Faithful (2 page)

Which seemed simple in comparison with the tangle of feelings weaving through me now.

I adjusted my seat, restless, and fidgeted, the wool riding habit chafing my thigh even through the silk of my petticoats. Most people said Mama was dead. Now I’d be proved right. When we found her, out in that terrible Wyoming wilderness, we’d bring her home. We’d make her well. Then the matrons of Newport would forget her eccentricities. I’d have everything—Mama, my season, my future, everything.

But there was the other possibility. We might go west and not find Mama. Mama might return to Newport and find us gone. I picked unhappily at a loose thread on my velvet cuff. I wanted to find Mama and have her back home with me. But even if we did find her and bring her back, there was still the chance that she could drag me down with her unsocial behavior . . . or with her madness . . .

That unspeakable thing. I reached my hand to Ghost’s neck and smoothed the stiff braids lacing his mane. I ticked the riding crop against my knee,
tick-tick, tick-tick,
tapped the pace of Ghost’s footfalls. The breeze, carrying the faint scent of salt water, lifted the veil on my hat. Ghost’s ears twitched.

I wanted a normal life. But I also wanted Mama.

Normal
had not defined Mama;
bohemian
had. Other mothers served tea, my mother painted landscapes. Other mothers wore hats, while mine wore ostrich feathers. My mother laughed, openmouthed with joy; thin-lipped sedate smiles were all the others could muster. Even as a child, I’d watched Papa gaze at her, awestruck; I’d seen how other men stared at her, too. She was compelling, magnetic. Her silky black hair always ended up falling loose, the buttons open at her throat, her cameo pinned low.

Bohemian
was a likable word once—a flamboyant word, like ripe grapes on the tongue, conjuring something naughty but fun—but now it fell harsh on my ears. I now understood the flinty looks of Newport matrons and felt the slights from their daughters for myself. Her cameo hadn’t only been pinned low; it had been eye-gathering low.

And the whispers—I’d heard them, too, about her lonely walks on the Cliff Walk. Whispers that she was mad.

But I pretended not to hear for as long as I could.

Last June, they grew so loud I couldn’t ignore them any longer. And on a morning when I stood in the doorway to her room and witnessed a dreadful thing, I feared they were right.

“Mama?”

It was a glorious summer day and I wanted a new shirtwaist, something cool for the coming heat. I went to Mama’s room to persuade her to take me to town, where we could shop and have tea and sweet cakes. My mood was so gay, I was unprepared for what I saw.

Perched on Mama’s splay-foot easel was not her usual dreamy landscape, but something ugly. A nightmare vision of hideous vapors and smokes. It was unfinished, a painting of frightening landforms—spires and terraces in the reds, ochres, and oranges of hell. Other new paintings like it leaned against the walls, against her dressing table. Fire . . . bubbling, steaming pits . . . it was grotesque, the product of a sick mind. While I knew Mama had been distracted of late, here I saw that she had drifted into something dark and horrific. And I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

She’d left her oils to pace before the brilliant window, her form a dark silhouette framed against unearthly light. Her watered-silk dressing gown gaped open. I froze, staring from the hall at her and at those hellish landscapes, misery flooding my body. She did not see me. I suspected that she could not see me.

“Mama?” I repeated, louder.

She stopped pacing, her face tilted away, her hair cascading in unkempt waves loose to her waist. “I don’t know where she is. I can’t find her.” She resumed pacing, never looking my way.

She was talking nonsense. I bit my lip. I balled my hands into fists in frustration. I whispered, “I wish, I wish . . .” I wished Mama would turn and look at me.

“Mama?” Nothing. I turned away into the empty hall.

My chest formed tight knot. She wasn’t normal. If she loved me, she wouldn’t act this way. Whispers snarled in my brain: “she’s mad,” “she’s shocking.” I leaned against the wall and swallowed the hot tears that rose into my throat. I wanted a mother who played by Newport’s rules, not a mama who was peculiar.

Not a mama who frightened me with her odd behavior. With the thought that I was too like her.

I pulled up on the reins. Lost in memories, I didn’t realize that Ghost and I had reached the far end of the trail. I was surprised to feel the fresh sting in my throat, as if I’d stood in Mama’s doorway only moments ago. Across the rolling granite outcrops I spied the gray ocean, the ocean that I hated, the thieving sea. Light danced on the water, scattering sparks that made me blink. A gull keened; how lonely a sound that was, and how deeply I felt it, sadness like a weight pulling me down. My hands tightened on the reins.

I turned back to my season and the preparations. Kitty would have to do it all.

Kitty. Dear Kit. We both lived in Newport year-round. We went to the same schools, moved in the same circles. But I knew what a closer look revealed. Kitty’s parlor never wanted for callers. Her tray was filled with calling cards by the end of each Sunday afternoon. Our parlor had been empty for a long time, long before Mama’s accident.

Or disappearance. Or departure. Or . . . I’d heard so many euphemisms for it this past year.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, as if that might bring Mama back. I missed her even though I was tarred by her behavior. Even though I feared we were alike.

I clicked my tongue at Ghost and we set off for home.

Uncle John had made some “discoveries.” Papa’s words: “only a chance, mind you.” But it was a chance to find her. A chance was all we needed.

My shoulders grew stiff despite Ghost’s easy gait. Newport society was unforgiving. By going west with Papa I could miss my chance to make Newport see me differently, to see me for me, and not as my mother’s daughter. I’d miss friends who hadn’t seen me since Mama disappeared and who thought I was tainted by her scandal.

Friends like Edward, who I hoped was more than a friend. He wasn’t due back from New York before mid-June. Edward’s dark hair and soft eyes floated in my daydreams. Last summer, at one of the first cotillions of the season, he asked me to dance. After that short waltz, I was smitten. My cheeks burned now, and my heart beat faster as I remembered Edward choosing me over all the other girls.

He could be a perfect beau. But we made no lasting promises. No promises could have been made before now, anyway, before my season and my introduction into proper society. And now . . . Now everything was uncertain.

I inhaled deeply, pulling the faintly briny air into my lungs.

Maybe I’d driven Mama away. I was ashamed of Mama, and so angry at her. Those paintings frightened me. After that day, I’d hardened against her. Maybe it was my fault that she’d gone; here was my chance to make it all right.

Ghost, sensing my emotions again, picked up his pace to a trot. Finding Mama, bringing her home, and making her well could solve everything. I would be absolved. We could plan the season together, and I could have my debut. And Edward. Society would forgive her, and I could forgive myself. Going west with Papa and bringing Mama home could make everything right.

The sun was low in the west as Ghost and I approached the end of our ride. I turned him in at the gate that led back to the stable. As he trotted through the narrow file and I leaned to avoid an overhanging branch, a sudden kick of sea breeze flicked the branch at Ghost and he bolted.

I hung on, caught unprepared, my chest tight with fear.

May 31, 1904

GHOST FLEW. I FELL BACK AGAINST THE CANTLE. HE barreled across the grassy field and I leaned forward, desperate to regain control. Sweat beaded on my forehead; my hands gripped the pommel; I tried to keep my seat.

Fear begets fear. Mama had left me and my life was in turmoil because of it. My body shook with effort and with emotion. I let escape a terrified cry.

But the release of sound released my fear; terror turned to exhilaration. Ghost was at a full, reckless gallop, but finally I gathered his rhythm, felt the rush of throwing off restraint. This I’d longed for, this freedom. I let myself go, let Ghost have his head, even if I hit the ground all broken bones. Charging away from the tight trail, we were one. We approached the hedge, and I let out a different cry. Ghost slowed. I reined him in and we stopped, both of us heaving with joy and exertion.

I turned him and we galloped back across the field, and then back yet again. Ghost relished it as much as I did. I lost my hat, ribbons flying, and I didn’t care.

By this time the stable hands were out and several other riders were watching, hovering near the stable. I drew Ghost up and knew that my cheeks were flushed and my hair was in disarray.

“Missie! Miss Margaret!” Joshua yelled as he ran. “You all right?”

“Fine. Never better!” And it was true. I felt exhilarated, and free, for once, of the weight of my memories. Joshua grabbed Ghost’s bridle and helped me dismount. I stood on shaky legs, leaning in against Ghost as he snorted and I panted, and I gave his damp neck an affectionate hug. “Be sure to give him a good rub and extra oats.”

Timmy ran up with my hat. Behind him I saw Mrs. Proctor, sidesaddle on her ancient, fat gelding. She regarded me with contempt, then turned to her companion.

“If you ask me,” she said in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, “she’s exactly like her mother. Utter disregard for propriety. Lack of self-control. That’s what got her mother into trouble. I’ve heard it all, you know, the whole story. And right there is living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Shame,” agreed her companion. “What did you hear?” They both eyed me, then Mrs. Proctor leaned over, and as the two moved away I strained for their words but heard only murmurs.

I drew myself up. I thought of my grandparents, who would no doubt hear of my unseemly behavior from Mrs. Proctor. I turned my back to her as I fed Ghost a treat dug from the small pocket buttoned at my waist.

She’s exactly like her mother.
My cheeks flushed. I was angry at Mrs. Proctor, but I was also angry at myself. I didn’t need to go about compounding my situation with wild rides for all to see. Mrs. Proctor echoed the troublesome voice in my head—exactly like Mama. I burned with shame now, recalling how I’d confronted Mama after I watched her for weeks as she retreated into silence and painted those dreadful landscapes.

Last July was sticky and damp, and all the doors and windows were open to the wash of the ocean and the hum of bees. Maybe it was the heat that had turned my mood. Again, I’d stood in the doorway of Mama’s room, full of pent-up feeling.

“What are you doing to me?” I surprised myself with the sound of my own voice—like a crow’s caw, harsh.

She was painting again, but unlike before, she was not so lost in herself that she could not see me. This time she turned at the sound of my voice, with a smile on her face. “Maggie?” But her smile evaporated as she read my expression. “Maggie.”

I could not control myself. “Stop it! I want you to stop!” I moved fast, snatching the paintbrush from her hand. Paint splattered the canvas and dashed a black line across the white linen of my dress. “I hate what you’re doing! I hate it!”

Mama sagged and crossed the room, collapsing on the narrow end of the chaise.

My lip trembled as I faced her. “Why are you punishing me?” I burned with bitterness. For many weeks she’d been like this. My cruelty, built over time through my frustration, knew no bounds.

“Oh, Maggie.” She lifted her face, distorted with misery. “You’ve done nothing. It’s my fault. You were so little. You have to understand. Back then I was torn in two. I didn’t know what to do.”

I didn’t understand what she was saying. She made no sense. I shook my head to clear the confusion. “Mama. When you act like this, they snub me, too.” I choked on the words. “They look at me like I’m smudged. Stained. I’m beneath them. They leave me out.” My voice dropped, and my chin shook. “I wasn’t invited to Isabel’s party last week.”

She said it so soft I could hardly hear. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“But that’s what happened. That’s what you did.” I spit the words out as great tears rolled down my cheeks. “You’ve made my life miserable.”

Mama looked up then, her own eyes red and full. “I’m so sorry.”

“Really?” My voice caught. “Good! If you are, good!” I wanted her to hurt. “So do something. Make me believe you’re sorry. Act normal. Like everyone else. Be a mother.” Fury rose in me again, thinking of what I’d missed, what she’d missed. I lashed out, wanted to hurt her out of spite. “And you can start by getting rid of that.” I raised the dripping paintbrush that was still gripped tight in my fist and pointed it at the easel, at her current painting, at the drifting forms from the pits of hell.

Mama looked from me to the paintbrush to the painting, horror dawning on her as her eyes moved. She stood and went to the painting, and when she turned to face me again, she was lost. Possessed. “Oh. But . . .”

“Mama! Get rid of it!” My voice pitched to a shout as she stood frozen, staring at me. “You can’t, can you? That painting means more to you than I do. If you love me, really and truly, you’ll get rid of it. You’ll get rid of all of them, and never paint another.” I swept my hand, the brush splattering the room with slashing strokes. “But you don’t really love me, do you.” My tongue was a whip. “Fine.” I threw the paintbrush across the room, heard it clatter against the wall, turned my tear-blinded eyes away, and ran.