by Karen Kay
“Hardly.”
She tilted back her head. “And of course you paid it all in advance.”
“Of course.”
“And you pledge me your word that none of the money went toward the gaming tables?”
“Milady! How dare you!”
She didn’t respond; she just looked at him. “Mr. Toddman,” she said at last, “might I remind you that my father is allowing you to draw on his account only those sums of money that he approves?”
“And you think he did not approve this expenditure?”
“I am fairly certain of it.”
From across the room, the assistant surveyed her for innumerable seconds while Lady Genevieve held his gaze. At length, the young man said, “My father will hear of this at the utmost possible speed, believe me. And when he does…you might find, Lady Genevieve, that you will be in need of revising your opinion of me and my work. You might find,” he said, smirking, “that you will need to come and beg me to help you. And, milady, how I look forward to that day. Until then,” he started forward, “unless you give me further funds, I will stop all my work for you.” He laughed. “And won’t your precious project be in jeopardy then? Go try to engage a trapper or trader without my help, and see for yourself how easy it is.”
“But you said that you had just hired—”
“So I did, Lady Genevieve, so I did. But that was before our little talk. Did you really think I would help you when you refuse to finance me—”
“Mr. Toddman, you go too far! I am not refusing to pay you any wages you are due, only the money that you spend—”
“Without complete financial support, Lady Genevieve,” the assistant straightened his shoulders, “I somehow find myself in the position of being unwilling and perhaps unable to offer any further assistance to this project.” He smiled. “Might I suggest that you go and find your own Indian?”
Genevieve coughed. “Mr. Toddman!”
“Or perhaps,” the young man said as he paused, leering, “mayhap if the trappers do come back with your Blackfoot Indian, I might be the one to interview the savage, and then it will be I who will have the pleasure of finishing this much-needed book.”
“Mr. Toddman,” she said, presenting to the man a demeanor that looked, to all appearances, quite calm. “You cannot do that. You are under contract with my father, and—”
“A contract that you have broken, not I. Can I help it if you choose to let me go?”
“I—”
“Our meeting is at an end, Lady Genevieve…unless you are willing to renegotiate the bank notice.”
Genevieve looked away. She stared at the wall for innumerable seconds before finally, as though defeated, she uttered, “I cannot.”
The young assistant drew his lips together until they looked more a thin, painted line than mere lips, rife with outright hatred. He said, “Then we have nothing further to discuss, do we, Lady Genevieve? No,” he continued as she made to rise. “I will show myself out.”
And with these parting words, Mr. Toddman propelled himself forward and quickly left the room.
“Excuse me.”
Genevieve glanced over toward the door, her gaze troubled. “Yes?” she asked abstractedly. “What is it, Robert?”
“It’s your father, milady. He—”
“My father?”
“Yes, milady. He’s had a fall. He tried to get up from bed, and—”
“Where is he now?”
“He is back in his bedroom, milady, and I—”
“Summon a doctor at once, Robert.”
“It has been done, milady.”
Genevieve had already risen and was most of the way across the parlor room when she paused mid-stride, looking up toward the domestic who stood beside the entryway. “Thank you, Robert. Bring the doctor upstairs as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, milady. Will you require anything else?”
“No, Robert, except…” Genevieve took a few more steps toward the hall. She gave the man a shy smile. “Thank you again, Robert. I don’t know what my father and I would do without you. You’re probably the best friend we’ve ever had. I hope you know that we will always appreciate your loyalty to us.”
And to Robert’s “Yes, milady,” Lady Genevieve fled from the room.
“Father, what have you done this time?” Genevieve practically flew across her father’s bedroom to Viscount Rohan’s side. “You know the doctor told you to stay in bed until you are fully healed of this gout.”
She stopped and bent down to place a kiss on the man’s forehead. “If you will only heed the doctor’s advice, it will not be that much longer before you can be up and about, and doing all the things you need to.” She stopped when she noticed that her father had barely even heard her. She glanced downward to find a letter in his hands.
“Blackfeet” was the only word she caught in the letter before her father’s hand fell toward the floor, the paper dropping at the same time.
“What is it this time, Father?” she asked, kneeling down to pick up the letter.
“Blackfeet,” was all he muttered.
Genevieve spared a quick glance upward. Not again. First Mr. Toddman, and now her father. Was there to be no end to the problems this tribe presented them?
“The Blackfeet again, Father? What has happened now?”
Her father didn’t answer, and Genevieve darted a quick look at the viscount.
He made no response.
She sighed. How could one ignorant and savage tribe cause them such havoc?
“Father,” she said, “I know the Blackfoot Indians have caused us some problems, and believe me, I am aware of the difficulty you face. I, too, have heard the legends of these people. I’ve listened to the stories the trappers tell of them; I’ve heard of how no one can go into Blackfoot country and live to tell of it, of how this tribe guards their territory so well that only the foolhardy will venture into their realm. How could I not? It’s all anyone ever talks of, if I so much as even hint at their name. But really, Father, we have to come to terms with them if ever we are to finish this project.”
Her father hadn’t heard a word. He just stared away from her, the paleness of his face, the dejection in his manner, a testimony to his distress.
She frowned. “Father?”
Still, he didn’t answer.
What were they going to do about the Blackfeet? They needed a study of them, and yet…
“Is it possible that we could finish your manuscript without an account of this tribe?” she asked. “Especially since the Blackfeet appear to be more savage than the rest? Oh, I’ve heard the whole story, of course: that the trouble with the Blackfeet originally started when the Lewis and Clark expedition ventured into their territory, killing two tribe members. But the killings had all been done in self-defense. Everyone knows that. Surely the Blackfeet wouldn’t hold a man guilty for defending himself, would they?”
Or would they? It was a common fact that from that incident forward, the Blackfeet had vowed to kill any further intruders into their land.
Genevieve glanced at her father. He still stared straight ahead of him.
She grimaced. “It’s hard to believe,” she spoke to her father quietly, taking his hand in her own. “The incident with Lewis and Clark took place almost thirty years ago. What sort of people would harbor a grudge for thirty long years?
“Is it possible, Father, that your publishers might extend your deadline? There has been a fort close by to their country now for three years. Why, even last week I read something about a steamship that will be sailing soon on a voyage up the Missouri River to that outpost. I think it’s called Fort Union. Surely no land will remain savage for long, or a people continue to be so antagonistic when there are a great many civilizing influences coming into it. If we could only have more time.”
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.
That was the problem. They had little time left to complete this project. And with her father ill an
d Mr. Toddman in rebellion, she was afraid the bulk of responsibility for the project was now going to fall upon her.
Was she up to handling it?
Was it possible that she, a mere woman, could succeed in seeing the manuscript finished when the men in her life had so far failed?
“Genny?”
“Yes, Father?” She opened her eyes.
“Did you read the letter?” Viscount Rohan gripped her hands as she leaned over him.
“No, Father, not yet. But I—”
“Read it, then…oh,” he said, as Genevieve picked up the paper, “never mind.” He glanced at the ceiling. “It doesn’t make any difference now. It’s impossible, I tell you. Can’t get the bloody Blackfeet here. Can’t go to them. But I need to, Genny; I must…or else…”
“Father, what—”
“Look at the letter. It’s from the publisher. They won’t even consider the project finished without a study of every major American tribe. And they specifically include the Blackfeet. But that’s not all. Oh, Genny, what can I do but get out of bed? I must go there, and I must leave here at once.”
As the viscount made to get up, Genny gently pushed him back onto the pillows. “You’ll not be going anywhere. Not until the doctor says you’re able.”
Viscount Rohan flopped back against the bed. “Oh, what am I to do? What am I to do?”
“It may not be as bad as you think. I just this morning had a talk with Mr. Toddman, and he believes it might yet be possible to get someone from the tribe to come here. He’s hired another couple of trappers.”
“Won’t do any good.”
Genevieve frowned. “What do you mean? Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do these past few months?”
“Read the letter, Genny. Read the letter.”
“Yes, Father, but I…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze already skimming the paper in her hand. “I don’t see what—” She sucked in her breath, barely managing to keep her grasp on the letter. “Oh my…how can this be? It’s not possible.”
“It’s what I would have thought too, Genny, but as you can see, it’s already happening.”
“I don’t understand. I thought Mr. Catlin was merely painting the Indians’ portraits…”
“It happens all the time. Haven’t you noticed how, the moment you get a project in mind, you have to act on it right away or someone else steals it from you?”
“No, I haven’t…well, perhaps—”
“And without so much as talking to you about it?”
“I suppose—”
“Someone has to go there, Genny. There’s no longer time to hire another to do it.” He sighed and glanced over toward the window. “You’d best bring young William Toddman to me, Genny. It’s the only way now.”
“I don’t understand. How can this be?”
Her father didn’t answer, and his lack of response told her, more than anything, that the situation of which she read was, indeed, just this serious.
“Father,” she said, “it still states here that George Catlin is merely painting Indian portraits. He is not doing an anthropological study as we are. Surely that’s not truly competition. Our projects are worlds apart. They can’t drop our studies just because someone else is interested in doing something similar to ours. It’s not done. It’s…”
“The publishers haven’t stopped their support. But with Catlin actually visiting the Indians in their own country and painting their portraits, we stand to lose our project. We aren’t holding as strong a position as we once did. We haven’t been there. He has—he is.”
“Still,” she said, “it can’t be as bad as it seems. Catlin is, after all, American, and your publishers are English. Perhaps we should talk to Mr. Catlin and see if we can collaborate on this project, since we are both interested in the same thing. Maybe we could persuade Mr. Catlin to publish his works with ours. It’s possible. And if, after we talk to him, we still can’t… Well, Father, you have nothing to fear. Our publisher is English…English. Now, I ask you, would an Englishman take an American’s story over one of his own? Really, Father.”
The viscount sighed, leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes. A long moment followed, the silence between father and daughter somehow echoing their mutual distress. At length, Viscount Rohan opened his eyes, staring out the window as though something of great interest lay just outside. He said, “There’s more to it, Genny. I made a foolish mistake. I admit it now. Wish I could take it back…can’t. Too bloody cocky, I was.” He shook his head. “But it’s too late now, much too late, and I…I’m so sorry, Genny.”
Genevieve took her father’s hand in her own. “Don’t worry, Father. We’ll find a way out of this. Haven’t we always done so in the past?”
“Not this time, Genny. Not this time. Too much at stake.” He gritted his teeth. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“It’s not so bad. It’s not as though all of our wealth is tied into this project. We still have our home, our lands. In truth, though I want this project to succeed as much as you do, what would be the worst thing that could happen if it didn’t? We’d go back to England, find some other project, and off we would go once again. Oh, I know your reputation would suffer because of it, but really, Father, such a thing is so easily remedied. Perhaps we could study the Indians of South America and their languages instead.”
“Oh, Genny, no. It’s worse than that. Should have told you, I guess. Didn’t think I’d ever have to. Too damned arrogant for my own good is what I was.”
“And with full, good reason.” She smiled. “After all, you are England’s leading—”
“Genny, no.” He withdrew his hand from her own. “It’s more complicated than that. I’ve done something I haven’t told you. Something that will make you hate me. Something—”
“Never!”
The viscount shook his head. “Listen to me. I must tell you this now. I should never have withheld this from you. It’s just that…I never dreamed I would get so ill. How could I have known?”
“Exactly, Father. Whatever it is, we’ll see our way through it.”
He breathed in deeply. “I don’t know, Genny. I fear… It happened back in England, a few weeks before we were to set sail…”
“Before we…? What are you talking about, Father? What happened?”
“He came to me late one night.”
She shook her head. “He? Who is he?”
“The Duke of Starksboro.”
“The Duke of Starks—” Genevieve paused, a wave of foreboding coming over her. “Father,” she began, “why would you even see the man? I don’t care if he is a duke. He has meant you nothing but the utmost harm ever since you beat him to that African project so many years ago. Plus, he is the most terrific bore when it comes to this sort of work—thinks he knows all about it while he displays his utter stupidity. Why, do you know that he told me that he thought the American Indian was no more human than the ape? That it was pointless to study such a person? There’s something quite evil about the man, Father. I think you should have no further contact with him.”
He sighed. “I have to, Genny.”
Her stomach dropped. She raised her gaze to his. “Have to?”
He slowly nodded. “And so do you.”
“Stop it! How can you say such a thing?”
The Viscount Rohan closed his eyes, a gloom appearing to descend upon him that had nothing to do with health, or the lack of it. “Should have told you sooner.”
“Told me what, Father?”
He swallowed, a noisy affair, set off as it was against the silence in the room. “I made a bet with the man.”
Genevieve sucked in her breath.
“I know, I know,” he said as though she had spoken. “I just couldn’t suffer his gloating any further.”
“But Father—”
“Bet him is what I did,” he continued. “Bet him that the Indians were human, real people. Bet him I’d bring back evidence of their civ
ilization, of their intelligence. I wagered all that we have, Genny. Everything. Our home, our land. And something more.”
He paused, and Genevieve, squaring back her shoulders, sat up straighter in her chair. She thrust out her chin, trying to ignore the feeling of dread settling over her.
“You have to understand, Genny,” Viscount Rohan went on. “I didn’t see how I could fail. It was such a fantastic bet to make, and so easy to win. Or so it seemed. Of course these Indians are people. Of course they have their own civilization. How could I fail? And he had challenged me with double what the publishers are paying me, plus he threw in a good-sized portion of his land as well. How could I resist? Or more importantly, how could I lose?”
Genevieve looked at her hands in her lap. “I understand. What else did you bet him, Father?”
The older man sank back farther into the pillows, if that were possible. “I gambled…” He paused. “Genny, please try to understand.”
She cleared her throat. “What else did you bet?”
Viscount Rohan squeezed his eyes shut. At last, he muttered, “My work, Genny.”
“Your work? I don’t understand. I… How could you—”
“I…I gave the duke my word of honor that if I fail, I will quit doing these studies on my own. I promised that I would work only for him—”
“No! Father!”
“But I promised this only if I fail, Genny. And it just didn’t seem possible at the time that I couldn’t manage this simple project.”
Genevieve Rohan sat in silence for a short while, her gaze focused downward. At last, though, without lifting her head, she said, “Perhaps there is still a way out of it. You could always put your work in my name. I haven’t—”
“Won’t work, Genny.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a woman.”
“What does that have to do with it? I’m your daughter. I have seen other women carry on in the names of their fathers.”
