‘Not us,’ he corrected. ‘Philomena asks to visit my father’s grave.’
His wife had grown plainer these last few years. There was a pinched look about her as though she had spent a lifetime holding something in, a difficult task for an outspoken woman. While his father was alive she was bound by his rule where Serena was concerned. Now Aloysius had joined the great struggle and Serena was gone, he’d hoped she would soften a little.
Chloe finished plaiting her long hair and swivelled to face him. The curve of a breast was visible through the fine cotton of her nightgown and she readjusted the shawl so that her body was well-covered. ‘You don’t think it’s some ruse to coerce us into trying to find that girl of hers?’
Edmund sat on the end of the bed. He had been out riding with Sheriff Cadell and Ben Wright, trying to find a German emigrant accused of stealing a load of corn. It was not a fitting pastime for the editor of Oklahoma City’s biggest newspaper, especially now his father’s will had been read, but Edmund enjoyed the exhilaration of the hunt. ‘I doubt it. Whether we believe the story Philomena told Father at Fort Sill is unimportant. She stayed on the reservation even after Serena ran away. Besides, we’ve heard nothing from her since Serena’s disappearance five months ago.’
Chloe climbed into bed, puffed the feather pillows against the headboard and sat up. There was a cup of warm milk on the bedside table. She poked at the skin atop the liquid and took a sip.
‘There’s more.’ Edmund retrieved a document from his dusty coat. ‘Hugh Hocking forwarded my father’s will to our lawyer here in Oklahoma City.’
‘Hugh? I thought we’d moved our business elsewhere?’
‘We did some years ago, however Father chose to keep a copy of his will with Hugh. After Clarence committed suicide, Hugh merged the practice with another firm, but he’s recently branched out into property acquisition and management.’
‘He never married, did he?’
‘No. Anyway,’ he waved an envelope, ‘here are the deeds to the Dallas and Oklahoma City newspapers.’
Chloe sighed. ‘At last. I really don’t know why Aloysius felt compelled to retain control for so long.’
‘It was his company,’ Edmund reminded her. ‘Joe, of course, retains the retail businesses in Dallas while the plantation and ranch are to be sold.’
‘Heavens, why on earth would your father have wanted to do that?’ Chloe leant forward in bed, cupping the warm drink between her hands. ‘He was the one who said the masses have to be fed, he was the one –’
‘He wants my sisters to have a share,’ Edmund paused, ‘as well as Philomena.’
Chloe grimaced. ‘Well, now I know why your cousin wants to visit.’ The cup tapped the timber bedside table loudly. ‘We should have guessed she was after a handout.’
Edmund had already spoken to their lawyer about his father’s will. Philomena was, after all, his dead uncle’s daughter and the amount left to her, which was substantial, recognised Aloysius’s brother’s share of the business as well as a monetary gift from Aloysius himself. On Philomena’s death her inheritance was to pass to Serena, who was already well provided for. ‘Whatever her reasons for wanting to come, I can’t allow personal feelings to stymie the rights of a relative. It is her right to pay her respects to a departed soul. Besides which, she didn’t have to ask my permission. The cemetery is a public place.’
‘But if she didn’t ask, then you wouldn’t have known she was coming,’ Chloe argued. ‘There is a method to her game, Edmund. Please don’t be taken in by her like your father was. This family has only just escaped from the debacle of his crusade.’
He tugged at his boots and dropped each one on the floor. ‘I have no intention of leading my family back into those troubled waters. I’ll send a telegram suggesting a time for us to meet at the cemetery and offer to pay for her accommodation at apartments in the city.’
‘And tell her to travel as a white woman,’ Chloe squirmed down under the bedclothes, ‘not as a native.’
Edmund stripped off his clothes, leaving them strewn on the bedroom floor. He carried the tang of the prairie on his skin and the clear fresh scent of the North Canadian River. In bed, he burrowed his face in his wife’s long hair, wrapped an arm about her pudgy waist. Chloe sighed and turned away from him. He could take her easily, as was his right and as he had done before. Instead, Edmund rolled onto his back. His mind bulged with numerous matters and an unresponsive wife was the least of his concerns.
Recently he had been revisiting an ambition first raised with his father in Dallas some years ago. Edmund had his mind fixed on increasing his business interests and with his father’s will stipulating the sale of their rural holdings, it appeared that the moment had come to investigate other business options. He’d recently purchased a textile mill and was considering buying more land, foreign land. The financial collapse of the 1890s had instilled in him the importance of broadening one’s portfolio, but such financial management would hardly work as had already been proven if your interests were situated in one geographical region, or country. If his father were alive he would call his idea a folly but Edmund knew in his gut that his instincts were right. It would be a determined move to acquire land thousands of miles away, and it was also a most exciting prospect.
Chloe gave a guttural snore. Tiny insects buzzed around the lamp, winter had not yet come and yet at times he already felt her cold breath. He thought of his father, of his wishes, of his mother and Tobias sleeping across the hall. He mentally turned the pages of the burgundy diary as if the book was before him, reading the description of Philomena written in Aloysius Wade’s firm hand. In spite of everything, Edmund still wanted to meet his cousin.
Leaves crunched underfoot as Edmund made his way through the cemetery. The morning air was chill, his breath appeared as small puffs that dissipated quickly. The rutted path led him onwards through simple markings until a winged angel indicated the resting place of a mother and child. It was here that he veered left to skirt slabs and crosses, freshly mounded ground and vacant gaps with fragile herbage. The leather on his shoes grew damp. His skin cooled under a veil of moisture. The more ornate remembrances were in this area of the cemetery. They spoke of new beginnings for old families and sudden endings for the humble who made good. The Wade name was old and familiar to many, yet, for all the Wade accomplishments, it was not lost on Edmund that at the end of the day they were forced to join the masses in a communal resting place.
Ahead he saw the winged bird. It rose above the laid out inhabitants at its feet. It was only fitting that his father’s resting place should form the centrepiece of a family crypt that was under construction. One day every Wade would be buried here – their names immortalised in chiselled stone. The path was well trodden by stone masons and Edmund followed the trail of depressed dirt until he stood at what would eventually be the entrance to the Wade vault.
The golden eagle stood atop a stone plinth, its massive wings outstretched. Edmund didn’t know why he’d chosen this bird, except that its image was doodled throughout the pages of his father’s diary. When the crypt was completed the plinth would be the centrepiece within the tomb and the eagle would appear to rise from the roof. It was quite marvellous in design although Chloe remained a little perturbed that in the future they would lie, end to end, against a far wall, in a damp, dowdy spot overshadowed by more senior family members. Edmund’s mother would eventually lie at her husband’s feet, while Edmund’s murdered uncle was to be remembered in the form of a coffin, empty save for a Confederate soldier’s sword.
The mist was lifting; strands of grey-white twisted about the trees and headstones that fanned out from the shadow of the family crypt. The breeze shifted the cloying vapour until only a slight haze remained. It was with a start that Edmund noted a figure moving towards him, a woman. His ears were attuned to the slightest of noises but it was the lack of sound that suggested that his cousin approached. Aloysius always said she moved quietly, like Serena.
The figure meandered through the graveyard. The breeze lifted and a thread of mist wound about the woman, rendering her momentarily insubstantial. She moved in and out of the gravestones, heading towards him although not once appearing to look in his direction.
Edmund’s breathing grew strained. He knew that this was his cousin. She moved as if on air and was far more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. His father had not exaggerated. He doubted if they would ever learn whether his cousin was or remained Geronimo’s wife and yet such a creature would be a rare prize for any man, and unlikely to be parcelled off as reward to an Indian brave of lesser rank.
When at last Philomena stood before him they did not formally greet each other. History made normal speech difficult, especially here where the omnipresent dead emphasised the misfortune of their lives. Philomena simply inclined her head and Edmund muttered a strained response. He noticed that her cheeks were hollow, her sun-browned fairness lacklustre and pale. He sensed that she was ill.
Philomena walked forward to stare at the Wade crypt, at the partially constructed walls and the towering centre plinth. Edmund stood next to her as they paid their respects. He observed the cut of Philomena’s gown, the woollen cloak she wore and the silver hair, which was now more grey than blonde, neatly pinned and styled so that it could almost be considered fashionable.
‘Did you think I would embarrass you?’ Her voice was fluid, like trickling stream water.
Edmund knew she referred to his telegram in which he told her to dress appropriately in respect for his father. He found himself inclined to apologise but instead asked if her lodgings were comfortable. The apartment was of middling standard and was situated far from the Wade home in the city.
‘The Apache don’t believe in such memorials,’ she answered, totally ignoring his question.
‘So I have read,’ Edmund replied. ‘They toss their dead down crevices or abandon them in the night.’
‘While you build monuments to soothe the spirit.’
‘It’s a tribute to a life well lived and it’s what my father would have wanted.’
‘The only thing your father wanted was to ensure that his brother’s line was reunited with his,’ Philomena countered.
Edmund agreed, but there was little point in pursuing that line of conversation. ‘Why have you come here, Philomena?’
She lifted her skirt to step over a block of stone and ran her hands across the plinth.
‘You are standing on my father.’ On the man who would have done anything to save you, he thought.
Philomena looked up at the eagle. ‘I’m not sure he would approve of your choice of statue.’
‘Why?’
She ignored this. ‘I have had word from Serena. She gave birth to the soldier’s child last month. Stillborn.’
Edmund thought immediately of his mother and Chloe. ‘And you expect that she will come here?’
Philomena lifted a handkerchief to her mouth and coughed. It was a long wracking process that left her breathless and clinging to the partially completed tomb wall. Edmund reached for her, ready to render assistance as he would to any woman in distress. He withdrew his hand before it touched her shoulder. After some minutes, she regained her composure.
‘Don’t worry, I doubt Serena will return here to sully the Wade name. I have sent George after her.’
‘He is the one who was with Geronimo at the Delmar Gardens? He is your son?’
Philomena tucked the handkerchief up the sleeve of her gown. The white material was speckled with blood. ‘If you are truly interested to know I will tell you, however I fear you only ask out of curiosity.’ Her chin rose as if in challenge. ‘For that is what I have always been to the majority of the Wades, is it not? A curiosity.’
They faced each other like feuding relatives. ‘This is not the place for arguments, Philomena. I am not here to revisit the past.’
Philomena walked from the tomb without a backward glance. ‘Serena tells me that the family business is newspapers.’
‘Do you need money? Father did leave you some.’
Her stare reminded Edmund of the ice he’d cracked on the dog’s water bowl that morning. She had made him feel impolite.
‘If Serena returned to Oklahoma City, would you take her in?’
‘No. I have a wife and child and an ailing mother to consider. I would, however, ensure that she was accommodated somewhere appropriate.’ They departed the trail formed by the stone masons and cut across the grounds towards the entrance. ‘You could have sent a wire instead of journeying here.’
‘I needed to say goodbye,’ Philomena replied, turning briefly to gaze at the plinth. ‘I needed to return to your father one last time, even though I have not forgiven him. In spite of what you think of me, cousin, we are all casualties of the past.’
The hem of Philomena’s gown fluttered over the ground as Edmund followed her towards the entrance to the cemetery. He found himself wanting to escape to a quiet place and spend more time with this woman. He wanted to understand her, be with her … Is this how it feels, he wondered, to be cast in a woman’s net the way his father was? This one woman was in fact many women. A grandmother, a daughter to a murdered white man, an abductee of the Apaches, his cousin Philomena, the Indian known as Nalin. Intriguing and extraordinarily lovely without a shred of artifice and no societal restrictions to curb her behaviour. Edmund realised that his cousin was perhaps the freest individual he had ever met.
Philomena began to cough once again. Her slight body convulsed from the violence of the attack. Edmund raced to her side and caught her in his arms as she fell. He gathered her up as if she were a porcelain doll, her eyelids fluttered, an arm fell limply to one side. Edmund didn’t think of the consequences as he carried Philomena through the deserted graveyard and placed her carefully in his surrey. Once seated beside her, he tucked a travelling rug about her knees and flicked the reins, urged the bay horse forward with a giddy-up and a cluck of his tongue. As the surrey gathered pace he wrapped an arm about her shoulders and drew her to him.
To his left the golden eagle rose in the air.
‘Father,’ Edmund said through gritted teeth, ‘I am bringing Philomena home.’
Chapter 14
November, 1902 – Oklahoma City, Oklahoma Territory
Edmund carried Philomena through the front gate as a curtain moved in his mother’s bedroom. He called loudly for his wife, kicking open the front door so that the heavy wood panelling bashed against the wall.
Chloe greeted him in the entrance hall. ‘What on earth? That’s not –’
‘Telephone the doctor.’ Edmund walked swiftly past his unmoving wife.
‘Now, Chloe!’ Edmund yelled. He carried Philomena into the breakfast room and laid her on the chaise-lounge that used to sit in the drawing room in Dallas. Outside in the entrance hall he could hear his wife talking on the telephone as he stoked up the fire and then moved back to Philomena’s side to undo the buttons at her throat. Her breathing was ragged, the room was chilly.
‘What are you doing bringing her here?’ In spite of her fury Chloe couldn’t help but peer over his shoulder. She examined Philomena intently, assessing the lace-up leather boots, slender waist and lovely countenance.
‘She’s clearly ill and she needs warming. Fetch me a blanket.’
‘Then you should have taken her to the hospital,’ Chloe snapped. ‘I don’t want Philomena under our roof. I don’t want anymore troubles for this family. We have had our share, thanks to your father.’
Edmund laid a hand on his cousin’s brow.
‘Chloe, listen to me.’
She stamped her foot. ‘No. I will not have that woman here. I want her out before Tobias sees her. I refuse to have to explain myself all over again to our friends. It was bad enough when Thomas was lynched, thanks to that little piece Serena, then we had your father making a scene and dropping dead at the Delmar Gardens. I’m telling you I want her out.’
Edmund said nothing. I
nstead he simply stared coldly at his wife until she backed away. He closed the door quietly behind her.
The doctor arrived an hour later. Dr Hubert was ruddy-faced with thin red blood vessels that tracked across his nose and cheeks. He prodded and poked at Philomena as she drifted in and out of consciousness, all the time asking questions, probing questions that didn’t necessarily have any bearing on his cousin’s health. It seemed the doctor was not averse to gossip either. Finally he neared the completion of his examination and his questioning.
‘So this is the girl who was abducted by Geronimo.’ The doctor rubbed at his chin, obviously impressed.
‘Well?’ Edmund had been sitting opposite the chaise-lounge for the last ten minutes.
The doctor packed away his stethoscope in a worn leather bag and then checked Philomena’s pulse for the third time. ‘Tuberculosis. The Indians are rife with it on the reservations.’
‘What can be done?’
‘Out there? Nothing, anyway it helps keep the population down.’
‘I am talking about my cousin, Doctor. Will she recover?’ Edmund looked at the sleeping woman.
Dr Hubert shrugged. ‘Your cousin should be moved to a sanatorium where she can be attended to by qualified staff and be ensured of a plentiful supply of fresh air.’
Edmund had not heard the door open. Chloe stood some feet away. ‘Can she be moved?’ she asked.
‘Well she is verging on consumption, Mrs Wade,’ the doctor informed her. He studied his patient, ‘And is quite weak. A lovely woman,’ he said thoughtfully.
Philomena stirred and coughed. The doctor leant over and held a handkerchief to her mouth. When he drew it away it was sodden with blood. Folding the material distastefully he moved to the fire and dropped the bloody rag on the flames. ‘Anything with sputum or blood on it should be burnt. Most believe the disease is airborne but physical contact should be avoided as well.’
The Great Plains Page 13