Faithful

by Janet Fox

  “Baker,” said the lieutenant, nodding in recognition and tapping his pencil. “Nathaniel Baker and his gang. They’ve been around the Park for years but we can’t find them. He has a canny way in the woods.”

  Eliza looked up at the lieutenant. “Did they ever kill anybody?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “No,” the lieutenant replied, smiling. “Baker’s a thief, not a murderer.”

  “See?” Eliza said, turning to me. “You knew.” She pointed at the cameo. “It was the magic,” she whispered, eyes round, solemn. I smiled; but I thought she was right.

  We ate as a group at one of the long tables in the dining room. The wine, following our excitement, had given everyone a tipsy air. Toward the end of the meal, thin, timid Mr. Connoly raised a glass.

  “I’d like to salute young Miss Bennet, who bravely held on to her jewelry under terrifying circumstances.”

  I felt my cheeks color. I wanted to tell them that it wasn’t bravery. I wasn’t brave. I couldn’t stand at the edge of a window, never mind the edge of a cliff. I’d only begun to recognize the beauty of the geysers, as opposed to their terrifying unpredictability and threat. “I’ve done nothing,” I murmured. I touched the cameo. I wouldn’t give up Mama, that was all.

  I was just a foolish girl, not brave at all. I followed all the conventions, obeyed the rules. Not like Mama, who obeyed no conventions except her own.

  But there my thoughts troubled me. Was my unconventional Mama brave, or merely foolish—or worse, mad? No one swam in the Atlantic the day after a hurricane passed, and there she had been in her bathing costume. Ladies hardly swam at all. I touched the cameo again.

  Unless her disappearance was an unexpected outcome. Her note said it: “someone I left years ago to whom I must return.” Someone she had left behind. In which case she was never mad or foolish or unconventional. Perhaps it was as simple as this: she rejected society as a place where love grew stagnant and false and she went in search of her love.

  And what if Mama were here in my place, in this dining room? I knew that she would have accepted the toast, laughing and enjoying the attention and the loose and undignified camaraderie of the evening. I’d never enjoyed anything so unfashionable in my life. It was not proper. And so I did something I might not have done only a few weeks ago: I took a small sip of wine and, ever so slightly, raised my glass.

  It was a rare moment of bringing my mother back, through me; of standing fearless on a peak. I couldn’t know what I’d find on the other side of this high point.

  Chapter TWENTY - FIVE

  July 12, 1904

  I again visited the mud vulcano [sic] today. I especially desired to see it again for the one especial purpose . . . of assuring myself that the notes made in my diary a few days ago are not exaggerated. No! they are not! The sensations inspired in me to-day . . . were those of mingled dread and wonder.

  —Diary of the Washburn Expedition to the Yellowstone and Firehole Rivers in the Year 1870, Nathaniel P.Langford, 1905

  “LET’S SET THE TRIPOD HERE. I THINK THERE’S ENOUGH contrast in these algae to capture on film.”

  After only three days assisting Mrs. Gale, I was becoming familiar with the language of photography. I positioned the tripod and stepped back. Mrs. Gale locked the camera in place, and when she focused the lens, I leaned to look.

  All of my experience shrank to what I saw through the lens. My fears, my losses, Mama’s disappearance, and Papa’s lies all left me. The patterns made by the ribbons of algae-rich water running by my feet were complex whorls of texture—only a moment earlier these details had been lost within the huge landscape.

  “You take the photo,” said Mrs. Gale. “Think about what I’ve said about exposure, now. This is not like the larger landscape. This is a miniature.”

  I focused the lens and held the exposure. I removed the celluloid sheet and labeled it, sliding it with care into one of the slots in the leather box.

  Everything about photography appealed to me—the soft leather, the polished brass hardware, the smooth mahogany, the sure click as the shutter locked—but most of all the feeling of being in a place so special, so pristine, that only I could see it.

  Over several hours we worked our way from one geyser to another. At one point a young man ran up shouting, “Beehive’s a-goin’ off! Beehive’s a-goin’ off!” We followed, and were treated to an eruption that shot off at a rakish angle, and another almost as tall as Old Faithful. The excitement of the unexpected was contagious, and I found myself searching for more eruptions.

  We walked through the basin, stopping at intervals. I stared for a long time into the steaming Beauty Pool watching bubbles slowly emerge from its depths.

  “Inviting, isn’t it. It looks like a lovely place to swim,” said Mrs. Gale.

  I knew full well—as did Mrs. Gale—that it was not, and again, the image of the doe rose up in my mind.

  “Do you swim, dear?” asked Mrs. Gale.

  “My mother was a great swimmer.” I saw Mama on that last day in her swimming costume, another dark thought to tamp down.

  “Quite a woman. She was ahead of her time. Did she teach you?”

  “She tried, but I was a poor student.” I stared into the inky depths of the pool. From the orange and yellow bacteria at the water’s edge, the pool graded to turquoise, then to deep blue, then to blue-black. “I had to stay in the shallows. I don’t like floating or being over deep water. I could never get used to the idea that there was nothing beneath my feet.” Mama wasn’t afraid. Perhaps she should have been.

  I turned my back on that inviting but deadly pool and looked out over the hot, white landscape into the cool woods beyond. Steam from Daisy Geyser spiraled into the pure blue sky.

  Satanic. That’s what I’d called her paintings. Now I thought her paintings were beautiful and wished I had one. Mama had been here and seen this. I could almost feel her presence. Since the moment we’d left Mammoth, and especially since I’d realized my love for Yellowstone, I felt that I was drawing closer to Mama with every passing day.

  We were returning to the inn for a late lunch when I caught sight of a familiar, lanky figure striding in our direction. My heart leapt. Tom! I felt so many changes in me in only these few days and I wondered if he would notice them as well.

  He laughed out loud when Mrs. Gale and I reached him. “Miss Margaret Bennet, are you following me?” He gestured a salute, acknowledging Mrs. Gale.

  “Would it offend you if I am?” I asked, giving him a warm smile and knowing that I would follow him just about anywhere if I could.

  “So, now that you’ve taken the Tour, what do you think of Yellowstone?” he asked, throwing out his arm to encompass the geyser basin.

  “I think it’s the most fantastic place on earth.” I meant it, and knew that he was part of the reason why.

  His smile broadened to a grin. “Then we share a great love,” he said. We walked together now, our strides matching but slow, Mrs. Gale having moved ahead of us on the trail. “I heard you had quite a time the other day on your way down here.”

  “You warned me, back in the Livingston Depot.” I remembered the first day we met, and felt myself blush, partly from the memory of our meeting.

  “I did. But I never thought it would happen. I’ve heard some wild tales about that robbery. One tourist said that bandits should be paid to hold up the coaches, it was so exciting. And then there’s the story of a young woman who faced down the robbers.” We stopped walking and our eyes met. He wore an impish grin. I stood straighter. I hoped he wasn’t mocking me.

  “And?” I asked with trepidation.

  “I wouldn’t want you to face me down, that’s for sure.” His smile grew, but he seemed sincere.

  I smiled back. He wasn’t mocking me. I shrugged a little. “I suppose it was stupid.”

  He reached out and took my hand and a thrill ran right up my arm. “It would only have been stupid if you’d been hurt. That would have made me miserable.” />
  My voice came out in a squeak. “Really?” He cared about me. I could have floated right away. I touched the cameo with my free hand. “Would it have been worth it for this?”

  He held my hand in both of his and examined my fingers. “Some things are worth fighting for.” Our eyes met again and I tried to swallow but couldn’t. He still held my hand. After the longest moment—the earth must have turned on its axis at least once—he gently let my hand drop. We walked on then; or, at least, I put one foot in front of the other, since in reality I floated.

  I scrabbled around in my jumbled brain for something to say. “What are you up to now?”

  “We’re sampling here, and in a couple of days we’ll move on to the next site.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Well, where will you be in a couple of days?”

  My heart took a leap; he wanted to be where I was, too. I answered honestly. “I’m on my way to Lake Hotel to find my uncle.”

  “Then maybe we’ll head in that direction next.”

  “That would be wonderful.” A second after I spoke, I hesitated. I liked him so much. Much more than I’d ever liked anyone. But I could not forget my mission here, in Yellowstone. What if I discovered something at Lake—what if I discovered Mama? I wasn’t sure I could share this with him. I would have to tell him about her. Her painting, her fits, her madness . . . It would mean sharing her and everything about her, about me, and about how we might be alike, her madness . . .

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” I looked back at him and smiled. I kept my thoughts tucked inside and I could feel the little space that grew between us.

  We arrived at the inn. I wished he’d take my hand again, but he didn’t. He said, “I probably ought to go find my dad.”

  “I have to go have lunch.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  I looked up at him again, at his clear and searching eyes, and I felt a great yearning. “I hope so.” I watched him, wistful, as he walked away from me, his long arms swinging.

  After our lunch, Mrs. Gale and I sat in the lobby of the inn enjoying a few quiet moments. I stared into the fire, which crackled in the great stone fireplace more for show than need, and I let my mind drift. Tom liked me; I liked him. But there was still Mama, ever present. I began to grow anxious now, ready to move south to Lake and discover what I could. I was wrestling with these thoughts when I heard my name.

  “Margaret!”

  I started. It was Papa, his face distorted with concern.

  “Mags, are you all right?”

  I sat up, too stunned by Papa’s sudden appearance to form words. Behind my father was the hulking figure of George Graybull. Instinctively I felt the prickle of every hair on the back of my neck. It was as if I were being stalked.

  “We heard about the robbery.” Papa was so agitated his mustache practically vibrated. I stood smoothing my skirt. My world closed in; I felt like a trapped animal as Graybull circled behind Papa and examined me, his eyes searching me up and down. “We came down right away.”

  “Papa, I’m fine. Please. You didn’t need to come.” I wanted them both to go away. Their very presence was stifling.

  “Fine? What were you thinking? You might have been killed.” Papa held me at arm’s length, appraising my rolled-up sleeves and dusty skirt.

  “Papa, really. I’m just fine.” I needed him to leave me be; he would only hinder my attempts to find out anything about Mama. To find out anything about myself. I forced a smile on my face as I pushed loose tendrils of hair behind my ears and tucked in my shirtwaist.

  “When they said a young woman refused to give up a pin, I feared they were talking about you. And it turns out they were. This is not like you! What were you thinking?”

  He was right about one thing—it hadn’t been like me. Before. “I saved Mama’s cameo,” I said, touching it.

  “Margaret. Is that worth your life?” He sounded irritated. “And you don’t look fine. You look a mess.”

  I stiffened. Maybe I didn’t care so much about looking like the perfect lady every minute anymore. Maybe I wanted to look a mess now and then.

  He cleared his throat. “At any rate, you’ve got a guardian now.” He gestured behind him at Graybull. “I’m making sure you’re taken care of from now on.”

  George Graybull smiled, his tongue pushing through the gap in his teeth. Horror filled me. How could I possibly search for Mama now? He was to be my guardian—or my prison guard. I felt my face flush as my anger grew. “Papa, Mrs. Gale and I are managing quite well.”

  “Clearly not,” said Graybull, his cheerful tone contrasting the substance of his words. “Charles and I believe that you require a masculine presence.” Graybull tipped his hat toward Mrs. Gale, who gave him a cool smile but said nothing.

  “I can’t stay, Margaret,” said Papa. “I can’t accompany you, I won’t be here. I have business elsewhere.” He paused. “It’s my wish that you allow George to accompany you from this point.”

  I moved away from Papa and Graybull, putting a chair between us. My new taste for freedom had grown strong in a short time. I understood for the first time how Mama must have felt, why she rebelled. My hands gripped the chair back as I stood rigid behind it. “I’m helping Mrs. Gale. I do not need another guardian.”

  “Indeed she is.” Mrs. Gale faced Papa. “She’s been quite a help to me with my photography.”

  “Ah, wonderful occupation, photography,” Graybull said, addressing Mrs. Gale directly. “Particularly for a single lady. But I’m sure you’ll allow Margaret to finish her tour of the Park with me.”

  Mrs. Gale drew herself up. “Miss Bennet is free to do as she pleases.” I stood straighter, moving closer to Mrs. Gale.

  Graybull laughed. “Within reason. So long as her father approves.”

  Yes, I thought. Of course. Because I’m still young. Because I’m a woman. Because I have no say, no control. A bitter taste rose in my mouth. I had no choice in this.

  I knew what I should say, what I wished to say. I looked from Papa to Graybull, and then to Mrs. Gale, whose sympathy was obvious. But Mrs. Gale couldn’t help me now. I knew my place and my limitations.

  “Of course,” I said, my back as stiff as a board. “As you wish.”

  “Understand that tomorrow is your birthday,” Graybull said. He moved closer, until his arm touched mine. “We’ll have to celebrate in style.”

  I arched away from him. My seventeenth. I was so caught up with my quest to find Mama, I’d nearly forgotten. Tomorrow should have been the true start of my season, culminating with my debut in August. I should be at a ball, with Kitty, dancing with Edward. I felt a pang at the loss of my dreams. “I’ll keep my own celebration, thank you.”

  Graybull laughed as if I’d made a joke.

  Mrs. Gale moved toward Papa. “Perhaps, Mr. Bennet, you would allow Maggie to continue to assist me in my work. We could travel together with Mr. Graybull. I need photographs from other areas of the Park.”

  I could feel the blood course to my face as gratitude toward my mentor flooded me. Mama might not be here, but at least I had one ally in Mrs. Gale.

  “Charles, think I can manage the two ladies,” said Graybull. He pushed his tongue between his teeth.

  “Manage?” I said, my lips tight. Stable hands “managed” horses.

  He bowed. “Shall be sure you are well taken care of.”

  “I think that that will be a fine solution,” said Papa.

  I looked away. “I’m returning to my room for a rest.”

  “Then we shall see you for dinner,” said Graybull.

  I’d already turned to leave, when Papa touched my arm. “I’m relieved that you’re all right, Mags. I must leave straight after dinner. I’m sorry I have to miss your birthday.” He lowered his voice. “George Graybull is a powerful man, Margaret. He can make or break people.” Papa was trying to make me understand, almost pleading with me. “He has an interest in
you. It means everything to me that you return that interest, at least a little.” Tears welled in his eyes. I could see genuine sadness there.

  For a moment I remembered how he felt about Mama, and I understood his loss and his tenuous position. But he’d committed me to a prison. My anger at him returned and I wasn’t ready to forgive him for it.

  But I was still a dutiful daughter. Proper. I still understood the rules and I still obeyed. I might smash a porcelain pitcher or two but only in the privacy of my room. I nodded a single, tense nod; then I turned my back.

  Chapter TWENTY - SIX

  July 13, 1904

  She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.

  —The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton, 1905

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE MORNING OF MY SEVENTEENTH birthday, I sat at my dressing table. I stared at a dress that Mama and I had chosen together, and that was now hanging on a wood hanger from a nail driven into the log-paneled wall: a dress of the deepest blue velvet trimmed with ecru lace, with folds and gathers cascading into a train. The velvet reflected the light in the folds, and I touched it, feeling its weight and nap. I’d brought it west with me because my father had insisted. When Mina had been packing, I couldn’t fathom why he’d been so adamant about bringing this dress. Now I knew why; it was made for me, and far too expensive to be left behind.

  It was really much too fancy for the Old Faithful Inn, even if it was my birthday.

  On this birthday I had imagined I’d be back in Newport, with Kitty, maybe even with Mama, and enjoying the life I was born into, the life of an upper-class girl.

  I sighed and returned to my morning toilet and began the now unpleasant task of hooking the busk of my corset. Only a few weeks ago, I’d asked Mina to tighten the laces. While it helped my posture once I had it on, I hated having to inhale as I stretched the bones over my ribs and compressed my stomach. I’d hooked it halfway up when I stopped.