by Janet Fox
Friends like Edward, who I hoped was more than a friend. He wasn’t due back from New York before mid-June. Edward’s dark hair and soft eyes floated in my daydreams. Last summer, at one of the first cotillions of the season, he asked me to dance. After that short waltz, I was smitten. My cheeks burned now, and my heart beat faster as I remembered Edward choosing me over all the other girls.
He could be a perfect beau. But we made no lasting promises. No promises could have been made before now, anyway, before my season and my introduction into proper society. And now . . . Now everything was uncertain.
I inhaled deeply, pulling the faintly briny air into my lungs.
Maybe I’d driven Mama away. I was ashamed of Mama, and so angry at her. Those paintings frightened me. After that day, I’d hardened against her. Maybe it was my fault that she’d gone; here was my chance to make it all right.
Ghost, sensing my emotions again, picked up his pace to a trot. Finding Mama, bringing her home, and making her well could solve everything. I would be absolved. We could plan the season together, and I could have my debut. And Edward. Society would forgive her, and I could forgive myself. Going west with Papa and bringing Mama home could make everything right.
The sun was low in the west as Ghost and I approached the end of our ride. I turned him in at the gate that led back to the stable. As he trotted through the narrow file and I leaned to avoid an overhanging branch, a sudden kick of sea breeze flicked the branch at Ghost and he bolted.
I hung on, caught unprepared, my chest tight with fear.
Chapter TWO
May 31, 1904
To-morrow will also be a gala day for weddings. There will be three in town, each of which will occupy the attention of fashionable society, and two of which will be in the Newport set.
—“What Is Doing in Society,”
New York Times, April 20, 1900
GHOST FLEW. I FELL BACK AGAINST THE CANTLE. HE barreled across the grassy field and I leaned forward, desperate to regain control. Sweat beaded on my forehead; my hands gripped the pommel; I tried to keep my seat.
Fear begets fear. Mama had left me and my life was in turmoil because of it. My body shook with effort and with emotion. I let escape a terrified cry.
But the release of sound released my fear; terror turned to exhilaration. Ghost was at a full, reckless gallop, but finally I gathered his rhythm, felt the rush of throwing off restraint. This I’d longed for, this freedom. I let myself go, let Ghost have his head, even if I hit the ground all broken bones. Charging away from the tight trail, we were one. We approached the hedge, and I let out a different cry. Ghost slowed. I reined him in and we stopped, both of us heaving with joy and exertion.
I turned him and we galloped back across the field, and then back yet again. Ghost relished it as much as I did. I lost my hat, ribbons flying, and I didn’t care.
By this time the stable hands were out and several other riders were watching, hovering near the stable. I drew Ghost up and knew that my cheeks were flushed and my hair was in disarray.
“Missie! Miss Margaret!” Joshua yelled as he ran. “You all right?”
“Fine. Never better!” And it was true. I felt exhilarated, and free, for once, of the weight of my memories. Joshua grabbed Ghost’s bridle and helped me dismount. I stood on shaky legs, leaning in against Ghost as he snorted and I panted, and I gave his damp neck an affectionate hug. “Be sure to give him a good rub and extra oats.”
Timmy ran up with my hat. Behind him I saw Mrs. Proctor, sidesaddle on her ancient, fat gelding. She regarded me with contempt, then turned to her companion.
“If you ask me,” she said in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, “she’s exactly like her mother. Utter disregard for propriety. Lack of self-control. That’s what got her mother into trouble. I’ve heard it all, you know, the whole story. And right there is living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Shame,” agreed her companion. “What did you hear?” They both eyed me, then Mrs. Proctor leaned over, and as the two moved away I strained for their words but heard only murmurs.
I drew myself up. I thought of my grandparents, who would no doubt hear of my unseemly behavior from Mrs. Proctor. I turned my back to her as I fed Ghost a treat dug from the small pocket buttoned at my waist.
She’s exactly like her mother. My cheeks flushed. I was angry at Mrs. Proctor, but I was also angry at myself. I didn’t need to go about compounding my situation with wild rides for all to see. Mrs. Proctor echoed the troublesome voice in my head—exactly like Mama. I burned with shame now, recalling how I’d confronted Mama after I watched her for weeks as she retreated into silence and painted those dreadful landscapes.
Last July was sticky and damp, and all the doors and windows were open to the wash of the ocean and the hum of bees. Maybe it was the heat that had turned my mood. Again, I’d stood in the doorway of Mama’s room, full of pent-up feeling.
“What are you doing to me?” I surprised myself with the sound of my own voice—like a crow’s caw, harsh.
She was painting again, but unlike before, she was not so lost in herself that she could not see me. This time she turned at the sound of my voice, with a smile on her face. “Maggie?” But her smile evaporated as she read my expression. “Maggie.”
I could not control myself. “Stop it! I want you to stop!” I moved fast, snatching the paintbrush from her hand. Paint splattered the canvas and dashed a black line across the white linen of my dress. “I hate what you’re doing! I hate it!”
Mama sagged and crossed the room, collapsing on the narrow end of the chaise.
My lip trembled as I faced her. “Why are you punishing me?” I burned with bitterness. For many weeks she’d been like this. My cruelty, built over time through my frustration, knew no bounds.
“Oh, Maggie.” She lifted her face, distorted with misery. “You’ve done nothing. It’s my fault. You were so little. You have to understand. Back then I was torn in two. I didn’t know what to do.”
I didn’t understand what she was saying. She made no sense. I shook my head to clear the confusion. “Mama. When you act like this, they snub me, too.” I choked on the words. “They look at me like I’m smudged. Stained. I’m beneath them. They leave me out.” My voice dropped, and my chin shook. “I wasn’t invited to Isabel’s party last week.”
She said it so soft I could hardly hear. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“But that’s what happened. That’s what you did.” I spit the words out as great tears rolled down my cheeks. “You’ve made my life miserable.”
Mama looked up then, her own eyes red and full. “I’m so sorry.”
“Really?” My voice caught. “Good! If you are, good!” I wanted her to hurt. “So do something. Make me believe you’re sorry. Act normal. Like everyone else. Be a mother.” Fury rose in me again, thinking of what I’d missed, what she’d missed. I lashed out, wanted to hurt her out of spite. “And you can start by getting rid of that.” I raised the dripping paintbrush that was still gripped tight in my fist and pointed it at the easel, at her current painting, at the drifting forms from the pits of hell.
Mama looked from me to the paintbrush to the painting, horror dawning on her as her eyes moved. She stood and went to the painting, and when she turned to face me again, she was lost. Possessed. “Oh. But . . .”
“Mama! Get rid of it!” My voice pitched to a shout as she stood frozen, staring at me. “You can’t, can you? That painting means more to you than I do. If you love me, really and truly, you’ll get rid of it. You’ll get rid of all of them, and never paint another.” I swept my hand, the brush splattering the room with slashing strokes. “But you don’t really love me, do you.” My tongue was a whip. “Fine.” I threw the paintbrush across the room, heard it clatter against the wall, turned my tear-blinded eyes away, and ran.
I ran to my tower room and sobbed on my bed until my face was raw and swollen. I heard Mina, dear Mina, my nurse,
come into the room. She touched my shoulder softly, tsking and muttering in German. On most days Mina was my comfort, my soft shoulder, but not that day. I pulled roughly into myself and spoke into my pillow. “Go away,” I muttered, and she did.
I lay on my bed until the sun cast long red rays against the far wall and bathed my room in flaming streaks of dusky light. My door opened again. I thought it was Mina coming to ready my room for the evening. I clenched my pillow tighter to my body.
But it was Mama. She sat next to me as I lay sprawled, the bed creaking softly. “Maggie? Maggie? It’s done. I did as you asked. I got rid of them. I threw them all away.”
I turned and looked at her. She’d pinned up her hair, and was dressed in a simple white shirtwaist and blue serge skirt, her cameo fixed at her throat. She looked like Kitty’s mother, like so many mothers in Newport, like the mother I wished her to be.
“I’m so sorry.” She stroked my hair, separating the strands with her fingers.
I twisted away from her and spoke into the spread, my voice muffled. “I just want you to be normal. Please.” I shook, my stomach heaving with agony, and my heart welled with my selfish need for her.
“All right.” Her voice trembled, but she said it.
I lay still while she stroked my hair, her hand so soft it might have been a bird. I wanted everything to turn out right. I wanted to believe that my mama wouldn’t disappoint me again.
I turned back to her. My eyes were swollen; tears still welled and slid down my cheeks and into my hair. I reached up to touch her cameo, as I had when I was little, running my fingers blindly over and over the carved face on its surface. My voice came out in a whisper. “Will you be here for me, Mama? Please, Mama?”
She sat silent, looking at the great window of my tower room, looking at the red sunset, the purple and blood-threaded sky, her face in profile to me. “Yes.”
“Promise?” I touched her fine, porcelain cheek.
“Yes. I promise.” She bent down to hold me.
I hugged her and didn’t looked at her face again. I was afraid of what I might see there.
I should have looked.
I rested my forehead against Ghost’s neck and forced myself not to think further into the past. I heard the mindless chatter of the stable hands, the clap-clop of hooves on brick, the soft, fluttered exhale of a passing horse. I pressed into Ghost, felt the cameo push against my throat. If I’d looked into Mama’s eyes that evening last July, I might have seen the promise broken. I might have seen why, only two months later, Mama was gone.
After Mama disappeared, Papa insisted on a massive search. Bored officers carried out a job they believed to be fruitless. They found her robe, tangled in the rocks. “The waves, sir. You must understand. The riptides, sir. Surely you understand . . .” Papa was shocked to silence and retreated; he was like the rabbit in the mouth of the fox—not yet dead, but no longer able to struggle. For weeks, I’d watched them all—Papa, the police, my neighbors, my friends—relinquish themselves to thinking Mama had been lost to the waves. Not me. I refused to believe she was dead. I wouldn’t believe she could break her promise and abandon me.
Papa would do nothing, lost as he was in his own grief. And so finally, I did the only thing I could. I threw myself into planning my season and my future. With or without her, my life would go on—it had to. I refused to let my prospects die while I waited for her to return.
Until two days ago. Two days ago Papa had surfaced from his self-imposed imprisonment with tales sent by his brother and with maps in his hands. Maps of far-off places, of Montana and Wyoming, of the wilderness; maps of rivers and mountain ranges and plains that were unknown to me. Papa emerged from his study with bright eyes and plans and hope.
I gave Ghost another treat and pressed a few coins into Joshua’s palm. “Take good care of him while I’m gone. Make sure he gets daily exercise.”
“Yes, miss.” I watched as Joshua led Ghost away, his white coat shining until he vanished into the gloom of the stables. I found Papa’s man, Jonas, polishing the brass on the lanterns of the phaeton, waiting to take me home.
When I joined Papa at dinner, he rambled on about his plans for our trip. Yet I was distracted. I kept returning to Mrs. Wolcott’s sneer and Mrs. Proctor’s snide gossip. I picked at the linen tablecloth, having lost my appetite.
“We’ll have a grand tour along the way, Maggie.” Papa carved into his beef with intensity.
I watched Papa’s knife saw back and forth. “Papa, why west? Why do you and Uncle John think we will find her there, and not somewhere else?”
Papa concentrated on the piece of beef on his fork. “It’s complicated, Margaret.” He took a bite, then looked at me, wiping his mustache with his napkin while he finished chewing. “We can discuss this later. It’ll all be a surprise! An exciting surprise.” He flashed a smile at me and returned to his meal.
My stomach knotted. I lifted the glass to wet my dry mouth. I didn’t want to lose Mama, not again. Nor did I want to lose my season and my only chance to make a good match and secure my future. I picked up my fork and twisted the tines against the plate. “I hope we can find her. Bring her home. I hope we can make her well.”
Papa said nothing. The click of metal on china filled the room, bouncing off the oakwood floor and plaster walls.
“Things are hard, Papa. Hard for me,” I said in a low voice. “It’s all so hard without her.”
Papa sawed his meat, his eyes cast down.
“People—Newport people—they aren’t sure about me. They say things . . .” I searched for Mrs. Proctor’s words, “They say I lack propriety. That I’m shameful. Like Mama. But I’m not. And if I am to find a husband, I need to prove to them that I’m respectable.” I picked at the tablecloth, making tight little fabric hills. “It’s important to me, Papa. It’s my future.” I looked up at him. “This is all I have, right here in Newport. This is where I belong. And right now, they don’t want me.”
His hands stopped moving.
“I need my debut, a really fine debut, with everything done exactly right, to make them want me. I want to prove to them that . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence, but what came to my mind was, “that I’m not like Mama.”
I reached down the table and took Papa’s right hand, forcing him away from his food, willing him to look at me. He leaned back, wiping his mustache with his napkin again, regarding me with dark eyes. I needed to make him see how important my debut was, that it was as important as finding Mama. I needed to have my debut as much as I needed her back. Without a proper debut, I had nothing. If I was not introduced into society, I would not be able to find a husband—not one of good standing. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I did not marry. I would have nothing—not Mama, not a future, nothing.
“We’ll be back in time, won’t we? We have to be back by the middle of July. And then we can make Mama well, here at home, and then she can help me plan. All right, Papa?”
He hesitated only a second before looking away. “Of course, Mags. Of course.”
Chapter THREE
June 1, 1904
When the guests at the ball, who numbered about 200, arrived, they drove to the house from the massive gates through an avenue bordered with bay trees set in tubs. These trees were outlined with vari-colored electric lights . . . There were two orchestras. Dancing did not conclude until almost dawn.
—“Mrs. Ogden Goelet’s Ball: First Important Function Given at Ochre Court, Newport,” New York Times, August 29, 1900
FOR FRIENDSHIP, I HAD NONE BETTER THAN KITTY.
Dear Kitty! We’d been inseparable since we’d babbled at one another over the edges of our prams. We shared tea parties and doll clothes, school gossip and hair ribbons. Now we were to share our future. At least, that was my wish.
The morning after my ride, I finally worked up the nerve to tell Kitty about Papa’s decision to go west. I found her lolling on the divan with Bear, her spaniel, curled beneath her arm. My voice
trembled a little as I started in, and I gave a delicate cough. I needed Kitty’s support to make everything work. I paced around the room, exaggerating, trying to make this “tour” sound fun and romantic, glancing at Kitty from time to time and watching her great blue eyes grow round.
“But this is dreadful, Maggie! You can’t leave now!” She leapt from the divan, tumbling Bear to the floor, and rushed to my side, clutching my hands in her tiny fingers. “We have dresses to order and decorations and—goodness! Thousands of details!”
When we were little, only able to watch the preparations for a ball—the ordering of gowns, the fuss of coaches, the top hats and silk gloves of departure—Kitty and I had pledged that one day we would share our debuts. “It will be the talk of Newport!” We’d giggled. “Two balls in one!”
Now Kitty’s eyes sharpened with annoyance and she returned to the divan and flounced down in a spray of silk and bouncing blonde curls. “Once again your mother is ruining things.”
My breath caught. “Kitty!” The sting went deep, all the more because I feared it was true.
“Well?” She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but you know I’m right. Your father hasn’t been the same since she fell into the ocean.” The image that her hurtful words conjured was terrible, and I bit my lip to stop myself from saying something rash in response. “It’s been almost a year, for pity’s sake, and he’s still making bad decisions. Dragging you off to some godforsaken place at the start of your season. What is he thinking? How are you going to find a husband now? Clearly, this is the influence of your mother’s irresponsible behavior.” I could see that her eyes registered my balled fists and rigid posture. She sighed. She came to me, oozing sympathy. “I’m worried about you, Mags. It’s your year now. I can have my own debut. Why, the Danforth boys have been fighting over me ever since last summer. It’s time for you to catch an eye or two!” She reached up and tugged at a curl on my forehead, adjusting it as if she were designing a table setting.