Faithful (23 page)

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” I looked back at him and smiled. I kept my thoughts tucked inside and I could feel the little space that grew between us.

We arrived at the inn. I wished he’d take my hand again, but he didn’t. He said, “I probably ought to go find my dad.”

“I have to go have lunch.”

“Maybe I’ll see you later?”

I looked up at him again, at his clear and searching eyes, and I felt a great yearning. “I hope so.” I watched him, wistful, as he walked away from me, his long arms swinging.

After our lunch, Mrs. Gale and I sat in the lobby of the inn enjoying a few quiet moments. I stared into the fire, which crackled in the great stone fireplace more for show than need, and I let my mind drift. Tom liked me; I liked him. But there was still Mama, ever present. I began to grow anxious now, ready to move south to Lake and discover what I could. I was wrestling with these thoughts when I heard my name.

“Margaret!”

I started. It was Papa, his face distorted with concern.

“Mags, are you all right?”

I sat up, too stunned by Papa’s sudden appearance to form words. Behind my father was the hulking figure of George Graybull. Instinctively I felt the prickle of every hair on the back of my neck. It was as if I were being stalked.

“We heard about the robbery.” Papa was so agitated his mustache practically vibrated. I stood smoothing my skirt. My world closed in; I felt like a trapped animal as Graybull circled behind Papa and examined me, his eyes searching me up and down. “We came down right away.”

“Papa, I’m fine. Please. You didn’t need to come.” I wanted them both to go away. Their very presence was stifling.

“Fine? What were you thinking? You might have been killed.” Papa held me at arm’s length, appraising my rolled-up sleeves and dusty skirt.

“Papa, really. I’m just fine.” I needed him to leave me be; he would only hinder my attempts to find out anything about Mama. To find out anything about myself. I forced a smile on my face as I pushed loose tendrils of hair behind my ears and tucked in my shirtwaist.

“When they said a young woman refused to give up a pin, I feared they were talking about you. And it turns out they were. This is not like you! What were you thinking?”

He was right about one thing—it hadn’t been like me. Before. “I saved Mama’s cameo,” I said, touching it.

“Margaret. Is that worth your life?” He sounded irritated. “And you don’t look fine. You look a mess.”

I stiffened. Maybe I didn’t care so much about looking like the perfect lady every minute anymore. Maybe I wanted to look a mess now and then.

He cleared his throat. “At any rate, you’ve got a guardian now.” He gestured behind him at Graybull. “I’m making sure you’re taken care of from now on.”

George Graybull smiled, his tongue pushing through the gap in his teeth. Horror filled me. How could I possibly search for Mama now? He was to be my guardian—or my prison guard. I felt my face flush as my anger grew. “Papa, Mrs. Gale and I are managing quite well.”

“Clearly not,” said Graybull, his cheerful tone contrasting the substance of his words. “Charles and I believe that you require a masculine presence.” Graybull tipped his hat toward Mrs. Gale, who gave him a cool smile but said nothing.

“I can’t stay, Margaret,” said Papa. “I can’t accompany you, I won’t be here. I have business elsewhere.” He paused. “It’s my wish that you allow George to accompany you from this point.”

I moved away from Papa and Graybull, putting a chair between us. My new taste for freedom had grown strong in a short time. I understood for the first time how Mama must have felt, why she rebelled. My hands gripped the chair back as I stood rigid behind it. “I’m helping Mrs. Gale. I do not need another guardian.”

“Indeed she is.” Mrs. Gale faced Papa. “She’s been quite a help to me with my photography.”

“Ah, wonderful occupation, photography,” Graybull said, addressing Mrs. Gale directly. “Particularly for a single lady. But I’m sure you’ll allow Margaret to finish her tour of the Park with me.”

Mrs. Gale drew herself up. “Miss Bennet is free to do as she pleases.” I stood straighter, moving closer to Mrs. Gale.

Graybull laughed. “Within reason. So long as her father approves.”

Yes
, I thought.
Of course.
Because I’m still young. Because I’m a woman. Because I have no say, no control. A bitter taste rose in my mouth. I had no choice in this.

I knew what I should say, what I wished to say. I looked from Papa to Graybull, and then to Mrs. Gale, whose sympathy was obvious. But Mrs. Gale couldn’t help me now. I knew my place and my limitations.

“Of course,” I said, my back as stiff as a board. “As you wish.”

“Understand that tomorrow is your birthday,” Graybull said. He moved closer, until his arm touched mine. “We’ll have to celebrate in style.”

I arched away from him. My seventeenth. I was so caught up with my quest to find Mama, I’d nearly forgotten. Tomorrow should have been the true start of my season, culminating with my debut in August. I should be at a ball, with Kitty, dancing with Edward. I felt a pang at the loss of my dreams. “I’ll keep my own celebration, thank you.”

Graybull laughed as if I’d made a joke.

Mrs. Gale moved toward Papa. “Perhaps, Mr. Bennet, you would allow Maggie to continue to assist me in my work. We could travel together with Mr. Graybull. I need photographs from other areas of the Park.”

I could feel the blood course to my face as gratitude toward my mentor flooded me. Mama might not be here, but at least I had one ally in Mrs. Gale.

“Charles, think I can manage the two ladies,” said Graybull. He pushed his tongue between his teeth.

“Manage?” I said, my lips tight. Stable hands “managed” horses.

He bowed. “Shall be sure you are well taken care of.”

“I think that that will be a fine solution,” said Papa.

I looked away. “I’m returning to my room for a rest.”

“Then we shall see you for dinner,” said Graybull.

I’d already turned to leave, when Papa touched my arm. “I’m relieved that you’re all right, Mags. I must leave straight after dinner. I’m sorry I have to miss your birthday.” He lowered his voice. “George Graybull is a powerful man, Margaret. He can make or break people.” Papa was trying to make me understand, almost pleading with me. “He has an interest in you. It means everything to me that you return that interest, at least a little.” Tears welled in his eyes. I could see genuine sadness there.

For a moment I remembered how he felt about Mama, and I understood his loss and his tenuous position. But he’d committed me to a prison. My anger at him returned and I wasn’t ready to forgive him for it.

But I was still a dutiful daughter. Proper. I still understood the rules and I still obeyed. I might smash a porcelain pitcher or two but only in the privacy of my room. I nodded a single, tense nod; then I turned my back.

July 13, 1904

THE NEXT MORNING, THE MORNING OF MY SEVENTEENTH birthday, I sat at my dressing table. I stared at a dress that Mama and I had chosen together, and that was now hanging on a wood hanger from a nail driven into the log-paneled wall: a dress of the deepest blue velvet trimmed with ecru lace, with folds and gathers cascading into a train. The velvet reflected the light in the folds, and I touched it, feeling its weight and nap. I’d brought it west with me because my father had insisted. When Mina had been packing, I couldn’t fathom why he’d been so adamant about bringing this dress. Now I knew why; it was made for me, and far too expensive to be left behind.

It was really much too fancy for the Old Faithful Inn, even if it was my birthday.

On this birthday I had imagined I’d be back in Newport, with Kitty, maybe even with Mama, and enjoying the life I was born into, the life of an upper-class girl.

I sighed and returned to my morning toilet and began the now unpleasant task of hooking the busk of my corset. Only a few weeks ago, I’d asked Mina to tighten the laces. While it helped my posture once I had it on, I hated having to inhale as I stretched the bones over my ribs and compressed my stomach. I’d hooked it halfway up when I stopped.

I’d spent my life being ordered about, following the rules, doing all that was expected. And where had that taken me? My future was unsure, my old life was in tatters, my family lay in ruins. Yesterday I acquiesced to Papa, and that awful Graybull would now follow my every motion with his penetrating stare. But here was one thing no one could order me to do. A new freedom, like an open door, blew in and I unhooked the corset and threw it on the bed. I buttoned my white shirtwaist over a simple, and much more comfortable, lace chemisette. I’d never have a waist as small as Kitty’s, anyway. At least it was my waist to do with as I wished.

If I looked like I slouched, fine. I decided that I no longer cared what the others thought of me.

“I believe the fresh air of Yellowstone agrees with you, my dear,” Graybull remarked at breakfast. “You look as though you’ve gained a few pounds. It’s quite charming.”

I stifled a laugh. If he only knew!

Later that morning George Graybull, Mrs. Gale, and I set off to explore the geyser basins and take photographs. Mrs. Gale engaged Graybull in polite conversation, mercifully giving me a ready excuse to avoid being close to him. He kept trying to slip to my side, and I’d stop and gaze into a spring or stare through the lens at the low play of water in a geyser until he moved off. I felt we played a cat-and-mouse game, and I was happy each time I gave him the slip.

“You have a wonderful eye, Maggie,” said Mrs. Gale as we worked. Her tone was pleased, even respectful. I felt joy blossom at her praise. “You’re a natural artist. Look at the way you’ve captured the texture of that outcrop, and the tree branch in this one.”

I could not suppress my huge smile.

“How nice that you have this little hobby, my dear,” said Graybull. He examined his Park guidebook, carelessly turning the pages.

I stared straight at him, my smile turning to ice. He was just self-absorbed enough not to feel the chill in my look.

We watched Grand Geyser for much of the morning. It was a large and long-lived event—and to my immense pleasure Graybull could not be heard over the roar of the water. Mrs. Gale arranged for a surrey so we could visit the Handkerchief Pool in the mid-afternoon and witness for ourselves its well-earned name. Mrs. Gale had told me that visitors would toss dirty handkerchiefs into the pool, only to have them sucked into the depths and return to the surface moments later cleaned.

We were to leave the next morning for Lake Hotel. Lake! In the excitement of the geyser basins and photography, and with Graybull hovering over my shoulder, I’d buried the urgency of my plan to visit Uncle John. But the prospect of being there so soon brought it all back—my uncle’s letters. My father’s lies. I knew Mama had loved Yellowstone; I was sure of that now, for I loved it and I recognized what she’d been trying to convey in her paintings. It was as if Mama were calling me and I could hear her with increasing clarity.

I hugged myself as we stood in the soaring lobby of the inn. It was late afternoon, and the fire snapped in the massive stone fireplace, and we were heading toward our rooms to dress for dinner. Graybull pulled me aside. He waited until Mrs. Gale retired to her room.

“I have a gift for your birthday,” he said, leaning close to my ear.

I felt surprised and embarrassed. And more than a little horrified.

He took my hand in his, handing me a flat envelope tied with ribbon. I opened it, slid out the paper, and stared in disbelief at the photo inside.

“You should recognize him,” Graybull said, a hint of triumph in his voice. “Fine animal. My stable master telegraphed me that he has a perfect gait.”

Tears clouded my sight. Ghost. Papa’s photograph of Ghost. “How . . . ?”

“I’ve acquired him and had him transferred to my stables in upstate New York,” Graybull said. “He’s yours.” He laughed. “Again.”

Acquired. Bought. “But, how did you know . . .”

“Margaret, your father and I have had some conversations about your future.” I stared at Graybull. His tongue slid into the gap in his teeth. “I have asked his permission to court you, Margaret. He’s consented.”

Graybull placed his hand beneath my elbow. I froze, feeling my skin prickle through the thin cotton of my sleeve. Acquired. Ghost had been acquired.
I’d
been acquired.

I took a step backward, lifting my arm away from his touch. “I’m seventeen. Just barely seventeen.” I’d wanted a husband, a rescue, but at the hands of someone like Edward. Not like this. Not from George Graybull. I hadn’t had a chance to have a life. No season, no debut, no romance. Tom’s face flitted through my mind and yawning regret chased it. I’d follow Tom anywhere, wasn’t that what I had thought?

“I’m prepared to wait,” Graybull said with a smile. “My sister can take you in as her ward until you are of age. She lives in Newport. You’ll be home. You’ll have everything you want, everything you need. I have an excellent income.” What perfect irony. My only option upon confronting my father had been calling on my grandfather. My grandfather who I knew would approve this match with Graybull with great enthusiasm. I was trapped in a tight net. There was still Edward, but did I even want that? Graybull touched me again; I flinched. “And your father, Margaret. Why, he, too, will have everything he wants. This job in Yellowstone, for instance. I’m an influential man, Margaret.”

I understood just what he meant. Papa had said as much. My father’s future depended upon me. I stood in the lobby of the Old Faithful Inn, disembodied, holding the picture of Ghost in my right hand, diminished by the position that I held as a girl, as a daughter, helpless and unable to do as I pleased. I’d been sold, and bought. Like an animal. Like Ghost.