Aloysius rested the lead pencil in the diary, making a pretence of ensuring it did not roll from the blank page. What should he tell her? He’d been so confident, so sure of Philomena’s triumphant return that he had ignored the cautionary warnings of Clarence and closed his ears to the well-meaning advice and opinions of his wife. ‘I find myself revisiting the past while awaiting the momentous future before us.’
The slightest of shadows crossed his wife’s features. In her mid-forties, the bloom of youth had long since left her. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose lent a regal quality to what was once a pretty heart-shaped face, although the years had pulled at her jawline and waistline, elongating the first and widening the second. Tightly corseted, she sat stiffly in the chair opposite the desk, her silk skirt draping prettily on the floor.
‘When do you expect her arrival?’
‘A matter of weeks.’
‘And you are sure about bringing her straight here?’
‘Don’t tell me Clarence has had your ear as well, Annie? I never figured the man for such a worrier,’ Aloysius snapped.
‘I am glad for his interest otherwise I would not know the half of what goes on.’ Annie leant back in the chair. ‘It is my home as well, Aloysius, and I have our family to consider, not to mention our place in society.’
Aloysius chewed at his bottom lip.
‘The letter that arrived today, it was from the doctor, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Aloysius closed the diary and began fidgeting with the pencil.
Annie smoothed the folds of her skirt. She was a patient woman to an observer but for an errant eyebrow that slid upwards when irritated, as if drawn by an invisible thread. The fine brown hairs were indeed arched impressively and currently rested with the condemnatory air of a schoolteacher.
‘The doctor wrote to say that Philomena is distressed at the recent contact that has been made. Why, the poor girl has been prodded and poked at by perfect strangers.’
Annie’s eyebrow did not budge. ‘She is a grown woman of thirty years, Aloysius.’
‘Yes, one that is unable to communicate in the English language.’ That, at least, he could reveal.
Annie, apparently satisfied with his response, moved to stir the embers in the hearth with a poker. ‘You knew that this would not be easy.’ She turned to him. ‘Language will be the least of her problems.’
Aloysius found himself silently repeating snippets of the letter. The doctor believed that the possibility of rehabilitation, of a complete restoration of body and soul, which would enable his niece to rejoin the civilised world verged on the hopeless. He actually insinuated that he and his fellow doctor feared her mind ruined. It was impossible for Aloysius to equate this diagnosis with the young child he remembered and, if nothing else, he felt entitled to doubt the opinions of two men whose learned opinions were gleaned from books. ‘They have told me to prepare myself.’
‘I am not surprised. The girl has lived like a heathen for over two decades; hers will not be an easy re-entry. If indeed such a thing is possible.’
‘Joseph would expect me to try,’ Aloysius countered.
‘Of course, and you must do your very best for Philomena. However, whatever you do must be for her sake, not for yourself, and you must give consideration to how her presence may affect our immediate family.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Don’t raise your voice at me, husband, I am simply reminding you that this is not about a debt owed to your dead brother or, for that matter, his wife.’
Their eyes met across the desk. Aloysius would never be certain whether Annie knew of his attachment to Ginny. It was Ginny who pushed for the move to the territory of New Mexico. There was no need for such a permanent relocation, for the Wade family interests in silver mines in the region were in excellent management hands, but Ginny needed to escape. She was loved by two brothers. Aloysius still wondered what would have happened between them if Ginny had remained in Dallas.
‘I have decided that on arrival Philomena will not come here. Instead I will lodge her elsewhere, at least until we have a better understanding as to her needs.’
Annie smiled. ‘I’m glad. I think such an arrangement is best for all concerned, at least initially.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, my dear. Come now, let’s retire for the evening.’ Aloysius followed his wife across the polished timber floor and out into the spacious entrance hallway.
A tall cabinet decorated with carved flowers and fruits on a number of panels formed a centrepiece to the matching hall table and single decorative chair on the opposite wall. The dark night had engulfed the waning moon, leaving the house poorly illuminated. Patches of light from a table lamp and a second fire in the drawing room were complemented by a flickering candle Annie held.
Waiting patiently as his wife extinguished the electric lamp, Aloysius stared at the portraits flanking the walls on either side of where he stood. Two sets of parents, his and Annie’s, stared across the void. Friends in life, although their reunions had been few, Aloysius wished they were still alive. The burden of patriarch weighed heavily on his shoulders tonight. Neither of Annie’s brothers had survived the war and with Joseph also relegated to the great unknown, there was no-one with whom he felt he could freely confide.
‘You haven’t told me everything, have you, Aloysius?’
Annie was by his side again. He cupped her elbow and steered her towards the painted balustrade at the bottom of the stairs. The candle threw a yellow light on the wooden panels that covered the ground floor brick work, revealing an intricate design of geometric motifs.
‘I have talked enough on the subject tonight, Annie, I don’t wish to be interrogated.’
Her gentle enquiry thwarted, Aloysius was left to follow the smudge of light from the candle Annie held as she led the way to their room. The wooden banister was cool beneath his palm as he walked up the stairs. He could hear the clock ticking on the landing above as his foot touched a squeaking board, the rhythmic swish of Annie’s skirts faded as she walked down the hallway to their room.
At the top of the stairs he paused. The light at the end of the hall disappeared to be replaced by a brighter glow as the bedroom light was turned on. Outside, a gentle wind caused the branches of a tree to brush softly against the timber walls of the second storey.
‘Is that you, Father?’ Edmund peered from his bedroom, a thin wedge of electric light haloing his dark hair and tall, lanky frame.
‘Yes, my boy.’
‘I wanted to say thank you for the job at the newspaper.’
Recent reports suggested that Edmund had taken to his new employ with enthusiasm. Aloysius knew he should feel grateful for this one bright spark in what constituted his current firmament but in truth he expected more of his youngest son. What man in his right mind pined over a woman dead these past fourteen months? ‘If a man feels gainfully employed, Edmund, then the rest of his life usually falls into place.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping for, sir. And Philomena, is there any more news of my cousin?’
‘She was five when you were born. Had things been different you should have been playmates.’ Aloysius cleared his throat. ‘In any event we must not get our hopes up. I am told she can’t speak English. Hers has not been an easy life.’
‘So she will need special attention, Father.’
‘Yes. I have engaged Dr Fitzgerald in the first instance. And your cousin won’t be coming home immediately. I intend to put her under his care for a period of time until she is more settled.’
‘I’m sorry, I know how long you have hoped for this reunion.’
As father and son, theirs had been a distant relationship, but with the boy’s words Aloysius felt understanding without judgement. One of his daughter’s old bedrooms had been redecorated for Philomena’s arrival. Only a week ago there had been talk of a ball to be given in her honour, such was the enthusiasm of his daughters. Aloysius’s leather shoes scuffed the brig
htly coloured wool runner. In hindsight he was beginning to comprehend not only the extent of his naivety, but also how adept he’d been in not only convincing himself of Philomena’s triumphant return to society, but also his children. Only Annie listened, watched and waited.
‘Is there something else, Father?’
‘Your mother does not know.’ The length of the hall was quiet. ‘You cannot tell anyone, at least not until I tell her. She will be overwrought at the news.’
Edmund beckoned his father into his bedroom. It was a spacious area with a solid desk, sturdy chair, double wardrobe and the single bed he’d used as a boy. Aloysius liked the furnishings for their simplicity and lack of pretension, which was in direct contrast to some of Annie’s favourite pieces, which were florid in the Victorian style. The room carried the hint of tobacco and although it was well past the hour for spirits, he accepted the tumbler of whiskey his son poured, swallowing the contents in a single gulp while the boy drank direct from the flask.
Edmund leant against a washstand. ‘You best tell me, Father. I can keep your counsel.’
‘Your cousin, Philomena, has a daughter.’
A muscle twitched in his son’s jaw. ‘Is she …?’
Aloysius twirled the tumbler between his palms and then sat the empty glass on the desk. ‘Apache? Yes, I gather so.’ He rarely let his thoughts stray to the inevitable violation of Philomena, but the knowledge of a daughter was physical proof of her treatment at the hands of those who had taken her.
‘It’s not unexpected, Father, considering the circumstances.’
‘It is to me.’ Aloysius was surprised at how calmly Edmund received the news.
His son sipped at the flask, wiped his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Indians and whites do marry, Father.’
‘And that is supposed to make me feel better? That there is the possibility of such a union with church blessing? Whose blessing and what church? Philomena was abducted by a bunch of murdering, renegade Indians.’
‘I have read of captured white women who marry. Some are, in fact, very wealthy.’
Was the boy simple? ‘These Apaches are prisoners of war, Edmund. At the very most your cousin is an Indian’s squaw and mother to one.’
Edmund grew innately interested in the silver flask he held. He turned it slowly, deliberately. ‘The word squaw is extremely derogatory.’
‘There is more.’ Aloysius experienced a surge of disgust. ‘The daughter is with child herself.’ He swallowed the bile in his throat. ‘God forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘but how can I bring such shame upon the good name of this family?’
‘With child?’ Edmund spluttered. ‘But she herself must be scarcely out of short dresses.’
‘Fifteen years of age, the doctors advise.’
‘Fifteen?’ Edmund’s voice had risen an octave. ‘And with child and she is coming here?’
‘They were already en route by the time I received word of the daughter’s existence. Apparently Philomena would not be parted from her. There was quite a scene. And we must not forget that the daughter and unborn child are of Wade blood too.’
‘Philomena is of Wade blood,’ Edmund corrected. ‘A captured white woman is one thing, Father. No-one would expect you to turn Philomena aside despite the insinuations the gossipmongers will delight in. But an Indian child? A baby? What do we do with them? We can’t very well introduce them into society. We may well be bringing Geronimo’s blood into our home.’
Aloysius examined his hands as if the answer to the questions stored in his brain could be found in the creases of his palms. ‘Well, what would you have done?’
Edmund didn’t reply.
Chapter 3
November, 1886 – Dallas, Texas
Aloysius waited impatiently in his study for Dr Harry Fitzgerald. Philomena and her daughter had arrived yesterday and, although he’d agreed to a period of rest after their long journey, he’d barely slept during the night. His mind kept returning to his youth, to a time when schooling and hard gallops on the outskirts of Charlestown were the extent of his and Joseph’s worries. Horses, reading, writing and arithmetic moulded their early lives. Arguments were frequent, their fights physically painful. Even then they were competitive, not for a father’s attention but for the sense of exhilaration that came from bettering one another. Wins were sweet when they came at the cost of beating your brother.
A maid announced the doctor’s arrival and Aloysius beckoned the man to the chair opposite his desk. The doctor was of middling height and looks, and with no remarkable feature to single him out from the masses. Aloysius found himself wondering at his level of ability.
‘How is my niece? Of good health, I hope.’
‘Distraught, as to be expected, but otherwise quite healthy,’ the doctor advised, crossing his legs. ‘You have heard from Mrs Samuels, the owner of the boarding house?’
‘I have, via a rather irate telephone call. She tells me that her tenants are complaining and threatened to throw my niece and daughter out. But tell me, how is Philomena really? When can I see her?’
‘You employed me, Mr Wade, in my capacity as consultant physician to oversee your niece’s assimilation back into society, did you not?’ The doctor plucked at the cloth of his trousers.
‘Indeed,’ Aloysius agreed irritably. Answering a question with a question was not a form of dialogue he enjoyed.
‘If I may, Mr Wade, the first concern is how you view this rather delicate situation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mrs Samuels is worried about Philomena’s mental state, not to mention her daughter. Secondly, objections have been raised as to the issue of cleanliness. It appears mother and child are infested with lice.’
‘So have them deloused, my good man. They have been living on a reservation.’
‘Mr Wade, Mrs Samuels is most sorely aggrieved at having not been informed in advance that your “guests” are in fact Indians.’
Aloysius slapped his hand on the desk. ‘My niece is most certainly not an Indian.’
‘She arrived dressed as an Indian and is still so attired.’ The doctor leant forward in his chair. ‘I understand how difficult this is for you.’
‘Do you?’ Aloysius’s voice dropped. ‘When can I see my niece?’
The doctor sighed. ‘They must be moved. Mrs Samuels refuses to house them. May I suggest the asylum. As you know I am a consultant there and –’
‘They are not delinquents!’ Aloysius replied furiously.
‘Unfortunately that depends on your definition of the word. You can’t install them here, Mr Wade, not in their present condition. As it was they had to be locked in their room at the boarding house so they wouldn’t escape.’
The thought of Philomena trying to run away after the years he had hoped for her return stunned Aloysius. He stalked the length of the study. In business he prided himself on his ability to negotiate and control, to manipulate events to his advantage. Now he was stymied by the fates, unsure of his next move.
‘A difficult situation, Mr Wade.’
‘This is new to me,’ Aloysius mumbled. ‘Uncertain outcomes are new to me. Very well,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘Promise me that they will be kept well away from the mentally unstable and I want them in a private room with all necessary comforts.’
‘I have such an area with a private sitting room.’
Aloysius rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Now that you have spent some time with my niece, do give me the benefit of your expertise.’ Aloysius rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and accidently pushed a brass sconce against the gilt frame of the landscape hanging above. The knock of metal against timber went unnoticed. ‘I have had my fill of supposed experts. Crane and Holt, for example, cost me a pretty penny when they went to the reservation, and they returned with the most disparaging of reports. I am expecting a true and honest account from you, Harry, if I may call you Harry.’
‘Of course, Mr Wade. However, I must warn you that my finding
s will not gladden you.’
Aloysius waved a hand, signalling the doctor to speak.
‘Your niece’s prospects are limited. She is a white woman in appearance only and I believe that she is far too damaged by the many years spent in captivity to ever be capable of resuming her place in society. I have prescribed bromide to calm her distressed state.’
Aloysius felt the study walls shrinking around him. The air seemed denser, difficult to breathe.
‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such distressing news.’
He remembered his niece as a cherubic baby. Cradled in her mother’s arms, they appeared like Madonna and child. ‘And Philomena’s daughter?’
The doctor gave a singular shake of his head. ‘She appears to be lacking in mental capacity. Although both she and the unborn child appear well enough, if a little malnourished, as is your niece.’
Although tempted to punch his fist into something hard, Aloysius considered the diagnosis. ‘Is it not possible that some memory may return, some small recollection that, although fleeting, could spur Philomena to recall her past, albeit gradually?’
‘From the previous cases I have studied in readiness for your niece’s arrival, it seems unlikely.’
‘But not impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible, but the Apaches have always been warlike and nomadic. Had Philomena been found sooner, had she been with a tribe who mixed more freely with others, had –’
‘Stop it. I am not interested in hearing negatives, Harry.’
The doctor flipped his crossed leg backwards and forwards.
Aloysius believed in the power of family. He was sure that once he met his brother’s lost daughter and talked to her, a small flame would be lit, a flame that could be fanned into a fire filled with memories, a fire that would burn out the Indian part of her soul. ‘Despite your opinion, I am still hopeful of some form of reconciliation.’
‘And I am committed to doing my very best to help Miss Wade.’
The Great Plains Page 3
