Faithful

by Janet Fox

  Kula bent over the trunk and began to pull things out, sorting and folding them with care. I kept my eyes on her deft handiwork, watching her work. She glanced sideways at me. “I heard about that pin,” Kula said. “The other girls talked about some silly tourist trying to get herself killed because of some pin, and I added up two plus two.”

  I touched the cameo.

  “Did he want it that much?” Kula asked, looking at the stack of folded silk shawls and lace underclothes. “That Nat Baker.”

  “He wasn’t going to get it even if he did want it.” I watched as Kula moved between the bed and the wardrobe, her skill at folding and packing. She reminded me of Mina, she was so sure-handed. “I wish you could come with us,” I said. “You could help me.”

  Kula looked up. “I work here now,” she said.

  A thought came to me. “Could you wait? Just a few minutes?” I almost tripped over an elderly couple in my haste to get to the lobby, where Graybull sat reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. I’d used so little charm on him to this point that it didn’t take any pleading to convince him of my plan. I realized how I might use this to my advantage later, should it be necessary.

  “I’ll arrange it immediately,” he said, and raised my hand to his lips. “I have a bit of influence with the management here. It would be my pleasure to treat you to this trifling indulgence.”

  I tried not to wince as I slipped my hand from his. I hoped he would think that my blush was charming. How vain his boasts of influence sounded. But my deceit worked. Kula had finished the packing and was tidying the bed and table when I blustered in with the news.

  “You’re coming with us. You can be a help to me and Mrs. Gale. A proper lady’s maid!”

  “Oh?” Kula said. She seemed annoyed. I stepped back in surprise. I’d expected gratitude. “I have a job, remember?”

  “My—friend—he’ll arrange it with the management. He’ll pay you well.” I watched Kula’s dark and wary eyes. “Would you come with me?” I pleaded.

  She tapped her fingers on her arm. “I’m not a servant. I work hard, but I take care of myself. I won’t be somebody’s slave.” She paused. “The Millses treated me like a slave. Then they tossed me off.” She looked at me, suspicious, her anger evident. “I won’t let that happen again.”

  “No,” I said, feeling humbled. “You’d help me, that’s all. Be my companion. Not a slave. A help, that’s all.”

  She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “A help, huh. I expect decent wages.”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I need time off to be with my pa.”

  “Your pa.” I saw the fire in her eyes.

  “My pa. He lives around here, and I like to visit him. From time to time.”

  “All right.”

  “If I don’t get treated right, I leave.” I would treat her right. I would not treat her the way Gretchen had.

  “I promise. You’ll be treated fair and square.” In the back of my mind, I figured Tom would find out and be proud of me for giving her a decent job, for accepting her, even if we could never be equals.

  Kula smiled, a slight smile. “All right, then.”

  I reached into the trunk and found a narrow, pale lemon-yellow silk shawl. “Here,” I said, handing it to her. I wanted to show her I meant what I said, wanted her to know I was generous.

  Kula hesitated for a moment, her dark eyes regarding me with suspicion.

  “I just want you to have it, as a friend,” I said. “It’ll look so well on you. Please take it.” Friend was strong; but she was only a girl, after all. I wanted her to like me.

  Kula took the shawl and pressed it to her cheek, closing her eyes for a moment. “All right. I’ll go get my things.”

  I headed out to wait in the lobby as Kula finished the packing. Graybull was busy arranging for our luggage to be put in the surrey. I had my head buried in the road map, checking the distances, when I heard Tom’s voice.

  “Leaving for Lake?” he asked, and my heart lifted so fast I was breathless. His face was bent close to mine, and that lock of hair had fallen across his forehead.

  “Yes.” Then tears filled my eyes as I thought about how I was, at least for the moment, promised to a man I couldn’t stand. “Where are you off to?” I asked, looking away, trying to hide my emotions.

  “My dad has a bead on some mining prospects near Red Lodge,” Tom said. “After a time at Canyon, we’re heading out of the Park for a bit.”

  Heading out of the Park, and not to Lake. My heart sank as I thought about not seeing him. “I hope you won’t be gone for long.” I prayed not.

  He didn’t have time to answer me before Graybull’s firm voice penetrated the din of tourists.

  “Margaret! There you are!” He marched across the lobby toward me and Tom.

  “Mr. Graybull,” Tom said, his voice pleasant but guarded. “Did you get your bear?”

  “Regrettably, no. I’m sure to have better luck when I’m out again in a few weeks.”

  “Too bad,” said Tom, sounding anything but sorry. “Maybe Maggie can catch one on camera for you.”

  I felt Graybull stiffen beside me. “Indeed.” He took my elbow, his fingers clamping me hard. “We must be going, my dear Margaret.”

  Tom’s eyebrows shot up as he recognized the familiarity of Graybull’s behavior. “Well, see you around, then,” he said to me. Longing flooded me as he lifted his hand in good-bye.

  “Come along, Margaret,” Graybull said. He nodded at Tom, positioning himself between us and placing his hand on my arm.

  I turned my head aside so that Graybull would not see the frustration in my eyes. I had no say. Then I remembered Kula’s words: fight for what you want. I had no say at the moment. I straightened and pulled away from Graybull and searched the lobby for Tom’s tall form.

  I couldn’t see him until . . . “See you soon, Maggie!” Tom’s voice rang out across the lobby.

  Graybull stiffened. It was all I could do to suppress a delighted smile. Yes. See you soon, that was the promise.

  “I should like you to avoid that young man, Margaret.”

  I froze. “Why?” Graybull’s hand tightened on my arm, reminding me of the facts: he possessed me; he owned me. For now.

  “It’s unseemly,” Graybull replied. His voice was cool and dispassionate. “You are now spoken for.” He gazed off into the distance.

  I felt frustration well up and had to close my mouth tight to keep from speaking out. I couldn’t jeopardize my chances and Papa’s position. It would take me time to change my life, and I had to be careful with this man.

  “This photography hobby is one thing,” he continued. “So long as you are taking pictures of inanimate objects while here in the Park, I’ll have no objections. But conversing in an intimate fashion with strangers, particularly young men, will not be tolerated.”

  My arm felt bruised by his vise grip. I had disliked him before; I began to hate him now.

  “There now,” Graybull said, looking at me and then across the lobby, his tongue making that ghastly gesture as he smiled. “I believe your maid has your things ready.”

  I turned and followed his gaze. Kula was there in the lobby with my trunk. She was talking to Tom. Wearing a pale lemon-yellow silk shawl that was so becoming. They were talking, old friends, smiling, Tom talking with Kula—touching her arm—casual, intimate, more than friends.

  I felt betrayed and trapped all at once. Tom and Kula were both free and I was not. Kula thought I had anything I wanted, and I did not. I didn’t have what she had, right at that moment, as she reached up and touched Tom’s shoulder and met his eyes.

  Oh, but it looked as though it was my choice to be a caged bird, a pet, to be cared for and confined. I would have money and position and all I could ask for—I would have Ghost!—and Papa would be pleased, and I could return to Newport, to Kitty, to my grandparents, to my life. It looked as though I had it all.

  All but one thing. As I watc
hed Tom and Kula talking, laughing, free and easy, I knew I would have to fight to get it.

  The bars of my pretty cage pressed on me, pressed so tightly I could scarcely breathe.

  Chapter TWENTY - NINE

  July 14, 1904

  Just out of Steins Pass we could see a large bon-fire. One of the trainmen remarked, ‘Wonder what the big fire is, I hope we don’ t run into any trouble’. . . . we had to find out why the train came to an abrupt stop . . . We found ourselves looking into the barrel of guns.

  —an account of the Stein’s Pass robbery of the late 1880s

  IT HAD BEGUN TO RAIN AS WE LEFT THE GEYSER BASIN and now it poured, the rain hammering the roof of the surrey. Our driver called over his shoulder, “This’ll keep the dust down!” It rained continually on our two-hour drive to the Lake Hotel. When we finally arrived, damp and chilled, Kula, Mrs. Gale, and I dashed into the elegant yellow frame building, while Graybull supervised unloading our trunks.

  We were finally at Lake and my anxiety was acute. I felt that I was so close, now, to uncovering the truth about Mama. As soon as we were settled I went back down to the lobby. I paced before the window staring over the vast lake, trying to decide how to locate my uncle. The rain, coming down in sheets, obscured the distant shore, so all was gray water meeting gray sky. Kula lounged near me in one of the overstuffed chairs that graced the vast lobby. Graybull had not come down yet from settling our things.

  “I need to find my uncle,” I told her. I needed Kula’s help. I couldn’t risk Graybull intervening.

  Kula raised her eyebrows. “And?”

  “I need a diversion, so that I can speak with my uncle privately.” It was, I thought, the least she could do. Though I couldn’t put the image of her with Tom from my mind, I shoved my jealousy aside and sat on the chair next to her. Perhaps she’d help a friend, so I tried to act like one. I leaned over and spoke in a whisper. “I don’t want Mr. Graybull to find out where I’ve gone and what I’m doing.”

  Kula regarded me with those dark, placid eyes. She shrugged. She said, her tone flippant, “You have a headache. You’ve gone up to your room. I’ll tell him.”

  I squeezed her hand; she looked surprised. But this moment was so important and I wanted to be sure she understood how much I had to trust her.

  I went to the reception desk, nervous. “How do I find someone who works here?”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “In what capacity?” He looked me up and down.

  “As a carpenter.”

  Now the man stared pointedly at me. “We don’t encourage the help to mingle with guests.”

  I felt my face go hot. “I’ve admired the man’s work. I would like to give him a commission.” I stood up straight, embarrassed but determined.

  The man’s lips twisted into a grimace, but my lie worked. He picked up his pen and went back to his tasks, speaking to me without looking at me. “He’s probably in the carriage house across the way. That’s where the workers wait out the rain.” He pointed his pen outside the window to a large barn closer to the lake’s edge. “Umbrellas are there, in the stand by the door. Help yourself.”

  I gathered my skirts in one fist and clutched the umbrella in the other as I dashed across the road, trying to stay dry. I shoved open the carriage-house door, where a cheery warmth and the sound of laughter greeted me. There were about twenty or so men gathered around a woodstove.

  “Hey, miss!” A portly man stood up as I closed the umbrella and stamped my feet, shaking off the rain. “Come for a visit? You’ve come to the right place!”

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said, unsmiling. “John Bennet. A carpenter.” My heart pounded. This was humiliating; what if he wasn’t here?

  “John, John! You’ve got a charming visitor! What’ve you been up to, man?”

  My uncle rose from among them, while the others laughed and jostled, making sly, bawdy jokes.

  “Margaret!” John looked at the others. “My niece, if you please, gentlemen.” This silenced the group, and they watched him cross the floor toward me. He didn’t look happy to see me.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I whispered.

  He took my elbow and steered me into the tack room and shut the door. The smells of horses and leather and hay mingled. Thunder cracked, and then shuddered the walls of the carriage house. The voices of the men, their laughter, carried through the building in soft waves.

  I turned and faced my uncle and plunged in. “Uncle John, it’s high time you told me the truth.” I felt no need to feign manners anymore. My heart pounded so hard it beat out the sound of the rain. “Why did Papa bring us here, of all places?” I wanted to ask him if it was because Mama was here, but I held my tongue.

  He shifted, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, Margaret, you should ask your father these questions, not me.” He gave me a nervous half smile.

  I would not be put off. I’d been put off for too long. She was my mother; I had to know what he knew. “Papa hasn’t told me a thing.” I grew frustrated and yanked off my damp beret, twisting it around my hand. “He’s trying to marry me off to someone I scarcely know and don’t love because he thinks it will save us from falling into complete ruin.” I caught my uncle’s shocked expression. “You didn’t know? That Mr. Graybull.”

  “Oh, Maggie.” Uncle John sounded genuinely sad.

  “You have to help me find her, Uncle John.” I touched his arm. “You can see how grave this is. When she left, Papa fell apart. Grandpapa blames him for everything that’s gone wrong. He says that Papa ruined her, that she married . . . beneath her. And the only solution is for me to marry someone who is rich and of the right class and awful . . .” I choked with a sob. “I need Mama. She can straighten out everything with Papa. She can help me. I know she was unhappy, Uncle John. I think she probably left him. Am I right? Did she come out here?”

  My uncle looked at the floor, slowly shaking his head back and forth.

  I began to tremble. “Uncle John?” Fear and frustration mingled in me as I watched him shake his head. My voice rose with my denial as I said, “I don’t believe she’s dead. I read your letters. She’s got to be alive and I want her back.” It was what I had believed, oh so passionately, all these months. I couldn’t have been wrong. She must be alive. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. “I want her back, Uncle John!”

  Uncle John raised his eyes and put his hand to his lips, trying to quiet me.

  “Don’t shush me!” I shouted. The pent-up frustration of the past weeks burst from me like the storm that raged outside. “I’ve had enough of men ordering me around!” I heard silence from the men in the other room. I lowered my voice, barely in control. “Don’t tell me what to do; tell me the truth. Why did we come here? Why did she leave us? I need to know.” I shook as hard as if the room were filled with ice, so hard my teeth knocked together. I wrapped my arms around myself and leaned on a barrel for support. I was afraid of what my uncle was about to tell me, but I was done with hiding.

  Uncle John’s face fell. He rubbed his eyes hard and took a gasping breath. “Oh, Margaret. This is hard, girl. This is hard.” He sat down on a stool and dropped his head into his hands.

  My stomach dropped, too, and my anger left me in the face of what I feared he must be about to tell me. “It’s all right, Uncle John. I need to know. That way I can . . .” I didn’t know what to say. I was already choking with sobs.

  “All right. All right. Here it is, then.”

  Chapter THIRTY

  July 14, 1904

  Then she shrank from her own wavering. Look where she would into her life, it seemed to her that all was monstrous and out of joint.

  —Lady Rose’s Daughter, a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward, 1903

  IT IS A CURIOUS THING HOW A REVELATION CAN SPLIT experience, so that there is a “before” and an “after.” In that defining moment, everything is stilled and details become precise, clear. Time is stretched thin and transparent.

  It had happened to me
once before, the moment it became certain that Mama had not returned from her walk and that she likely would not return. It was a night and a day after she’d left. Papa had searched and the hapless police had searched—“the waves, sir . . . the riptides, sir . . .”—and all had given up on her, except me. But I felt that turning moment nonetheless because it surrounded me, the stench of grief. I froze my memories of that moment like living pictures in a scrapbook: the smell of salt water blowing through an open door; the cry of a lone seagull; a corner of the wide front hallway of our house washed in low, late afternoon sunlight; the reflection off the polished wood floor broken by the shadows of scurrying servants; the soft weeping of Cook, muffling the sound in her apron; the low voices of the men from behind the parlor doors; Papa’s one anguished shout, quickly quelled.

  I hadn’t given her up then; I held to my faith that she was alive. But I knew that was a defining moment. And I knew what waited on the other side of it. And now, here in the carriage house, I knew that this was another such moment. Everything I’d held on to before, everything including Mama, had slipped away.

  I perched on a rough barrel in a barn by Lake Hotel in Yellowstone, watching motes of hay dust twist and fall behind my uncle. I heard the rain on the roof, pattering the shingles with fat rapid drops. I smelled the leather and oil; I picked at the splinters that stuck out from the barrel with the thumb and index finger of my right hand.

  “It was a long time ago. Right after you were born, in fact,” said Uncle John. “Oh, and you were such a bonny baby, Maggie! Very lively. I think your father didn’t know what to make of you. Anyway, you were still an infant when Charles took your mother on a holiday. He was anxious to see this wild place that he’d heard talk about, the west.” John coughed. “And to fix his marriage.”

  “Mama was unhappy with Papa.” This was a statement, not a question. It confirmed what I’d known, what I’d seen but denied.

  “You have to understand, Maggie. Some women have an easy time of childbearing. Some women”—John paused—“struggle.” He glanced at me and added, “Your mama was prone to fits of melancholy, Margaret. Long before you came along. I think when she married your father . . . Well, anyway . . .”