by Janet Fox
“What ‘thing’ do you think he permitted?” I was irked and tired, and wanted to end this conversation. Permitted was a word I vowed to strike from my vocabulary.
“The mere fact that a single young woman was accompanied in the woods by a young man—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake! My father was there, too,” I interrupted.
“And poor Bill, God rest his soul. And, I might remind you, if you’d had your way, I would have been with you on your little hunting excursion, even without my father present!”
“That’s quite another matter,” he retorted. “We’re engaged.” Not for much longer, I thought to myself. I could almost hear Mama laughing.
“Well, Margaret. There will be no more of those shenanigans. Made some plans.” Graybull cleared his throat. “My sister will be here in a week. By that time your father should be well enough. You’ll come back to the East Coast with us. Leonora will take you in as her ward.” He looked at me, reaching for my hands, gripping them both in his. “This is one way I can keep an eye on you.” His tongue slid between the gap in his teeth. I had had enough.
I yanked my hands away. The surprise on his face was gratifying. “I’m not going anywhere with your sister, or with you.”
He hesitated for a moment. “If you’d rather wait until your father is back on his feet . . .”
“Not now. Not ever.” I began to smile and I stood straight and put my hands on my hips, defiant.
Graybull frowned. “Obviously, you’re tired. You look . . . disheveled. We shall finish this conversation tomorrow.”
I almost laughed in his face. “No, we shall not. Not tomorrow. Not ever.” If Kitty had been there, she would have fainted. If Mama had been there, she would have clapped.
His eyes narrowed. “Arrangements have been made, Margaret. Your father and I have an agreement. Have you forgotten your precarious situation? You are spoken for.”
“I speak for myself. My wishes are . . .” I paused. “My wishes are that I’m staying here, and I won’t marry you. I don’t want to see you again, in fact. Moreover”—I took a step away from him—“I plan to pursue a career in photography. I plan to be an artist. I don’t want to be engaged to anyone just yet. You were right. I am impulsive. And I’m going to do extraordinary things.” I enjoyed his expression of shock. In fact, I laughed right out loud at the look on his face.
He looked me up and down. “I’ve clearly misjudged. Made a grave error. Thought you were of the right class. Can see now I was wrong.” He drew himself up. “Tell your father I sever my ties, terminate the engagement.”
I thought I was floating, I felt so light. “Tell him yourself. We don’t need you.” I turned my back on Graybull and marched into the cottage. I went straight to my room and fell onto the bed, into a dreamless sleep, without even removing my muddy shoes.
When I woke, many hours later, I felt the pleasure of knowing that I had dismissed Graybull. And then worry crept back into me: I would have to tell Papa that I’d done away with his careful plans. No more Graybull; no inheritance from Grandpapa; we’d have to make our own way, here in Yellowstone. I sat on the stairs of our cottage staring out the window at the parade ground, chewing my lip, thinking.
I’d handled bigger things than this in the past few weeks. Wealth and society hadn’t saved my father—I had.
But I wasn’t sure if Papa could take such a shock in his state. And so, for a time, for his health’s sake, I put off having the discussion with him.
Two weeks passed before Papa was well enough to move about. I was relieved when the surgeon concluded, definitely, that he would not lose his leg.
I decided it was time. I sat by his bedside, took a deep breath, and began. I started with the most important thing. “I know you came to Yellowstone to find someone. And it wasn’t Mama you were looking for.”
Papa gazed at me, silent.
“Uncle John told me everything. About Mama, and the kidnapping, and the child. Everything.” I waited again. “Papa, I found the child.”
He tried to lift himself from the bed, his eyes bright, his hand grasping the quilt. “Mags . . .”
“Now, stay put and listen. It’s not the news you wanted. I’m sorry, Papa. She didn’t have a son. She had a daughter. Nat Baker’s daughter, Papa, not yours.” I watched him, anxious, as he lay back, sinking into the pillows, his eyes closed, digesting this news. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Ah.” He lay very still, tears dampening his eyelashes. Then he opened his eyes and reached for me, the tears slipping down his cheeks. “But I have you, Mags.”
“Yes, Papa, you do.”
“And you are so much like her. All I wanted was to have her back, in some form. All this time, I had you.” He closed his eyes again. “All this time. So. You have a half sister.”
“I do.” I didn’t need to tell him that Mama loved Nat Baker; I was sure he knew. I hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Papa, there’s something else. I sent Graybull away. I ended the engagement.” I leaned back in my chair. I hoped he’d understand; I hoped he knew that it was my life and he had to let me live it. I hoped he knew that I needed to live a true life with true love.
He did. His eyes were still closed, and he only nodded, but he also smiled.
Not many days later, on a brilliant August afternoon, Papa lay in the hospital bed, still weak, but improving, accepting the soup that I spooned into his mouth.
Mrs. Gale bustled into the room. “My dear, it is too lovely for you to stay inside. You go out. I have no work to do at the moment.” She shrugged. “No camera.”
I felt bad even though I knew she wasn’t blaming me. “I’m sorry I lost it. And all those pictures.”
“Ah, but now we have a reason to work harder,” said Mrs. Gale, perching in the chair next to the bed and helping Papa to some soup. “That is, I was hoping you’d become my assistant until you must return to school.”
I looked at my father. His eyes met mine, and then he reached for my hand. It was what I wanted more than anything, and my heart beat so fast I was sure he could hear it.
“Whatever you want, Mags,” he said. “It’s your life.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.” I paused. “So, then you aren’t angry with me about Graybull, Papa?”
Papa winced. “That man. That man might have been a mistake on my part.”
“Ah, I do believe I heard a rumor about him. George Graybull has left the Park,” said Mrs. Gale, leaning past me with another spoonful of soup. “I heard that he was caught poaching within the park boundaries and was asked to leave.”
I could not suppress a smile. Perhaps the bears would have their justice after all. I stood to leave.
“Maggie, before you go . . . shall I write to Edward?” Papa asked. “I owe you that much.”
“And say what?” I hadn’t thought about Edward for weeks. He—and Kitty—were the furthest thing from my mind.
“That you are free to become his fiancée,” Papa said. “He’d make a fine husband, Mags. Good social standing, moneyed family.” He smiled. “Even if he is a little—”
“Young?” I interrupted. “Papa, I am, too. I want to do things. I’m not finished finding my way just yet.”
“But Newport, your debut . . . What about everything I took you from, everything you wanted?”
I looked out the window of the infirmary. I could see the hot springs, the steam rising up into a crystal-blue sky. “I need to sort out what I want, Papa. But I don’t think it’s Newport anymore.”
Papa smiled at me. “Well then, go along, get some fresh air. I’m better than I look.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Mrs. Gale as I stood in the doorway.
“You should go to the stables. Your little mare is quite well, and may need exercise.”
“My little mare?”
“She belonged to Bill, God rest his soul. The park superintendent has given her to you, since there were no other claims.”
I walked over to the stabl
es and stood blinking in the warm sunshine, my mind at rest. Tourists wandered back and forth from the steaming hot springs, pointing at the elk that lay near the springs, basking in their warmth. There was a slight breeze, and the smell of sulphur hit my nose as I inhaled it deeply.
I felt a touch on my shoulder.
“Want to go for a ride?” It was Tom, leading two horses, already saddled. The familiar mare nudged me with her nose, and I leaned my cheek against her head. “Mrs. Gale said to get you out.”
She’d set me up. Good for her. Good for me, too.
Tom and I rode through the hills around Mammoth, talking only a little. We didn’t need words. From time to time we’d ride together, side by side, and then he’d reach for my hand, and our fingers would touch for a minute before we moved apart. I rode astride, in a split skirt that I’d made myself just the week before, with Gretchen’s guidance. My mare had a smooth little trot and a beautiful canter. I decided to call her Miracle.
For the next several days, we rode together every afternoon, until one morning when Tom called early while I was helping Papa in his convalescence.
“My dad and I are going down to the inn. Dad needs to work in the geyser fields. Your father said it was all right if you came with us.”
I looked at Papa, surprised. He was hobbling around the room on crutches.
“Yes! Go! I don’t want to see you back here until the day after tomorrow. John will be here this afternoon, and the surgeon said perhaps in two days I can leave this place. And a man needs a little privacy now and then.” He smiled at me.
I hugged him and kissed his cheek. I packed quickly, still not as neat as Kula or Mina, and met Tom and his father at the cottage door. We drove the wagon in a train of tourist coaches, reaching the inn near sunset.
Before dinner, Tom and I walked out to Old Faithful. I looked at the warm pools of algae that traced the outermost edges of the geyser runoff. I bent, touching the sinter, and looked into the water, teeming with life. Not treacherous, not lurking death, but new life, a birthplace, a beginning.
Mama had lost her heart here, and now I knew she’d lost it in all ways. She lost it to love, and to a magical place that defied description. And though I’d also lost my heart, I’d won my soul.
I framed the patterns of the algae in my mind, creating a picture. Then I looked at Tom, watching me. That shock of hair fell into his eye, and I almost reached up to brush it back.
“How much longer will you be in Yellowstone?” I asked him.
“I’ve got some time before school starts.” His eyes were on me, not on the geyser.
I cleared my throat. “Do you care for her?”
“For who?”
“For Kula.”
“She’s a friend. She’s a good friend.”
I felt his eyes on me; I turned my own away to stare at my feet. My heart pounded. “Do you have many, um, friends?”
He started to laugh. “Maggie, what are you trying to say?”
“I want to know. Am I a friend?” I asked. I looked up at him, at that impertinent lock of hair, at his smiling eyes. “A good friend? Like Kula?”
“More than that, I hope. More than good,” he said. He reached out to me and drew me to him. I looked up into his eyes, and he kissed me then, and it was like no kiss I’d ever felt. Deep and pure and filled with longing, as he pressed me to his chest.
My heart danced, like the sun on the Firehole River that ran beside us.
“Are you going back?” His voice was soft, husky.
“Where?” I asked, surprised.
“Home.”
I looked at the hills framing the geyser basin. I looked at the inn, and the white sinter mound, and the steam that pulsed from the earth. I looked at Tom. “I am home.”
Tom smiled. Impulsively, I took his hand, weaving his long fingers through mine, and then it was my turn. I brushed that lock of hair up off his forehead with my fingertips, pulled up onto my toes, and kissed him, unhesitating.
Old Faithful thundered before us. I felt the tremor under my feet, and a spray of warm water dappled my face. Steam swirled in the air around us; the wind whipped my hair into a banner. I pulled away slightly from Tom so that I could watch the geyser.
I leaned my head against his shoulder as I sniffed the air, and I closed my eyes, and I could not contain the smile that bubbled up from inside.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
“My narrative is finished. In the course of events the time is not far distant when the wonders of the Yellowstone will be made accessible to all lovers of sublimity, grandeur, and novelty in natural scenery, and its majestic waters become the abode of civilization and refinement; and when that arrives, I hope . . . to enjoy . . . their power to delight, elevate, and overwhelm the mind with wondrous and majestic beauty”.
—Thirty-Seven Days of Peril: A Narrative of the Early Days of Yellowstone National Park, Truman C. Everts, 1871
Faithful grew out of my love of and familiarity with the Greater Yellowstone. My husband and I have had property in the mountains of Montana north of Yellowstone National Park since we met thirty years ago. We fell in love with each other and with Montana, much as Maggie falls in love with Tom, and with Yellowstone, after she meets him in the Park at the turn of the twentieth century.
My research was conducted during many trips to the Park, and I was fortunate that the new Park Heritage and Research Center, located in Gardiner, Montana, opened while I was writing Faithful. I chose to set Maggie’s story in 1904 because the world was changing so rapidly at that time (automobiles and airplanes, moving pictures and women’s suffrage), and because the Old Faithful Inn, designed by Robert Reamer, who designed many of the most memorable of Yellowstone’s buildings, opened in early June of that year.
My husband and I lived in Rhode Island for ten years, and I’m familiar with Newport: the mansions, the lifestyle of the Gilded Age, and the Cliff Walk. The story of Maggie’s mother’s kidnapping is based on a true story told to me by a friend whose great-grandmother was kidnapped off a train (and later released unharmed) by a gang at the turn of the century.
I can empathize with Maggie’s desperate sense of loss over her mother and her desire to return to the life she had when her mother was alive. Maggie’s rebellion against the powerlessness she feels as a woman of her class and time echoes my own rebellious streak.
My master’s degree in geology allows me to write with a naturalist’s perspective, but there is something truly magical about Yellowstone. Nowhere else on earth is there such a collection of spectacular thermal features. Most of North America’s largest mammals, from grizzly bears to bison, roam wild in the Park. Yet what is gorgeous in Yellowstone is also frightening, from boiling hot springs lying hidden underneath tissue-thin crusts of silica, to the bears and bison that can pose a very real threat. I am drawn to the fragile balance of life and death in Yellowstone. I hope that Maggie’s story in Faithful reminds readers of that fragile balance and of the important place that love occupies in our lives.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Faithful was born as a vague idea while I was on a long hike with my husband, Jeff, whose probing questions and clear insights shaped the novel. Jeff is also the family cook, and his delicious meals sustained me though many a long working evening. And Kevin, my talented son, suggested the character of George Graybull, and thought I needed (rightly) to enhance Maggie’s romance with Tom Rowland. Thank you both.
My mother and father, Barbara and Dudley Stroup, did not live to see Faithful come to fruition, but they are ever present in my words and thoughts, especially my mother, who gave me the gift of writing.
My early readers were my critique partners, Kathy Whitehead and Shirley Hoskins. Their suggestions over many drafts including the last were critical to the novel’s growth. Thanks for being there, ladies.
Rachel Haymon and Kari Baumbach gave me careful and enthusiastic readings, and their ability to uncover the smallest of errors is humbly acknowledged.
I ha
ve tried to present Newport and Yellowstone in 1904 with the greatest degree of accuracy possible; any errors are entirely my own. The Yellowstone National Park Heritage and Research Center in Gardiner, Montana, is a treasure, and the museum’s curators, including Colleen Curry, were generous with time and energy, allowing me to view archival materials from 1904, such as the Haynes Guidebooks and the daily logs of the Park’s Superintendent. Additional Park resources include Carl Schreier’s field guides to the thermal features. Books by Lee Whittlesey, longtime Park historian, and especially Aubrey Haines, author of the two-volume The Yellowstone Story, served as the basis for much historical research.
Additional research sources were the Depot Museum in Livingston, Montana, and the Montana Historical Society in Helena. Kathleen Kaul gave me a tour of the Murray Hotel in Livingston, pointing out the original features of this 1904 structure, which gave me an even greater “you are there” appreciation for the period.
Jennifer Lancaster helped me with music selections. Sheila Ruble (also my source for things equestrian) guided me to the photography of Evelyn Cameron, who became the basis for the character of Mrs. Gale. John Fryer, of Livingston, painstakingly showed me the workings of an original long-focus bellows camera of the period.
I have many, many writing friends in SCBWI, at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, and in the debut classes of 2k9 and 2k10, whose support in countless ways makes it possible for me to do what I love.
Finally, there are two people whose contributions to Faithful are without measure. My agent Alyssa Eisner Henkin, who found Faithful and me and guided me through many revisions, and then sent the manuscript to Jennifer Bonnell, my guiding star and gifted editor; you clearly love and understand Maggie’s story, and have invested your hearts in helping me bring Faithful to a new level. Thank you, thank you.