Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  She turned on her side to stare at the curtained portholes. Just business, he had said tonight, and that impenetrable shutter had descended. Business created wealth, and wealth bought comfort. They were very wealthy, that much she understood, and so her life was very comfortable. Nothing was expected of her except that she adorn her father’s household until, presumably, he passed her on to some other man who would be her husband. And she could see no escape.

  He never seemed to want to talk, really talk, about the things that were important, and sometimes he was away from home for months; and even when he was at home, he was unapproachable, hidden away in his study, engrossed in papers with instructions that he should not be disturbed. Amassing wealth had become his obsession in recent years – and it measured poorly against what they had once had, and had lost. Her mind shied away from dangerous territory and took refuge in a safer grievance, remembering how he had cancelled a promised trip to the World Exposition in Paris four years ago, and had sailed for Cape Town instead, returning with exotic gifts which had done nothing to ease the hurt.

  Recently, as her resentment hardened, she had begun to grasp the extent of her father’s investments: in South Africa it was gold mines, and in Canada it was railways. And she was beginning to understand how closely he was associated with Mr Larsen, and with Larsen’s bank. And the banker had become a more frequent guest at Ballantyre House. Perhaps they met at the house in Edinburgh too, but she doubted it. Edinburgh was where her father pursued his civic and philanthropic interests, went to the theatre, saw his friends. And his women—

  She lay there feeling quite defeated and listened to the gentle slap of the waves against the hull, and allowed her mind to unlock, just a little. If she wound her memories back to when this obsession with business had begun, and to when things had changed so dreadfully between them, she was brought back to that day five years ago, to the day the poacher had been shot.

  Chapter 3

  Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893

  ‘Oh, but this is all too splendid, Mr Larsen!’ Larsen ushered his new guests into the Valkyrie’s saloon and Lady Melton looked about her. ‘So trim and so elegant.’

  Larsen watched with some amusement as she trailed her fingers over the furnishings, pausing to adjust her hat in front of the gilded mirror, her eye skimming the leather-bound books which lined the bulkhead.

  ‘Don’t you think so, George?’

  Trim and elegant, indeed. How on earth had Ballantyre persuaded her to come?

  ‘My wife is terribly nosey, I’m afraid,’ her husband said, with an engaging smile. ‘She’ll be into everything unless you explicitly forbid it.’ Sir George Melton had that lean, angular look which characterised Englishmen of his class. Quiet, but shrewd, Larsen reckoned. Several years, maybe even a decade, older than his wife. Larsen knew the type well: they inhabited English country houses and were lethal with sporting guns, cards, and women, capable of drinking all night and yet be out exercising the horses at dawn.

  Ballantyre had said he was a keen fisherman too, and that was all Larsen had needed to know.

  ‘You have the run of the ship, dear lady,’ he said, bowing, then twinkled at Evelyn. ‘And Evelyn’s been looking forward to your company.’

  His friend’s daughter returned him the same tight smile she had worn all morning. It had been pinned in place as she stood beside Ballantyre on the station platform waiting for the Meltons’ late-running train. Larsen had been aware of his friend’s quick glances towards the station clock as the minutes ticked by; and in the end there had been time for only hasty introductions and explanations as the guests’ trunks and boxes were unloaded.

  Evelyn had stood by impassively, saying little as her father apologised for leaving them in this manner. ‘It’s too bad, but of course we’ll look after Evelyn,’ Lady Melton had said, tucking Evelyn’s hand companionably under her arm. ‘You’ll miss the voyage up through the Lakes, though—’

  ‘But not the fishing, I gather,’ her husband remarked with a dry smile.

  ‘Not a chance.’ Ballantyre had glanced once more at the railway clock and picked up his valise, his coat draped over his arm. ‘I must go. My apologies again, but thank you, Clementina, I’m grateful, and if you can persuade Evelyn to forgive me, I’ll be forever indebted. Niels, what can I say—?’

  ‘Nonsense. Away with you!’

  Ballantyre’s eyes had lingered on his daughter and then, abruptly, he had dropped his valise again and pulled her to him muttering: ‘Evie, my dear child, do stop hating me,’ and had planted a kiss on her forehead.

  A strange stricken look had flickered over the girl’s features. ‘I’ll come to the carriage,’ she said.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Ballantyre had released her and pushed her firmly towards Lady Melton before scooping up his valise. ‘I shall have to dash.’ And with that he had set off down the platform and stepped swiftly onto the carriage. He waved once, a gesture lost in the steam blown back down the line as the train departed, and Evelyn was left standing with her hand half-raised.

  Larsen glanced at her now as she sat staring out of the window, while Lady Melton continued exclaiming over the smartness of the saloon. There was surely more to this breach between father and daughter than a quarrel over some half-grown youth from the peat bogs; or had she fancied herself in love with the scoundrel, poor child—? Ballantyre had left Larsen with the impression that the matter had been nipped in the bud, before any damage was done.

  It would be wisest, perhaps, to leave her with her friend, he decided, and he turned back to George Melton. ‘The wheelhouse and engine room might interest you, sir, while Evelyn helps your wife to settle in. Then we’ll have a light luncheon on deck before going ashore.’ He ushered his guest through the door. ‘I had a new compound engine fitted last year, more speed, you know, and less vibration—’

  Clementina swung back to Evelyn as soon as they were gone, her eyes asparkle. ‘My dear, show me everything!’

  The stateroom allocated to the Meltons was, of necessity, larger than Evelyn’s and every bit as luxurious. ‘My, oh my!’ Clementina looked about her, approving the neat desk and dressing table, bending to examine the drawers beneath the double box-bed. ‘It’s like a doll’s house. Everything so neat.’ She inspected the pens and stationery on the desk, and cooed over all the little luxuries, picking up and putting down hand mirrors and brushes, admiring a china pot filled with rose petals. ‘What a treat this is going to be! And what a lovely idea of your papa’s to invite us along.’

  Something in her tone made Evelyn look up. Had Clementina been told about the Incident? She felt herself flush with indignation at the thought and turned away, pretending an interest in the door which opened onto the tiny bathroom and water closet. Clementina squeezed past her to see. ‘A shower too. Gracious! I shall have to get George to try it first though. The one we had in New York was quite terrifying!’

  Clementina continued to chatter about the wonders of New York, about the tall buildings and the stores they had visited, and theatres, and the strange people on the streets as she unpinned her hat and smoothed her hair, stretching her neck towards the mirror to examine her complexion. ‘I could have stayed there forever, couldn’t you? All those marvellous shops! But George said I was bankrupting him – and I’d no idea that I’d be coming to such luxury here. What a lot of money these Americans seem to have.’ She picked up the silver-backed hand mirror and gave an imagined blemish a closer look. ‘And what a lovely man your Mr Larsen is. George says he’s rich as Croesus—’ She put her hand to her mouth, and made a little moue of self-reproach, looking at Evelyn over the top of the mirror. ‘But then again he is a banker …’

  Her Mr Larsen? What on earth was she thinking? Her friend seemed taller and thinner than Evelyn remembered, more angular. More adult. ‘He’s an old family friend,’ she said. Clementina lowered the mirror and gave a gurgling laugh which sounded much more like her old self. ‘No, silly, I didn’t mean that! Far too ol
d for you. But when we get back you must come for a long stay and I’ll see that you meet all sorts of people’ – so something had been said – ‘and we must persuade your papa to open up Ballantyre House again. The shooting parties he used to have were quite legendary. I was always too young but George used to go.’

  And then they stopped happening—

  Clementina’s childhood home had been on an estate just twenty miles from Ballantyre House, and Evelyn had seen as much of her as anyone during her adolescence, although almost five years separated them. All too soon, however, her playmate had grown taller, started to put her hair up, and had glided away. Her marriage to George Melton Bart had been considered a good one, and had taken her south of the Border.

  ‘What has Papa said to you?’ Evelyn asked, and she saw her friend pause.

  She began patting the cushions on the bed.

  ‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ She turned back to the dressing table, smoothing her hair again and glancing obliquely at Evelyn through the mirror.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Evelyn said. Clementina had never been any good at dissembling. ‘I’m not a fool, you know. Tell me what he said.’

  Clementina looked cornered, then shrugged and sat down.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Only that he was concerned that you should meet the right sort of people and have a chance to see a bit of the world. And would we come along.’

  Resentment surged. ‘Did he say I’d been meeting the wrong sort of people?’

  ‘Had you?’ Clementina’s arch expression made her turn away.

  She felt ashamed of the incident now. Agreeing to meet Patrick Kelly had been a mistake. In truth, she had been relieved by his sudden departure from her father’s household, following their discovery. It was one thing, she had found, to chat to him along the rides through the estate at home, but quite another to meet him, clandestinely, once they had arrived in Edinburgh. He had sat too close on the park bench, his eyes had been too bold, and she had not expected him to take her hand – she had, in fact, been very glad to see her father appear on the gravelled path between the two high laurel hedges, despite the scene which had erupted.

  ‘So who was it?’ Clementina’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, but when Evelyn told her they widened in horror. ‘A groom! Evie, what on earth were you thinking? Madness— And how damaging!’

  Damaging! Anger surged over resentment. ‘There was no harm in it. We were just talking, quite openly, in a public place—’

  ‘In a public place!’ Clementina’s horror intensified. ‘Oh Evie! I trust no one saw you!’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if they had as I don’t know a soul in Edinburgh, and no one knows me.’ She made to rise, but Clementina pulled her back down.

  ‘Since you will have it, your papa simply wrote to me saying that you’d made an error of judgement, and asked if I’d take you under my wing, so to speak, when we get home. He blamed himself, you know, not you—’ There was a tap on the door and an announcement that luncheon awaited them on the aft deck. ‘But no harm’s been done, and no one knows, not even George.’

  Larsen smiled at his young friend as she slipped into her seat beside him under the striped aft awning. He thought that she looked better already.

  ‘This is too delightful,’ Lady Melton was saying. ‘Such a treat! Everyone was wildly jealous when I said we were coming to the Exposition. George is more excited by the fishing, of course, and has had his nose in Hardy’s catalogue ever since we had Charles’s invitation.’

  ‘Expositions come and go, my love,’ Melton said with a smile, ‘but a chance to fish on the Nipigon—’

  ‘— is quite another matter.’ Larsen raised his glass in agreement. Melton had a slow attractive smile, and he had already taken to the man. ‘I hope you didn’t spend too much money, though; the Nipigon trout are unsophisticated creatures – they’ll rise to anything. The skill is in the fight that follows, and then all you need is a firm grip and grim resolve.’

  He reached over to pour drinks for the ladies as Melton replied, ‘I treated myself to one of those new split cane rods with a steel centre—’

  His wife turned to Evelyn. ‘You’ve no idea how much there is to talk about when it come to fishing – rods, lines, guts, flies. Although I expect your papa must be just as bad.’

  ‘Does he still tie his own special flies?’ asked Melton, smiling across at Evelyn.

  ‘I believe he does,’ she replied, and Larsen saw that odd shadow cross her face again as she took a devilled egg. He turned the subject back to the Exposition, describing the wrangles over its planning and construction, the conflict over the halls and their exhibits. Then he gently teased Evelyn for her opinion of the Mines and Mining Building and was at last rewarded by a smile. ‘Admit it, my dear. You were bored to tears.’

  ‘Of course I was,’ she said, with that delightful little lift of her chin.

  ‘I should think so too! When there are all these lovely promenades and courts,’ said Clementina. ‘But never mind, this afternoon we’ll explore it properly.’

  After lunch, Valkyrie’s launch took them through the gleaming whiteness of the Triumphal Arch and dropped them at the landing provided there for lake visitors. ‘The idea of the Exposition is to celebrate four centuries of progress since Columbus landed,’ Larsen explained as they walked beside the still waters of the Basin. ‘Unfortunate timing, perhaps, given recent events, but I reckon it’s easier for us to look back rather than forward in these troubled times.’

  ‘Yes,’ said George, gazing about him. ‘The past can be a safer place to inhabit.’

  Was that so? Evelyn looked down the length of the Basin to the fountain at the far end, twirling her parasol. The past was a place she rarely dared to venture.

  Yesterday, she had stood with her father and Mr Larsen beside the huge fountain and her father had gestured with his thumb. ‘So what’s this all about, then?’ he had asked, examining the elaborate statuary. ‘A Winged Victory, some burly nymphs rowing—’

  ‘Arts, science, and industry driving the barge forward,’ Mr Larsen had replied, with a smile to Evelyn. ‘Classical allusions, my friend, as I’m sure you are aware.’

  ‘Ah! America, the successor to Rome.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Does the irony not strike them?’ And he had turned away to watch the progress of a well-turned ankle along the edge of the Basin.

  Mr Larsen had rolled his eyes at Evelyn, and tucked her hand under his arm. ‘What makes your father such a cynic, my dear?’ he had asked, and she had had no answer.

  This afternoon, George seemed more impressed than her father had been. ‘It’s the sheer scale of everything,’ he said, looking up at a colossal gilded statue which rose from the Basin, symbolising the unity of the Republic. Yesterday her father had scoffed at that too. ‘Unity?’ he had said. ‘What do the prairie farmers in hock to eastern insurance companies have to say about unity, I wonder? Have they asked the strikers …?’

  ‘My dear fellow.’ Mr Larsen’s eyes had gleamed appreciatively. ‘You make the task of guide most unrewarding.’

  ‘Do I?’

  But Evelyn had looked at him, thinking she had not seen this side of him for a very long time. The old passion—

  ‘And now, my dear.’ Mr Larsen broke into her thoughts. ‘Who is for the delights of the Midway Plaisance? I suspect that Lady Melton will wish to join us, but will you, sir?’ George begged to be excused, saying that he would find his way to the Electricity Building and join them later back on the yacht.

  Mr Larsen offered an arm to each of the ladies and led them through the gateway to the now famous Midway Plaisance.

  ‘Where shall we start?’ he asked them. ‘Shall we stare openmouthed at the camels, or watch men in silken robes smoking hookahs outside the Turkish Theatre? Will you be outraged by the half-naked Samoan villagers, I wonder …’ The Midway had been something of an afterthought, he told them as they proceeded down the main thor
oughfare, and was hugely popular.

  But the long summer’s heat had given everything a rather faded appearance, bleached and tired. Evelyn found herself jostled by the crowd and began to feel oppressed by the noise and the constant buzz, overlain by exotic wailing music and the cries of the vendors, while above them snapped the flags of many nations. And there was a weariness in the drooping shoulders of the hawkers and showmen, a bored indifference as they tried to entice them into the exhibits, returning their sour faces and surly frowns when they resisted. Already several of the bazaars and emporia were advertising CLOSING OUT SALES, ALL GOODS HALF PRICE.

  They stood for a while and watched a group of Esquimaux, clad from head to toe in thick furs, wilting under the relentless late August sun as they halfheartedly lashed at their mangy huskies. ‘Poor things …’ said Evelyn, watching as the men urged them to pull the sledges along dusty tracks, the animals panting, their tongues lolling and eyes dull. ‘They look ready to drop; the men too—’

  ‘The authorities threatened to withhold their food unless they wore their furs …’

  ‘No!’

  ‘… so the Esquimaux took them to court.’

  ‘And did they win?’ Evelyn asked as they moved away.

  ‘A few concessions, nothing more. They are exhibits, you see—’

  Larsen led them towards the Street in Cairo, where camels and their riders were bedecked in colourful blankets and robes. ‘You want ride? Special price for lovely lady—’ A Moor plucked at her sleeve, his face too close, while the camel swayed on spindly legs, chewing indifferently and breathing foul odours. Mr Larsen waved the man away.

  The Ferris wheel, however, was quite another matter, and she waited with eager anticipation while Mr Larsen negotiated their tickets, paying extra for a private car to accommodate them. As it rose to the top, the whole complex of the Fair, with its halls and pavilions, basins, lakes and waterways, was laid out below them. Evelyn looked down onto the dome of the Moorish palace, and out beyond to the grey plane of the lake. A cooling breeze reached them through the open window.