Beautiful Wild

by Anna Godbersen

  He nodded. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “You seem immaculately yourself at all times. But maybe that is what I noticed about you—the ways in which we are more similar than I could have guessed.”

  Vida’s blush was more earnest now—though the lowering sun was pinking everything. “But it’s not for vanity’s sake. It’s because I didn’t want to be told I couldn’t go anywhere. I wanted to make myself into the sort of person who could go anywhere.”

  “I understand exactly what you mean.”

  She had almost forgotten the others when the eldest boy reappeared, this time with a board upon which was piled fish cooked in blackened banana leaves.

  Their familiarity held at about that level through the eating of the fish, the serving of a third course—empty coconut shells filled with a sweet yam mash—and the to-ing and fro-ing of the children, who were gay in their performance of butler and waiter.

  “Time for the show,” Fitzhugh said when the empty coconut bowls were removed, and Vida smiled, and glanced at the hammered gold of the sunset on the water. This was indeed magnificent, and she thought that was the entirety of the show he meant. But then she heard the harmonizing voices of the children, and Fitzhugh offered his hand.

  She felt the thickening of emotion in her throat at the sound of the music. She had almost forgotten what music was. How it played in the body and lifted the spirit. Music moved them, as it was apt to do, moved her and Fitzhugh into each other’s arms, so that they began to dance, not exactly as they had on the Princess, but close enough to make Vida’s heart skip. The skin of her face was warm, she felt a giddy rush; she was so close to getting that which she had sought.

  “This is nice,” she said.

  “I’m enjoying myself immensely.” He smiled at her, but his brow knit together. “Are you sad?”

  Her chin quivered in puzzlement. She was rather ecstatic—for Fitzhugh had done what a man always did when he became serious about courting. He had arranged everything, and then kept his gaze steady upon her. And yet. And yet her lungs were so peculiarly light and heavy at once.

  “What is it?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “I’m not sad exactly. . . .” She let him see how difficult it was for her to smile, and was gratified to feel how his grip drew her in at this show of emotion. “It’s not because this isn’t lovely. It is! That’s not even the word, really—it’s so much more than lovely, it’s beautiful, it hurts my eyes to see something so beautiful. And yet at the same time . . .”

  “At the same time?”

  “Is this life?” she whispered. Of course she knew that she ought to have expressed her fears for those loved ones she’d been separated from when the ship sank. But this was not precisely the source of her melancholy. “When I boarded that ship, it was with the goal of getting close to you. My parents said I had better, because of the spectacle I’d made with you that night in San Francisco. But I didn’t picture getting to know you here. And now we are here, and it is beautiful. I just thought—I thought somebody would have come for us by now. And if no one has come for us—does that mean no one will?”

  “I understand you perfectly.” He knelt, and she had that strange flash of panic that she’d had when previous beaux sank down on a knee in proposal. But the panic passed quickly. He was gathering his strength to pick her up at the waist and twirl her around. “How wonderful you are!” he said with sudden energy, and she heard how the crowd of watchers exclaimed over his proclamation. “Come,” he said, placing her back on the sand and taking up her hand. “I want to show you something.”

  When they reached the height of the rocks the others parted for them, their expressions happy and knowing. As Fitzhugh led Vida up the beach the others followed at a respectful distance, and all the while his hold on her hand was loose but firm.

  “‘Is this life?’” he repeated. “How well you said that. It is life, of course. But you must know it is not all of life, not our life.”

  How handsome he was! Vida gazed at his face and thought that if this life was theirs together, then that face was hers to look at forever. She had to turn away so he wouldn’t see how she beamed. The press of his hand, the light of his eyes, were all so delightful that she stopped paying attention as they walked on.

  “Don’t you want to be alone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He pulled her by the hand, and they darted away from their audience, through the trees, into the jungle. In a few moments she found herself back in the grove she’d seen yesterday. That open space in the thick of the vegetation that vibrated with awe.

  The boat that she had seen—yesterday, when she came across Sal by chance—had been transformed. It was no longer a patched-together affair. The thing had a gleam of sturdiness, and she knew just looking at it how it would sit high over the water.

  “I’m going to get you home, Miss Hazzard.”

  “On that?”

  His laughter surprised her. She wasn’t at all certain why he was laughing. “Of course not,” he said, when he realized that she had been serious. “Me, and Sal, and a few members of the Princess’s crew have been building this bark. We are going to get help, and bring you home in style.”

  “And then?”

  He laughed again, but it sounded different to her this time, softer, so that she felt she was in on the joke. “I should’ve known it would take more than that to impress you. To impress the famous Vida Hazzard.” But she would not look away from him, and he didn’t dare end their exchange with a joke. “And then I would like very much to take you to New York.”

  “But,” she said, “that certainly won’t do for a sail.”

  Fitzhugh glanced at the mast, at the old tablecloth that was wrapped around the mast.

  “It’s already ripped, for one thing,” she said. “And for another it’s heavy damask. What you need is a modern fabric, strong yet light.”

  She let him puzzle over this a moment. Let a little drama build in the air between them. Then she bent, turned away for modesty’s sake, and unhooked the petticoat underneath her skirt. The balloon of the underskirt came out from under the ornamented top skirt, and it was obvious what a good sail it would make—even in the still atmosphere, it looked ready to fill with wind. She saw how Fitzhugh watched her and gave him a subtle little dart of a smile. A strong energy grew in him, lit up his face.

  His hand found the narrow of her waist. A pretty glaze blurred her vision.

  They stared at each other a moment and she dropped the skirt and her lips parted.

  His face moved toward hers, his chin tilted—in a moment she would close her eyes to accept his kiss. His hands spread over her waist, and she felt the press of his mouth against hers, and the warmth of his breath, and the pump of his heart.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that a long time,” he said.

  She might have replied in kind, but she instead draped her arms around his neck and leaned closer so that he would know he could kiss her again. He gripped a fistful of her skirt. But he hesitated a moment, and then she heard a rustling from the tree above. Somebody was up there. That somebody jumped down from a high branch, and dashed past them toward the beach. Fitzhugh’s brow creased in concern.

  “I’m sorry,” cried the somebody, and Vida recognized Sal’s voice.

  “Damn it,” said Fitzhugh, drawing Vida protectively toward him. He watched Sal go with fire in his eyes. She’d never heard Fitz sound angry before. She felt cold and hot at once. Was she angry, too? She remembered how irritated she had always been in the presence of Fitzhugh’s manservant back on the deck of the Princess. He had always been getting in the way of her finding Fitz.

  “I didn’t know you were coming here!” Sal called as he retreated into the trees. “I’m sorry!”

  Vida’s anger burst so hot and sudden that it was almost a kind of pleasure, and she stared after Sal hoping he’d look back and she could show him with her eyes what she thought of his meddling. Or, if he wasn’t meddling, the i
mpertinence of being where he wasn’t supposed to be at all. Or—but then she wasn’t sure what she wanted to show him, and he had disappeared into the night, and it didn’t matter anymore. Fitzhugh’s mouth had found hers again.

  When Fitz led Vida back to the beach they saw against the darkness the hanging lamp of a magnificent moon. It whitened everything, even the stars, which had previously been too multitudinous for it to be possible to make out any pattern in the sky. Around the silent white disk, like some celestial spirit, radiated a series of pale halos.

  “How beautiful,” Vida whispered.

  Fitz put her fingers to his lips. “I ordered that moon especially for you.”

  “It reminds me of winter.” She laughed at the absurdity of this thought. “Do you remember winter? Isn’t it funny to think about winter here, where it’s always hot even when it rains?”

  “Yes. You’ll remember this heat when we are in New York and the snow drifts are higher than a man’s head and we can’t get out the door.”

  “Oh!—snowed in—whatever shall we do?”

  “We’ll make a fire in the fireplace.”

  “Yes, do go on.”

  “And we’ll take out the blankets, and we’ll play bridge, and we’ll have cocoa and whiskey and we’ll dance—and if it’s only us, we will dance a little wildly, and nobody will ever know.”

  “It will be our secret.” She faced him, the air between them absolutely buzzing with meaning, and let him hold both her hands, and kiss each—his lips lingering at her knuckles as though to make the most of this chaste gesture. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr. Farrar.”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Vida.”

  Then she sank her eyelids, let go his hands, and slipped along the shelters to the hut she shared with Eleanor and Flora Flynn, moving in that rocking gait that was the custom of such moments. In such moments, it was understood that a man would stand still and watch, and that a lady would let her form and carriage be appreciated as long as possible. And though Vida’s heart was furious to look back, to meet his eye, to exchange the knowledge of what had grown between them, of their secret kiss and the way he had touched her, she was firm. She maintained control. She focused on what was before her and let him watch.

  Seventeen

  The air rustled with the dreams of others. Vida’s eyes opened wide. The moon was shining brightly through the thatched roof of the hut. How would it happen, she wondered—how would she and Fitz be pulled apart and come together again?

  All great love stories have a series of thrilling and agonizing setbacks. Dame Edna had said this love story might be the greatest she had ever written. Vida wanted the story of her and Fitz to be grander than them all, to be legendary—but the specifics of those setbacks were hard to imagine.

  If this was not precisely how she phrased things in her own churning thoughts, it was nonetheless the spirit of the uncertainty that troubled her sleep like a bad tooth. She lay in her slip on the bed of her dress and knew she would not be able to fall back asleep.

  Then she heard the whistle. Soft, but distinct.

  Flora and Eleanor were still sleeping, their bodies curled against each other in a feminine heap of salt- and mud-stained skirts.

  Again she heard the whistle, so she rose from her place of slumber and went to see who it was.

  To the west over the water the sky was still a deep, mysterious purple. Vida took one of the empty coconut shells that had been rigged to catch the dew and drank away her thirst. She pinched the skin of her cheeks with her fingertips to bring life to her face—an old instinct to try to look her best whenever she might encounter a member of the opposite sex. Her body was just about to complain that it was tired after all, when she heard the whistle a third time.

  He was sitting a ways down the beach, gazing out at the sky. As she approached his head turned in her direction. There was something in the movement that told her he had been expecting her.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” Sal said.

  “No,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.”

  In a few moments, the girl she was supposed to be caught up to her, reminded her that she should be annoyed that a servant had disturbed her sleep, that he was speaking to her in such a familiar manner. And that Sal in particular was difficult, and that she should be stern with him. But the world was still dreamlike. Nothing was quite real. The darkness seemed to her delicious and alive.

  “Were you trying to wake me?” she asked. Her voice sounded playful in the early-morning air. Had she meant to be playful? She was an expert at subtle flirtation, and didn’t usually flirt by accident.

  He stood, brushed the sand from the back of his legs. If he’d heard her question, he did not acknowledge it. “Would you like to know the place to best watch the sunrise?”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been withholding this information?” She was glad about the moonlight. It was bright enough for her to see how he grinned at that.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  They walked together toward the far end of the beach, where it narrowed. No one ever went that way, for reasons Vida had never questioned.

  She knew walking this way with Sal would not have been considered socially acceptable by the old standards of drawing rooms and first-class dining rooms—especially after a young lady was attached, as she now considered herself to be. The whole band of survivors had seen Fitzhugh courting her. Now that he’d kissed her, and implied that they would someday be alone together by a fire in a snowstorm, they were promised to each other. In a sense. All that signified a new level of attachment, surely. Vida knew the rules better than anybody.

  But it was early. The world was dark. And Vida thrilled to the idea that she was about to get away with doing something. That bit of mischief that she carried in her heart, and that was always getting her in trouble, drove her now. They crossed the border that Fitzhugh had deemed safe for the general population to inhabit. She followed Sal up the steep and rocky incline at the far end of the beach.

  As they walked she understood why no one ever went this way. The little pathway between the trees was narrow and shifting, and stones were scattered underfoot. Then it stopped being much of a path at all. On one side was a steep fall toward crashing waves. On the other side the trees were dense, impassable—their mighty, slippery roots reached beyond the cliff’s edge, dangled like loose yarn in the open air. Several times she had to crouch to steady herself, and she was surprised when she realized how high they had gotten so quickly. Cool fear touched her temples, and she knew that a slip would leave her body bloodied and broken down where whitecaps were eating away the land.

  “Don’t worry,” Sal said, as though he had overheard her nervous thoughts. “I won’t let you fall.”

  She was about to demand he tell her how he was going to do that, but she was concentrating very hard on the way ahead to keep herself from slipping. All the while Sal went along beside her, at the very limit of the cliff. It was as though he were walking a tightrope at the edge of the world. They did not speak again until they reached the heights.

  Then the idea of talking seemed a little stupid.

  The new sun was illuminating the world. She forgot to be afraid.

  Sal’s eyes were diamantine with wonderment. He sat, his legs dangling over the precipice. Vida stood behind him and watched how the sun broke against the sky, shading everything in an unreal orange and fuchsia. A person only sees light that dramatic if they are awake early. She understood for the first time that a sunrise was different if you saw it by staying up all night. Here it was, a fresh day, so magnificent that you knew your life would never be the same. She and the world were new.

  “We won’t go today after all,” Sal said after a while.

  “Go where?” Vida had forgotten that there was anywhere but this place. Her eyes followed where Sal pointed and she saw, to the east, the streaked red-and-black clouds where the sun was coming up.


  “That’s a storm heading our way.”

  “The ocean is like a lake.”

  “It’s calm now, but that color down at the horizon, you only see that when the light is coming through dense weather far off. Rough, wet weather. It’ll be here sooner or later.”

  “Are you being very mystical? I thought that was an old wives’ tale, that rhyme about sailors taking warning if there was a red sky in the morning.”

  “Why would people repeat lies about the weather for a thousand years?”

  “You have a point, I suppose.”

  “We should go back.”

  Vida offered her hand to Sal to help him up. She didn’t want to go back, but she knew that demanding to know why would be quite brazen. She knew the reason why. “Thank you for showing me the best place to see the sunrise,” she said, very formally, instead.

  “It is my duty,” he said, but ironically, so that she knew he wouldn’t have done it if it didn’t please him.

  The camp was still quiet as they made their way down from the height and she experienced that familiar feeling of satisfaction, of having gotten away with something, as when she snuck back into her parents’ well-appointed home after a long night and knew from the housekeeper’s averted gaze that she had survived her own wildness again. Anyway, it seemed unlikely that a little predawn walkabout could unsettle the swiftly-moving love story of Vida Hazzard and Fitzhugh Farrar.

  The match was as good as decided.

  But once she remembered Fitz, she remembered something else.

  “Sal?”

  “Yes?”

  She didn’t look back at him, she just kept walking—haughtily, like a girl who expected to be told the truth. “Where did you say you were going? When we started off talking about the weather.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “It does to me.”

  “To get help. In the boat.”

  “You were going to—leave us? Today?” Fitzhugh had showed her the boat—but it had seemed that that was a ways in the future.