The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  The dream is a confusing, erratic mishmash of reality and imagination, though no worse than a full dose of reality would be. Dreaming what actually happened would be enough of a nightmare. Her mind can think of no punishment greater, no invented guilt more terrifying than his actual death, for which she blames herself just as much as she blames herself for what happened to Caprice.

  Would either of them still be alive if they’d never known her? It had been Ames’s choice to reach out to her in 1850 with his offer. After she broke with her family and they put about the lie that she’d eloped with a Roman Catholic of whom they did not approve, Ames was her only friend, but more than that, he was her partner. She admired him for so much: his intelligence, his grit, his absolute fidelity. He was, pure and simple, a good man.

  If Ames had turned his back on her in the beginning, Virginia thinks as she lies on her prison cot, his life would likely not have been so different. He’d already been a guide before they met. Without her help, he still could have led hundreds of people to California in safety, even though they’d been a great team together, even though she was the one who made the women comfortable and soothed the children and animals and even once, memorably, talked the gun out of an irate rancher’s hand. Ames perhaps would not have had quite as much success without her, it was true, but she knew him well enough to know how outstandingly capable he’d been. Even without Virginia, Ames would have succeeded.

  But at the end, his last decision, just six months ago, she could have changed that one if she’d tried.

  He’d put sentiment first. And she had let him.

  Now when she considers the pattern—what happened to Ames and what happened to Caprice—she wonders if the world might be better off without her. If this knot of powerful people have their way, that is exactly what will happen. She will be hanged by the neck until her spirit, her soul, is no longer in this world.

  She could fight, but why? If the Collins family wants her dead as a punishment for Caprice’s death, and they have enough money to hire this dragon of a prosecutor in front of this snide judge who has probably dined at their house and raised a glass at their parties, what shape would fighting even take?

  In the dream, Ames stands on a path through the hills, smiling. No one is following; they’re headed northeast, back toward Fort Bridger. It’s just the two of them, scouting a side trail that has been pitched to them as a potential shortcut, a word that still sends shivers down Virginia’s spine. They can take the usual, southerly path, which is wide and broad, and they know what will happen if they do: they will walk through the front gate of Fort Bridger exactly seven days from now. But Ames’s wife, Gloria, will only be at the fort for five more days; she visits at set times whether or not Ames can be there, as it’s never possible to know exactly when he will arrive and depart.

  Ames points toward the northerly path, which wends higher into the mountains, and says, Let’s try it.

  Are you sure this is wise?

  Is wisdom the only force that guides our steps? he says, merrily challenging, and his grin widens.

  We might still not make it before she leaves, she tells him. She has to be the voice of reason if he won’t.

  Then we better hurry, he says, turning his back on her and setting off at a run. Come on!

  He makes a game of it. She plays. Virginia hikes her pack up higher and chases after him, only a few steps behind.

  Faster, slowpoke, he calls, accelerating.

  After a few minutes at this clip, as the climb grows steeper, they’re both breathing hard. She thinks of calling out to him, thinks of asking him to pause for a moment so she can catch her breath. But she is stubborn and doesn’t want him to think she’s not up to the challenge.

  In the dream, she can hear the rushing river. Was it that loud in life? If it was, she didn’t notice it, or she only heard it subconsciously. It sounded like the blood rushing in her ears.

  The path winds upward and the going gets harder, the path rockier, the boulders blinding them with their high, smooth sides. They can no longer see far ahead or behind. The world narrows to the space between stones, the dirt under their feet, the sky only visible in slices of brilliant blue directly above their heads, and neither is looking up. Their eyes are on their own feet, because that is the only safe way to traverse this kind of terrain. They are pushing themselves harder, going faster than they should. Virginia knows it, but she doesn’t want to seem weak, and she lets Ames set the blistering pace.

  But she lags, and that is the only reason why, when the land suddenly disappears and the steep, twisting path ends in a spray of loose gravel high above a rushing river, Virginia is still holding onto the boulders on both sides of the narrow path when Ames loses his footing and falls, his body turning circles in the air like an acrobat’s on the long, long arc downward, and while in life there was only the blood rushing in her ears, in the dream, she hears his body hit the stones in the river, and in the dream, that sound is louder than her inevitable, endless scream.

  She opens her eyes in the cell, its pitch-blackness obscuring the ceiling and the bars, and tries to figure out whether she has screamed aloud. The guard doesn’t come, but would he either way? She forces herself to think about who is on duty tonight. Keeler. No, he wouldn’t come. She can easily imagine him greeting her screams with a detached, mildly curious laughter.

  But her thoughts won’t be diverted so easily. Ames again, always Ames. If Ames had lived, no San Francisco newspaper article. If no article, no expedition, at least not for Virginia. And without Virginia on the expedition, Caprice wouldn’t have…well, she tells herself, who knows what Caprice would have done in the end. But things would have been different.

  In another world, a world that looks almost exactly like this one but with one or two stray, seemingly inconsequential decisions made differently, Caprice still walks the earth. She still has a toad’s face and a harpy’s tongue, and she and Virginia never even meet each other, living in pleasant ignorance one of the other alike.

  Tonight, her eyes adjusting to the dark just enough to see the parallel lines of the bars of her cell looming only feet from where she shivers on her cot—there is nowhere to go farther away from them—Virginia wishes she had a better imagination. She would like to imagine that world. She would like to know how things would have ended up for Caprice, for Virginia, for the others. For Ebba and Althea, for Ann, and oh, for Stella. What in the world would have happened to Stella? She would like to imagine something better than the truth.

  Instead, she remembers what actually happened, and there is no comfort in that. They started in such ambitious optimism. They ended up here.

  Or at least, she corrects herself grimly, a few of them did.

  Which are the luckier? The ones who came back or the ones who didn’t?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Virginia

  Buffalo, New York

  April 1853

  When they disembarked on the platform in Buffalo, Virginia coughed once in the sooty air, then blew out a long breath. She felt more energetic than she’d expected. The motion of a train was like gliding on air compared to the jolting an ox wagon delivered on a crossing to California. Her traveling costume had been chosen for comfort, but a dress was still a dress, and she looked forward to donning her more practical divided skirt soon. She was eager to meet the rest of her party and get started. There had been only one misstep on the trip from Boston; predictably, Caprice had been responsible.

  Virginia, Ebba, and Althea had ridden the whole way in a first-class cabin with an empty fourth seat, one Brooks had purchased with Lady Franklin’s money. Caprice had thrown a fit in Boston when she saw the accommodations—to spend my last hours in civilization packed tight like a pickle in a jar? Are you savages?—and immediately marched off to secure a compartment all to herself. Virginia, mindful of the scene they were causing, had simply let her go. So instead of spe
nding hours on the train getting to know each other better and dispelling their negative first impressions, she spent those hours chatting with Ebba and Althea, enjoying the scenery as it rushed by, and from time to time quietly seething at Caprice’s gall.

  She should have put her foot down and insisted the young woman ride in the cabin purchased for her, she told herself. Starting from Buffalo, she would have to take the reins more firmly. But she let Caprice storm off for the same reason, she believed, that Caprice had stormed; she wouldn’t have the chance much longer. The train passage was the last leg of the journey where they could safely ignore each other’s existence. Even in the canoes, though the propulsion would be provided mainly by hired voyageurs, the women would have to paddle in rhythm, and it would be Virginia’s responsibility to dress down anyone who failed to fall in line. On the train, she could still rest. She talked, she napped, she nibbled a pastry; at no point did she have to worry whether Caprice was doing the same.

  When they disembarked in Buffalo onto the crowded platform, she regretted that hasty, self-indulgent decision. She’d assumed Caprice would be easy to spot, but she searched the crowd for several minutes and did not see her. Virginia did not seriously think the young woman could be lost, but it felt like a personal failing to lose her even temporarily, and it didn’t bode well for the journey.

  But then she came into sight.

  Caprice wore a bright red knee-length coat of wool, thick as a carpet, with gold frog closures all up and down the front. She stood out from the crowd like a cardinal. Whatever Caprice’s faults, her tailoring was always impeccable.

  The porter carrying her luggage was, unusually, a woman; when Virginia looked more closely, she realized the woman wasn’t a porter at all. She wore no uniform, just a simple cloth coat over her dress, appropriate for cold weather. She was dark-skinned, with watchful eyes and an unlined face, though Virginia could not guess her age. Once she set down Caprice’s bags, Virginia expected her to turn and go, but she stood just behind and beside Caprice, looking at the white woman expectantly.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Ebba, Althea,” said Caprice.

  Virginia chose to pretend she hadn’t heard the slight. As the English ladies murmured their greetings, she said in a cheerful tone, “I hope your journey was as pleasant as ours.”

  “Yes, we were quite comfortable.” Caprice indicated the dark-skinned woman behind her with a subtle nod.

  “We?” Virginia was forced to ask.

  “This is my companion. There was no previous opportunity to introduce you, I regret. This is my lady’s maid, Elizabeth,” said Caprice.

  Elizabeth inclined her head to the other women, saying nothing.

  Virginia could think of only one response, and it came out of her in a cold growl. “Your bloody maid?”

  “Watch your language, please. And yes. I feel I’m making a great sacrifice to get by with only one,” Caprice said, her manner infuriatingly calm, “if that’s what you mean.”

  Caprice’s dramatic fit back in Boston made sense now. Oh, she was clever. Caprice hadn’t wanted a whole compartment to herself just to stretch out in; she’d wanted to bring another entire person with her, and she hadn’t wanted Virginia to know about it until long, long after they’d left the city. She’d put off the confrontation for nearly five hundred miles. Now, it was upon them.

  “It is not what I mean, and you know that. We’re going into the bloody wilderness. Not a bloody ballroom,” said Virginia.

  “Language!”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard worse. Probably said worse, too, climbing your precious mountains. You understand my point.”

  Caprice said flatly, “Elizabeth is my maid and my companion. I will need her assistance. If I go, she goes.”

  “Fine, do not go,” said Virginia, delighted. “That is my preference in any case. I wish you good health and safe travels back to Boston, Miss Collins.”

  She turned on her heel, presenting her back to the infuriating rich girl, and did not stop when Caprice shouted, “Well, wait!”

  Then Althea, her lovely brow creased in concern, put out her hand and laid it on Virginia’s arm. Her glove was bright white against the navy wool of Virginia’s coat-sleeve.

  “This is a shock,” she said, “of course. But will it make so much difference? One more pair of hands? She might even be a help.”

  “The choice is not mine,” lied Virginia, seeing a way out, one that had more than a kernel of truth to it. “If it will make the parting easier, Elizabeth may remain with us overnight. Tomorrow, when we present ourselves for the next leg of the journey, I am certain the chief voyageur will turn her away. The canoes have been fitted out to accommodate twelve women, not thirteen. There is simply no space.”

  Instead of speaking to Caprice, she addressed Elizabeth directly, trying to make her voice as warm as possible. “At that point, your mistress will be required to decide whether the two of you will travel back to Boston together or whether you are sent alone. If the occasion requires, do you think you could go all that way with no companion? I realize I would be asking you to do something quite extraordinary.”

  “Rather less extraordinary than going to the Arctic,” Caprice muttered.

  Virginia ignored her. To Elizabeth, she said, “Could you?”

  “If that’s what Miss Collins asks,” said Elizabeth. Her voice was low and lovely. The emotion in her dark eyes was hard to read, but it looked more like hope than disappointment.

  A few moments later, they were joined by Siobhan and Doro, who had ridden second-class on the same train, and Virginia made the necessary introductions. Doro’s eyes were bright with excitement. Siobhan was more tentative, her watchful manner having more than a little in common with Elizabeth’s, but Virginia was struck by her feminine grace, which she was seeing for the first time. It seemed that Siobhan wore a dress, bonnet, and gloves just as comfortably as she’d worn trousers the night the two had met. Once they were out of civilization, they’d all be dressed for comfort, but for now, they all wore traveling dresses of lesser or greater quality, depending on their means.

  Still perturbed, Virginia did not speak to Caprice while they waited for the coach to the inn, nor while they rode in it, nor when they dismounted.

  The inn at which they’d been directed to wait for the other women of the expedition was an undistinguished brick affair, recently built, on a quiet street. The lobby was clean and sparsely decorated. Brass lamps, wooden chairs, a youngish clerk standing at his desk who offered them a tentative smile. Virginia was not sure what she’d expected an inn in Buffalo to look like, but when she saw that they weren’t the only women present in the lobby, she assumed Brooks had chosen somewhere not too disreputable, and that was all they needed.

  Once inside, Virginia said to her companions as a group, “Ladies, there is no telling when next we’ll enjoy having a roof over our heads for the night. Please enjoy this one.”

  “Well, I’m hungry from the journey,” said Caprice. “Some of you ladies are too, aren’t you? I’ll go see about some supper.”

  “Actually, there is a space designated for us to gather in the back parlor,” said Virginia. “Already arranged. You may find refreshment there. Again, enjoy.”

  “Thank you, I suppose,” said Caprice without a trace of genuine gratitude, “but I do not need to be told to enjoy things.” She raised her chin and folded her arms so she was cupping her own elbows, every inch of her issuing a clear challenge.

  This time, Virginia would not let herself be baited. Without speaking, she turned away from the other women and lowered herself into a chair to wait.

  The chair was hard and straight and made her back ache almost immediately, but she waited until all the women’s footsteps had faded in the distance before she dared to adjust her position. She had just selected a better chair, one with a thin cushion tied to the seat and another to t
he back, when another woman came through the door.

  Was this one of her party? There had not been sketches, only descriptions, in the files, and this one did not match any of those descriptions.

  There was youth in every inch of her: the hesitation in her tentative step, the soft curves of her heart-shaped face, the bright strawberry-gold of her hair combed flat against her head, the two-handed grip with which she held a satchel clutched to her chest. She looked around the inn with a slightly awestruck curiosity. As she matched none of the descriptions in the initial file provided by Brooks, if she was among their party, there was only one person she could be.

  “Stella?” guessed Virginia.

  The girl nodded once, solemn.

  So this was the girl who had changed everything, the new passenger Brooks had demanded they bring at the last minute. The reason Thisbe had been left behind. For a moment, Virginia saw red, thinking of how carelessly Caprice had assumed she could add one more to the party when she, Virginia, had been forced to pay attention to the numbers. But this girl, this Stella, should not have to suffer for it. She doubted the girl even knew what had been done to get her a berth. She looked too innocent to know much of anything, clearly far out of her depth. She reminded Virginia of her younger sister Patty, always so open and sincere, always out of her depth with her small frame and big heart. She’d felt so grateful not to lose Patty during the Very Bad Thing, though of course, like the rest of her family, she ended up losing her anyway.

  “Welcome to the expedition,” said Virginia.

  “I hope to have a very pleasant voyage.”