Faithful

by Janet Fox

  I had to break the silence.

  “It’s light around here until late, isn’t it.” I pulled at a stalk of grass, tugged it loose and twisted it in my fingers. “Why, last night, I thought I could have read my book until well after supper. I guess that’s because we’re so far north?”

  Tom took a deep breath, as if relieved. “That’s right. And the solstice was yesterday, too.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Midsummer. Longest day of the year.”

  “Oh, of course. Midsummer.” I remembered my Shakespeare, thankful for a neutral subject. “Midsummer’s the time when wishes come true, right?” I sighed. “I could use a time like that.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  I glanced at him. “That sounds sad.”

  He didn’t look at me. “Sometimes you think you want something, only to get it and find out it’s all wrong.”

  “That is sad.” I glanced at him again, wondering what wish had gone wrong for him, but I couldn’t ask. A breeze lifted my hair and I looked past Tom to the mountain that seemed gilded in the late afternoon light, dusted with fairy magic. “Midsummer’s a magic time, too.”

  “Do you believe in magic?” Tom met my eyes; he was smiling now.

  “I did when I was little.” I smiled back, then looked at my feet. “I used to think there were mermaids. In the ocean by our house. Once I saw a seal, or that’s what Mama said later, but I insisted it was a mermaid. She laughed at me.” But she’d liked it, my story. She told me that she believed in mermaids, too. I hoped she did. “Sailors have sworn up and down that they were rescued by a mermaid. Saved from drowning. By magic.” Saved by magic, pulled from the sea by a mermaid—I hoped Mama had believed that. I had to believe that.

  “I believe in things that I can see and touch.” Tom’s voice was clear and firm.

  I put Mama out of my mind. “Oh, so, what about those spirit guides you mentioned? The bear and the buffalo?”

  He laughed and stopped walking. I felt a wash of relief and faced him and smiled. I liked the way he threw his head back and how his laugh sounded deep and genuine. Our eyes met and I could scarcely breathe from the joy of it.

  “Margaret Bennet, you have a way of turning my words inside out. You’re right. Animals can be magical, or at least spiritual.” He cocked his head. “In fact, I’d wager the bear you’ve seen is trying to tell you something.”

  I looked at the grass in my hand. I’d unconsciously twisted it into a bowline. The knot was one of several good knots Mama had taught me one warm summer afternoon as we lay stretched and lazy on the deck of our little sailboat, listening to the slap of waves on her wood hull. She was laughing, and I told her that the slapping waves might be the hands of merpeople saying hello.

  Tom and I stood on the walk in front of the Cottage Hotel. Steam from the springs trailed up into the air and disappeared. I wished for a way to make the moment with him last.

  As if rising up out of the ground, Mrs. Gale appeared through the steam, walking down the path, carrying her equipment.

  “There!” I cried. “There’s magic right there. Pictures that come from a box.”

  Tom grinned, and I felt giddy as I smiled back. “Photography’s not magic,” he said. “It’s science. It’s a way to use light, the same way the eye makes a picture in your brain.”

  “Yes, but with a camera you see differently. You see things as they were meant to be seen. One at a time, without all the extras added. That’s a kind of magic.” I was so sure of what I was saying that my fists were clenched into tight balls.

  He looked surprised and—to my delight—impressed. “So, you win. Maybe there is a bit of magic there.”

  Mrs. Gale joined us and set her equipment down with a sigh. “Hello, Tom.”

  “Ma’am.” Tom glanced at me. “Mrs. Gale works on commission for the Haynes Studios here in the Park.” He thumbed toward the rustic building fenced by antlers—the Haynes building. “My friend Margaret thinks your camera is magic.” His voice lifted as if he was trying not to laugh.

  “Oh, but it is, my young friend, it is.” Mrs. Gale smiled at me. “Hello again, dear. Your friend Margaret and I met yesterday, when she was in a terrible hurry.”

  I blushed, but my mind was already churning with something new, something surprising. Mrs. Gale wasn’t a tourist taking pictures for her own pleasure. The camera in the box at my feet was not for her entertainment. She worked. She, a woman who seemed of means and social standing, was employed.

  I’d said it to Tom earlier: women of my class in Newport were not employed; it simply wasn’t an option. The only path for an upper-class woman was marriage and family, not working a trade. Girls like me did not chase after dreams, like men did. I stared at Mrs. Gale. She wore the right clothes, had the right bearing, was clearly a lady of proper upbringing. I didn’t know what to think. Kitty would have been horrified; my grandparents, scandalized.

  But I was neither, I came to realize. I was impressed. I liked the fact that she did what she loved and made money doing it. I stared at her with newfound respect.

  “Hello?” Tom laughed and waved his hand in front of my eyes and jolted me out of my mind-wandering. “Margaret?”

  “Right!” I blushed as red as the petunias on the porch behind me. “At home my friends call me Maggie.”

  “Maggie.” I liked the way Tom said it, and I felt my blush deepen. “So, Mrs. G, what do you think? Is it science or magic?”

  Mrs. Gale squared her broad shoulders. “There are mysteries in life, Tom, and I think the most mysterious is art. Inspiration. Sometimes when I watch a picture grow on the white paper in my darkroom, I can’t even tell you where it came from. It’s not always what was in my mind. But there it is, pale and evolving, blooming like a flower.” Mrs. Gale smiled, and I did, too, at her eloquence. And I thought about Mama and her paintings and how she must have felt watching an image evolve beneath her fingers.

  How she must have felt when I asked, demanded, that she destroy such a precious thing. I felt a sudden, stabbing guilt. I wished I could take it back.

  Tom’s laughter brought me back to the moment. “You’ve got me there.”

  “Well now, Tom, your father contacted me. He’d like me to photograph some outcrop or other,” said Mrs. Gale. She bent and wrestled her equipment up into her arms. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Maggie.”

  “You know where to find us?” Tom said as he helped her adjust her burden.

  “Indeed. Good-bye, then.” Mrs. Gale smiled at me and I smiled back like an awestruck child, and I watched her make her way down the road toward the National.

  Tom stood so close to me that I could have touched his hand with mine if I’d only lifted my fingers. He shuffled his feet. “See you around?”

  I tucked wisps of hair behind my ears, wishing the afternoon would not end. “Thanks again for the ice cream. And the buffalo.” I smiled up at him.

  He looked back at me, his eyes warm. “I’ll be here in the Mammoth area a bit longer. My dad has work around the Park, but we’re here for now.”

  I laced my fingers behind my back. I didn’t know what was in store for me now. “I’m not sure where I’ll be. I haven’t asked my father about it.” I hadn’t talked to Papa since that first night. I didn’t want to talk to him.

  “The Tour through the Park is worth taking, if you can get away.”

  “Then I’ll think about going. Since you recommend it.” I hesitated. “But didn’t you say something about highway robbers?”

  He laughed, just as I’d hoped he would. “You’re an easy girl to tease.”

  I blushed. I liked being easy to tease. I liked Tom’s laugh and the way his eyes met mine.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around tomorrow.” He waved his hand at the springs.

  I tossed the knotted grass as I remembered what I had to do tomorrow. Annoyance pricked me. “Probably not. Tomorrow I have to learn the art of shooting a gun from that dreadful Englishman.”r />
  Tom’s face darkened. “I see.”

  “I don’t want to go. I’d much rather . . .”

  “Rather see a live bear than a dead one?”

  Not exactly, but I kept that thought to myself. I smiled. “Rather be somewhere else.” With Tom. I looked at my feet.

  “Well. Enjoy.” He swung away, lifting his hand. “Look out for magic, Maggie.”

  I stood in the shadow of the Cottage Hotel watching Tom as he walked down the road past the National. I wondered if he felt my eyes on his back, and if it pleased him. I watched him until he was out of sight behind the other tourists who wandered between the buildings and up into the springs.

  I liked Tom. Really liked him in a way that felt so different from Edward. Edward. He now seemed so far away. Was it only last summer that I had kissed him? I walked along the front of the hotel until I found a rustic bench and sat down, gripping my knees in a hug. A coach passed by—the well-dressed woman inside turned a quick eye at me and then away. I knew I looked a fright with my hair loose and my boots dusty, no hat or gloves. I didn’t look like a proper young lady. Edward, if he was here, wouldn’t even notice my existence.

  All the familiar trappings of my world had turned topsy-turvy. For most of my life I’d pictured myself in a privileged, if sheltered, marriage with a wealthy husband like Edward. For almost a year I’d clung to the promise of my season as my saving grace. I’d blamed Mama for her behavior, for her madness. And for abandoning me. Now it was clear, I’d have no season and no Mama. And in my current situation, what respectable man would marry me? Perhaps that repulsive George Graybull, desperate for who-knew-what. Yet here I’d met Mrs. Gale, who worked. And Tom Rowland, who was nothing like Edward Tyson—or George Graybull. It was all so confusing.

  I sat on the bench and watched steam from deep in the earth curl into the sky like a question mark. My heart seemed to be moving, but in what direction I was not at all sure.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  June 23, 1904

  The rooms are canvas, formed with a flap for a door. A deal bed, a small table, and a washbowl, with a four-by-six looking glass furnish the accommodations. Scrupulous cleanliness prevails . . .

  —A Western Trip, a memoir by Carl E. Schmide, 1910

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WITH PAPA WAS A STIFF AFFAIR. The only dining was in the National, which was fortunate because the orchestra filled the silence. And I slept restlessly yet again; buffalo and bears crowded my imaginings.

  Papa came to my room before breakfast the next morning. He stood in the doorframe, hat in hand. “I’ve got some good news.”

  I said nothing; the thought that floated through my mind was, What now? I distrusted my father after his lies. But then there was still the matter of the yet-undisclosed news from Uncle John; I wasn’t ready to give up on finding Mama alive. I sat in the one chair in the room and folded my hands in my lap and stared at Papa.

  “Mr. Reamer is leaving the Park soon, but the superintendent likes my work. I’ve been asked if I would supervise some projects here. That means I have a permanent position, Maggie.” He squared his shoulders, as if lifting off a burden.

  I leaned forward. “Does that mean I can afford to return to Newport?” Perhaps we could get our things back, our home. My Ghost. Had Mina found other employment already? Mama had promised she’d return to me, to Newport. If she wasn’t here, then perhaps she was there. I felt a spark of hope that my world might soon be righted and my confusion banished.

  Papa smoothed his mustache. “The salary is not enormous, Maggie. It will allow us to live satisfactorily here, for now. And I’ll need your help until I’m settled. My papers are . . . disorganized.”

  I felt as though a rock had dropped into my stomach. “Fine.” He’d made a mess and wanted me to help him clean it up.

  “Now that we have some income, perhaps you can take the Tour. Explore the rest of the Park.”

  I said nothing. Even if the Tour was something I wanted, I knew he was only trying to buy my forgiveness.

  “The other news is that we now have lodging elsewhere. It’s one-half of one of the officers’ cottages, but it will give us privacy and more room and we’ll be settled.”

  A tiny frame cottage. Half of a tiny frame cottage. Compared with our Newport home—I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “George Graybull is taking you shooting today, yes? I’ve arranged for our things to be brought over to the cottage while you’re out.” He paused. “Maggie, I hope you’ll be polite with George. He’s a man of considerable wealth and influence. In fact, it’s his influence that secured the cottage for us.”

  “I’m always polite.” My voice was like cut crystal.

  Papa didn’t miss my insolent tone, but looked surprised. He sighed. “He could offer you opportunities, Mags. George Graybull may be the answer to your prayers.”

  I sat up. I had been expecting this, and still the hollow in the pit of my stomach opened wide. George Graybull was repulsive; regardless of what he could give me, I could not bear him. I pretended not to understand. “How so?”

  “He can offer you what I can’t at the moment. Money. Social standing. A return to Newport, or New York, or wherever else you’d like to be.”

  A chill settled over me. “George Graybull.”

  Papa examined his hat, flicking off pieces of lint.

  I rose out of the chair. “He’s . . . he’s . . .” I clenched my hands into fists.

  “He’s a respectable single man with a great deal of money. I know that he’s a bit older, but given a long engagement . . .”

  “Engagement!” I clenched my hands tight, my arms rigid against my sides. “I haven’t even made my debut! How can I have an engagement?”

  Papa held his hand in the air. “A debut would not be necessary, under these circumstances. Your grandfather would approve this match. You would have your inheritance as a dowry. And George—he is influential. You would have a place in society. He can help me get back on my feet.”

  I was speechless, in shock. What about what I wanted?

  Papa’s eyes met mine straight on. “Ultimately, Margaret, you must do as I ask. And I ask you to be polite to George Graybull. He is important to your future as well as to mine.”

  I had no choice. He was leaving me no choice, no say in my own future. I turned my back on my father and walked to the small window. “I need to change for my outing, Papa.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  I waited until I heard the door close, and then I sank back into the chair and rested my forehead on my palm.

  I should be at home in Newport riding my horse and preparing for my debut. I should be attending parties and flirting with men—with Edward—and dancing and being wooed by potential husbands of my own age. I should have fine clothes, made for me. And Mama should be there, instructing me and guiding me through all of it. Instead I had no mother and my father was trying to recover from financial ruin. I had a suitor who repulsed me. I could return to my life back east with him, but at what cost? I was trapped in Yellowstone by bad fortune and by my position as a woman.

  The only thing here that made me happy was Tom Rowland, and that was . . . impossible.

  I tried not to think about the impossible as I changed into my gray excursion suit, the closest I had to hunting attire. I waited for George Graybull in the lobby of our hotel. The men who passed barely tipped their hats; there were no ladies of my class in this hotel. I was out of place everywhere.

  “Here we are.” Graybull arrived. “Shall we?” He took my elbow in his viselike grip and steered me out the door to a small waiting carriage. His voice dropped. “Will be nice to get you into decent accommodations, eh?” I looked at him as he grinned. “I’ve arranged with the park superintendent—he’s a friend of mine, you know—to allow you into the military target range. Just a little practice today, get you started.”

  I tried not to shy away from him, but I couldn’t manage a smile.

  To my relief, once we set off I did
n’t need to talk. Graybull drove the carriage and rattled on and on about his hunting exploits and his travels. He bragged about his connections, his possessions, his homes in London and New York, his “cottage” in Newport. He was dull as dry toast. I could let my mind wander over the landscape of tall pines and banded-rock outcrops, and watch an eagle soar high above, and follow the swish-swish of the horse’s tail in front. I could at least admire my velvet prison.

  We passed a broad semicircle of tents spread across a meadow. Children ran laughing through the camp; women hung wet clothes from lines strung between trees; men stacked firewood next to low campfire rings.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “One of the Wylie tent camps.” Graybull leaned toward me as if to share a secret; I suppressed a shudder. “How the other half experiences the Park. Much less expensive. Mostly teachers, young families, single men, that sort. The hotel staff calls them ‘sagebrushers,’ I presume because they tumble about the landscape.” He winked at me.

  I peered around Graybull. At first, I felt guilty for having complained about the Cottage Hotel. I could hardly imagine sleeping in a tent, out of doors. But I could see that the encampment was tidy; the tents were gaily striped; the women wore dark skirts and white shirtwaists, looking perfectly decent. There was a rugged charm about it.

  “I believe your young friend is staying here.” Graybull’s voice lifted slightly and I detected a dismissive tone.

  “My young friend?”

  “That boy. With his geologist father.” Graybull clicked his teeth with his tongue. Tom. He meant Tom! Graybull turned to look at me, and I avoided his eyes, sneaking another look at the camp. I had to be careful not to let him know how much I’d rather be in this carriage with Tom.

  As we passed the tents, something caught my eye: it was the same girl, the girl with the long dark braid I’d seen from the hot springs. I was certain it was her. I watched her stride through the encampment, a sack in her arms. Her long braid swung from side to side. Why I was drawn to her so, I couldn’t say. There was something compelling about her, almost magnetic. It was something that pricked at me . . .