The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  Her mother cowered beside Eleanor. “Yes, of course, John.”

  Her father took a menacing step in their direction. Her mother abandoned her grip on Eleanor’s arm and moved quickly to stand behind her, leaving her daughter to fend for herself. Eleanor straightened her tired body.

  He halted and stared at her as if confused by her refusal to cower. At his hesitation, her mother resumed control of Eleanor’s elbow.

  “Would you like a bath, Nora?”

  She waited, but Eleanor remained mute.

  “Well,” said her mother, forced cheerfulness turning her voice musical. “We will talk later, after your bath.”

  But they did not. In fact, Eleanor refused to speak to anyone except Scheherazade.

  The rest of them be damned.

  Chapter 23

  As soon as his wound knit enough for Troy to ride, he turned east, arriving at Battery Park in New York City by steamer on the eighteenth of November. By midday he stood before an enormous townhouse on Fourteenth Street owned by one John Hart. A snippy maid at the side entrance took one look at him and told them they were not hiring before closing the door in his face.

  He learned from a delivery boy that the family had extended their stay in Newport and were not expected back until the end of the month.

  He walked to the river and found a trim sloop that carried him north up the Hudson River a few miles to the farm of James Audubon.

  Troy arrived at the door of the three-story clapboard house without an appointment, carrying a hollowed out tube he made from the trunk of a young oak. Inside were the paintings Lena had made while at Fort Union.

  The man who answered his knock turned out to be John Audubon’s son, also named John.

  “I’d like you pa to see these paintings.”

  The man sighed. “Just leave them with me.”

  Troy lifted the tube out of his grasp and shook his head. “Don’t think so. How’s about I show you one?”

  Carefully he withdrew the painting of Wind Dancer. The man stilled. This time his reach seemed eager. Troy let him take the page.

  He turned, not looking at Troy, his attention focused on the painting before him.

  “Follow me.”

  Troy walked behind him to an artist’s workroom, the walls covered with paintings of birds. A black crow stared out at him with a glinting black eye and curious expression. As Troy gazed from one familiar bird to the next, he smiled. Understanding dawned. These were exact duplicates, in every detail of the creatures he knew and loved. He paused at a strange pink bird with a twisted neck that seemed impossibly long.

  “Ostrich?” asked Troy.

  “Flamingo,” said John. “From Florida.”

  “That’s a sight.”

  John lifted the portrait. “So is this. What is your name, sir?”

  “Troy Price.”

  “Wait here, Mr. Price.”

  Troy felt at home in the company of this colorful flock. He walked about as the scent of watercolors reached him and paused. His breathing changed as he forced back the urge to weep.

  Lena.

  Was she safe? Had he hurt her?

  Behind him came the shuffle of boot heels on carpet. He turned to face an old man with shining white hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Mr. Price? I’m James Audubon.” He extended his hand and Troy shook. “Your painting is wonderful.”

  “Thank you. But it ain’t mine. I’m just the guide.”

  “Where is the painter?”

  “I’m just scouting for ’em.”

  “I see. May I ask where this was painted?”

  “Fort Union on the Missouri River.”

  Audubon exchanged a meaningful glance with his son. “Are you familiar with this area?”

  Troy dropped a dime novel on the table. One of the many possessions left behind after Lena was stolen from him.

  “I’m the best scout west of the Missouri. Been trapping all the way to Oregon and back.”

  Audubon lifted the story. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Troy pointed to Lena’s painting. “Think you might have a spot for that artist on your next venture?”

  Audubon smiled. “I have a spot for this artist and am in need of a guide.”

  “Well that sounds mighty good to me.”

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Price? I’d like to hear more about this artist.”

  “Why did you not invite him to a dinner party?” asked Hart. “Then at least she would not be the center of his attention.”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth. They no longer spoke in hushed tones or moved to his office to have such discussions. Instead they talked openly as if she was deaf as well as mute.

  “Primarily because she no longer compares favorably at such affairs,” said her mother. “I am frankly astonished he accepted my offer at all. He has just arrived in Newport, but he must have heard the rumors.”

  “The man’s only a baron. He should be grateful I am even considering his suit.”

  Her mother lifted her brow, but said nothing further as her husband paced across the carpet as if drilling for a parade.

  Lena looked out the window at the carriage halting before their door. Mud flecked the coach and the driver, whose face looked as worn as his clothing.

  “He’s recently widowed, two young sons and a proclivity toward gaming.” Her mother’s voice floated across the room.

  “I don’t approve of gambling. Shows a weak character.” Hart paused behind her. “Can you not get her into some color other than gray? She looks drab as dishwater.”

  Her mother’s suffering sigh did not escape her.

  Beyond the window, the driver held open the door and out stepped Baron Edward Mayberry. His white cravat pinched his fleshy neck, making his head look overly large. Through the distortion of the ancient glass, she took in his gray whiskers and waddling walk.

  Hart’s voice came from just behind her and dripped with censure. “This is the best you can do?”

  Her mother clasped her hands and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. “If you have another prospect, John, please do present them for I have run out of options.”

  The two exchanged a long stare.

  “He is the last,” she said.

  Eleanor returned her attention to the street. The man seemed to be favoring his left foot.

  “Why is he limping?” asked Hart.

  “I believe he suffers from gout.”

  Hart spun to face his wife. “Great chattering monkeys, how do you expect him to get the girl with child?”

  Eleanor’s stomach tightened in disgust.

  “He has two young sons.”

  The man in question mounted the steps with painful slowness.

  Hart clasped his hands behind his back and rocked from toe to heel.

  The knocker announced the Baron’s arrival.

  “How did this happen?” said Hart to his wife. “Your sister has eight children—eight! And you give me this.”

  Hart spun about and left the room.

  Her mother perched beside Eleanor on the window seat and grasped her daughter’s chin.

  “Nora, I know you understand me. I am sorry I could not bring you a better match. This one said he would marry you. I think he plans to take you to London. I know you can no longer abide your father’s company, so this is best. Please do try to make a good impression for our sakes.”

  Eleanor scowled. She would sooner wed a monkey than please her father. A good impression was out of the question.

  Hart escorted the baron into the parlor and made introductions. Eleanor stared into space as her father tried to convince the baron of the advantages of the match.

  “Naturally,” said Mayberry, “I am ready to find a new baroness. Not so anxious, however, that I would concede to marry one who is addled. Your lovely wife insists the child is only mute. But she is the girl’s mother, and mothers tend to overlook certain deficiencies.”

  Eleanor glanced at her father to see him redden. How
badly did he wish to show this man the door?

  She smiled at his dilemma. The last chance. She had successfully driven off the other miscreants her parents dragged her before. Though she did not wish to live forever in her father’s house, neither would she give him what he wanted. This bitter defiance was all that kept her from drowning in a sea of grief.

  She rocked herself like a child, dragging a strand of damp hair into her mouth and sucking.

  Her mother swept it away and then wrapped an arm about Eleanor to still her, but only succeeded in drawing more attention to her daughter’s behavior.

  The baron’s mouth hung open and Hart stiffened, his arms terminating in balled fists as the two men stared at Eleanor. She blew a bubble of her own spit. Mayberry gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if mortally offended, and then turned to his host.

  “You have no right to offer the hand of a half-wit. My situation is not so desperate as this. Good day, sir.”

  The man showed himself out.

  Hart rounded on Eleanor. Here was the monster she remembered from the Yellowstone, the man she barely recognized as her father. His face glowed scarlet; his mouth twisted into a menacing glower.

  Eleanor stood to face him.

  “How dare you pull such a stunt?” His words ground out between clenched teeth.

  She stared at his indignant expression and scowling countenance, surprised to find herself tired of this game. She wanted to tell him exactly why she would no longer be his puppet. There in the quiet parlor, she gathered the courage to openly defy him.

  “How dare you shoot my guide? How dare you burn my work?”

  Her mother gasped. “Nora, you can speak!”

  Eleanor did not take her eyes from the menacing stranger before her.

  “It was a mistake to indulge you. I see that now.”

  “Rather, it was a mistake to break your promise.”

  “You will do your duty to this family, missy. I expect—”

  “I no longer care what you expect.”

  Her mother gasped.

  “You ungrateful whelp. You do as I say.”

  “No longer. Your actions have broken the ties between us.”

  “Don’t you speak to me of that half-breed savage.”

  “I prefer not to speak to you at all.”

  Her mother tugged at her arm, trying desperately to silence her again. Eleanor shook her off.

  “Best endow a hospital, Father, for you will leave no issue.”

  “I’ll disown you.”

  “Then do so. I will leave this house this very day.”

  “You wouldn’t survive out there without me.”

  “Watch me.” She turned to go.

  He grabbed Eleanor’s arm with such force she cried out as he spun her to him.

  “I brought you into this world.”

  “But you do not own me.”

  He lifted his hand and Eleanor stared him in the face.

  “Go ahead and I shall call the police.”

  Her mother gasped and her father faltered.

  “John. Please. No scandal. Let me speak to her.”

  He released Eleanor’s arm. “Go to your room.”

  She looked to her mother, now uneasy to leave her alone with him.

  “Go on, Nora,” urged her mother.

  She withdrew and her mother closed the large sliding doors behind her. She stood for a moment beyond the solid mahogany and then turned to climb the marble stairs.

  When her mother appeared an hour later she favored her left ankle.

  Eleanor set aside her book as suspicions planted themselves in her mind.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. I turned my ankle upon the stair.”

  Eleanor lifted an eyebrow and met her mother’s gaze. Charlotte hesitated.

  “I am not here to discuss my ankle, but your future.” Her mother recovered her air of authority and leveled her best disapproving stare upon her daughter.

  Eleanor wondered when her mother had lost her power to manipulate her. Once such a look of disfavor sent her scurrying to do her mother’s bidding. Now she only felt sorry for the woman to be married to such a brute.

  “I cannot believe you would speak to your father so. This is not the daughter I raised to be the premiere hostess and grand dame of New York society. You could be the pinnacle of wealth and sophistication. Instead we are forced to scrape the very bottom of the barrel to find an eligible husband. I am so angry with you, there are no words for it.”

  But she only paused to draw a breath and then continued on, “You wanted this as well. We talked endlessly about your choices in England, comparing estates and titles. Lady Eleanor, remember? A viscountess or even a duchess. I still want those things.”

  “But I do not.”

  She stamped her foot and then winced. “This will stop, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you. But I will not marry.”

  Having failed with disapproval, reason and outrage, her mother changed tactics, collapsing into an overstuffed chair and wringing her hands in dismay.

  “Am I never to hold a grandchild? Please, Eleanor, cease this stubbornness. This man you mourn is gone and you are not. You have a right to grieve, but do not cast your life away.”

  “I did not cast it away. Father did.”

  “They why would you want to stay in his house? If you marry, you will be away from his control. You will have such freedoms.”

  Eleanor’s gaze snapped up. “You know nothing of freedom.”

  “I know that once you have an heir, you can do as you please. You needn’t even share the same house with him. Just appear at a few formal affairs together. It isn’t hard.”

  “Isn’t it?” Eleanor leveled a look of pity on her mother.

  “Eleanor, you don’t understand.”

  “No mother—I finally do. That is no life for me.”

  Her mother rose stiffly and lifted an arm, flinching as she did so. “What could be grander than this house? Eleanor, don’t be a ninny. Think what this wealth can provide for you. You are our only child. All this and more will be yours one day. All you need do is marry. It is little enough to ask.”

  Eleanor’s mouth hardened into a hard line. To think she once wanted to be just like her mother—full of style and effervescence, the toast of society and a model for all lesser females to emulate. Now she saw cracks in the perfect facade, lines of worry and sorrow rarely shown even to her family.

  “That is your life, Mother. Not mine.”

  “Eleanor, you are just being stubborn. You know what is expected and still you hold this childish grudge. It does not become you. I am, frankly, ashamed of you.”

  “I know this will shock you, but I no longer care what you think of me.”

  Her mother held a hand over her heart as if shot by an arrow. “What about my friends? What shall I tell them? Please don’t shame us, Nora.” She paused and leveled her gaze upon her daughter, stepping close. “Your life will not be changed and may be very much improved by making the right match. If you will only try, I know you can gain the attention of any number of eligible men.”

  “By that you mean titled men?”

  She fidgeted with the cuff of her dress. “Well, I would prefer that. As you know, I am anxious for you to join London society. But if you insist on a homegrown boy, that might suit.”

  “If he is from the right family.”

  “Certainly.”

  Eleanor folded her arms before her in refusal.

  “I only ask you to consider your options, Eleanor.”

  Chapter 24

  Troy had no trouble finding the “cottage” where Lena’s family lived. The grand Newport mansion sat off Bellevue Avenue on a huge estate facing the sea. Abandoning his buckskin and bear claws for more conventional attire, he jumped the walls at night and scouted the property. With his hair drawn back and the light of only a few lanterns, he hoped to pass as a servant.

/>   He reached the stables and headed down the long corridor, past the many horses. A familiar splash of white stopped him. Here in a double stall, Scheherazade lifted her graceful neck over the planking and nickered.

  In town, he learned that Lena rode each morning and that an English suitor had stopped at a local tavern after leaving the Hart mansion to report that she was mad.

  “How is your mistress, girl?” he asked.

  In a few hours he would learn for himself. Voices at the far end of the stable sent him ducking into a vacant stall where he waited until the men passed by. The arrival of the stable boy sent him out.

  He found a place to rest in the loft of a neighboring barn that gave a fine view of the entrance to the stable. In the hours before daybreak the stalls were cleaned and horses tended.

  He waited, anxiously, unable to rest as he searched the windows of the house for a glimpse of his beloved.

  Finally, she appeared in the morning mist.

  Lena.

  Only not Lena.

  At first he thought it was the mist that drew all the color from her. Then he recognized the truth. She covered her glorious mane of hair in a gray veil and hat. All her colorful finery had been discarded as if she dressed to match the drab colors of the day.

  Troy pursued her to the stables, but she rode out before he reached her. He stole a dapple-gray and bridle, then set out. Misty morning fog softened the edges of the world as he searched the mud for the new tracks of a tiny mare. He found them near the hedgerow and followed the trail.

  Finally he saw Lena, shadowy like a ghost, coming across the open field, leaping the hedges on her familiar white mare. He nearly called out, but they were so close to the house. He glanced back to note the mansion he knew stood not two hundred paces behind him, was now blanketed in fog.

  The innkeeper’s words returned. Her mind was weak. The man’s story clashed with memories. He’d never met a woman more single-minded, stubborn or strong willed. He glanced about. She rode straight for him. His heart constricted. He knew the instant she saw him.

  Her hands lifted and she drew up on the reins. From this distance she might not be sure. He wore black trousers, a coarse blue shirt and knee-high riding boots. His hair was greased back.