by Forever Wild
“Christ, Gramps! What a thing to say.”
“You’d be out west now if it weren’t for me and my stroke.” The old man pounded the bed. “Damn this useless body of mine!”
Nat walked to the window, stared out at the small clearing among the trees. He thought, Would I feel more free, out west somewhere riding the plains? Or had the dream of going west after the war been only an escape? Eight years since the war. Eight years. And still he had nightmares. Of the black-edged letter from the War Department telling him about Dad. Of stumbling across the bloody field of Gettysburg and finding Jed and Pete side by side—brothers together in death as they had been in life. He’d barely made it to the end of the war after that without losing his mind. Those last two years had been a blur of hatred—of senseless battles that took his comrades, of killing.
Yes. The west had seemed an escape. He had wanted to run away, to live out his days on some isolated mountaintop. And then Gramps had had his stroke, and duty—and something else (the need to cling to the last remnants of family?)—had kept him here.
He’d no longer had the heart to be the teacher he’d planned to be. There was still too much anger and bitterness in him. He’d sought work that taxed his body, exhausted his strength, so that at night, falling into bed, he’d sleep without dreams.
“Are you sorry you didn’t go west, boy?”
Nat turned and shook his head. “No. Someone has to stay. I hate what’s happening, how the Wilderness is being torn up. But without industry, the towns would die.” He clenched his fist. “And, by God, if I can make enough money, maybe I’ll have the power to change things!”
“You’re getting on as clerk for old man Bradford?”
Nat paced the room. “It’s not the job for me. I’m used to working up a sweat, dealing with the men. Not counting sacks of flour or flattering a banker. But I have the feeling Bradford will put me in Clegg’s position when he retires. He’s taking me down to Saratoga with him on Sunday night. For a few weeks of business. Some deal with a banker. He wants me to be there.”
“Does that mean I won’t see you next Sunday?”
“Of course not. Bradford’s railroad car will pick me up at Ingles on Sunday night, after our visit. And while I’m at Saratoga, I’ll still arrange to come up to see you.”
“That’s a long haul. I don’t like to see you taxing yourself for me.”
Nat smiled mockingly. “In a pig’s eye, you don’t! I wouldn’t dare suggest that I could have someone else look in on you, bring you supplies, while I’m in Saratoga!”
The old man chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Hand me my pipe, boy. By the way, what about Bradford’s filly? You don’t talk much about her.”
“She’s fine to work with. Quick, smart as a whip, able as a man. More suited to the job than I am. But sometimes I can’t figure her out.”
The old man cackled. “What’s to figure out with a woman? You kiss ’em often enough, and give ’em a smack on the tail if they don’t behave!”
Nat laughed. “I think she’d have a fit if I so much as touched her hand.”
“She sounds like a cold bitch.”
“No. Sometimes I think it’s because she’s a rich girl, looking down her nose at me. And then I see a look on her face, and damned if I don’t think she’s afraid of me. That’s the thing of it. There’s something inside her that’s so gentle. And fragile.” He sighed. “She has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said softly.
“You’re not sweet on her, are you, boy?”
“Good God! I’m not even sure I like her! She always manages to rile me up, and then I lose my temper, and pretty soon we’re quarrelling.” He frowned. “I get so damned tired of the battles. One way or another, I always seem to be fighting a war.”
“Will you ever find peace, Nat?” The old man’s voice was gentle.
Nat rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I hope to God I do,” he said hoarsely. “I’m getting older, Gramps. I’ll be thirty-one in November. I feel as if I’ve lost my youth in the war, and there’s no time to get it back.”
“Hell, boy. What you need is a wife. You ought to marry and settle down. A good woman under the covers keeps a man young!”
“I haven’t found the right girl yet.” He picked up his hat. “I’ll see you next Sunday.” He kissed his grandfather on the forehead and went out to his waiting horse. He found himself suddenly whistling.
It was odd, but the only thing he could think about at that very moment was the blue-violet of Willough’s eyes.
“Mr. Collins, do you want a sample of this fern?” Holding her knife poised above the luxuriant growth, Marcy looked up at Ed Collins.
He grunted his assent and continued to peer thoughtfully at the young maple tree before him. He ran his fingers along the bark and rubbed his chin. He looks like a schoolmaster, thought Marcy, resisting the urge to giggle. They had spent half the day tramping through the brush, while Mr. Collins had made a great show of his knowledge of “woodland lore,” as he called it. What a silly ass, she thought. She cut off a frond of the fern and popped it into the special envelope he had given her, then stuffed the envelope into his knapsack, which lay on the ground. He cleared his throat. She knew what was coming. Another lecture on some plant that she had grown up with, while she forced herself to smile and pretend it was all new to her, so he wouldn’t take offense. He was a paying customer, after all. Still, she was glad she’d never made a try for him when she’d first dreamed up her harebrained scheme. She didn’t know how he was in the city, but in the woods he was less than useless.
She sighed. She regretted the whole stupid affair. Not that she didn’t still feel the aching need to leave the mountains. But the silly business about catching a rich husband, and then telling Drew about it… She sighed again, gulping back her tears. Drew. Cold and indifferent. He had drawn away from her since that day at the Opalescent River, when she’d cried. She longed for the devil-may-care Drew she had grown used to. The Drew she had laughed with.
Don’t be a fool, Marcy, she thought. It was just as well that they’d reached this pass. There was only a little more than a week remaining of the Marshalls’ expedition. It would be easier to forget Drew if they spent these last few days as strangers. She had even managed to talk Alonzo into taking Drew out fishing while she tramped the woods with Collins.
“Look at this, Marcy,” said Collins pompously. He tapped at the bark of the maple tree. “Look at these peculiar marks. Like torn spots, but quite regular in size and shape. A disease, no doubt, that has attacked the maple. I’ve seen carbuncles like these on a crabapple tree. Perhaps we ought to take a sample of the bark.”
Oh, bosh! she thought. Paying customer or not, she couldn’t listen to any more twaddle! “It’s squirrels,” she said dryly.
“Squirrels?”
“In the spring they like the maple sap. They chew through a bit of the bark, then scoot down a ways and lick up the sap as it flows. They use their front teeth to gnaw—that’s why all the cuts look the same.”
“Oh.” He laughed sheepishly. “I guess you figure us all for fools. Though I suppose Lewis is familiar with this.”
“How did you come to know the Marshalls? Did you study with Dr. Marshall at his college?”
“No. They’re friends of my father’s. After I left Harvard, I began to take an interest in botany. Dr. Marshall very kindly guided my studies.” He mopped at his forehead. “God, it’s hot! I’m mighty sorry I lost my top hat in the rapids.” He examined a tear in his trousers. “I should have listened to Drew and worn old clothes.” He shook his head. “I think Drew has owned that coat and waistcoat since our days at school together!”
“Drew went to Harvard College?”
“Yes. We took rooms in the same house.”
“Uncle Jack says it takes a heap of money to go to that school. Drew must have had a fine benefactor.”
Collins chuckled. “He did. Ever hear of the MacCurdy Ironworks?”
/> “Of course. After they closed the furnace at Tahawas, a lot of the men started going over to MacCurdyville to work. He owns a lumber mill down at Glens Falls, too, I think.”
“Who does?” Collins was smiling broadly.
“The…the owner.” She frowned. “I think his name is…” What was it? Bingham? No. Bradley? “Brad…Bradford!” she gasped aloud.
“The very same. Drew’s daddy.”
She rocked on her heels and sat down hard in the clump of ferns. A Bradford! And all that talk about the “poor artist” who couldn’t support a wife—it must have been part of the game for him! Tarnation! There was no reason why they couldn’t get married. She could change his mind. They’d be good for each other. She could make him see that. She nearly laughed aloud, her heart singing with joy. And all this time she’d been afraid to let herself love him, thinking that marriage was impossible for him.
She got to her feet and grinned, brushing the leaves from the seat of her britches. “Are you just about set to go back to camp, Mr. Collins?” She wanted to see Drew. To tell him what was in her heart. She almost ran back to their campsite; Collins, gasping for breath, begged her to go more slowly.
Drew was sitting on a rock, drawing pictures in the sand with a long stick, when they emerged into the clearing.
Marcy knelt beside him, smiled brightly up at him. “How was your fishing?”
He shrugged. “We came up empty-handed. Unless the others were luckier, we’ll have to settle for flapjacks and salt pork for supper.”
“Alonzo doesn’t know the good fishing holes. Remember how many trout you caught the day you and I went out?”
His blue eyes were cold. “Just luck.”
“No. You said I was a siren, tempting all the fish.”
He stood up and erased his sand drawing with the tip of his boot. “Did I? I don’t remember.”
She looked longingly up at him. “Do you want me to pose for you right now?” She smiled with what she hoped was a seductive expression. “I promise I won’t talk, so you can draw my mouth.”
His lip curled in disgust. “What’s the matter? Didn’t Collins take the bait?”
“What are you talking about?”
He flung the stick into the lake. “I didn’t really think I was the only one who went fishing this afternoon. You managed that very well—being alone with Ed.”
She felt her heart sink at the anger in his voice. “No. Drew…please…” she said softly. “You don’t understand…”
“I’m going for a walk,” he said. “Alone, if you don’t mind. Tell Old Jack I’ll be back in time for supper.” He turned on his heel and strode off down the trail.
She felt like crying. If she could only take back that day at the river. She thought, We’re right for each other. I know it!
But it would never happen if she couldn’t break through that wall he’d put up. Maybe tomorrow she’d think of something.
One morning several days later Drew was alone, sketching as usual, but the work was not going well. He threw down his charcoal and cursed. He couldn’t concentrate today. Most of the others were gone for the whole morning: Heyson and Stafford and their guides hunting for grouse, the Marshalls and Collins on a trek up the side of Mount Haystack, Old Jack off to Clintonville for fresh supplies. He didn’t know where Marcy was, and he wasn’t sure he cared. He stood up and stretched.
The view was beautiful from here. The sandy beach where they’d camped was on the edge of a calm, shallow bend of the Ausable River, which formed a glassy pool. He could hear the faint roar of a waterfall in the distance (Old Jack had said they’d have to carry the boats around the falls), but this spot was serene. Then why couldn’t he concentrate?
Well, perhaps he’d follow the river for a while, see what the falls looked like; the exercise might clear the cobwebs from his brain.
The “carry” was some yards back from the riverbank; following the well-beaten path, he could only catch glimpses of the river as it flowed along, picking up speed. He saw a patch of white water; then the trees obscured his view again. The roaring increased in intensity. He knew he must be very near the falls now. The path dipped sharply down, and suddenly he was in the open again, below the waterfall.
“My God,” he whispered and stepped back into the shadow of the trees.
Below the falls was a foam-filled pool. Marcy was there, washing her hair. Naked. The morning sun glinted on her firm young body, and when she stepped under the falls to rinse her soapy hair, the water cascaded off her breasts, setting rainbows to arching in the sun-touched spray. Her skin was radiant and tanned; her wet hair flowed down her back and glowed like burnished mahogany. He caught his breath, enchanted—and disturbed more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t stand here all day watching her. Quietly he turned about and retraced his steps.
Damn her! he thought as a sudden idea crossed his mind. Had it been deliberate? Had she wanted him to see her? He remembered he’d told her, half joking, that that was the way to catch a man. Was that exhibition meant for him?
But why? He’d made it clear enough he had no money. She didn’t know about his father’s “conditions,” and he wasn’t about to tell her. Maybe she didn’t care about a rich husband. He shook his head as if to rid it of all the confusion. None of it made sense. She seemed to be a naive innocent—a child of nature. Was that false? She had responded to his kisses; he was sure of it. Dammit, he was sure of it! But…maybe that was false. And the last time he’d kissed her. Her tears. The pain and grief in her eyes. Surely that hadn’t been false.
He sighed and leaned up against a tree. And this nonsense about catching a rich husband. He’d treated it as a joke at first. She was so young. So stubborn, with a crazy idea fixed in her head. But maybe her desire ran more deeply than he thought.
He plucked morosely at a leaf. If he could only pick and choose those traits that drew him to her—to say to himself these qualities make the real Marcy—and reject the others, separate the ambitious Marcy from the girl he’d grown to love.
Love. How easily the word had come into his thoughts. Love. It had never crossed his mind before. All the pretty New York belles he’d courted and kissed. And bedded. But they never laughed, any of them, the way Marcy laughed. They never wept at a sunset or whistled back to a loon. They pouted over a torn hem and squealed at the gift of a lace handkerchief, though their sachet-scented bureaus might be stuffed with a hundred lace handkerchiefs. And Marcy wanted to be like that? It didn’t seem to fit, somehow.
Yet when she spoke about leaving the mountains to go to the city, there was a dark intensity in her that was almost frightening. It wasn’t just a passing fancy. It was a hunger. He frowned and stared at his hands, smudged from his charcoal. A hunger he couldn’t begin to satisfy.
She had the right idea. Ed Collins or even Heyson could give her what she wanted, though all her joy and laughter might be stifled in their staid, conventional world. Yes. That was the best course for her. God knows a struggling painter couldn’t offer her anything.
But why had she begun to tantalize him? He was almost sure he wasn’t imagining it—the coy smiles, the girlish giggles, the sidelong glances and sighs these last few days. It was so artificial it made him sick. He wanted to grab her, and shake her and shake her until the mask fell away and tears sprang to her eyes. And then he’d kiss the tears away and hold her in his arms and—
Oh God! he thought. Let me just get out of here. Get to Paris. Before I go mad with wanting her!
He groaned, remembering. That body. That beautiful body, caressed by the river, kissed by the sunlight.
“Get out of my life, Marcy Tompkins,” he whispered. “Get out of my life!”
And keep her out of his life he did, until two days before the end of the trip. Marcy was in total despair.
“Oh, Uncle Jack, I’ve lost him!” She sat down on a moss-covered log and buried her face in her hands.
“What’s that, girl?” Old Jack squinted at the twilight sky, ad
justed the brace of rabbits on his shoulder, and leaned on his upright rifle. “Lost who?”
She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t know what to do. And it’s too late! I only have tomorrow and the next day. And then he’ll be gone forever!”
“Tarnation, girl! Who?”
“Drew.”
“I thought you two got along just fine.”
“Not anymore. I…said something. A couple of weeks ago. And now I’m sorry. But it’s too late! I’ve tried every way I could think of, but he’s just…”
“Is that why you said you’d come out with me?”
“I had to talk to someone. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well, if we’re going to talk for a bit, you’d better fetch out your pocket lantern. It looks like it’ll be dark before we get back to camp.”
She pulled from her pocket a small copper lantern and a candle. Unfolding the lantern, she inserted the candle, then brought out a box of matches. “I don’t think we need it yet.”
“All right. Now tell me about Drew.”
“It’s just that…” She felt herself blushing. “He’s the one I want to marry.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No. I was going to, and now…now he’s angry with me and I can’t talk to him and now I’ll lose him!” She had begun to cry again.
“Dag nab it, girl, tell him!”
“I’ve tried every which way I can, and now we’re going home the day after tomorrow! What’ll I do, Uncle Jack?”
He shook his head. “The only way I know to catch a man and keep him hooked is at the end of a shotgun!”
Her eyes widened in astonishment. “I’ll be jiggered! Why not?”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No. Listen, Uncle Jack. You know how Mrs. Marshall has behaved toward Drew all summer long. Like he was some sort of scoundrel. Well, since tomorrow’s our last full day, Drew wants to spend it on the island in the middle of Clear Pond. He thinks he can get a good view of Owls Head from there. I said I’d go with him.” She gulped. “Though I don’t think he wanted me,” she added unhappily. “Anyway, why can’t I…cast our boat adrift when he’s not looking? You can keep the rest of ’em from looking for us until it’s too dark. Then, in the morning, when you find us on the island, you can make a big fuss about our being together all night. Alone.” She looked down at her hands, ashamed of her own wickedness. “You know what I mean,” she said softly. “And Mrs. Marshall will raise the cry and then…then he’ll have to marry me!”