by Karen Kay
Gray Hawk almost laughed aloud.
“Amusing yourself?”
Gray Hawk turned to confront a man he had never before seen: a young man with brown hair and large green eyes, his whole person perhaps not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven winters old.
Gray Hawk didn’t answer at once, and the other man went on to say, “I don’t know why I am bothering to speak to such an ignorant savage. It is only that I was given to understand that you, my good man, speak English.”
Gray Hawk didn’t respond, shrugging his shoulders and giving the young man a blank look.
“Leave it to that old gizzard to spread such a tale. Imagine, a Blackfoot Indian who speaks English. What a preposterous fib.” Here the other man sneered. “I shall ensure that the proper people know of this lie, and then we’ll see whose book will be published and whose will not. I have friends helping me in England, I tell you, and—”
“Ah, Mr. Toddman, I see that you have met my friend.” The elder Rohan had just come to stand at Gray Hawk’s back.
“Yes, quite.” Boredom fairly dripped from Toddman’s voice. He glanced at his fingernails. “I was just this moment trying to engage the young Indian in a conversation.” He fluttered his hand in Gray Hawk’s direction, Toddman’s gesture being more one of mockery. “I say, old man, the Indian has not said a single word.”
“Yes,” the viscount cleared his throat, “well, sometimes my young Indian friend has nothing much to say.”
Toddman sneered. “Yes, I daresay. And sometimes the Indian can’t speak English a’tall.”
Gray Hawk raised an eyebrow.
But the viscount barely seemed to notice. “I say, Toddman, so glad you could make it to my party. Wasn’t sure you would want to, what with your own book being done and sent off and all. But here I am rambling. Now, has no one made the introductions? Perhaps our Indian here stands on ceremony.”
Toddman made to laugh, the action more a ridicule.
“Mr. Toddman,” the viscount went on, “I’d like you to meet Gray Hawk, a member of the southern Pikuni tribe of the Blackfeet.”
It was only then that Gray Hawk grinned, his look resembling that of a man who had just counted first coup. He said—his speech, his actions exaggerated, English to a flaw—“Pleased, I’m sure,” and had the pleasure of watching the pompous Mr. Toddman’s eyes pop open.
Gray Hawk turned to the viscount. He said, his English terribly proper, “I am happy to see you, my friend.” And here Gray Hawk sent the young Englishman a look that even the devil might envy for its disdain. “I have much news to tell you, Viscount Rohan.”
It was the first time Gray Hawk had addressed his father-in-law by his proper aristocratic title. And it might be the only time. It didn’t matter. For the moment, it was apt.
Gray Hawk faced the viscount and, putting a hand upon older man’s back, led the man through the crowd, a certain Mr. Toddman left gaping after them.
“Don’t know why the man is here at my party,” said the viscount, “but I can’t very well throw him out, can I?”
Gray Hawk smiled as he said, “Can’t you?”
“Not without causing a scandal.”
“Sometimes a scandal is much preferable to the injury a man like that can do. He intends you nothing but the greatest of harm. And I believe he means to discredit you here tonight.”
“Can’t very well do that. I have your testimonial about your tribe, and I have that of many others. We’ll let the publisher decide whose book is the best. At least now the manuscript is done, and I have fulfilled my contract—and this, despite Mr. Toddman’s sabotage. I know you are one of the people I have to thank for that.”
Gray Hawk nodded. “It is nothing. You are the father of my wife, and—”
“Mr. Gray Hawk, I really must speak to you privately of that. I—”
“Yes,” said Gray Hawk. “I know. But I think now is not the time. By the way, that man, Toddman, said he has friends in England who will help him to publish his book.”
Viscount Rohan stopped suddenly. “He told you this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just now. He did not know at the time that I spoke English.”
The viscount appeared flustered. “He didn’t? But I told him that you spoke it perfectly.”
“He did not believe it.”
“I see.” Viscount Rohan turned to stare at Gray Hawk, having to look up to do so. “Did he say who these men are?”
“No.” Gray Hawk returned the elder Rohan’s look. “He did not. And in truth, I do not even know what this place, England, is, though I hear much said about it. I was hoping that, if I kept quiet long enough, Toddman would tell me more. But he didn’t.”
“Yes, well, when I return home, it will be easy enough to determine just who this is.”
Gray Hawk nodded.
“But come, my friend.” The viscount drew his arm through the Indian’s. “This is a party of celebration. It is the same sort of party I give every time I finish a manuscript. Whether this one is accepted or not makes no difference. The project is done, and you, my boy, helped me to save it. Come, has anyone shown you how to do these dances?”
Gray Hawk shook his head. “No,” he said. “But I would like to learn.”
The viscount beamed. “You shall, my boy, you shall.”
And without further ado, the elder Rohan led the Indian over into a far corner of a balcony, where, for a moment in time, no one would see them… dancing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Genevieve twirled around the room on the arm of the captain of the guard, her antique white dress and her petticoats swirling around her with her every motion. Step, step, sweep, twirl, spin.
She smiled. It had been a long time since she had been to a dance. And she loved it so.
Her partner whisked her around as they neared a corner, and she glanced out into the crowd.
Gray Hawk.
So he had finally arrived. She’d been looking for him all night.
He stood alone within the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the stir he was creating all around him.
He hadn’t seen her.
Another rotation and she could see him no longer, though she strained over her partner’s shoulder to do so.
There he was. Gray Hawk stared straight ahead of him, seeming not to notice her at all.
But the people around him…
Several women whispered among themselves, their fans held just barely above their mouths. They were each one glaring at Gray Hawk, and some were pointing toward him in mockery, snickering.
The men ignored the Indian, mostly, their backs turned on him, although now and again a mocking chortle could be heard from among them, too.
One of the more daring of the men “stumbled” backward, away from “the group,” bumping grandly into Gray Hawk.
Gray Hawk merely snorted and stood his ground.
The men cackled.
Another of the men did the same, then another.
Well, that was it. That did it. Genevieve had seen enough.
Gray Hawk would not defend himself—not here, not at her father’s celebration. But she would.
She whispered her apology into her partner’s ear and left the dance floor, pacing toward Gray Hawk.
And as she made her way to him, she couldn’t help but be reminded of the difference between this and the Blackfeet’s reception of her, when she’d been a newcomer in their camp.
No one there had made fun of her; no one there had tried to make her feel inadequate. Most had gone out of their way, in fact, to find something of worth that she had done that they could praise. And this, though the Blackfeet, as a tribe, had reason to distrust her.
No, they’d adopted her into their tribe; they had even called her “sister.”
And yet, as she looked around her, she knew that there were those here tonight who would call those same Indians “savage.”
She raised her chin. She might have some
thing to say about that.
While it was true that many people here tonight were dressed in all the finest silk and riches that the European and American civilizations had to offer, beneath that outer finery, there was more savagery here than anything she had ever witnessed in the Indian camp.
She drew in closer toward Gray Hawk, and she could see that he had become aware of her.
His eyes lit up with appreciation, but it was the only form of greeting she would receive from him tonight. She knew it.
He was telling her quite clearly that it would remain up to her as to whether or not she would recognize him here among this crowd of antagonism.
She didn’t even hesitate.
She held out her gloved hands toward him. She smiled.
“Gray Hawk,” she said. “I thought you would never arrive. I have saved this dance for you.”
Gray Hawk nodded, his only acknowledgment. Taking both of his hands into her own, Genevieve led him out onto the dance floor, away from the mob. That she heard tongues wagging didn’t matter. These people weren’t worth another thought.
She began to move with Gray Hawk, and she led him through the steps, the dance being unfamiliar to him. But he took to the rhythm of it readily, and within minutes he was twirling Genevieve around as though he had done this sort of thing every day of his life.
“Don’t pay any attention to those people,” she said.
“I was not.”
He twirled her around the floor.
“Yes,” she said, “I could see that, but what I meant was, please don’t think that because these people are so rude, everyone feels this way about you.”
“It is not me that they mock.”
“Oh, I’m so glad that you can understand that—”
“It is because I am Indian. These people do not like the Indian as a person.”
“Yes, you are right; it is not you personally. It is only that many of these people have relatives who have been killed by Indians. There is much prejudice here because of that. I’m sorry they can’t see you for who you are.”
He nodded as he whirled her around to the right.
She glanced at him then, and he smiled at her.
His gaze at her was soft and warm as he said, “That antagonism that they show me will extend to you if you keep associating with me.”
“I do not care. Besides, I have no choice in the matter, since you are dear to me. I would not have you treated badly.”
He frowned. “You always have had a choice in what you do, ever since you became my sits-beside-him-woman. I would not force you to do anything.”
“No, Gray Hawk. I have given you my word. I will honor it.”
He inclined his head and swung her around to the left.
Dip, swing, whirl.
She focused on him, he on her. She beamed at him, and he returned the tender look.
They created quite a sight, the two of them. Both were dressed in antique white, though one’s material was buckskin, the other’s, silk. They looked as though they belonged together, this white woman and the Indian. Their different nationalities, their different races, didn’t matter. Their harmony was as obvious as that of the music filtering down from the gallery.
They loved one another. It was beautiful.
His gaze, sensuous and brooding, centered on her as he led her through a series of turns, looking at her as though she were the center of his universe—and she? She stared up at him, this tall, sleek man, gazing at him as though he were the stars, and she, the moon.
“You cannot stay here in St. Louis,” she said at last. “The gossip will only get worse.”
“I know this,” he said; then he smiled. “And you must stay here.”
“Gray Hawk, I—”
“Maopiit, shh,” he said. “I cannot concentrate on my steps when we speak.”
“Gray Hawk, please, I—”
“Shh. It will be all right.”
But she knew it wouldn’t be.
He whirled her around again in several smooth patterns, and she was certain at this moment that if he hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed.
“What do you mean?”
“I think that you know.”
“Gray Hawk, I—”
“Do not say it. I know your heart speaks both ways. You love me, but you also love your father, your society. Therefore, I must do the thinking for us both and decide what is best.”
Tears gathered at her eyes, and she struggled to keep them at bay.
“Gray Hawk, I would come away with you.”
“And be forever unhappy?”
“I could learn to forget.”
“Could you?”
She hesitated. “I…would try.”
“And if you had not made this promise to me?”
“I’m sure I would… I… Gray Hawk, I—”
“Maopiit, shh. I know your heart. It will be hard only at first. It will get easier with every day.”
“Gray Hawk!”
Did she want this? Yes, no, not really, maybe. No, not really. Nor did he. But circumstance demanded that they part. Society commanded it.
“There is a ceremony among my people,” he whispered against her cheek. “It is the only way that I can set you free. If I get a stick and throw it away, it is my way of saying that I throw you away. Know that I do not really throw you away. It is the only way I can set you free…as…I would be, too.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Gray Hawk, I don’t—”
“It is the only way.”
“No.”
“Gen-ee, we are from two different worlds. The only thing we have in common is our love. Is that enough to overcome all the prejudice? Look around you. These people here tonight are only the start. There are also our own personal prejudices. Before we met one another, we neither one thought well of the other person’s race. What makes us think that just the two of us can change a lifetime of prejudice? Is love alone enough to do this?”
“Gray Hawk, I don’t know. I only know I…” Another tear ran down her cheek.
He whirled her around to the left.
“Tell me you think love is enough.”
“I… I… Gray Hawk, I can’t just now. But maybe in the future… I…just…my father…my life here. Please, understand.”
He sighed. “I do.”
Dip, swirl, twirl.
“That is the trouble.”
Another tear.
The music stopped, and Genevieve knew she was close to collapsing. She didn’t turn to clap, didn’t dare to. She picked up her skirts and ran out of Gray Hawk’s arms, out of the circle of dancers and out into the cold loneliness of the night.
And Gray Hawk watched her go, his heart pounding in his throat with every step she took.
The sound of Indian drums was the only thing that broke into his mental lethargy.
Gray Hawk glanced around him, toward the center of the room.
There, in the middle of the dance floor, sat Indian men, a buffalo-hide drum set out among them. All three of the men were singing and beating on the drum, keeping time to the song.
Gray Hawk did not know this tribe of Indians, nor could he place them, from their style of clothing, their moccasins, their hairstyle.
He stared, committing to memory what it was about these men that made them different from other Indians tribes of his acquaintance.
And the crowd, as though helping him perceive them, parted back from the center, providing him with a clear view of the three Indians.
What were they doing here?
Gray Hawk heard the whispers in the crowd, the shocked murmurings of the ladies, the gentlemen, even the servants. He also witnessed several people leaving the room by the closest exit.
He was just about to take his own leave, too, when suddenly Viscount Rohan appeared in front of the Indian drum. But the singing didn’t stop, nor did the drumming, and the viscount raised his voice that he might be heard over the noise.
He said,
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have arranged a special treat for you tonight. As most of you know, I have just completed a book on the culture, lore and languages of the North American Indians. In honor of this, I have asked these three men from the Delaware tribe, recently removed to the far western territory, to share their songs with us tonight.
“What some of you might not know,” the viscount continued, “is that my book would never have been completed without the help of one man who is in the crowd tonight—my friend Gray Hawk, of the Blackfoot tribe.”
The viscount motioned Gray Hawk forward.
“This man has given me his time and attention for an entire month, teaching me his culture and his language. And the only thing he had ever asked for in return was the opportunity to dance and to sing the songs of his people, although I’m not sure he meant in front of an audience.”
A few people from within the throng smiled.
“Well, son,” the viscount said to Gray Hawk, “I couldn’t bring your people here, so I’ve done the next best thing. I’ve gathered together these men here tonight so that you might enjoy the dance, too.
“And now,” the viscount announced, “Gray Hawk will show us the dances of the Blackfeet.”
Crowd or no crowd, Gray Hawk had already started to move in time to the rhythm of the drums. He couldn’t help it.
There was a magic to the drumming, a medicine, and he found himself moving in time, as though drawn through the motions.
This was exactly what he needed, he thought, to let the rhythm of the drum, the songs of a people close to his own, wash away any despairing feelings he might have.
Perhaps it would give him the strength to do what he had to do next.
He stepped, he paced, he pranced all around the drum, making his own sacred circle around them. He didn’t see the people watching from the sidelines. He became oblivious to them, so focused was he on his movements.
He performed his dance: the dance of the hunt.
He took the bow off his shoulder and held it out away from him as he might when stalking quarry, moving down onto his shins and jumping up suddenly.
