“I already asked her. She refused.”
“She did?”
“She told me she was already promised for the next dozen dances, but that maybe she could squeeze me in at the end of the evening.”
Good heavens. Was Alice still trying to make him jealous, or had the advent of the Robinsons begun to mend her broken heart? “That’s…a surprise.”
“So you see that I’m quite free.” He bent forward and, before she could protest, grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet.
“Kit, stop! You—you can’t just drag me—”
“I’ll have you know I’m considered an excellent dancer and will not step on your toes or tear the hem of your dress or anything like that.”
“Kit—”
“Or is it that you’re afraid to dance with me?” he asked softly.
She couldn’t refuse now without making a spectacle of herself. But as he led her into the crowd of dancers, she began to wonder if he wasn’t right. And when he put his hand on her waist and pulled her close, a fluttery sensation filled her middle. But it wasn’t fear she felt.
She tried to will her heart to stop racing, but it would not cooperate. It pounded so loudly in her ears that she wondered if he could hear it too. When he’d held her back at Tahawus after the Shadow had passed, she’d been able to convince herself that her reaction to his embrace was gratitude. That excuse would not work here and now. What she was feeling right now, in the middle of a crowded dance floor, was sheer want.
She wanted the dance to last forever, to always feel his touch. She wanted it to end right now so that she could pull his face down to hers and kiss him. She’d wanted him since that moment in Newport when they’d met over a scattered bucketful of tennis balls.
All the weeks of pretending not to want him rushed through her in a flood, and she stumbled. His hand tightened on hers, keeping her upright, but he didn’t speak. Did he sense what she was feeling? If she were to look into his eyes right now, what would she see?
Don’t look, part of her mind told her. You don’t need to know. So of course the very next moment, she lifted her eyes to his…and her breath grew short.
He knew. He knew because he felt it too. It was there in the way he gazed down at her, his eyes heavy and hooded, as if he were a second away from devouring her.
She moistened her lips. “Kit…”
He shook his head. “Later,” he whispered and pulled her a little closer. His breath warmed her ear. She wished she could close her eyes and let her head rest on his shoulder, let the music carry them on and on and on, wrapped in each other’s arms.
She and Kit Rookwood…it was ridiculous. Impossible. Alice and Newport loomed large between them.
But not right now. For as long as this dance lasted, they were together.
* * *
Grace was awake long before breakfast the next morning. She slipped out of bed, dressed hurriedly, and tiptoed down the stairs and outside, leaving Alice gently snoring. She herself wasn’t sure she’d even slept; they hadn’t arrived back at Tahawus from the dance till after one. Alice had chattered cheerfully the entire drive home, which their driver, Mr. Kellogg, dryly thanked her for as “it kept the horses awake.” Grace was grateful for it too; it had kept her from having to say a word.
Out in the dimness of the predawn, she stopped to listen. The trees were softly rustling into wakefulness, murmuring to each other of the taste of the day. No cold Shadow wind blew nearby, alarming them. Thank heavens for that. She strode up the road and under their welcoming branches.
No cold Shadow wind had blown last night, either, though she’d sat bolt upright in the wagon listening for it above Alice’s prattle and willing the westering half-moon not to set too quickly. Whether their absence had anything to do with Kit’s promise— No, how could it? What could he—or anyone—do to halt or ward off a Shadow?
She made her way to her hollow, more by feeling than by sight, and sat down at the foot of the balsam, leaning back into its cradling branches. Its sleepy thoughts brushed across her. You are well?
“I am, thank you.” Grace let her head fall back and sighed.
But not at peace.
“No, I… No.”
When would she ever feel at peace after last night?
Just a few weeks before, Kit had been her tormentor and Alice’s boyfriend…but now everything had changed. All those weeks in Newport she’d thought she hated him. Now she wasn’t sure what she thought. Was it possible to loathe someone and, at the same time, be attracted to him? Or was that part of why she’d hated him—because he had chosen Alice rather than her?
Except, it seemed, he hadn’t. It appeared Mrs. Fish been right, and all the while he’d been kissing Alice in broom closets, he’d been wanting her.
The thought brought that funny feeling back to her midsection. After their dance he’d brought her back to her seat behind the bear and then disappeared. She’d sat there for an hour with eyes half-closed, remembering every look, every touch, until it was time to leave. He’d hurried forward to help her up into the wagon, practically shouldering one of the Robinson boys out of the way to do so, but wouldn’t meet her eyes. Perhaps he was as confused as she was.
So many questions, so few answers. And the biggest one was this: did she truly want to lose her heart to someone who’d pretended for weeks that he’d lost his to someone else and wouldn’t explain why? And never mind the fact that he was a human and she a dryad; she couldn’t even begin to address that overwhelming question.
“You trees have it much easier than we do. You don’t fall in love,” she said aloud.
No, said the balsam after a long moment. Not as you do, if I understand what you mean by ‘fall in love.’ But we care for our seedlings and our siblings and want them to thrive and grow. Is that what you mean?
“Um…maybe a little. Not quite. Or…yes, but more. It’s that, along with a longing—a thirst—that never stops, and the two are all entwined in each other.”
That sounds…strange.
“Oh no, it’s…well, all right, maybe it is a bit strange. But it’s also wonderful.” She curled her fingers into the leaf mold, remembering the feeling of Kit’s hands on her waist, on her hand—
—and then she drew in a sharp breath, because suddenly her fingers weren’t her fingers. They were something else, delving purposefully into the soil beneath the leaves.
Or at least it felt that way. They drew her in, down, questing, branching, farther, faster… Her eyelids fluttered, but all her senses seemed to have been re-routed to her hands: sight, hearing, even taste all resided in her reaching, trembling fingers. The soil was rich, old, full of many lives; she drank it in like wine, and like wine it made her lightheaded and dreamy. It was like that moment by the lake when she’d gone fishing with Ted and the children—only more so. This time, the feeling was deeper—sweeter—ahhh.
She surged ever downward, drawing deep into the velvet darkness…until she touched one of the balsam’s roots. A shuddering thrill ran through her at the contact, and she reached out eagerly then, thirsting…
What is it? What are you doing? the balsam demanded. It sounded mildly affronted and more than mildly bewildered.
Grace still waited, balancing on the edge—her breath, even her heartbeat seeming to wait with her—it was so close, she was sure…
Nothing happened.
Tree-cousin! Grace!
Far off, one of Mrs. Hunter’s roosters back at Tahawus gave its shrill morning call. And everything—Grace’s breath and heart and hands—were as they had been, as if they’d never waited for a rapture that didn’t come, had never reached for the force that flowed in this forest and tried to melt into it.
She pulled her hands from the soil, and they were only her hands. She buried her face in them then and drew a long, shuddering breath that was almost a sob. Now she understood what had happened—or hadn’t happened. She had tried—unconsciously, instinctively—to settle herself into this forest, to jo
in with it, just as Mum was settled into their woods at home and as all adult female dryads did eventually with the forest they would call their own. Only these woods did not know dryads, did not know how to accept a dryad’s magic and guardianship so that they would always be one. She had tried to force herself on it.
“I’m so sorry!” she mumbled into her hands.
What are you sorry for, Grace? the balsam asked. It still sounded confused.
“I…tried to make you— I wanted us— I didn’t know what I was doing!” She felt hollow inside and so alone. Aside from her shame.
I do not know what you were doing either, the balsam said. But I felt you…I did not know that you could do this. What was it?
“It’s—it’s what my people do. We join with you. We take care of you.” Except that not all forests knew dryads. Not all forests needed—or wanted—them to do it.
You wish to take care of us?
“I—think I’ve fallen in love with you.” A sudden picture arose in her mind—a house in these woods, just big enough for her and Kit. She would walk through the woods by day with him, hand in hand, and by night, in their little house… She swallowed hard. It would be glorious. Heavenly. And utterly impossible.
The balsam was silent for a long moment. I do not know that I understand, but I felt…something. Was it the love that you speak of?
“It might have been.” Her head ached, and she was suddenly so weary that she could have curled up at the balsam’s foot and slept till noon. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I think I’d better go.”
You do not have to, unless you wish to. You are always welcome here, Grace.
That made her want to cry. She climbed to her feet, then touched one of the balsam’s branches. “I…that is…thank you.”
* * *
She made herself go to the clubhouse for breakfast rather than slinking back to bed. As early as she was, Mrs. Roosevelt and the children were already there.
“Mr. Roosevelt arrives today,” Mrs. Roosevelt announced. She did not look as though she’d only slept a few hours the night before. “Ethel and I are off to meet him for lunch at my friend’s camp, not far from the Lower Works. I am assuming that Alice…?”
“She was sound asleep when I got up,” Grace confirmed. “I doubt she’ll waken before you’re ready to go.”
“Indeed.” Neither Mrs. Roosevelt’s expression nor tone of voice changed, but Grace suddenly felt guilty on Alice’s behalf. No wonder she so often felt alienated from her family.
She waved Ethel and Mrs. Roosevelt off in the buggy and thought about escaping to the woods for a walk, but the memory of this morning was still too tender. So instead she made her way out to the hammock with a book as camouflage, but only stared blindly at its pages until she fell into an uneasy, fitful sleep.
Alice drifted out of the camp shortly before lunch, leaning heavily on her cane. Grace watched her advance with concern. “Did you overdo it last night?” she called when Alice was in hailing distance. “Your ankle, I mean.”
Alice shrugged. “Of course I did. But it was worth it. If I limp around today, it doesn’t matter.” She collapsed sideways into the hammock next to Grace.
“Did you have a good time? We never got to talk last night. You were in bed and asleep before I even had my slippers off.” She’d had the distinct feeling that Alice was feigning sleep in order to avoid talking, but she couldn’t say that. “You were definitely the belle of the ball.”
“It was nice to have a little liveliness, though it wasn’t Newport.” Alice yawned. “Did I see you dance with Kit?”
Grace tried to analyze her tone. Alice had seen them dance, but had she seen them? Had the electricity between them been visible to everyone? “Once,” she said cautiously. “He said you were too busy to give him a dance and that one of us had to.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose I did say that, poor boy.” She sighed. “Really, he was too obnoxious about it—tried to insist and all—but I simply couldn’t squeeze him in. I don’t mind telling you that…well, he’s starting to get a little tiresome.”
Grace sat up. “But I thought you—”
“Oh, I’m still fond of him, of course, but…well, one moves on, doesn’t one? Anyway, I came out to tell you it’s time to get ready for lunch.”
Grace silently followed her back to the camp, her thoughts whirling. After last night’s dance, Alice might well have gotten over her infatuation for Kit…or she might still be trying to make him jealous. It was impossible to discern which. But if it was the latter, why wasn’t Alice confiding in her?
As they followed Miss Young up the clubhouse stairs a short while later, Grace heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Mr. Rookwood, closely followed by another man she’d not seen before. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, letting her voice rise questioningly.
“Good afternoon to you, my dear. May I present my brother, Mr. John Rookwood? He’s just arrived from the Lower Works—ah, you too, Miss Roosevelt.”
Grace remembered his mentioning that his brother was coming and smiled graciously at the man. Mr. John Rookwood appeared to be considerably younger than his brother, no more than forty. Though they shared a superficial resemblance, there was a restless edge about the newcomer that the elder Mr. Rookwood lacked.
“How do you do, sir? I hope you’ll enjoy your visit,” she said.
“How do you do, Miss Boisvert?” John Rookwood shook her hand, then seemed reluctant to let it go. Was it her imagination, or did he examine her with a keener interest than seemed warranted? He barely glanced at Alice as they were introduced; instead, his eyes darted back to her. “I hear you’re fond of walking. I am as well. Perhaps you’ll show me some of the more interesting places to walk here.”
Alice gave the faintest of snorts.
“Grace and I will be happy to take you walking, Uncle John.” Kit, who had hung back with his mother, suddenly stepped forward. Grace looked at him, astonished, but his attention was focused on John Rookwood.
“Of course. I’m sure you’ve discovered any number of pleasantly out-of-the-way places in the woods here.” His smile was affable, but there was an edge to his voice.
Grace winced, both from embarrassment and because Alice had grabbed her upper arm too hard, digging her fingernails in. She moved it, and Alice let go.
“Most places in these woods are out-of-the-way,” Kit said. He met Grace’s eyes for a brief moment, then turned away.
“Where is Mrs. Roosevelt today?” Mr. Rookwood asked. He looked uncomfortable too.
Alice took Grace’s arm again. “Gone to meet my father. He arrives today as well. Isn’t that a coincidence?” She bore Grace off to their table, where Miss Young and the children were already waiting.
“I’m not sure I care for Kit’s uncle,” she murmured to Alice when they were seated.
“That’s too bad. He seemed to take an interest in you.” Alice didn’t bother to lower her voice. “So will you take him walking in the woods?” There was a strange note in her voice, but her face was expressionless.
“Not if I can help it.” She glanced over at the Rookwoods’ table. John Rookwood was staring at her, so she looked quickly away.
* * *
When they heard a buggy stop in front of the camp a few hours later, Ted and Kermit and Archie and Quentin all went flying out of the house to greet their father, followed at a more dignified pace by Grace and Alice and Miss Young.
But no Colonel Roosevelt was climbing down from it, only a subdued Ethel and Mrs. Roosevelt, who looked distinctly upset.
“Where’s Father?” Quentin shrieked.
“He—he won’t be here for a few days,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. She looked up at Miss Young. “There was a phone message from him down at the Lower Works. He’s gone to Buffalo. President McKinley—”
“Father says that someone shot the president!” Ethel announced to them.
Mrs. Roosevelt’s knuckles tightened around the handle of her purse. “Ethel.”
Miss Young paled. “Who could want to do such a thing to such a good, gentle man?”
“Is he dead?” Ted asked, his eyes wide. “Because that would mean—”
“He is not dead,” Mrs. Roosevelt said quickly. “Your father naturally went there to be of whatever service he could to the poor man and Mrs. McKinley. He promised to cable us tomorrow with further news.”
“Who shot him?” Alice asked. Grace felt a quiver run through her as she spoke.
“Some dreadful anarchist, Father said.” Mrs. Roosevelt began to climb the stairs.
Miss Young came forward and put her arm around her. She let the younger woman lead her inside.
Silently, all the children went down to the river behind the house. The younger ones went immediately to the brook, the president already forgotten, but Ted and Alice looked at each other. Slow grins stretched across their faces, and Ted let out a whoop, then clapped his hand over his mouth and looked guiltily toward the house.
Alice felt no such compunction. She dropped her cane and seized his hands. They did a dance on the spot, until Alice stopped, wincing. “When do you think it’ll happen?” she said, accepting her cane back from Ted. “Maybe Father’s already president!”
“Alice!” Grace couldn’t help being shocked.
“Grace Boisvert, I defy you to state that if it were your father, you wouldn’t be wondering the exact same thing,” Alice retorted.
“We’ll get to live in the White House!” Ted said, grinning.
Grace left them still chortling and went back to the house. She slipped upstairs and threw herself on her bed. She lay for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, then jumped up again and went to her bureau and took out some stationery and her fountain pen, and sat down at the small table by the window that served as her and Alice’s desk and dressing table. She swept aside a handful of hairpins, a slingshot Ethel had made, and a jar of cold cream, and started to write.
Dear Mum and Papa,
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