Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  Alice stuck out her tongue. “You’re Miss Up-and-at-’em this morning. You must be feeling better after the boat yesterday.”

  “Much better.” In fact, Grace had been up since before sunrise; the early morning hum of the trees had been impossible to resist. She’d tiptoed out onto the porch, the cold boards burning her bare feet, to listen to their melodious murmuring, like an orchestra tuning before the start of a concert, and her heart had leapt. It was the sound of home, the sound she woke to every morning in Chestnut Hill, only a hundred times more powerful. Only now did she realize how much she had missed it in Newport. She’d nearly run out to the trees in her nightdress, but the slam of a door and flare of a light at a window in a building across the way had sent her back inside to hurry into a shirtwaist and skirt. Breakfast couldn’t come soon enough so that she could get out to those trees.

  They crossed the road to the clubhouse, where meals were served though all the surrounding cottages—she must remember to call them camps—had their own kitchens. Now in the full light of day she could see that the Tahawus Club was almost a small village, nestled among the surrounding hills. Mrs. Roosevelt had told them last night as they ate their warmed-over supper that many of the camps were left over from when Tahawus had been the “Upper Works” of the Adirondack Iron & Steel Manufacturing Company. The clubhouse was originally the boarding house; it was a substantial two-story structure that bore no resemblance to the elaborately timbered Adirondack cottages Grace had seen pictures of in illustrated magazines. It was fronted by a deep porch, where several rockers were set in a row, looking out to the mountains to the east.

  She and Alice followed Mrs. Roosevelt across the porch and into the clubhouse. The dining room was commodious, with white-clothed tables scattered around the room. A pair of enormous mounted bucks’ heads stared glassy-eyed down at them from opposite walls.

  “Here are some familiar faces!” A figure rose from one of the tables.

  “Mr. Rookwood.” Grace smiled and went to shake his outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Good morning, ma’am,” she added to Mrs. Rookwood, who smiled pleasantly up at her. She glanced at Kit, who’d stood as well but remained silent. He nodded to her—cautiously, she thought.

  “You see what you inspired me to do?” Mr. Rookwood waved his hand. “It’s even better than I remembered, so you’ll have to put up with being thanked. We were lucky that my friend Mr. Jennings was willing to lend us his camp here for a week or two. Ah, Miss Roosevelt—good morning! How was your journey from Newport? Well, what do you young ladies think of the Adirondacks? Had you imagined such splendor? But I’m letting my enthusiasm run away with me while you’re probably wanting your breakfast. I’m sure I’ll find an opportunity to bore you later.” He beamed at them and remained standing until they’d joined Mrs. Roosevelt and the children at their table.

  “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Grace murmured to Alice while their young waitress went around the table pouring milk for the children. “I told you that Mr. and Mrs. Rookwood wouldn’t tell on you.”

  Before Alice could respond, it was time to place their orders, and then the chatter of Alice’s siblings took all their attention—beside Ted there was Kermit, a dreamy-looking boy of twelve, sturdy ten-year-old Ethel, and Archie and Quentin, who looked angelic but were anything but, Alice had warned her. It wasn’t until breakfast was over and they were back out on the porch of the clubhouse that she and Alice had a chance to talk.

  “I think I’d like to do a bit of exploring, go for a walk,” she said to Alice. “What about you?”

  “Hmm?” Alice was gazing through the front door into the dining room, where Kit stood talking to his father, looking very earnest.

  “I’d be happy to show you around,” Ted said quickly. “I’ve been all over the place now—”

  “Except that you’ve already promised you’d take Kermit and Ethel fishing at the lake this morning,” Mrs. Roosevelt inserted as she passed them on her way down the stairs.

  Ted seemed about to protest, then brightened. “Would you like to go fishing with us? Then you’ll still get your walk in.”

  Grace smiled, but the last thing she wanted right now was company. “May I go with you next time?”

  “Yes, please! There’s some good fishing up at—” His voice cracked, and he blushed and ducked down the stairs after his mother.

  “Good morning!” Alice trilled.

  Grace turned and saw that Kit had emerged from the clubhouse. “You didn’t seem convinced of that earlier,” she teased.

  “Coffee can work wonders.” Alice sidled close to Kit as he joined them. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “Yes,” Kit said simply. Grace found herself studying him. Less than a week ago he would have made some flirtatious response to Alice and probably said something to her about it being sinful for Puritan maidens to enjoy good weather. What had changed since they’d left Newport?

  “Anyway,” Alice continued, “I’d go with you, Grace, but Kit and I already have plans to go for a walk.”

  When had they had time to make those plans, since they hadn’t had a moment alone together? Grace stole another glance at Kit. For a second he looked as surprised as she felt, but his expression quickly smoothed.

  “We could all go together—” he began.

  Alice cut him off. “No. Grace walks too fast.” She was already partway down the stairs. “I’m going to change my shoes,” she called and, pausing on the bottom step, lifted one foot clear of her skirts and waved it at him. It was encased in a peach satin bedroom slipper. “Come on, Grace. I’ll be back in two minutes!”

  Up in their room, Alice knelt on the floor and dug through one of her trunks. “I know I’ve got some boots in here somewhere.”

  “I’d hate to see what your slippers will look like if you don’t.”

  Alice grinned. “They’ll be torn to shreds, and then Kit will be duty-bound to carry me back from our walk. So maybe I won’t bother with boots after all.” Her grin faded as she sat back on her knees. “Grace, did Kit seem…I don’t know. A bit…off?”

  So she’d noticed too. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know, or I wouldn’t be asking. It’s like…” Alice hunched her shoulders.

  Like he wasn’t the same boy she’d been kissing in broom closets all over Newport? “We’re not in Newport anymore,” she said. “It’s different here.”

  “You’re telling me,” Alice muttered. “I wish we were back there right now.”

  “Don’t forget that both his and your parents are here,” Grace said. “It’s a little hard for a boy to flirt with a girl when their mothers are watching, don’t you think? Not to mention that he’s here among strangers, rather than among friends in Newport.”

  “I suppose,” Alice said, but her expression had lightened. “I’m sure that when we’re alone, he’ll be himself again.” She paused. “He’s being a lot nicer to you if you’ve noticed.”

  “Maybe it’s no fun to tease me here because his mother might not approve of his picking on girls.”

  Alice laughed. “Oh, Grace. You can always talk me out of a bad mood.” She turned back to her trunk and crowed triumphantly a minute later. “Here they are! Well, have a good walk. I know I will.” She hurried downstairs.

  Grace watched Alice and Kit through the window until she saw which direction they were going so that she could take the opposite one, then slipped out of the camp. Why on earth had Kit suggested they all walk together? The last thing he’d seemed to want in Newport was to be in her presence. At least here in the forest it would be easier for them to keep out of each other’s way.

  * * *

  As she started up the narrow unpaved road, she could hear happy shrieks from the creek that ran behind their camp—Archie and Quentin, probably trying to drown each other. It was a good thing that their governess looked like an unflappable person.

  She’d passed the last camp now, and the road was petering out into
a footpath before it disappeared into a wall of trees. She paused to gaze up at it, then plunged into the forest.

  Out of the sun, the temperature dropped several degrees. The ground underfoot was thickly carpeted with last year’s leaves—maple and beech and yellow birch—and above her, the trees that had shed them stood tall and sturdy yet graceful, their branches intertwining like the arms of dancers in a corps de ballet. Here, close to the edge of the clearing, was a tangle of young trees and honeysuckle, but within a few feet, the lack of sun reaching the forest floor banished any undergrowth but occasional ferns and mosses. Somewhere farther up the mountain a crow called, and several replied, their raucous ca-a-aws! ringing and echoing in the trees.

  She left the footpath and ventured deeper among the trunks and had to remind herself to breathe. The air was rich with the scent of green leaves and bark, but there was a dry, bitter edge to it that spoke of the coming of autumn; the trees were turning their thoughts to preparing for the winter’s rest. But it was something more than the air—there were just so many trees. Arriving in North Creek yesterday, she’d been struck by their sheer numbers. Now she was among them as individuals, and it made her feel both exhilarated and shy at the same time. She wanted to rush from tree to tree, stroking their skins and listening to each slow voice, to drink them in.

  The trees were aware of her too. They were watching her, and she felt…what? Surprise, yes…and puzzlement? She hesitated, then approached a sturdy beech and pressed her hands against its smooth, silvery bark. The touch sent the same odd shiver through her that she’d felt yesterday at North Creek. “Greetings, friend,” she murmured.

  The beech’s leaves rustled. You speak in our words, it said. How can that be? I have never known a man to speak.

  Trees were never very good at picking up the differences between people, including their sex. “I’m not a human. Have you never met any of my kind?”

  The tree was silent for a long moment. No, you are not a man. You don’t feel like a man, though you have the appearance of one. But you are not a Changer or a Shadow nor anything else I have met before. You speak with the language of trees, and you feel…akin. How can that be? it said again, almost to itself.

  Did the trees here not know dryads then? Perhaps none had visited this part of the Adirondacks…and these trees were native to America, not Europe, so they would have no ancestral knowledge of them.

  “We are akin,” she said to the beech. “My kind come from another land, where a goddess gave birth to us many years ago to protect and cherish her trees. Some of us live in this land now—I am from far to the east of you, near the ocean. It is an honor to visit your forest, cousin.”

  She felt the tree mulling this over. Akin to us, yet you look like men. Do you live among them?

  “We live among them, but they don’t know us. At least, not anymore.” What must it have been like all those centuries ago, when dryads were known and respected? They probably didn’t have to dye their hair, for one thing. “What are those other…er, beings? Changers and Shadows?”

  Do you not know them? They also walk the forests. The Changers can take what shape they wish, but their spirits are wild and strange. The Shadows do not have any form at all. They like the high places and the dark places, and sometimes they are angry and rush through our branches like a black wind. We do not know what they are. The tree sounded as if it didn’t want to know either. Grace remembered what their driver from North Creek had said about things in the woods. Could this be what he meant?

  “Should I fear them?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

  Be wary of Changers, yes. The tree hesitated. I do not know if you should fear them. They take advantage of the weak when they can and count it a pleasant pastime, though they respect strength and are drawn to power. The Shadows—

  “Ah, is that you, Miss Boisvert? They are beautiful, are they not?” a voice called. “I think the trees here are more beautiful than anywhere, and I’ve traveled a bit in my time.”

  Grace started and whirled around. Mr. Rookwood was striding up the path she had just left, puffing as if he’d been walking quickly and wiping his brow with a folded handkerchief. He joined her under the beech and stared up its trunk into its canopy sixty feet above them.

  “Oh, yes, they are!” she said effusively. “I was just admiring this beech—its bark is so smooth! They don’t grow like this back at home.”

  He stretched out a hand to touch it, but his mild blue eyes were focused on her. “I hope you don’t mind that I came looking for you, Miss Boisvert. I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to catch you alone.”

  She let her hand drop to her side. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Oh, no. I merely wished to ask if we had conducted ourselves properly this morning. The circumstances of our first meeting with you and your friend were somewhat, ah, irregular, but Mrs. Rookwood and I didn’t feel it necessary to bring them up at breakfast in front of Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  “You handled it perfectly, sir. Believe me, Alice was very grateful for your discretion.” She hesitated again, then said in a rush, “She really didn’t intend to drink so much that night. It was her first ball, you see, and she was so excited—”

  He held up a hand. “No explanation is necessary, Miss Boisvert. It’s been a few years since I was seventeen, but I can still remember how easy it was to occasionally get carried away and to not want my parents to be possessed of all the details when I did. If we had concerns that Miss Roosevelt made a habit of it, we would certainly have spoken to her mother in private. But I’m sure it was a one-time event. I expect her condition the following morning taught her that too much champagne has its consequences.”

  Grace nodded. “She was…not at all well that day.”

  He chuckled. “Poor thing. But some people learn best not to play with fire by getting burned once or twice, and there’s no getting around it for them.” He looked at her. “I don’t get the impression you’re one of that type, Miss Boisvert.”

  “You’re very kind, but I’m not sure I can claim any virtue. I’ve never yet found a fire I wasn’t able to resist sticking my hand in, but who knows? Perhaps I haven’t found one bright and tempting enough yet.”

  Mr. Rookwood laughed. “You sound as if you regret that fact. But I’ve no doubt that you’re a very level-headed young woman.” He gave his forehead one last pat with his handkerchief and folded it away. “There. I’ve caught my breath now, so will you walk with me for a bit? This path goes on up to Lake Henderson and beyond to Mount Marcy itself, but I don’t think we need go that far.”

  She fell into step beside him. “Is Mount Marcy one of the higher mountains in the area?”

  “My dear Miss Boisvert! It’s the highest peak in all of New York, and right here in our backyard, so to speak. The view from its summit is quite spectacular, I understand. You younger folk should get up an expedition to climb up there some time during your visit.”

  Grace thought of the beech’s description of the Shadows and Changers. She’d be happy to leave the mountaintops to them, thank you very much. “Perhaps Kit and Alice will organize one.”

  “Do I sense a lack of enthusiasm for mountain climbing on your part?” His eyes twinkled behind his pince-nez. “Then again, I’m not sure how enthusiastic my son would be either. So tell me, how did you and Miss Roosevelt meet Kit?”

  “At the Casino. We…happened upon each other.”

  “Oh? That sounds like there’s a story behind it.”

  Grace scuffled her feet through the leaves to the side of the path. “Not particularly. At least not an interesting one. I bumped into him dusting off a ball boy who’d fallen down the stairs.” It was unsettling to remember that day and what her first impression of Kit had been, and how it had changed. What would Mr. Rookwood say if she told him about Puritan maidens? She somehow didn’t think he’d be pleased.

  “And Miss Roosevelt? She seems quite…taken with Kit.”

  “Oh,
she and Kit took to each other at first sight.” Discussing this with an adult—and especially the father of one of the subjects under discussion—was decidedly odd. But there was something about Mr. Rookwood’s open friendliness that mitigated the oddness.

  “Hmm.” He was silent as they strolled up the footpath through the trees. Overhead, small birds sang and twittered, and a crow—or was it a raven?—croaked at them conversationally as it flew from a nearby tree to one deeper in the woods. Mr. Rookwood glanced up at it.

  “Kit can be a very charming young man,” he finally said. “He takes after his mother in that respect. I fear that he’s not always aware of how potent that charm can be to susceptible young women—”

  Like Alice, Grace thought.

  “—and unintentionally leads them to believe that his heart is more engaged than it actually is.”

  Grace stared at the ground as they walked. Could Kit not have been aware of the effect he had on Alice? After all, she herself had a similar problem this summer with Tom Livingston. And it might explain why Kit was drawing back from Alice now—perhaps his parents had had a talk with him after the incident at Mrs. Rennell’s ball. On the other hand, lurking in broom cupboards with Alice hardly seemed unintentional. But she could hardly say that to Kit’s father.

  “I think I understand, sir,” she said aloud. “I don’t know if there’s much I can do about it, though. Alice is, er, one of those people who learns by getting burned.”

  “I had guessed that,” he replied a little dryly. “But I’d never ask you to do anything about it. Just be aware, for her sake, if—or when—disappointment comes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grace said, but inwardly she quailed. They were here till at least the fifteenth of September. What would life be like if Alice no longer had Kit to keep her mind off her boredom? At least she’d be going to Washington after that, where there would surely be a great deal of excitement to help her forget.

  “How long do you stay in Tahawus?” she asked.