ll be all right. Please, Lame Bear. Take me to them.”

  “Too far,” he said, and pointed to her feet.

  “Let me try,” she said. “Please.”

  Finally, the old man motioned for her to follow him, but when he headed toward the fort, Fannie protested. “Isn’t the Bonapartes’—” she gestured toward the west—“isn’t it that way?”

  “Too far,” Lame Bear repeated, and kept walking.

  If she was going to ask him to take her somewhere, Fannie supposed she was going to have to trust him. Her heart pounding, she followed him, alongside the high fort walls, across the moonlit expanse between the fort and … Edmund’s. Lame Bear hadn’t understood a thing she’d said. He thought she wanted to go to the clinic.

  Fannie had just opened her mouth to protest when Lame Bear headed past the clinic and toward the small shed out back. Smoke whickered a greeting and nosed Lame Bear’s arm, while the old man whispered something in the pony’s ear. Finally, fashioning a hackamore from the woven lead he’d used when he’d tried to give the pony to Fannie, Lame Bear led Smoke into the moonlight and gestured for her to climb aboard.

  Fannie looked about in desperation. “I don’t … I can’t … ride,” she said.

  Lame Bear repeated the gesture. Fannie hesitated. This was insane. But it might work. Edmund was there … and if they met him coming back, she could just climb into his buggy and learn whatever news he had the way he had intended in the first place. He’d be surprised, perhaps angry, but Patrick would be a buffer. How dangerous could it be?

  “You won’t let go, will you?”

  Lame Bear grasped the hackamore firmly in hand. Fannie searched about for something to climb up on. Motioning to a stump by the woodpile, she went to it and, lifting her skirt, stepped up. Lame Bear walked Smoke up beside her, and she scrambled aboard, her heart pounding. You’ll tell your grandchildren about this someday. They’ll think you’re lying.

  “Go slow,” she said to Lame Bear. “And thank you.”

  The Indian smiled. “You’re welcome.” He began walking west.

  A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.

  PROVERBS 16:9

  Oh, dear God. What have I done? When Fannie realized what Lame Bear had in mind, she panicked. They were still within sight of Fort Benton, and she very nearly slid off Smoke and ran back, but at that moment a wolf howled. And so she stayed on the
pony, trembling with fear as Lame Bear loped ahead and ducked into one of the handful of tepees pitched in a clearing.

  When Lame Bear emerged, he was accompanied by three other Indians … the same three who’d tried to rub the gold from her hair. Fannie took in a sharp breath. Smoke must have sensed her terror. Snorting, he danced sideways. Somehow, she managed not to fall off.

  “Please, Lame Bear,” she croaked. “I—” She looked back toward Fort Benton.

  Lame Bear held up a hand to silence her. He gestured to the others, and Fannie realized they were armed. With rifles. But they were also standing at a respectful distance. “They guard the way.” Taking Smoke’s hackamore in hand, he headed off again.

  The wolf howled again. Another animal screamed … screamed. Fannie shivered, realizing once again how stupid she was. How could she have thought they would just walk across the landscape at night, undefended? She should have known. She didn’t think. Once again … she didn’t think. Thankfully, Lame Bear did. He’d promised that his sons would bring her gifts to apologize. They never had. Lame Bear had just seen to it that they made amends.

  As the sky grew light, Lame Bear turned around and gestured to his sons, and together, the three turned around and headed off at a lope. Up ahead, in the midst of a stand of trees, stood a two-story log structure surrounded by half a dozen smaller buildings. Edmund’s buggy was parked next to a large corral, and his old horse stood inside it, looking off toward something in the distance.

  Smoke whinnied and the horse turned its head and answered. When Smoke began to dance, Fannie grasped his mane, suddenly aware of just how sore her legs were. Lame Bear spoke to the horse and motioned for Fannie to put her hand on his shoulder and slide off. She obeyed, but lost her balance when her feet struck the earth and landed on her backside instead of her feet. A combination of exhaustion and raw nerves helped her laugh—much more loudly than she should have. Smoke snorted.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

  Lame Bear shook his head and motioned for her to go. She was halfway to the house when she turned to look behind her. Astride the pony now, Lame Bear waited. Watched. Fannie raised a hand in thanks. Lame Bear returned the sign.

  As Fannie picked her way toward the front door of the log house, smoke began to curl into the sky from one of the two stone chimneys. A rooster crowed. One of the outbuildings was a substantial chicken coop, its yard enclosed in wire. There was a large barn and what had to be a bunkhouse. Or … maybe … not exactly a bunkhouse in the traditional sense. Fannie’s stomach clenched.

  Now that she was there, she wished she were anywhere else. This might have been the worst idea of all the horrible ideas she’d ever had. Maybe she should have just climbed into Edmund’s buggy and gone to sleep and waited for him to come out. She had no business— A door slammed and a man emerged from the back of the house and headed for the necessary. It wasn’t Edmund. Fannie’s heart thudded. She’d just about decided to hide in the buggy when movement at the window to the right of the front door caught her attention. She’d been seen. There was nothing to do now but follow through with her plan.

  She glanced behind her one more time. Lame Bear was gone. Shivering and rubbing her arms, she wished for a shawl to wrap herself in … something to do with her hands, at least. She picked her way to the door. It opened just a crack and a husky voice said, “Who are you and what d’ya want?”

  “I … I’m looking for Dr. Edmund LaMotte and his son, Patrick. They … he—Dr. Lamotte—sent a message telling me they were coming here. I’m Fannie. Fannie Rousseau.” She thought she heard someone stirring about inside. Voices? Someone swearing. “They aren’t exactly expecting me, but … could you please tell the doctor … or Patrick … that I’m here?”

  After a long silence, a voice said, “Wait,” and the door closed again.

  Fannie waited. And waited. She looked around at the place again. Was it—had it been—a ranch? It seemed so far from town. It didn’t make any sense, actually. It was too far from town to get any business, wasn’t it? Pondering the “business” brought new dread. She should never have come. Where was Edmund? What was she going to say? Oh, God. Do you see me? I think I’ve made another mistake … and it’s too late to take it back. Help! Please help!

  She had stepped away from the door and was staring at the horizon sending panicked prayers toward the heavens when the door behind her opened. She turned around and with a sharp intake of breath, looked at … Mother. Not Mother, of course, but still … the resemblance removed any possibility of Fannie’s saying a word. She stared, speechless.

  She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother’s hair down. Had it been this pretty? Except for gray at the temples, the cascade of hair around this woman’s shoulders shone like spun gold. But this clearly wasn’t Mother. This woman was smoking. A cigar. Odd that in spite of the cigar and the somewhat annoyed expression, there was also something regal about her. She looked Fannie up … down … and then up again. And then she removed the cigar from between her pale lips and said, “I don’t think you’re really here to see Edmund. Or Patrick.”

  The voice wasn’t anything like Mother’s. Husky. Almost masculine. In fact, Fannie realized, this was the same person who’d told her to wait at the door. She’d thought it was a man. Amazing. And, Fannie realized, probably alluring to the kind of men— God in heaven. Help. Help me get through this. I’m so sorry I came. How could she be sorry and fascinated, regretful and excited all at once? The emotions racing through her made Fannie tremble. She clutched at her skirt with both hands, then let go. Reached up to smooth her hair. Finally, clasped her hands before her. And all the while, the woman in the doorway watched.

  Finally, after what felt like a millennium, the woman’s expression softened a bit as she said, “Hello, Fannie. I’m Edie.”

  Edie didn’t invite Fannie in, but when she stepped back and retreated into the room behind her, she left the door open, and so Fannie assumed she was meant to follow. The moment she crossed the threshold, Edie said, “Edmund said you have a photograph of me.”

  Edmund had known all along … and hadn’t said a word. He let Samuel and Lamar go on a wild goose chase … and he never said a word. Anger with Edmund LaMotte distracted Fannie for a moment. She only managed to nod in reply.

  “It was a good likeness at the time,” Edie said. “I must admit I’m surprised Eleanor kept it.”

  “I … I f-found it in her dressing table.” Do I smell … roses? She glanced around the room. A glass bowl on a small table brimmed with dried rose petals. Mother had one just like it.

  Edie arched one eyebrow. “You found it, you say? In her dressing table?” She waggled a finger in the air. “Snooping is naughty, Fannie.”

  Who did she think she was to waggle a finger? She had no idea. Fannie lifted her chin. “I wasn’t snooping. I was gathering up her jewelry for safekeeping. To take it to Mr. Vandekamp.” As she said the name, Fannie looked for a reaction. There was none. She flung out the words, “Mother’s dead.”

  Something changed in Edie’s expression. Her voice softened. “I see. I’m sorry.” But then the icy façade returned. “And Louis? How is he managing without his beloved Eleanor?”

  The edge of sarcasm in Edie’s voice made Fannie angry. She’d come thousands of miles to this? “Papa’s been gone for three years.” Was it a coincidence that, when Edie put her cigar out, she kept her hand on the table? Had news of Papa’s death finally broken through? Fannie realized that the aroma of the cigar reminded her of Papa. Cigars and roses.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It’s your loss, too,” Fannie said. Where was the woman who’d written those letters? She hadn’t come all this way to be held at arm’s length. Again. “When I was gathering up the jewels, I found your letters in Mother’s dressing table.” She paused. “All twenty of them.”

  Edie blinked. “If your mother wasn’t going to let you know I existed, I can’t imagine why she kept them.” She
fingered her cigar. “There doesn’t seem to be a point to it, does there?”

  “I think … I think it means she cared. About you.”

  Edie pursed her lips. “A lovely sentiment. Do you find comfort in fairy tales, Fannie?” She paused. A realization seemed to dawn. “Ah … I see. You read my fairy tales. Kings. Princes. Gold.” She gestured around. “Well, here it is. What part of my ‘happily-ever-after’ would you like to share?”

  Fannie looked around at the room. Periwinkle blue. The log walls were painted Mother’s favorite color. The two chairs next to the tea table by the fireplace were like the ones in Mother’s room. And Edie had a gilt-rimmed mirror hanging on the wall opposite the window. It was so much like Mother’s it felt … almost haunted. She shivered again. Shook her head.

  Edie sighed dramatically. “So sorry to disappoint you, my dear. I’m certain you wish you’d kept the fairy tale intact.” She seemed about to say something else, but instead, she turned to go. “I’ll see that Edmund and Patrick know you’re here. Edmund’s patient is doing better. In fact, he’d planned on returning to town this morning.” She nodded toward the door. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable waiting in the buggy.”

  Edie was just like Mother, after all. The warm woman in the letters didn’t exist. Determined not to let her see the pain she’d caused by dismissing Fannie so easily, Fannie hurried to leave, blinking back the threatening tears. She’d just gotten to the door when Edie called after her.

  “I wonder, Fannie. In your mother’s things … did you find an amethyst ring? It would have matched a necklace and earrings Eleanor used to wear.”

  “It was there.” Something in Fannie wanted to strike out at the stone-faced woman rejecting her. “I don’t recall ever seeing her wear it.”

  “Well, of course not, dear. I sent it to you. But obviously she didn’t tell you that. Obviously … she didn’t tell you anything.”

  Fannie whirled around and lashed out. “Now that I’ve met you, I’m glad she didn’t.”

  But Edie was gone. She probably hadn’t even heard the words.