Faithful

by Janet Fox

  I goggled at him, wondering why I would need this piece of trivia.

  He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth, beneath the curve of his mustache. “Unless, of course, it’s hungry.” He extended his hand. “George Graybull.” I shook it and then withdrew, gazing out the window.

  The bear’s eyes burned in my memory; something about it had imprinted my soul. I tried to slow my breathing. I spoke in a whisper, to myself. “It looked right at me.”

  “What? The bear?” He had heard me, that Graybull. “Nonsense. Bears have dreadful eyesight. Couldn’t have seen you at that distance. Just sniffing the air.” He caught my skeptical glance. “Been on a number of safaris. Hunted throughout the west. I know animals.”

  I smiled politely. Uncle John leaned over. “Exciting to see a bear this early in Yellowstone, eh, Margaret? Unusual!”

  The coach climbed higher, and then the landscape opened into a series of rolling hills, until the road wound in tight spirals. I leaned with the coach as it swayed, and thought about the bear.

  I knew animals. I knew animals well. I closed my eyes and remembered the feel of Ghost’s shoulder beneath my hand, the ripple of his muscle when I pressed my cheek against his neck. The bond I shared with him, the way he knew me. I thought again about the bear reading my thoughts and knew there was a difference.

  I opened my eyes again and looked out over the high mountains into which we climbed with a steady pace. Soon I’d be back with Ghost; soon I’d be back with Mama.

  My thoughts were interrupted again when I realized that George Graybull’s eyes were fixed on me. I squirmed, uncomfortable under his gaze, and color crept into my cheeks. I twisted in my seat, trying to avoid his piercing eyes, and leaned against the wood windowsill.

  Neat, ordered, frame buildings capped with red roofs signaled our arrival at Fort Yellowstone. The coach drew past the fort and I looked up the hill.

  “Is that smoke?”

  “Steam, Margaret! You’re in Mammoth Hot Springs.”

  “Hot springs.” Saratoga’s springs were mineral, not steaming. I gawked, amazed.

  The National Hotel, a grand wood structure, loomed on our right. Clouds of steam rose beyond it. Elk grazed on the lawn only yards away from us and I couldn’t help feeling transported into another world. Our coach stopped before the National and, following the other jabbering tourists, I turned to enter the lobby.

  Papa put his hand on my arm, held me back. “Not here, Margaret.” Uncle John collected our belongings on the covered porch, off to one side of the other passengers’ things.

  “Not here?” I stopped, confused. “But, where . . .”

  “I’ve booked rooms for you in the Cottage Hotel.” Uncle John nodded in the direction of a ramshackle log building. “It’s very quaint.” His smile was uneasy.

  “Quaint?” It looked like a thin-walled box compared with the imposing beauty of the National. “What’s going on, Papa?”

  “The National is more than we need right now.”

  The other tourists had already gone inside the hotel. George Graybull glanced our way as he entered, clearly taking in my look of horror, and watched my uncle, who moved our belongings on a trolley toward the Cottage. Graybull tipped his hat to me, but his eyes betrayed his surprise. We looked like first-class travelers, but I could see his doubt now as we headed toward the Cottage Hotel.

  We were first-class travelers. I straightened my back and turned to my father.

  “Papa, I don’t understand. Why are we not staying here?”

  He cleared his throat. His eyes met mine, and what I saw made my stomach clench. His eyes were like the bear’s, flat and unreadable. “Margaret. The National is more than we can afford. Let’s go inside. I need to tell you something.”

  The air left my lungs and the ground shifted beneath my feet. I followed my father into the Cottage Hotel as if I were in a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. I knew, knew from his eyes, from his rigid shoulders, that something was very wrong. We couldn’t afford the National. That’s what he’d just said. How was that possible? Things were clearly not as he had led me to believe. And what of Mama?

  My feet took step after step after my father, but they moved by something other than my own will. And I willed my heart somewhere else—over the gorge of Paradise, perhaps in the thicket with the grizzly, or in the station with Tom—because if my heart was in my chest at that moment, I felt sure it was about to break.

  Chapter NINE

  June 18, 1904

  There reigned for her, absolutely, during these vertiginous moments, that fascination of the monstrous, that temptation of the horribly possible, which we so often trace by its breaking out suddenly, lest it should go further, in unexplained retreats and reactions.

  —The Golden Bowl, Henry James, 1904

  “THERE’S NOTHING FOR US TO RETURN TO,” PAPA SAID. I could not see his face. His voice spoke of finality. “It’s gone.”

  My free hand tightened on the plain, wood bedpost. I stared at him, at his profile framed against the light from the window of my room, taking in his words. I was stunned to silence.

  “I let you think this trip was about finding your mother. I had to, or you might have resisted.”

  “Mama isn’t here? There’s . . . nothing?” My throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow.

  “I couldn’t let your grandparents take you away from me, Margaret.” His voice was soft. I knew he meant that he needed me, but he had betrayed me completely. I only felt my own pain.

  “You lied. You lied to me. All this time, you let me believe . . .” I choked, trying to control my voice. “You lied to me about Mama.”

  He didn’t answer. “I’ve had to sell everything. We are bankrupt, Maggie. We could no longer make it in Newport. This isn’t a sightseeing trip. We’re going to make a new home, here, in Yellowstone.”

  Bankrupt. Penniless. Like a hot poker spearing me right through the middle. My guts contracted. The strange room around me spun and I held the bedpost tighter, leaning hard against it so I wouldn’t faint. “We’re not going back to Newport? We’re supposed to stay . . . here?” I was sure I had misheard him. Misunderstood what he was saying. Newport was our home . . . my home.

  “We’re not going back. I’ve sold it, everything.”

  “Our house, the furniture?” My voice rose as I became hysterical. “Papa! It was my house. It was my home. It was Mama’s home. How could you . . . What have you done?”

  “I did what I had to, Maggie.” He turned slightly but still did not meet my eyes. “Your grandparents would have taken you away from me.”

  “And you should have let them! Why didn’t you let them?” I threw my hands up over my face, trying to keep myself from screaming. The image of Kitty came into my mind, her words about my grandparents. “Do you understand what you’ve done? I have to go back for my debut. It’s all planned. Kitty’s planned it. I can’t back out. It’s my only chance!” He would have to see reason, simply have to.

  “I’ve canceled your debut, Maggie.”

  “You—what?” My body shook as I grasped the full meaning of Papa’s actions.

  “Canceled. We couldn’t afford it.”

  “What about my future? What about me, my prospects? Without a debut, I can’t find a husband, I can’t build a life! Did you think to ask me what I wanted? What I had to say about this?” With one sweeping gesture, my father had destroyed my dreams, my hopes, and my future. “What about my life? No one will marry me! No one will even look at me unless I’m properly introduced into society. Did you think about that? Did you?”

  “It all fell apart. You must have known, you must have seen it coming. I didn’t hold together after your mother . . .” He paused and his voice grew softer still. My fingers gripped the bedpost so hard I could have crushed the wood to pulp. “Your grandfather was right. I didn’t take care of things after your mother died.”

  “She’s not dead!” I shouted. I didn’t care who heard me, I didn’t ca
re about acting like a proper lady—there was no one here who mattered. “You let me think she was here. You let me think that that was what this trip was about. You told me you had a surprise for me, that Uncle John had news.”

  “He does.” Papa’s face was invisible. “Just not the news you imagined.”

  Imagined? I hadn’t imagined Papa’s lies, his betrayal . . . I leaned against the bedpost, clutching it with both hands. “How could you?” Fat tears welled in my eyes. He’d not only destroyed my future; he’d taken my mother away again. “I want Mama! I want to go home! I want my things, my life, my home!” Anger pushed through my misery and I dropped my voice. “You lied to me.”

  “Maggie.” He spoke in a whisper.

  Anger gave me strength. I paced the floor of the small room, my hands balled into fists. “You lied.” What would become of me now? I had been preparing my entire life for a future that no longer existed, a future that Papa had stolen from me. “And what about school? I have another year of school left. Where will I attend school?” I threw my arm out. “Way out here in the middle of nowhere?” I shouted the last word.

  He sighed. “Lifting your voice is not only inappropriate, Margaret, it is unladylike.” As if he had the nerve to speak to me of what was appropriate. I seethed, but he had silenced me for the moment. “I’ve arranged for you to attend private school in Helena come fall. I need to make a fresh start. This is an opportunity—a change!” He turned to face me. He had the audacity to smile. Why, he looked downright thrilled. Now I could see where his earlier happiness had its roots. “There are things waiting for us here.”

  I trembled with furious, barely contained rage. I’d lost everything, all the things I’d been dreaming about. My home, my mother, my future, my friends . . . I grew rigid. “I won’t. I will not stay. Send me home to Grandpapa and Grandmama. Tomorrow. On the first train east.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Grandpapa and Grandmama will take me in.” They would—they had said they would.

  “I will not send you, and you have no means by which to leave.” He stared at me, dispassionate.

  My stomach lurched. He was right. I had no money, and even if I did, I could not board a train alone, as an unaccompanied woman. It would be impossible, improper. I was trapped here, completely at his mercy. I hated him for what he had done. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he’d turned his back on me again.

  “I’ve taken a new job here.” His voice lifted with enthusiasm. “I’ll be working with Robert Reamer, the architect, on his projects in Yellowstone. This will be our new home.” He emphasized our; it would never be my home.

  “I hate Yellowstone.” I said it in a quiet voice, so thick with anger the words fell like bricks. Yellowstone. An unholy place, the Indians had said. It was hell to me. “You’ve deceived me.”

  He seemed not to hear me. “The rest of your things are here already. I shipped them here, Maggie.”

  I had been trying to hold together the pieces of my world for months, since Mama left, and now they scattered like dust. I sank onto the bed. No matter how much I protested his actions, I had no options, no choice in the matter. I’d supported him, only to have him betray me. I’d lost everything.

  Ah—everything? A thought crossed my mind, and I couldn’t control the waver in my voice. “Papa. What about Ghost?” Oh, please, not Ghost.

  “You did a fine job with him, Margaret. He’ll fetch a high price at auction.”

  Now tears spilled unchecked onto the navy wool of my skirt, leaving dark, swelling blots. “You’re selling my Ghost? My Ghost.” I’d never again ride Ghost, bury my face in his mane, or feel his soft breath on my hand. Just like that, my Ghost, my truest friend, gone from my life. I sucked in a sob and bit my lip hard, my shoulders shaking. My father had taken my entire life from me. “You’ve . . .” I couldn’t talk, I could scarcely breathe.

  “I’ll need your help with my papers. The way you offered. The way your mother helped me.”

  He wanted my help after what he’d done? He had to be joking, but looking at him, I realized he was serious. His insensitivity knew no bounds. Mama helped him all those years. Did he treat her with as much disdain, as much contempt for her feelings, as he did me? Perhaps that’s why she behaved as she did. Perhaps that’s why she left us.

  In my mind, I saw the table in his studio in those early years, spread with papers. The straight-backed oak chairs, soft light filtering through the buttery leaded-glass skylight. Mama, bent over the table, gazing up at Papa with a look I couldn’t fathom, while I stood hovering in the doorway, Mina clucking behind.

  Then the next awful realization hit me. I couldn’t even phrase the full question. “Mina?”

  He sighed and his shoulders sagged. “I had to let her go. I had to let them all go. Mina, Jonas. All of them.”

  I shut my eyes. I clutched at the bedpost and leaned my forehead on my hand. I couldn’t breathe. Jonas. And Mina. She had been the closest thing to a mother since Mama left. Now I understood the strange events surrounding our departure, Mina’s expression, Jonas’s behavior when we left home. I felt both stupid and lost. I was all alone now. More alone than ever in my life. Oh, Mina . . .

  “And what if she comes back?” My voice came out a croak. I did not mean Mina.

  “Maggie, please. Let’s put it behind us.” Papa walked to the door and paused. “It’s a special place, Maggie, this Yellowstone. You’ll like it. This will be a good change for us. Some wonderful things may come of it.” His eyes glittered again with an excitement I didn’t share. “You’ll see.” He left my room, closing the door with a soft click.

  My room. A dreary, threadbare, green coverlet draped the bed. A small oak table served as both dresser and writing desk. It was clean, but spare.

  The pitcher and washbasin were plain porcelain; if I’d been less restrained, they would already be smashed to pieces, smashed a thousand times against these flimsy lath-and-plaster walls. But a proper lady didn’t throw things, didn’t display such emotion. Wasn’t that what he had said? And I was a proper young lady, was I not?

  In two steps I’d reached the dresser. I picked up the pitcher and dashed it to the floor. The sound surely carried to every room in the hotel.

  I stared at the mess I’d made, the scattered shards, my one moment of defiance oozing away. I sank to the floor.

  I took a deep breath, and held it, and when I let it out I let my tears fall. My father’s cruelty was too awful to be true. I wept until I ran out of tears. I rubbed my face with my palms until it was dry and pulled my hair down, yanking out the pins and letting my hair fall over my shoulders, clutching the pins in my fist.

  I sat motionless, working to still the writhing in my stomach. My father had taken away everything I cared about in this world. I didn’t think it was possible for me to hate anyone more than I hated him in that moment. My throat jammed with grief; my eyes squeezed tight. How could I put this behind me? Ghost, Mina, my home, they were gone . . . But Mama? I would never give up. Never. She was alive, I knew it. And if she wasn’t here in Yellowstone, as Papa had led me to believe, then I was sure she’d return to Newport. I would find her even if I had to cross the continent to Newport on foot.

  I sat for a long quiet time before I could determine my next move.

  I decided I had to take care of things in proper fashion. Maybe I’d done something the wrong way, and I was being punished. Like a child’s game, I reasoned. I’d jinxed myself. I would take even greater care now to mind the rules. It seemed important to tend to ordinary things; the ordinary seemed to now possess uncommon power.

  There would be no more red-as-blood sashes in my future.

  I unpacked my traveling trunk, and placed my hairbrush and jewelry box carefully on the table. I tidied the broken pitcher, sweeping the pieces into a neat pile. I brushed the dust from my hat. I removed Mama’s cameo from my throat and set it carefully on the dresser. Each thing I did, I murmured a prayer that this was all a dreadful mis
take; each movement I made I whispered a hateful curse at Papa.

  Then I sat down at the table to begin a letter.

  My dearest Kit. You won’t believe what has happened.

  I stopped and looked at the rugged hillside framed by my window. I put aside the letter to Kitty and took out another sheet of paper. I had to act, had to set wheels in motion to undo Papa’s mistakes. This called for drastic action. I had no idea what the outcome might be, but I began to write again.

  Dearest Grandpapa. I am in urgent need of your help.

  I glanced up, searching the air for the words that might compel my rescue. I was treading a fine line, both disobeying my father and seeking help from those who might confine me even further. But it was my only option. Once again, the question sprang to my mind: What did I want? Freedom? Respect from society? A future?

  My grandparents would secure my social standing, my inheritance, and give me a lovely debut into Newport society and all that entailed, but certainly not my freedom. They would dictate everything, from what I wore to whom I married.

  I was trapped. I gazed through tears around the stark foreign room that contained me. If I had seen that the windows sported bars, I would not have been surprised.

  Chapter TEN

  June 19, 1904

  Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable Sea?

  —“Time,” Posthumous Poems, Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1821

  I WOKE WITH A START IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND had no idea where I was. For a moment my terror was so deep that I stopped breathing.

  Then I heard the sound that must have awakened me, coming in through the open window. It was a cough, throaty and animal. Deer coughed like that, I knew, although this was a more full-bodied sound. Elk, maybe? I closed my eyes. I’d been carted off to this alien place where everything seemed huge and overbearing; even the animals were larger and more frightening.