It seemed to. H.L. went on enthusiastically, “After we see the Arts buildings, we can visit the Transportation Building. It sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn’t it?”
Rose didn’t think so. She thought it was gorgeous, even if it didn’t fit precisely in with the other buildings. Although she realized her opinion didn’t matter in the overall scheme of things, she voiced it anyhow. “I think it’s lovely.”
H.L. grinned down at her as if she’d just done something wonderful.
“Yeah. So do I.”
This was a commendation she hadn’t expected. Her unruly heart leaped happily. Sternly admonishing it to be still, she said, “And it doesn’t look at all out of place, either. Rather, I think it adds something.” Was that stupid? Probably. Rose sighed.
“I think so, too.”
She cheered up.
“H.L. pointed to the Grand Basin. “There’s a wooded island in the middle of one of the lakes that you’ve got to see. This is only one of the many lakes, fountains, and waterways around the Exposition.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll take you to see the Wooded Island one of these days, too.”
“Um, what is it? The Wooded Island, I mean.”
“It’s an island with woods on it.” H.L. guffawed.
Rose frowned. “Yes, I understand that, thank you very much.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to tease you.”
Rose would believe that one when hell froze over.
“The fair directors named it the Wooded Island. It’s supposed to be representational of how frontier folks lived when America was first colonized.”
“Oh. I see.” Shoot, she could demonstrate how frontier folks lived right this minute, if anybody really wanted to know. Rose didn’t think it was such a glorious thing to live on the frontier and have to scramble to put food in your children’s mouths, but she guessed she’d better not bring it up right now. “That sounds interesting.”
Concluding that she hadn’t really fibbed, and that it might be entertaining to contrast how the first American pioneers lived with how modern-day American pioneers lived, Rose didn’t scold herself. She did expect that most of the first American pioneers might have had a more noble purpose in their hearts than lots of the folks she’d met in Kansas, many of whom had fled west to escape the law. Kansas was mighty rough in spots. “I’d like to see it.”
“Good. We can do that another day.” He sounded pleased with himself.
“Right now, we’re taking in Fine Arts. You said you like to go to museums, right?”
Actually, she didn’t recall saying that at all, but she didn’t argue.
“Right.” She was particularly fond of the Natural History Museum she and Annie had visited in New York City, but she had a vague notion that not all museums housed stuffed elephants and displays of African artifacts and the like. Fine Arts, for instance, didn’t immediately bring to Rose’s mind images of tanned buffalo hides or Zulu war drums. She didn’t mention her musings to H.L., suspecting he’d mock her.
“This place is great,” he said warmly. “There are some magnificent paintings in here.”
“Ah.” So. It was one of those kinds of museums. Rose supposed she should have guessed, since it was called the Fine Arts building. But if this structure housed fine arts, what did the Liberal Arts building hold? Art that wasn’t so fine? These nuances were confusing to a country girl. In the interest of self-preservation, she didn’t say that, either.
“Here we go,” H.L. said, leading Rose up to the magnificent Fine Arts Building. “The building itself is a work of art, as you can see for yourself.”
Rose didn’t doubt it, although she wasn’t all that eager to enter it. Not that she didn’t want to learn what fine arts were. But a fellow vigorously waving a baton was conducting a brass band on a covered bandstand in a spirited musical offering. Rose liked it a lot and didn’t want to miss the finale of the piece.
Because the high-pitched, tuneful piccolo part appealed to her so strongly, she placed her other hand on H.L.’s arm as he reached out to open the door. “Do you mind waiting to hear the end of this piece, Mr. May? It’s so—lively.” She hoped that didn’t sound idiotic.
“It’s lively, all right.” H.L. chuckled. “Sure. Why not? We have all day. Almost.”
H.L. May’s chuckle did something to Rose’s insides that she didn’t trust. He did, however, stop in his headlong pursuit of fine arts. Actually, he didn’t even seem put out with her, so Rose guessed she hadn’t done anything too appalling or low-class.
“That’s a great band, isn’t it?”
Surprised by his seemingly easy acceptance of this alteration in his plans for their day, Rose glanced up to study his face. He appeared perfectly cheerful. “I think they’re wonderful.”
There. She’d offered a firm opinion on something. She felt rather as if this were a test of her ability to perform in the world outside of the Wild West. If he didn’t make fun of her, perhaps she’d dare to be a trifle more forthcoming in stating her opinions in the future.
“The conductor—see him there? The fellow who’s bouncing up and down and waving that baton?”
“Yes. Of course.” Rose had even known the leader of the band was called the conductor, although she was certain H.L. wouldn’t understand her pleasure in the knowledge. But Deadwood boasted a brass band and, while the conductor thereof didn’t direct his musicians with a revolver, as the conductor of the Dodge City Brass Band was reputed to do, Rose had enjoyed their music on many occasions. In truth, she was glad the Deadwood conductor didn’t find it necessary to conduct with a revolver. Life in Kansas was already too perilous, and surely listening to pretty music didn’t need to be a dangerous affair.
H.L. nodded at the conductor. “His name’s John P. Sousa, and he writes a lot of the music his band plays, primarily the marches. I think he wrote that piece. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s called ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever,’ and it’s being introduced here, at the Exposition. Nobody’d ever heard it before this Fair opened.”
“My goodness.” Here was another discovery for her to ponder. First it had been the invention of foods, and now it was the invention of musical compositions. She guessed there was a lot to life, if a body had time to appreciate it.
All at once, she experienced an aching longing to bring her mother to Chicago and show her the fair. Her poor mother hadn’t been allowed to experience very much of life aside from the difficulties it afforded a woman on the frontier. Rose would love to be able to present the world to her, as H.L. was presenting it to Rose.
Now there, she thought, was an interesting concept. Sneaking another peek at H.L.’s face, she decided maybe he wasn’t so frightening a fellow after all. As long as she could guard herself against making more out of his attentions than was there, she could undoubtedly benefit greatly from his willingness to introduce her to new things. Then she could relate her experiences to her mother via letters.
Rose wasn’t great with words, but she knew herself to be adept at creating pictures with them. She tried hard to develop this skill, since it was through her that Mrs. Gilhooley was seeing the world. She hoped that with enough urging, Mrs. Gilhooley and Rose’s two younger sisters would agree to visit Rose and the Columbian Exposition before it closed.
The band, with the piccolo’s part soaring along above every other instrument—Rose got the impression of a small bird flying over a herd of cattle—came to the thrilling conclusion of their musical offering. Rose was pleased when several people who’d stopped to listen applauded. Believing the musicians and their director deserved the applause, Rose added her accolades to theirs. She found it a joy to be on the giving end of applause for a change.
When she turned to continue on her way to the Fine Arts Building, she was embarrassed to find H.L. smiling at her, his overall expression that of a man whose pet had performed some kind of trick to his satisfaction. She said tartly, “What?”
“What what?”
“Like what?”
He appeared far too innocent, and Rose frowned, not believing the pose for an instant. “Like I’m a performing bear in a circus and you just taught me a new trick.”
He threw his head back and laughed as he held the door open for her.
Rose frowned as she passed by him and entered the building. She didn’t think it was funny.
“Miss Gilhooley, you’re priceless.”
She was, was she? Rose didn’t know what to think about that, so she only murmured, “Hmmm.”
H.L. was still grinning when he led the way into the main chamber of the building. Rose blinked, amazed by the size of the room, the number of paintings hanging on the walls, and the many sculptures set here and there on the floor.
“This is a great exhibit,” H.L. said as he, too, paused to take everything in. “You can probably tell that the fair directors got artists from all over the world to contribute their work.”
“My goodness.” Actually, Rose couldn’t tell that, but she believed H.L. when he told her so. If she were an artist, she’d like to have her work exhibited here.
“Look. Over here we have a painting by Michel. He’s French. The French are big in the fine arts department.”
“Ah.” So. Fine arts were paintings, were they? And statues, too, from the looks of this room. “Good Lord!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Really.” Rose felt herself blush from the tips of her toes to the part in her hair. Why, she wondered but would never ask aloud, did artists seem to enjoy painting and sculpting ladies with no clothes on? A surreptitious peek around at the other fair attendees who were ogling the artworks gave her to understand that most of them weren’t shocked or offended by these naked renderings. She wanted to fan herself, but didn’t dare, for fear H.L. would snicker at her small-town ways. Unwilling to further expose her lack of sophistication, and annoyed with herself for her unintentional gasp of surprise, Rose opted to keep her lips pressed tightly together.
H.L. didn’t seem to take much note of her outburst, thank goodness. He said, “And there’s a lot of Spanish stuff in here, too, although most of the artwork was done by Americans. This is an American fair, after all.”
“Yes.” She squinted up at him, perceiving an opportunity to direct the conversation away from her faux pas. “You must have haunted this fair, Mr. May, to be so knowledgeable about everything in it.”
He chuckled again, and Rose wished he hadn’t. She scolded herself for giving him the opportunity to chuckle, in fact, because every time he did it, hot shivers chased themselves up and down her skin, and her heart did funny things in her chest. This was undoubtedly a terribly improper reaction to H.L. May on her part, and one Annie would be horrified to be told about.
Reminding herself to keep Annie’s advice about men in mind at all times, no matter what her bullheaded heart did behind her back, Rose snapped, “Well? Did you get to see the exhibits before the fair opened? I mean, was that part of your newspaper job or something?”
“Actually, no. However, I do have a pamphlet the Fair directors published before the Exposition opened. It tells about everything that’s being exhibited here. This is the largest World’s Fair ever put on. It’s colossal.”
Rose presumed that meant big. She didn’t ask, but mentally jotted colossal down in her internal notebook, along with obsolete. If she and H.L. visited a comfort station today, she’d write them both down in the real notebook she’d thought to stick in her handbag before she set out on today’s excursion.
“Look over here, Miss Gilhooley. You’ll probably find this interesting. This artist, H. Buck-Brown, is famous worldwide these days. Do any of these scenes look familiar to you?” He gestured at a large plaster statue of an Indian and a buffalo and then at a painting of soldiers on the western plains.
They sure did look familiar, although Rose was impressed by the overall neatness of Mr. Buck-Brown’s renditions of western life as she’d known it in Kansas. Not to mention the beauty of the scenes he depicted. Rose didn’t remember anything beautiful about her Kansas home. If one were to judge by Mr. Buck-Brown’s notions of life on the frontier, one could be forgiven for concluding that the West was a virtual paradise.
“Um, I don’t recall the prairie being that pretty.”
He gave her another one of his velvety chuckles. Rose held her breath. “That’s because it’s old hat to you.”
“Old hat?” Instantly, her attention was jerked from the thrill of his voice to a new, and hitherto unknown to her, figure of speech.
“That means it’s because you lived there and were used to it. It was all new and fascinating to Buck-Brown when he traveled out west. And he probably went with the express purpose of creating works of art, too. I think artists tend to infuse romance into reality and make things look better than they really are sometimes.”
Even though there were some words in H.L.’s explanation with which Rose wasn’t familiar, she understood what he was saying. She felt slightly encouraged. “Yes. I see what you mean.”
By the time Rose and H.L. toured the Fine Arts Building and the Liberal Arts Building, Rose was beginning to sort out the different definitions of the arts in her head. Fine Arts were paintings, drawings, sculptures, and so forth. Liberal Arts included the writing of books and poetry and the study of history and language.
Did music fit in there somewhere? She didn’t believe she could conscientiously assume, simply because Mr. Sousa and his band were playing on the bandstand outside the Arts Buildings, that music was a liberal art. And where did mathematics enter into all this? Or was math a science? Fiddlesticks.
The educational process could be a mighty discouraging one sometimes, she mused sourly as H.L. and she walked back to the Wild West encampment. There was still plenty of daylight left, and Rose didn’t really need to rest up for her show tonight, but she’d started to feel as if she were drowning in information. She needed to relax a bit before her head, which had been crammed as full as it could hold of new experiences and understandings, either exploded or sprang a leak. They’d almost come to the Indian encampment when Rose realized from the unusual activity therein that something was amiss. She stopped in her tracks. “Oh, my.”
“What’s the matter?” H.L. went on the alert instantly. He’d become accustomed to Rose’s moods, he guessed, because he understood at once that something was wrong.
“I don’t know.”
He was annoyed when she took off at a trot, leaving him to run after her or not as he chose. Dammit, the way he saw it, she was his responsibility until he got her safely back to her tent. Obviously, she had other ideas on the matter. He caught up with her in a couple of seconds.
“Hey! Wait up there. Where are you going?”
“Something’s wrong!” She didn’t slow down.
“That’s no answer,” he growled. “What’s wrong?”
“How should I know?”
She sounded irked, and her annoyance sparked his own. “If something’s wrong, shouldn’t you figure out what it is before you dash straight into it?”
Slinging him a black look, she snapped back, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you’re frightened, you don’t have to come along.”
This, naturally, only riled him more. “Dammit, Miss Gilhooley, slow down!”
“No!”
H.L. spotted Little Elk at approximately the same instant Rose did.
The two of them cried out in a duet, “Little Elk!”
The Sioux, looking very worried and thereby negating H.L.’s lifelong assumption that Indians didn’t visually express emotions, hurried up to them. “Wind Dancer. Mr. May. I’m glad you’re here. You know Chicago.”
H.L. couldn’t deny it. “True. Why do you need someone who knows Chicago?”
“Bear in Winter is gone.”
Rose stopped running, gasped, slammed a hand over her heart, and stared at the Sioux, aghast
. “Gone? What do you mean, Bear in Winter is gone?”
Little Elk gave his version of a shrug. Holding his open hands out, palms up, he repeated, “Bear in Winter is gone.”
“Where’d he go?” H.L. was only assuming this Bear person was a he. For all he knew, these two might be talking about a woman or even a real bear.
“Nobody knows.”
Obviously puzzled, Rose said, “You mean, he left the encampment? On purpose? Why’d he do that?”
“No.” Little Elk shook his head. “He didn’t walk away. Somebody take him.”
“Somebody take—er, took—him!” Rose’s voice went shrill with her horror. “Good God, Little Elk! Who took him?”
“Nobody know. It was a man with black hair on his lip and a leg made of wood.”
“But why?” Rose asked. “Did Bear want to go with him?”
“No. Bear, he cried out, but no one understand that he’s in trouble until he’s already gone.”
“But someone saw him go?”
“Two white men. They didn’t speak about it until we asked them if they seen Bear in Winter.”
Little Elk spat on the ground, giving H.L. a pretty good idea of the Sioux’s opinion of white men. Given the opinion most white men harbored about the Sioux, H.L. didn’t begrudge the Elk this turnabout.
“Oh, dear.” Rose reeled abruptly to face H.L., her cheeks gone ashen with worry. “Mr. May, you have to do something.”
“I have to do something? What can I do?”
“For heaven’s sake, Bear in Winter has been kidnapped!”
“Yeah. By a wooden-legged man with a black mustache, it would seem. But I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it.”
Rose was getting mad. H.L. recognized the symptoms. Her cheeks went from ashy pale to bright red and she snarled, “You can lead us to the police, for one thing! Does this Exposition have a police station? As Little Elk said already, you know Chicago and we don’t.”
He guessed she had a point. “There’s the Columbian Guard,” he said uncertainly. He didn’t add that he doubted the gentlemen of the Guard would be awfully interested in the kidnapping of an Indian boy. It wasn’t sportsmanlike, and it wasn’t nice, but it was the truth.
Coming Up Roses Page 13