The lovely morning ritual included breakfast, then more wandering through the gardens, where Edward described the years his mother had spent designing and supervising the plantings that once had thrived there. So many of the more delicate plants and shrubs had died of neglect in the years since his mother’s death. Hattie took her notebook along and the child gravely held one end of the measuring tape while Edward held the other. Hattie described her ideas for each of the terraces and gardens and for the lawn and lilac arcades, and made notes of the places she wished to make new plantings. Edward felt a contentment he had seldom experienced, as he spent the morning with Hattie and the child, and the afternoons with his specimens and correspondence.
He understood Hattie’s reluctance to travel when they were so comfortable where they were, but the letters from Lowe & Company made it quite clear what must done. The night before the child was to return to the school, Hattie asked Edward how he had arranged for the Indian boys to work for him last summer.
It wasn’t difficult, he explained. The school superintendent encouraged the summer placement of students in proper, upright homes because too often promising students went home for the summer and failed to return.
“Please, Edward,” she said, placing her hand gently on his arm, “arrange for Indigo to stay with us for the summer.”
“But we are leaving for New York in a matter of weeks,” he reminded her.
“I feel as if I’ve barely just arrived. I only began to unpack my books last week.”
Edward reminded her how disappointed her parents would be if he arrived alone. What would he tell everyone?
Tell them the truth, Hattie said briskly. The journey by train was exhausting.
Edward did not pursue the matter, because he sensed her opposition strengthen when he pressed further. He wanted very much for Hattie to accompany him. Her presence on the Corsica trip would assure success. He knew only too well from past experience, British or American men who traveled alone aroused suspicion in local authorities and villagers, who refused even to speak to a foreigner, much less permit him to approach their gardens or orchards.
Though reluctant to travel abroad, still Hattie had been agreeable to the trip until the Indian child appeared; now she made it quite clear her intention was to stay in Riverside unless the child came along. Actually, now that he thought about it, he realized the child would be an asset in Corsica; the natives adored children.
The following morning Edward spoke with the school superintendent. He learned the child was an orphan from the remnants of an unknown desert tribe in Arizona. The superintendent was concerned over the child’s rebellious behavior, but Edward assured him that they would be able to control the girl. The child would accompany his wife as a personal companion and she would be taught to read and write and, of course, the proper etiquette, while in their custody. The school superintendent supplied the necessary documents to travel abroad. The proposed travel was permissible so long as the child was returned safely to the school by October.
Edward was pleased to see how relaxed and happy Hattie was to have the girl with her. In the short time they’d had her, the child adjusted quickly to her new surroundings, although after Hattie tucked her in bed, Indigo dragged the bedding to the floor. Despite her bold words in the beginning, the girl was quiet, content to listen to their conversation without comment. She followed Hattie in the gardens but disliked the house, perhaps because of the cook’s hostility. Indigo repeated the names of the plants and shrubs after Hattie, but otherwise she spoke at length only to Linnaeus when they played in the glass house together.
Edward continued to search through his library for ethnological reports on the desert Indians. He was intrigued with the notion that the child might be the last remnant of a tribe now extinct, perhaps a tribe never before studied by anthropologists. He began to read about the known desert Indian cultures of the Mojave Desert and Colorado River basin. He began to compose a list of simple words gleaned from linguists’ work with each of the known desert tribes. When the list was complete, Edward asked Hattie to bring the girl up to his study, where he slowly pronounced the words. The child listened and often laughed at Edward; but asked if any of the words were from her language, she shook her head emphatically.
Neither he nor Hattie were able to pronounce the name the child gave them when they asked her what she wished to be called. The papers from the school had listed her only as “girl child,” approximate age eleven years; a name was assigned to her before she was sent on the train, but the child refused to answer to it.
One morning when Hattie was walking with her, the child bolted off toward the desert. Hattie’s heart pounded for an instant as she feared the child was running away; but almost as quickly she returned with a plant in her hand. She held out the branch of a tall plant with attractive magenta leaves.
“This is the plant I am named for.” Hattie took the plant stalk and examined it carefully. Edward did not have to look at the plant long before he identified a variety of desert indigo.
“Indigo,” Hattie said to the child. “Your name in English is Indigo.”
Hattie’s spirits soared once she knew the child was permitted to stay and to travel with them, and she began to talk to Indigo about the wonderful gardens they would see in England and Italy.
A seamstress was hired to sew clothing for the child. Hattie was pleased with the dressmaker’s allowances for the child—nothing must fit too tightly, otherwise the child removed the offending garments and went on playing, quite oblivious to her own nakedness. Attempts to locate shoes wide enough to fit the child had not been a success, so she would have to wear the slippers that did fit until they reached New York. The steamer trunks were brought out by the stable man. The constant activity around the house unsettled the monkey. The little creature chattered constantly and could no longer be trusted indoors after it went leaping from bookcase to bookcase, pausing only to send a vase or bookend crashing to the floor. Edward thought the monkey may have remembered the steamer trunk from the Brazilian voyage; the monkey traveled inside the trunk after its cage was smashed open in the storm. The child was deeply affected by the monkey’s odd behavior and refused to stand still for a fitting of her new wardrobe, insisting that the new dresses pinched her. She wanted the monkey to sleep with her, and when Hattie explained it was impossible because of fleas, the child crept outside later that night. Hattie got quite a shock when she looked into the child’s room before dawn and she was gone—to the glass house to sleep with the monkey curled up next to her.
Whenever Hattie felt about to lose heart over the travel preparations, she turned her thoughts to the gardens they would see. She talked to Indigo about the English gardens and the Italian gardens and all the new flowers and shrubs they would see. Indigo was not convinced; she took Hattie by the hand and walked with her to the red garden to point out that they already had plenty of flowers and shrubs. Hattie had to agree, but added that in England the climate was much different and so the trees, plants, and shrubs also grew much differently there than here. Indigo was going to see all of this for herself, Hattie reminded her. In the last weeks before departure, the child had become quiet and withdrawn, preferring to play with the monkey in the greenhouse. It was plain that the child did not want to part with the monkey; she had asked Hattie three times if the monkey might go along with them.
Each time Hattie had smiled and shook her head gently; she reassured the child that the monkey would be there when they returned.
“Linnaeus would hate the heat and noise—he will be more comfortable and safer if he stays home.”
“He might get sad and die if we all leave him,” Indigo persisted. Her voice rose perceptibly.
That night she dreamed she was in her bedroom, where she awoke before dawn to the monkey’s terrified screams. In the dream Indigo ran to the glass house, where she found the monkey’s cage splashed with blood; she nudged something bloody with her foot and realized it was the freshly skinned hi
de of her beloved Linnaeus. She ran to the kitchen, where the fire in the cookstove crackled as it burned; she heard muffled monkey cries from inside the oven. Just as she opened the heavy oven door the cook strode in with a big butcher knife and grabbed her by the hair and she screamed for Sister Salt and woke herself up.
She crept outside in the dark to the glass house to be certain Linnaeus was safe. The cook hated her most, that was plain, but now the cook hated Linnaeus too, because he was her friend. Indigo hugged Linnaeus and whispered that she would come back for him. She told him her secret: The train was about to take her home; Hattie had told her they were traveling far to the east, just the direction Indigo needed to go, and a few miles west of Needles, when the train slowed down, she was going to jump off the train when the others were asleep. She would find Sister Salt and they would come get Linnaeus and he would live with them and always be safe.
When Hattie found the child in the morning, she was asleep with Linnaeus curled up beside her on his pallet. Hattie discussed the child’s fears with Edward, who admitted that he had been taken aback by the ill temper displayed by the cook toward the child. He was confident, as the child learned more of civilized customs, the cook would mind her manners as well. The downstairs maid betrayed no ill feeling, but she had only just been hired when the child appeared. The household staff would benefit from their absence; they would have time to rest and adjust to the changes in the household. Hattie nodded earnestly.
She was concerned about their itinerary now that Indigo was coming along; perhaps it would be wise to reconsider the length of their visit in New York.
“I hoped we might arrange to depart sooner—while the weather for the crossing is still relatively calm. Later in the season the storms arrive—the child would be terrified.”
“Yes, of course. I agree absolutely.”
Hattie was quite fond of her father and mother, but she was not eager to return so soon to Oyster Bay and the whirl of teas and dinner parties her mother and Edward’s sister would organize to honor their visit. During the dinners and festivities that had celebrated their engagement she had commented that she felt she was on display, and Edward reminded her that he was himself a subject of curiosity because of his expeditions abroad.
Hattie felt tears spring into her eyes when she saw the child and the monkey cling to each other as they watched the luggage and trunks carried outside to the coach. She gently guided Indigo and the monkey away from the activity to the shady garden near the glass house, where the maid brought a tray with bread and milk and fresh grapes. Hattie watched the maid’s expression as she spread the cloth and set the plates on the lawn in front of the child and the monkey; she was curious to see if the new maid had been poisoned by the cook’s ill will toward the child. Hattie was already thinking about the changes in the household she would make after they returned from abroad.
The bulk of the trunks and luggage had already been sent to the train station the day before; now the last few valises were loaded on the coach. As departure time neared, the child held the monkey, who clutched her shoulder tightly; from time to time she whispered to the little creature, which seemed soothed by her words.
Hattie gently lifted Linnaeus from Indigo’s arms and gave him to the maid, who smiled and allowed the little creature to perch on her shoulder. Linnaeus wanted to leap into the carriage but the maid gently restrained him. Indigo watched the white girl closely to see if she liked Linnaeus or if she was only pretending. Indigo watched the cook’s fat face for a reaction to the maid with the monkey and saw hatred redden her cheeks. The cook needed someone to hate; with Indigo gone, she would hate the monkey and grow to hate the maid by association. Hattie and Edward had taken the young woman aside to reiterate instructions on the care and feeding of the monkey. The maid had been directed to feed Linnaeus and clean his cage each day, and above all, she was to play with him and take him for walks. Hattie explained all this to Indigo so she would not worry about Linnaeus while they were away, but Indigo was not convinced. Just as Edward knelt down to lift Indigo into the coach, she stepped forward and stood directly in front of the cook.
“Don’t hurt the monkey,” Indigo told her, “or you’ll go to jail!”
Edward and Hattie were too shocked to speak, and the cook blushed beet red. There was no more to say. As Edward lifted Indigo into the coach she burst into tears, and Linnaeus began chattering frantically. Edward followed Hattie inside and the coachman shut the door.
Part Three
THE CHILD covered her ears with both hands as the coach pulled away from the gate and the monkey screamed and fought the maid, who held him. Edward pointed out the Indian school as the coach passed by, but the child only buried her face deep in the cushion of the seat. The drive to the train station in downtown Riverside gave Hattie a last chance to ponder their undertaking; if the child became ill or unhappy and uncooperative, the journey might be delayed or even ended. Hattie had not discussed Indigo’s future with Edward, but he seemed to understand how attached Hattie had become to the child.
Indigo gripped Hattie’s hand tighter and tighter as she smelled the coal smoke and heard the sounds of the locomotive. The sleeping compartments and the little parlor of the train car looked nothing like the train car with wooden benches that Indigo and the other Indian children had ridden.
Not long after the train left Riverside, the waiter brought a tray of covered dishes to the parlor car, where they ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy while the groves of lemon and orange trees passed outside the window. After lunch, Hattie unpacked a few of the books she’d brought along for herself and the child, Chapters on Flowers, Shrubs in the Garden and Their Legends, and for fun, a book of Chinese stories about a monkey. She had packed a small traveler’s atlas of Europe to teach Indigo geography.
Indigo knelt on the train seat with her cheek against the window, watching the trees and fences move past. As the sun sank low in the west, the clouds on the horizon blazed with yellow and red light. The train was headed east just as Hattie had promised. Indigo’s heart beat faster as she recognized the tall yucca plants from last year, when she watched at the train window all day and all night and memorized the landmarks to get her back home. Indigo asked if she might walk through the train, but Hattie explained that it was not permitted for children to walk about without an adult. They walked the length of the train and back, Indigo walking ahead of Hattie; the passengers stared at the child, then stared at Hattie before returning to the child, who wore her dress very nicely but went about in her stockings without shoes. “A missionary,” someone whispered behind them as they passed from the sleeping car to the observation car.
On their walk through the train, Indigo paid close attention to the passageway between the train car doors, to the steps off the train. She watched for familiar terrain—the sandy dunes below darker basalt hills, the creosote bush and burr sage. Then she would know the train was nearing Needles, where it had to stop to take on water and coal. Indigo was so excited she could hardly wait. She knew what she must do to escape.
All afternoon Indigo knelt on the seat for a better view; mile after mile she watched the land change. The lush green of citrus groves began to fade into pale greens and pale yellows of spring grass and wildflowers; a few miles more and there was only the spidery dark green shrubbery of the greasewood that covered the coarse alluvial gravel. The greasewood forest extended in all directions as far as one could see; far, far in the distance through the blue haze of late afternoon, Indigo could barely make out the blue outlines of desert mountains, which she did not recognize.
Just before sundown, the train stopped at a small train depot named San Bernardino to take on extra water and coal for the gradual ascent through the low mountain pass. Edward joined other passengers who took the opportunity to get off the train to stretch their legs. Indigo watched Hattie hopefully, but she was reading a book and only glanced up when the train stopped and when Edward left the car. Indigo stood up and stepped tow
ard the door. Hattie looked up from her book and asked if she needed to use the lavatory. Indigo shook her head. She wanted to get down from the train and walk. Hattie looked out the windows and shook her head. There wasn’t time. Edward was about to reboard. The stop was almost over. A moment after Edward reentered the compartment, Indigo felt the train jerk and move forward and they were off again. She knelt on the seat, her face at the window to watch the blue outlines of the mountains in the distance fade into the lavender-blue twilight.
Later there was a knock and the porter entered the compartment and lit the lamps. Hattie closed the volume of early church history by Eusebius.
“Indigo,” she said, “how would you like a nice warm bath before dinner?” Indigo shook her head. She had already bathed that morning and she had never heard of any one bathing more than once in the same day unless they fell into something very smelly or very sticky.
Hattie smiled.
“Well, I think a warm bath would feel heavenly,” she said as she approached the door to the sleeping compartment. Edward glanced at Indigo, whose eyes never left the window, then he looked at the telegrams and other correspondence on the small table in front of him. Edward smiled and agreed with Hattie, then went back to his writing.
Without Hattie in the room the scratch-scratch of Edward’s pen’s steel nib and the occasional tink-tink of steel against the glass neck of the ink bottle sounded much louder to Indigo. Occasionally she heard Edward speak softly to himself or to the piece of paper; she was not certain. He seemed very intent, as if he were arguing with the paper. Indigo watched out the window as the little darkness eased herself over the greasewood forest; far behind her, big darkness came. The lamp’s light reflection filled the train window and Indigo could not see outside unless she pressed her face against the glass.
Gardens in the Dunes Page 14
