Faithful

by Janet Fox

  I’d spent my life being ordered about, following the rules, doing all that was expected. And where had that taken me? My future was unsure, my old life was in tatters, my family lay in ruins. Yesterday I acquiesced to Papa, and that awful Graybull would now follow my every motion with his penetrating stare. But here was one thing no one could order me to do. A new freedom, like an open door, blew in and I unhooked the corset and threw it on the bed. I buttoned my white shirtwaist over a simple, and much more comfortable, lace chemisette. I’d never have a waist as small as Kitty’s, anyway. At least it was my waist to do with as I wished.

  If I looked like I slouched, fine. I decided that I no longer cared what the others thought of me.

  “I believe the fresh air of Yellowstone agrees with you, my dear,” Graybull remarked at breakfast. “You look as though you’ve gained a few pounds. It’s quite charming.”

  I stifled a laugh. If he only knew!

  Later that morning George Graybull, Mrs. Gale, and I set off to explore the geyser basins and take photographs. Mrs. Gale engaged Graybull in polite conversation, mercifully giving me a ready excuse to avoid being close to him. He kept trying to slip to my side, and I’d stop and gaze into a spring or stare through the lens at the low play of water in a geyser until he moved off. I felt we played a cat-and-mouse game, and I was happy each time I gave him the slip.

  “You have a wonderful eye, Maggie,” said Mrs. Gale as we worked. Her tone was pleased, even respectful. I felt joy blossom at her praise. “You’re a natural artist. Look at the way you’ve captured the texture of that outcrop, and the tree branch in this one.”

  I could not suppress my huge smile.

  “How nice that you have this little hobby, my dear,” said Graybull. He examined his Park guidebook, carelessly turning the pages.

  I stared straight at him, my smile turning to ice. He was just self-absorbed enough not to feel the chill in my look.

  We watched Grand Geyser for much of the morning. It was a large and long-lived event—and to my immense pleasure Graybull could not be heard over the roar of the water. Mrs. Gale arranged for a surrey so we could visit the Handkerchief Pool in the mid-afternoon and witness for ourselves its well-earned name. Mrs. Gale had told me that visitors would toss dirty handkerchiefs into the pool, only to have them sucked into the depths and return to the surface moments later cleaned.

  We were to leave the next morning for Lake Hotel. Lake! In the excitement of the geyser basins and photography, and with Graybull hovering over my shoulder, I’d buried the urgency of my plan to visit Uncle John. But the prospect of being there so soon brought it all back—my uncle’s letters. My father’s lies. I knew Mama had loved Yellowstone; I was sure of that now, for I loved it and I recognized what she’d been trying to convey in her paintings. It was as if Mama were calling me and I could hear her with increasing clarity.

  I hugged myself as we stood in the soaring lobby of the inn. It was late afternoon, and the fire snapped in the massive stone fireplace, and we were heading toward our rooms to dress for dinner. Graybull pulled me aside. He waited until Mrs. Gale retired to her room.

  “I have a gift for your birthday,” he said, leaning close to my ear.

  I felt surprised and embarrassed. And more than a little horrified.

  He took my hand in his, handing me a flat envelope tied with ribbon. I opened it, slid out the paper, and stared in disbelief at the photo inside.

  “You should recognize him,” Graybull said, a hint of triumph in his voice. “Fine animal. My stable master telegraphed me that he has a perfect gait.”

  Tears clouded my sight. Ghost. Papa’s photograph of Ghost. “How . . . ?”

  “I’ve acquired him and had him transferred to my stables in upstate New York,” Graybull said. “He’s yours.” He laughed. “Again.”

  Acquired. Bought. “But, how did you know . . .”

  “Margaret, your father and I have had some conversations about your future.” I stared at Graybull. His tongue slid into the gap in his teeth. “I have asked his permission to court you, Margaret. He’s consented.”

  Graybull placed his hand beneath my elbow. I froze, feeling my skin prickle through the thin cotton of my sleeve. Acquired. Ghost had been acquired. I’d been acquired.

  I took a step backward, lifting my arm away from his touch. “I’m seventeen. Just barely seventeen.” I’d wanted a husband, a rescue, but at the hands of someone like Edward. Not like this. Not from George Graybull. I hadn’t had a chance to have a life. No season, no debut, no romance. Tom’s face flitted through my mind and yawning regret chased it. I’d follow Tom anywhere, wasn’t that what I had thought?

  “I’m prepared to wait,” Graybull said with a smile. “My sister can take you in as her ward until you are of age. She lives in Newport. You’ll be home. You’ll have everything you want, everything you need. I have an excellent income.” What perfect irony. My only option upon confronting my father had been calling on my grandfather. My grandfather who I knew would approve this match with Graybull with great enthusiasm. I was trapped in a tight net. There was still Edward, but did I even want that? Graybull touched me again; I flinched. “And your father, Margaret. Why, he, too, will have everything he wants. This job in Yellowstone, for instance. I’m an influential man, Margaret.”

  I understood just what he meant. Papa had said as much. My father’s future depended upon me. I stood in the lobby of the Old Faithful Inn, disembodied, holding the picture of Ghost in my right hand, diminished by the position that I held as a girl, as a daughter, helpless and unable to do as I pleased. I’d been sold, and bought. Like an animal. Like Ghost.

  “Of course.” It was the only thing I could say. I stared at the picture. Graybull was giving me what I’d thought I wanted. Papa was instructing me on what to do. I had to obey. “Thank you,” I added, my voice flat.

  He moved closer, so that we were face-to-face. I sensed his desire and felt my visceral response. Husband? To share . . . everything with him? He smiled again, but it was a smile of triumph, of conquest, not of love.

  Tom.

  “My pleasure, my dear Margaret.” Graybull reached out and took my left hand, then brought my fingers to his lips.

  His kiss sent me reeling, the pressure of his lips on my bare fingers. “Please excuse me for a few minutes,” I said, and pulled back, withdrawing my hand from his. “I’m . . . overwhelmed.”

  “We shall meet right here.” It was not a question. “Say, in an hour?” Graybull said with a smile.

  I didn’t plan to run to my room, but my feet moved faster the farther I was from the lobby. Tears streamed down my face and blinded me. When I reached the door I didn’t notice that it was ajar. I stumbled inside and felt a rude shock.

  A girl stood in the middle of my room with my blue velvet dress draped loosely over her own rough clothes, turning back and forth, gazing at herself in the mirror.

  Chapter TWENTY - SEVEN

  July 13, 1904

  Today, if you go to Bear Butte, you can still see the claw marks the bear made when he tried to climb it, and if the light is right, you can see the moccasin tracks of the woman and the little boy at the bottom. It is one place in the old Cheyenne country where women can go to look for power.

  —“The Bear Butte,” story as told by Jessie American Horse, a Northern Cheyenne

  “WHAT—?” NOW EVEN MY CLOTHES WERE SUBJECT TO manhandling. I was living a perfect nightmare.

  It was Kula. Kula who kept showing up around Tom; Kula who reminded me of something, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I’d seen her at the tent camp; I supposed Gretchen Mills had let her go, and now she worked here.

  Kula whirled, dropping the dress to the floor. Her dark eyes were wide with a combination of fear and defiance.

  Tears streaked down my face. “What are you doing?” Was she stealing, or just pawing through my things?

  Kula bent and gathered the dress in her arms, her long black braid swinging forward of her sho
ulder, her eyes never leaving mine. Her cheeks flushed and, as she regarded my tear-streaked face, her expression changed to one of puzzlement. “I didn’t mean harm,” she said, sounding perplexed. “I just wanted to try it.”

  I sank onto the bed. “Please leave,” I said, my voice breaking. I wanted to be alone with my misery.

  Kula hung the dress back on the hanger, her eyes still on me. “I’m here to do your room,” she said. She gestured at the bed, not yet made up, though it was late in the afternoon.

  “Not now.” I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Thoughts crowded my head. Mama wouldn’t have let this happen to me, a forced marriage, and to such a disagreeable man. Mama would have fought them all—Papa, Grandpapa—for me.

  Kula busied herself, straightening the room, picking up the towels that I’d tossed in the corner. “If I don’t make it right the management will have my job.”

  I sat bolt upright, my frustration spilling into pointless rage, which I unleashed at Kula. “If you don’t leave, I’ll make sure the management removes you!”

  Kula dropped the towels in the middle of the room. Her dark eyes shone with tears, yet she looked more angry than fearful. “Sorry, miss,” she said in a near whisper, and made for the door.

  I remembered Tom and how he hated the way I’d treated her; and, after all, my unhappy state wasn’t her fault. “Stop!” I said. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t be blamed for Mama’s disappearance or for Graybull. “Go ahead and finish. You must have had a long day.” I slid off the bed and sat at the dressing table, putting my head in my hands and letting the tears fall onto the tabletop.

  Kula worked quickly and silently tidying the room and making up the bed. I could feel her looking at me. I knew I looked a mess but I didn’t care.

  She came and stood by the table. “I’m sorry for mishandling your dress. I didn’t know it was so precious.” She didn’t spend an ounce on humility; but she did sound genuinely sorry.

  “You think . . . ?” I began to laugh, and Kula’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t about you. It isn’t about the dress.” Seeing Kula with my dress was the excuse I needed to let my wretched feelings flow.

  “Can I help, then?” I could sense her confusion at what must have seemed bizarre behavior. I felt as though I understood my mother more with every passing day.

  “No one can help me.” I dropped my head back into my hands. Kula didn’t move. For a long moment I sat, head bowed, feeling her eyes on me. I felt a shift inside; I was grateful for Kula’s presence. It felt like having Mina back, someone who didn’t care about how proper I was, someone who didn’t try to control me.

  “Is it for something special?” Kula asked, twisting toward the wall, toward the gown. “That dress?”

  I lifted my head and stretched out my fingers and rubbed the thick, soft velvet. “It’s my birthday. I should be wearing it tonight.” I didn’t say that I should also be preparing for my debut with my mother by my side. That I should be escorted to parties and balls by Edward—charming Edward—or any of the other eligible young men of Newport. That I should be giggling with my best friend, Kitty, at our joint ball at the end of August. Or . . . that I could be walking with Tom through the forests of Yellowstone. Instead I was half an orphan and a prisoner of circumstance and the trophy of a man twice my age. The velvet nap shone, and I let my hand fall against it, caressing it, before I looked up at Kula. “I’m seventeen today.”

  She smiled. “Happy birthday,” she said. She stood straight, and pressed the front of her linsey-woolsey skirt with the flat of her palms. “I’ll be sixteen soon.”

  I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. “You worked for the Millses.”

  “Yes,” Kula said. Her face darkened.

  “Is this a better situation?”

  She shrugged, looking away. Gretchen had been rough; but Kula was hardly a model servant.

  I shifted subjects, sensing her discomfort. “Kula’s a pretty name,” I said. “I’ve never heard it before.” I wanted to get on a better footing with her. We were so close in age. And Tom would appreciate my generosity. And there was that pricking feeling I had each time I looked at her.

  “My father’s choice,” she said. “He’s white but his ma was half native.” Tom had been right. Kula’s olive skin and high cheekbones spoke to her ancestry. “I expect you think your birthday should be special. Me, too.” She looked away. “Mothers know how to do things right, like birthdays.” She looked at me. “Mine’s gone.”

  I felt my throat close with grief. “Mine, too.” We had much in common, then. Our stations divided us, but still.

  “Ah,” Kula said, her eyes keen now, sharp like a dagger.

  We remained silent for a moment.

  “But that’s not the worst,” I said. No, not the worst. The one had led to the other. The loss of my mother had led to my imprisonment.

  Kula waited, regarding me.

  “I mean, that’s not what’s wrong now. Now my father is arranging my marriage to someone I don’t like.” Kula was a good listener. I thought about how much I’d missed having Mina, especially after Mama left.

  Kula looked at her hands, lacing her fingers together. “Is it that Tom, the geologist’s son? The one who stays at Wylie?”

  I sagged. “No.” Oh, how I wish.

  “Oh.” A flit of a smile crossed her face before she looked solemn again. “Is he rich? The husband?”

  I was startled. I might open up to her with my woes, but this was not the kind of question I expected from a servant. “Yes.”

  “Then maybe you can put up with him,” Kula said. “Maybe he’ll give you beautiful jewels. And more clothes like that dress.”

  I hesitated, not certain how to respond to her plain and forward talk. She was right. Graybull would give me everything: jewels, clothes, and position. Even Ghost. “But I want something else,” I said. Yes, that was right. I wanted something else. I wanted what I’d told Kitty—I wanted love.

  “I’d put up with him,” Kula said, and her face darkened again. Before she dropped her eyes I saw the flash of jealousy. I couldn’t blame her; my life must have seemed desirable. “I’d please him well, get him to give me everything I wanted. I’d never lift a finger again.” She laced and unlaced her fingers. “I’d get him to dress me fine,” she said, and nodded her head at the dress. “I’d do anything for a man who’d take care of me right. Lie, steal, anything.”

  I stared into Kula’s dark eyes. I found her statements shocking. She’d gone over the line. Had we been at home, she would have been let go on the spot. She was not my equal; she was not my friend; she presumed too much just by saying such things to me. Yet, here in Yellowstone, everything was different. And I understood what she meant. Jewelry, fine clothes, position in society—these had been everything I’d ever wanted. Graybull would give them to me, most assuredly.

  Edward could give them to me, too. He was sweet, he was rich. He would dote on me, put me on a pedestal, I would be his fine object. He would have made a fine husband for me. But I knew in my heart I never loved Edward. Liked him, felt secure with him, but never truly loved him.

  Tom could give me nothing. No money, no position. No Ghost, no grand house in Newport. Nothing—except the one thing I wanted most. Tom treated me as an equal. He spoke to me as if I had a brain. He would not put me on a pedestal, but stand next to me in the face of all fears so that I could meet them, with him at my side.

  He would stand next to me on the edge of the cliff and make it safe. He would be with me for the person I am, not for what I had or who my grandfather was. He was gentle and kind and with his love for all things wild—I smiled to myself—would not try to control me.

  Tom.

  “Remember, dear heart—nothing is more powerful than love.”

  Suddenly I knew what Mama meant. I knew that all the things I thought I wanted, all my Newport life, was worth nothing in the face of having real love. I’d thought I understood what I was telling Kitty thos
e many weeks ago, but now I felt it in my very core. I sat up straight and brushed the wisps of loose hair back from my face.

  “I’ll be going,” Kula said. “You have to fight for what you want, miss. No one’s going to fight for you.”

  I regarded this presumptuous girl, this honest and right girl. “You can come back in half an hour to finish up. I’ll be at dinner.”

  “Yes, miss,” Kula said with a slight smile. She curtsied perfunctorily and left the room, pulling the door shut quietly behind her.

  I looked in the mirror. Green-gray eyes looked back, eyes that brimmed with loss.

  I let my hair down and shook it loose down my back; then I brushed it and pinned it back up. I would, somehow, fight for what I wanted. It might take time to persuade my father, time to find the right way. But I had time. I dried my eyes and pinched my cheeks. I straightened the cameo—my talisman—that hung on a black ribbon tied around my throat. Now I was girded for my next encounter.

  Chapter TWENTY - EIGHT

  July 14, 1904

  But her passion swept every other thought out of its way. With dim agony and rage she began to perceive that she had been duped.

  —Lady Rose’s Daughter, a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward, 1903

  THE MORNING AFTER MY BIRTHDAY, WE READIED TO LEAVE for Lake Hotel. I began packing my clothes by heaping them in my trunk. I stood back with my hands on my hips. Hopeless. I needed Mina. I’d never even watched her attend to these details, and I felt stupidly ignorant. There was a knock at the door; Kula. The girl clicked her tongue when she looked at the mess I’d made.

  “That’s not the way to treat these beautiful things,” she said. She was chiding me. It was forward yet I knew she was right.

  “I’m not very good at it.” No, I was pathetic and dependent upon others.