Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  A frown creased Mr. Talbott’s face. “His sight? Oh, old age, I suspect. He sees well enough, though, to get around.”

  Taylor was relieved by this and went back to noting every tiny detail of the man-bird’s person. She jabbed at his cheek, noting the leathery feel of it. The creature remained still, not making a sound. He only watched her, as was right.

  From behind her, and sounding as if something was funny to him, Mr. Talbott addressed the man-bird. “It seems our guest has taken quite a fancy to you, Bentley.”

  “Yes, sir. So it would seem. Help me, sir.”

  “In a moment, Bentley. Just don’t make any sudden moves in the meantime. Now, what were we discussing? Ah, yes. The young lady’s identity. By the way, Bentley, it might be a good idea not to call her an … well, you know. She doesn’t seem to respond favorably to that word. At any rate, she says she is Taylor Christie James.”

  Taylor was busy plucking at the man-bird’s garments, but she turned to Mr. Talbott. “No. I do not only say this. It is true. I am Taylor Christie James, daughter of Tennie Nell Christie and Charles Edward James.” She leaned in to sniff the man-bird and then tugged hard at his sparse hair.

  He startled her by shrieking and trying to fly. Taylor jumped back, retreating to Mr. Talbott’s side. She clutched at his sleeve as the so-named Bentley creature flapped his arms wildly and made strange strangled sounds as he retreated down the long hall and fled around a corner and out of sight.

  A deep quiet followed his disappearance. Taylor looked up at Mr. Talbott and saw him staring down at her. She let go of his sleeve and stepped back. Great amusement lit his face. Upset in the extreme, Taylor struggled to find the words to make the omens known to him. “You do not understand. The man-bird has had his feathers clipped. He cannot fly. And the crow has stolen his sight. This is because in the past I have scorned the ways of my ancestors, saying that their stories are not true. Rube warned me of the danger because I did not believe. This is a bad thing I have done. A very bad thing that does not bode well for those of us in this house.”

  Her true and serious words did not have the effect on Mr. Talbott that she desired. He grinned. “Well, I say differently, Miss James. I say this bodes very well.” He looked down the hall to where the man-bird had fled … and then back down at her. “Very well indeed.”

  Taylor didn’t agree with him at all. But she held her silence … and prayed in Cherokee for the first time in a long time.

  * * *

  Early that next morning, his sleep disturbed by the vexing problem that Miss James embodied, Grey lay awake and thinking in his big and comfortable bed, his hands behind his head, himself propped up on pillows and covered by a sheet. He’d already made his way mentally through the extraordinary events of last evening, starting with when he first stepped out of Charles’s house. And ending with the near annihilation of every living creature in his household as the maids had run shrieking and crying away from the bedroom that he’d assigned Miss James. The bedroom attached to his own, of course, so he could keep a close eye on her—at great risk to his scalp or throat, he knew, should she decide to creep through the small dressing room that separated his door from hers. That was why it was locked and he had the key.

  In any event, he’d had a devil of a time last night trying to convince her they meant her no harm or disrespect, that the two chambermaids were merely following his orders to show her how to use the plumbing in the bathroom attached to her bedroom. He’d told her in dire tones that either she could pay attention and learn and then attend to her own needs … or the maids would do it for her. Grey could still see Miss James’s eyes narrowed menacingly. He sighed, figuring he’d be damned lucky if he had any servants left in his house this morning. No doubt, they’d probably all cleared out last night. At least, the smart ones had. It was the only thing to do when a hellcat was loose in your place of employment.

  Grey chuckled, remembering how it had finally taken the frightened man-bird Bentley’s personal intervention to save the day … or what was then left of the night. Grey shook his head every time he thought of poor Bentley being relegated to the status of a spirit animal, as Miss James had again explained to him in private. But finally, with Bentley standing by and nodding, corroborating everything Grey told her, they had calmed Miss James enough to convince her their efforts were not part of some hellish conspiracy against her. And that their actions were motivated by the simple yet fervent wish shared by them all that she wash the, uh, trail off her, don a clean nightgown, and get into bed, for heaven’s sake. It had been after two in the morning before everyone had been able to each take to his or her own bed.

  With all that ordered in his mind, Grey turned his thoughts to the more serious questions of the mystery that surrounded Miss James’s sudden appearance in St. Louis and in his life. It was all so extraordinary. And unsettling. He had no idea who to turn to, who to talk to, about this. And why was that? Before today, he assured himself, he would have said that he had any number of family members or friends he could turn to in a time of trouble. But now? With this particular problem? No.

  Grey rubbed at his forehead, certain the headache forming there had more to do with such an eye-opening revelation as that than it did with the amount of whiskey he’d consumed last night. Very troubling, that’s what this was. But what exactly lay at the base of these feelings of isolation? Was it that he didn’t trust anyone with the secret of who Miss James really was? And if not, why not? Well, for one thing, Grey couldn’t be certain that unseen and unfriendly forces weren’t close by and at work here. After all, the young woman’s sudden presence here, when coupled with Charles’s story, was extraordinary. And if all that was true—and if Grey wasn’t simply manufacturing trouble where none existed—then he couldn’t afford to take a chance on confiding in the wrong person, someone bent on doing injury or worse to Miss James.

  Grey nodded and then froze in position. It was as if he had just heard himself, as if he had only now listened in on his own thoughts. Someone hurting Miss James? The very idea caused a burning anger in Grey’s chest. His hands fisted around his covers. Grimacing hatefully, he stared at a damask-covered overstuffed chair next to his bureau as if it had offended him. Someone will harm her only over my dead body.

  Grey forced himself to calm down. No one was going to harm Miss James. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his heart and mind were trying to tell him something that he was steadfastly refusing to admit to himself consciously. Then, he had it. He snapped his fingers. Well, I’ll be damned. That’s it. I believe the girl. It had to be true. He believed she was who she said she was. Otherwise, he had no reason to protect her. Protect her? Then he remembered.… Aren’t I protecting Charles by keeping her away from him? He’d certainly thought so until now. But apparently it was the other way around. Grey shook his head, hating these doubts creeping into his heart. He refused to give them a home. No. Charles wouldn’t harm a fly.

  Of course, that was true. Then maybe, Grey reasoned, neither Charles nor his daughter was a danger to the other—unless they were brought together and it became known that she was his daughter. Good God. Grey sat forward on his bed, his elbows propped atop his bent knees. A third party. Or parties. I keep coming back to that. Someone who seeks to harm them both. That has to be it.

  Strangely comforted by the idea of an evil third party, since such a villain absolved Charles and Miss James from being such, Grey shook his head, finally coming to the conclusion that on his own all he had was questions. And the only ones with answers—if he could get one or the other, or both, to talk—were Charles and Miss James. A chuckle escaped him. Last night he’d worked so hard to make sure the two didn’t meet. And now here he was, only a matter of hours later, trying to figure out how best to bring them together. But beneath all that, Grey still had no earthly idea why, in the first place, he’d confronted her last evening. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone and gone on about his well-liquored way, as he most certainly would have
done at any other time? It wasn’t as if involving himself in other people’s lives and concerns was his strong suit.

  That being so, what he ought to do today was bow out of this family squabble—which in all probability was all it was—and go wake her and send her on her way. Miss James loose in St. Louis? Seeking lightness in the midst of his troubling thoughts, Grey shook his head and chuckled. That wouldn’t be fair to the unsuspecting and innocent city my brother hopes to be mayor of. Grey ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. But isn’t Charles both of those things as well … unsuspecting and innocent? By all accounts, yes. Even so, why am I working so hard to protect him? He’s a grown man. He can handle a charlatan, if she is one.

  Grey stared hard at his sheet-covered toes as they poked at the covers. But not the truth. Charles can’t handle that.

  The thought was an unbidden and lurking one. Taken aback, Grey found himself staring at the mirror hung on the opposite wall. His frowning reflection stared back at him. Now why do I think that? Who says Charles can’t handle the truth? Aren’t I jumping to a lot of presumptive conclusions here, none of which are really my business? Immediately he dismissed that notion. But it is my business. My own family could possibly be in the line of fire. Then another truth blindsided him. Great Scott. I’ve put them directly in the line of fire by harboring Miss James here in my home. Whatever trouble she’s bringing to Charles will find her right here. I’m a sitting duck.

  Grey shook his head, watching his reflection mimic his every movement. Out loud, he said, “This is the final straw. I have got to quit drinking. And I have absolutely got to stop bringing home mysterious and beautiful Indians with me.”

  So he was back to the beginning. He could trust no one. Not Charles. Not the man’s daughter. Or anyone else, not until he knew exactly who had told such an awful lie that had kept the two apart and why he—or she—had done so. There could be no innocent reason that someone would do such a heinous thing.

  Grey shifted about irritably under the covers and went back to his original question to himself. Why in the living hell had he involved himself in the puzzle that was Taylor Christie James? This couldn’t merely be a vagary of fate. This wasn’t coincidence. Grey could not accept that. No, this was destiny, pure and simple. Somehow he personally was involved in this up to his eyeballs. Somehow the ramifications of her appearance would have significant effect on him and those he loved.

  He didn’t know how he knew that. He just knew that he did, in much the same way that he alone knew how fragile Charles James was, how broken and sad. To the world, the older man showed a brave face, a strong countenance, keeping his private sorrow just that … private. Only by drunken accident late one night at a men’s social club gathering had Grey been the one with Charles when the man had broken down and cried for a little girl who’d been lost to him years ago.

  On that night, even though Charles had not divulged many of the details or even why her very existence and then her death needed to be kept secret, Grey had sworn to Charles that his confession was safe with him. And it had been. From that bond had grown the deep friendship he now shared with Charles, despite his being so much older than Grey. And now Grey felt like a traitor to that vow just by having the man’s very much alive daughter under his own roof. What he should do was get up, get dressed, and go call on Charles. Then in the quietest way possible tell him what had transpired last night, gently break the good news to him—

  What if Miss James’s being here and alive weren’t good news to Charles? What if she was innocent of any subterfuge and merely sought a reunion with her father—and he didn’t want one? What if the simple but equally devastating truth was that Charles had lied? That he’d abandoned the little girl—and evidently her mother, Grey assumed—and couldn’t live with the guilt? And so had made up the story of his daughter’s death in order to deal with his guilt?

  In light of all that, what if finding Taylor here would push the man to violence against his daughter? Not wanting to be responsible for something that horrid, Grey couldn’t simply turn her over to him at this point, now could he?

  Grey rubbed at his forehead and then his temples. How irritating. He was back to doubting his friend of five years. Grey thought back to that night of the confession on Charles’s part, now analyzing every gesture and word he could recall of his friend’s. His conclusion was that Charles’s grief had been no act, no lie. Then Grey recalled Charles’s exact wording. Charles never said that he’d seen the girl dead. He said he’d been told, by a reliable source—one he hadn’t named—that his daughter was dead. Well, that reliable source … a term indicating someone trusted by Charles … had obviously lied to him. Or maybe that source was innocent and only mistaken, too. Perhaps this person had simply been repeating gossip as if it were fact.

  Oh, who the hell knows?

  With that, Grey absolutely gave up. He threw the sheet back, his troublesome thoughts driving him out of his bed. He sat on its side, his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands. Disgust creased the corners of his mouth. The truth was that the possibilities here were nearly endless and just as confusing—and frightening in their implications. Uppermost in his mind was … who was this mysterious person who had kept Charles and his daughter apart all these years with lies?

  Torturing Grey the most was the one question he’d been avoiding posing for himself, but one he was forced now to consider. The simple truth was that among the closest, most trusted people to Charles were members of Grey’s own family. His mother. His brother, Franklin. It was almost too chilling even to consider, but could the person behind all the lies be someone Grey loved and trusted as well? His chest tightened. But he couldn’t deny why he feared it could be true. The James family wasn’t the only one with secrets and unanswered questions. Grey recalled how he and his brother had grown up amid hushed conversations and stony expressions and tense dramas. Even now, there were some things his widowed mother wouldn’t talk about and questions she refused to answer.

  Grey stood up, stretching and yawning. His own mother. She was one person he would have to question. He would try to be delicate, of course. But his first question would be why she had initially taken to her bed and cried when Franklin had told her of his very honorable intentions toward Charles’s wonderfully sweet and innocent niece, Amanda—the daughter of Charles’s older brother, Stanley, and his wife, Camilla. Amanda. Grey froze in place, thinking Good God, she’s another innocent to be considered.

  He put a hand to his temple, rubbing hard and thinking just as hard. I am suddenly surrounded by people in jeopardy. Worst of all, he had no idea who was putting them in jeopardy or even which ones of them were. Nothing made sense anymore. None of the truths he’d lived with, none of the people he loved. They were all vulnerable—and all suspect.

  Grey reached for his trousers and began tugging them on. With growing certainty he knew his mother was the first person he should question … rather obliquely, though, without admitting that Taylor was actually here. With any luck, his mother may have all the answers and could clear this whole thing up. Grey chuckled, figuring his chances of actually getting straightforward answers out of her—a woman with an imperious manner and a backbone of steel—were about as great as they were for getting them out of Miss James.

  Just then, as Grey was closing the fly opening to his pants, the door between his bedroom and Taylor’s opened.

  Grey was stupefied. He’d locked that door. He had the key. He spared a glance for the bedside table. There lay the key. What the—? He pivoted around, eyes wide, his hands still on his pants buttons as the door swung inward. Who the devil?

  In stormed his answer. Miss James.

  “How’d you do that?” He pointed to the open door behind her. “Did someone unlock it for you?”

  “No.” That was all she said. Obviously the little heathen had picked the lock. But no explanation was forthcoming, to all appearances. And apparently she was unabashed at his near nakedness, as well as her ow
n. Barefoot, clad only in a high-necked and too-short white nightgown hastily donated last night by one of the terrified maids, and with her black and lustrous hair cascading all around her, she announced solemnly, “You have a thief in your home. My clothes are missing.”

  Grey shriveled inside. How to tell her he’d had them taken away … and burned. He moved his hands from his fly to his waist, planting them there. Without a shirt on, he felt at a disadvantage, whether it bothered her or not. And apparently it didn’t. As he watched, she looked him up and down. She then met his gaze. Her expression never changed. Amused insult seized Grey. Last evening she’d done the same thing. Looked him up and down and dismissed him. Apparently, this morning, she had again found him wanting.

  But she still awaited his answer to her pronouncement that he harbored a thief in his home. “I can assure you, Miss James, that there are no thieves here. Your clothes were not stolen. They were instead … taken.”

  She narrowed those wondrous blue eyes of hers. “It is the same thing.”

  Grey ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “No, it is not. They were taken on my orders.”

  She met his words with silence. A staring contest ensued. Finally, she spoke. “Then you are the thief. You did not ask my permission.”

  White man. It was there again, in her posture, in her attitude, on her face. Grey felt his patience growing thin. He was trying to help her. Only she didn’t seem to know it. Or appreciate it. Or care. “I had no need to ask your permission, Miss James. This is my house.”

  “And those were my clothes. I did not get them from you. They were not yours to take back. Order them to be returned.”

  This was getting tricky. He wondered if he’d need to call on the man-bird Bentley to restore peace—or his hair to his head—once he told her the truth. “I cannot. They were not … salvageable—”