Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “What is that word?”

  “Well, in this instance it means you won’t be getting them back.”

  Her expression soured. “Then I have nothing but this to wear.” She wadded up a huge portion of the thin nightgown in her hand and held it out to one side, succeeding only in perfectly outlining her very feminine figure for him. And showing him that she had nothing on underneath.

  Grey’s breath caught. She was magnificent. He had to get her out of his room. Now. “I promise you, Miss James, I will straightaway find you suitable clothes for going about St. Louis with me.”

  Toward that end, last night he’d ordered his housekeeper to the shops this morning, armed with what his hapless chambermaids, those who’d seen Miss James unclothed, had figured were her measurements. Hopefully, Mrs. Scott could find some decent shoes and ready-mades and unmentionables, garments of that nature. And hopefully the gray-haired bossy old creature would be here damned soon with her purchases. Because, if he weren’t mistaken, an Indian war was brewing right here in his own home, one he had no doubt he’d lose.

  “These clothes you will buy, are they ones the woman you intend to marry would wear?”

  Grey’s expression crinkled in confusion. Marry? Ah. He’d barely thought about that in all his thinking this morning. But apparently it was uppermost in her mind. Interesting. “I have no idea,” he hedged, “since you are not truly the woman I intend to marry. But the clothes will definitely be for you.”

  “Is there another woman you intend to marry?”

  Grey hadn’t expected that question and it gave him a bit of a start. “No,” he heard himself saying … and then adding, “I couldn’t imagine marrying anyone else.”

  His pronouncement startled him as much as it obviously had her. Her blue eyes widened appreciably. Grey’s hands fisted. He stared at his reluctant guest, seeing her now as a woman—a softly rounded, beautiful, and desirable woman. But someone who wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat. Someone whose culture and background were totally foreign to him. Someone who hated him for the color of his skin. Defeat swept through Grey, leaving him with a feeling of futility, of emptiness. She would never accept him—on any level. So why should he try? Why indeed. Grey quickly amended himself. “What I meant to say, Miss James, was that I certainly would not have come up with the scheme of passing you off as my fiancée if I were already involved with another woman.”

  She visibly relaxed, nodding as if his words finally made sense to her. “Then … I am she. These clothes, I will not like them. And I will not wear them.”

  “But you haven’t even seen them. If you’re concerned about fashion, you should know that I didn’t choose them. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to go about it. Instead, I sent my housekeeper, a very capable woman, around to the shops this morning—”

  “No. You do not understand. I cannot wear these clothes. I will give you no reason to call me a-qua-da-li.” She crossed her arms and stood there … stubbornly. “I have spoken.”

  Grey was at a loss. “Yes, you have. And I have heard you. But I have no idea what you said. That Cherokee word. I can’t call you … what?”

  “‘My wife.’ You will not call me that. I am not. And I will not wear the clothes of such a woman to you.”

  “I agree you’re not my … wife.” The word stuck in Grey’s throat. He’d never uttered it aloud in connection with himself. “But wearing the clothes—and you will wear the clothes—does not make you a wife in my society. Maybe it does in yours. But not in mine.” Grey crossed his arms, showing her that he could be just as stubborn as she was.

  She raised an eyebrow in challenge. Then her eyes narrowed to slits. “These clothes you will buy are the trappings of a white woman who has been bought by a man. I am not such a woman. I make my own way. And I will not wear them.”

  So it wasn’t differing fashion sense or matrimonial customs at all. It was prejudice. Again. That did it. Grey had a hangover, this was his house, and he hadn’t had his coffee yet … so naturally he roared. “You are half-white. And the half that is white will wear them, if I have to put them on you myself.” His gestures were as stabbing as his words were threatening. “Don’t think I won’t do it, because I will. And it has nothing to do with being bought. That’s patently ridiculous. But if you choose not to cooperate, Miss James, let me assure you that you will sit here in that nightgown for weeks on end locked in that very room.…”

  Stopping him was the realization that he was pointing at an open door. One he’d locked, one she’d opened … without the key. Well, then, that was no threat, was it? “Locked up somewhere,” he amended weakly, his roar petering out to a peep, “until I have all my questions answered about who you are and why you are really here.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Unless, of course, you care to give me those answers yourself right now.”

  Her expression impassive, she silently considered him. He noticed that her gaze kept sliding to his bare chest. Far from flattered, Grey figured she was merely trying to figure out where best to stab him to do the most amount of damage. Then she spoke. “I have already told you these things. Who I am and why I am here.”

  “You have told me nothing. Only what you wish me to believe.”

  Her chin came up a notch. Her lips parted, she meant to say something. Something scathing, no doubt, Grey supposed—

  The door to the hall opened. Grey jerked around. Bentley was backing into the room, a full breakfast tray in his hands. “Good morning, sir. I believed I heard you up and moving around. And since we appear this morning to be, ahem, short of staff, I took the liberty of bringing you the—great good God in heaven.”

  Bentley was, of course, now facing the room and its occupants … where, by all dictates of manners and morals, there should have only been one. The servant’s mouth was a perfect O that matched his widened eyes.

  Well, I’ll be. He does look like a bird, was Grey’s first thought, his anger evaporating. He roused himself, behaving as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “While I would appreciate your bringing me the great good God in heaven, Bentley, since I could use the reinforcement, I will assume you don’t mean that literally. Now, don’t just stand there, man. Come in. You’re just in time.”

  As Grey watched—suddenly realizing that here in the person of Bentley was someone he could trust implicitly … as did Miss James; how useful would that be to have someone in both camps?—Bentley’s pleading gaze flitted from him to Miss James and back to him. “I almost hesitate to ask, but in time for what, sir?”

  “Well, it’s nothing hair-raising. Sorry. Poor word choice. I merely meant you’re in time to settle an argument between me and my distinguished guest.”

  Bentley’s expression all but melted and slid off his face. “An argument, sir? Surely, I am not qualified—”

  “But you are. Infinitely so, since you seem to hold a lot of sway with Miss James here.”

  Bentley’s gaze flitted again to the quietly watching Miss James. “I assure you that I do not, sir.” His loud whisper held a note of desperation.

  Grey cheerfully ignored the man’s denial. “Put the tray on the table, Bentley.” He waited while the unhappy butler did so. “Now, while I have my coffee—no, I’ll pour it myself—you tell Miss James why she can’t go about St. Louis in her unmentionables.”

  A strangled sound came from Bentley. Grey turned away, making for the tray and hiding his grin. Yes, it was mean. He knew that. But he was a desperate man. And Miss James would do nothing to hurt Bentley. She revered him. Ignoring a twinge of what he refused to acknowledge as jealousy, Grey lifted lids on the various plates, looked over the choices, and then selected a piece of crisp bacon. Taking a bite and chewing, he turned curiously back to the silence in the room behind him.

  Miss James was in Bentley’s face. Literally. Her eyes were soft and doe-round. Everything inside Grey tightened. He stopped chewing. He couldn’t swallow. He admitted it—he’d give his eyeteeth and his entire fortune to have her look at
him like that. Just once.

  Telling himself nothing good could come of such feelings, Grey held off rescuing Bentley just yet, instead turning back to the tray and pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee. Sipping at it, he again faced the quiet twosome across the room. Settling his gaze on Miss James, Grey narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Perhaps if he could get her to accept one small thing from him, she’d then give in on larger matters. “Do you drink coffee, Miss James?”

  She tore her adoring gaze away from the chubby and balding Bentley to look Grey’s way, sending him an unmistakably dismissive expression. “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Would you like a cup?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Black.”

  “Good.” Well, that was one thing he knew about her. How she liked her coffee.

  “Allow me, sir … please … for the love of God.”

  “You’re in an awfully religious frame of mind today, Bentley. But no, stay where you are. I can manage.” Grey turned, thinking to pour her a cup, only to realize there was only the one cup—his—since the staff had been expecting only him to be dining in his room. Grey sought the duo’s attention. “Well, apparently, I can’t manage without another cup. Here. Have mine.” He held it out to her.

  She looked at the cup, then at him … as if he were a steaming pile of something she’d stepped in out in the horse barn. “No. I won’t take yours.”

  Grey exhaled, tiring of her unrelenting prejudice. “Which is it now? Because I’m white or because I’ve already drunk from it?”

  “Neither. Because I am polite and it is yours. I would not take your things as you have taken mine.”

  “Well, that’s put me soundly in my place, now hasn’t it?” Grey fumed—all the more angry for being embarrassed that she was right.

  “Please, sir,” Bentley interrupted. “Allow me to get another cup and saucer from the kitchen. I should be most relieved—er, pleased to be of service. I—” He stopped, as if choking on his own words. The man’s face paled. His eyes widened. “Oh, dear. This is most unforgivable. Perhaps it is because of the chaos downstairs. But I have forgotten until now, sir, that—oh, how awful of me. It was the shock of seeing, uhm, the young lady—”

  “Bentley,” Grey warned. Once started down that stammering road of his, Bentley could go on for hours and never get to the point. “I’m thirty-two years old and aging by the moment, man. Spit it out.”

  The butler fussed nervously with his hands. “Yes, sir. In all the excitement, you see, I forgot the true nature of my mission—besides your breakfast tray, I mean. And besides telling you that Mrs. Scott—oh, dear. I forgot that, too. Mrs. Scott has returned, sir, with the … items you requested. She said she would put them in … well, I’ve forgotten just where. But it’s not that which is unforgivable. I—”

  “Bentley, for God’s sake, man, I will give you a twenty percent increase in your salary if you will but complete one thought or sentence.”

  “Yes, sir. But you’re not going to be happy, sir.”

  “I’m not happy now, Bentley.” Grey spoke with deadly calm.

  “Yes, sir.” Bentley took a deep breath. Standing next to him, Miss James monitored every move of the little man. For his part, Bentley steadfastly avoided looking her way as he kept his focus on his employer. “I regret to inform you, sir, that your mother awaits your presence downstairs in the drawing room.”

  Chapter Six

  From the other side of her unmade bed, Taylor warily watched the heavyset and gray-haired old grandmother as the disapproving woman wrenched straight the unkempt covers of Taylor’s bed. She then set about putting package after package atop her handiwork. As she unwrapped each one, revealing a breathtaking array of beautifully tailored clothing in every imaginable color and fabric—but none of which Taylor intended to wear—the older woman took great care to announce to Taylor, in a loud and stern voice, what each item was and how and when to wear it.

  How rude of her to assume that Taylor would not know how to wear “proper clothes,” as she’d called them. And even ruder to assume that Taylor didn’t speak or understand English. Not only did she speak it; she could even read and write in it, her second language. Taylor wondered if Mrs. Scott could lay claim to the same accomplishment. Still, in the Cherokee way, Taylor said nothing, not even when the woman spoke loudly to her. Taylor was fairly certain that if one did not understand a language, one wouldn’t magically understand it if it were yelled at one.

  Beyond that, the woman could have smiled and been kind. She behaved as did the white missionary women who came to the Nation—the reservation, as they called it—with their God and their judgmental ways, intent on civilizing the savages and destroying The People’s way of life. With all that fueling her rising temper, Taylor became less and less patient with the woman’s useless chatter.

  “And this, young lady…” Mrs. Scott held up a corset. “Are you listening to me?” With an ugly expression on her face, she shook the heavy garment in the air, as if trying to get a response from Taylor. “Do you understand anything at all of what I’m saying, you little savage?”

  Taylor’s eyes narrowed. She had heard enough. She spoke for the first time in the woman’s presence. “I understand you. And yes, I am listening. That”—she pointed to the pretty be-ribboned garment the shocked and paling woman held in her grip—“is a corset. I do not intend to wear it because I do not need it. But if you continue to yell at me, I do intend to wrap that corset around your head and pull the strings as tight as possible and hold them that way … until you stop breathing.” Taylor finished with a smile. “Do you understand me, yan-sa? In my language, that word is ‘buffalo.’”

  The buffalo called Mrs. Scott dropped the corset onto the bed and ran shrieking from the room. Her waddling gait jiggled her large bottom unattractively under her brown skirt.

  With barely a raised eyebrow, Taylor marked the woman’s retreat. The door to the hallway slammed behind her. Taylor listened.… There was no sound of a key turning in the lock. This was good. It would only slow her down more to pick it open with her knife, and she didn’t have a lot of time. Nor did she believe that the mean and very rude Mrs. Scott would come back soon to bother her. That was exactly as Taylor wished. She meant to make her secretive way downstairs, remain out of sight, and listen in, if she could, to see why Mr. Talbott had said, “Son of a bitch,” an insult to himself as well as to his mother, when he’d learned she was here.

  Ignoring the clothes spread over her bed, Taylor sidled around the four-poster and made her barefoot way toward the closed door that opened onto an upstairs hall. Before she reached it, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. A flash of white. Gasping, she stopped and looked. She slumped in relief. It was only her. Or her reflection in a cheval glass. Taylor thought to bypass it … but something about the way she looked to herself stopped her. She stood in front of the glass, tilting the oval mirror up until her image was framed full-length. She tugged and picked at her nightgown. She frowned, pulled her hair back. In this gown, she looked like a child. And she had been treated as such—a young girl to be sent to her room while Mr. Talbott left to go speak with his mother.

  Taylor grimaced in frustration. She hated to admit it, but she had to change her clothing to that of the white woman. Not yet ready to admit to herself that Mr. Talbott was right, Taylor convinced herself that it was the smart thing to do. One wore the clothing that would protect one from danger. It was that simple. In this place, she would wear the hated gowns and dresses that would keep her safe. She did not need to stand out now, to be noticed. She needed to blend with her surroundings, like the fawn did in the woods, like the bird did in the tree. She needed not to be seen by her enemies, so she would wear their coloration in order to move about among them.

  Not be noticed? Taylor put a hand to her cheek and watched her reflection do the same. With her high cheekbones and long, straight hair of black? And her skin, normally p
ale—thanks to her white father’s legacy—now tanned to a light gold on her face and neck and arms from the journey here? How could she not be noticed? She looked herself in the eye, seeing the blue of the sky reflected there. The color in them startled her. Sometimes she forgot about them. But her eyes, like her skin, told their own tale. A white father. Half-breed. Because of her eyes, her own people had shunned her in The Nation. And here, among the people of her father, they would do the same … not because of her blue eyes, but because of her Tsalagi features given her by her mother. And because of the way she spoke. She knew her sometimes halting use of the white man’s language alone would cause her to stand out.

  Taylor tried to tell herself that the white people’s rejection of her wouldn’t matter to her. She had no need to belong. She was whole within herself. And proud of who she was. She raised her chin, glared at her reflection … and knew that wasn’t true. She wasn’t proud, and it did matter. She hated who she was, hated the blood that made her an outcast. A sudden and horrible anger invaded Taylor’s soul … an anger that cried out to be heard, saying it did matter. It mattered because she’d already had a lifetime of being different, no matter where she went. A lifetime of being called names, of being spit upon, of being thought of as less than people of a whole blood. It did matter.

  The anger that she refused to call hurt erupted inside Taylor.

  With jerking, slashing movements, she tore at the nightgown she wore, somehow fighting the white father who had abandoned her. Anger at Hammer for having taken her love and then abandoning her and for leaving her no choice but to now be among the white people fueled her jerking and tearing of the virginal cloth. Anger at her mother for sending her here had her stripping away every bit of fragile and delicate lacy trim across the bosom. Anger at Mr. Talbott for … everything—for stopping her last night, for bringing her here, for taking away her buckskins, which forced her into these clothes of a weak woman, had her heaving the innocent and now irreparably damaged garment over her head and tossing it away from her. It billowed brokenly and fell to the carpet in a lifeless heap of tattered cotton.