‘‘Thank you.’’
The three girls made their way down the stairs to where Mr. Brandon stood watching them, his smile of pride lighting his entire face.
‘‘Delphinium, lemon lily, and pink peony—you three are a sight to behold.’’
‘‘Thank you, Father.’’ Alicia laid her hand on the arm he offered, leaving Opal and Penelope to giggle in her wake.
‘‘Have any of you seen Bernie?’’ Mrs. Brandon stopped in the doorway. ‘‘Now, don’t you all look lovely? Mrs. Davis surely did herself proud with those gowns.’’
‘‘No. Haven’t seen Jason either.’’ Mr. Brandon raised his voice. ‘‘Now, boys, I don’t care what you are doing, but we are leaving now.’’
‘‘Coming.’’ Jason thundered down the stairs.
‘‘Where’s Bernie?’’
‘‘This always happens when it is time to leave for church,’’ Penelope whispered to Opal. ‘‘Bernie hates sitting still for ten minutes, let alone an hour.’’
Opal only nodded.
Me too
. But she didn’t voice the thought. Since she was dressed like a young lady, she would have to act like one. Bernie thundered down the stairs just as his father started up to get him.
‘‘Sorry.’’ He ducked under his father’s arm and flew out the door to scramble up on the seat next to the driver.
‘‘You look lovely, miss,’’ Mr. Klaus murmured as he assisted her into the coach.
‘‘Thank you. No running races dressed like this, eh?’’
‘‘No, miss, but you better watch out for the young men.’’
She felt a blush heat up her neck and cheeks and finished settling herself in the seat. Young men, indeed.
‘‘Opal, Miss Torvald, is that you?’’ Rupert stuttered in his greeting in front of the gray granite church.
She smiled, practicing a ladylike demeanor. ‘‘Hello, Rupert. Do you still have a pony?’’ Well she remembered his lack of generosity in sharing pony rides.
‘‘No.’’ His look said ‘‘Of course not’’—easily done when looking down one’s nose. ‘‘Now I have a jumper. I compete in shows and do some fox hunting in the fall.’’
‘‘Really?’’ She’d hardly recognized him, but he’d grown into a rather striking young man. ‘‘That must be exciting. Most of our horses are trained for working cattle.’’
‘‘You did get a horse, then?’’
‘‘Yes, and I train young horses for some of the ranchers near us.’’
‘‘You must come to the stable and go riding with me.’’
Penelope took her arm. ‘‘We must go in now. Sorry, Rupert.’’
‘‘You still don’t like him much?’’ Opal whispered when they entered through the ten-foot-tall carved wooden doors. The organ swelled as they filed into the sanctuary, taking Opal’s gaze clear up to the peak where the rose window broke the sunlight into iridescent jewels of every hue. So much time had passed since she’d been in a real church with an organ, a choir, and wooden pews.
The Shepherd’s window backing the altar, with Jesus holding a lamb and other sheep surrounding His feet, made her think of home again.
She settled into the pew between Alicia and Penelope, blinking back tears. Had they come on because of the beauty of this house of God or because of homesickness for the school building that substituted for a church on Sunday back home? Ruby and Rand would be there, trying to keep Per quiet. Cimarron and Jed, Daisy and Charlie, the Robertsons, Linc and Little Squirrel with the other hands. Would Atticus be there? And his family?
Atticus, my dear friend. Father God, please make him well again
. The memories returned of his body arching on the bed, those guttural sounds he’d made, the thrashing of legs and arms. As they stood for the first hymn she clutched the back of the pew in front of her.
God, please. It’s my fault, and I can’t do anything about it
.
She held her half of the hymnal and tried to see the words through a veil of tears. If only she could go home, surely there was something she could do to make things easier for him.
She stumbled over the clog in her throat at the first words but then threw herself into the music as ‘‘Holy, Holy, Holy’’ lifted voices and hearts. ‘‘. . . Lord God almighty. Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.’’ Her voice soared on the high notes as she forgot herself and the mess she’d made for Atticus. She glanced to see why Penelope had stopped singing, only to catch openmouthed awe staring at her.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Your voice. Opal, your voice.’’ They both turned back to the hymnal. ‘‘Holy, holy, holy, all the saints adore thee . . .’’ A hush fell after the final amen.
Opal remained standing for the opening prayer but dug in the reticule dangling from her wrist for the handkerchief she’d stuffed there. Her eyes needed mopping now.
Alicia handed her a hanky, passed over from her mother. Mrs. Brandon leaned around her daughter and, taking Opal’s hand, drew her to her side and put an arm around her waist.
The tender touch, the beauty of the music, and the prayer all combined to make Opal weep even more.
I need to go home. Father God, please, I need to go home
. She mopped her eyes and clamped her teeth against further tears, but in spite of her best efforts, the tears only slowed.
‘‘It’s all right,’’ Mrs. Brandon whispered. ‘‘I often cry in church. Don’t feel bad or embarrassed. It’s all right.’’
Opal finally won the battle and gave Mrs. Brandon a watery smile. ‘‘Thank you.’’ Her whisper was more a mouthing than a murmur, but the smile in return confirmed the hearing.
Did God hear as well as Mrs. Brandon? Or had He quit listening to her since she’d been so bad? Neither question did she dare ask. But she was sure God used to hear her. After all, Rand had brought her Bay, and now she had the filly too. Unless, of course, Rand sold her, which had been the original plan.
How strange it seemed to have a real minister stand up in front and preach instead of Charlie or Rand reading from the Bible. Every time she thought of home, the tears tried to get loose again, and her mind refused to pay attention. Something like in school. But that brought up another thought. Would Mr. Finch be back again? If only Pearl could or would go back to teaching, she, Opal, would want to stay in school, but not with Mr. Flinch, as the students dubbed him. Or she’d be in trouble all the time.
‘‘Seventy times seven? You want me to forgive that many times? I can’t even count that high.’’
As the minister’s words broke through her musing, Opal’s attention clicked back to the sermon.
‘‘Aren’t we a lot like Peter? And are we required to forgive someone who wrongs us seventy times seven? Now, I don’t believe that God wants us to keep count, but as He forgives us over and over, so must we forgive others.’’
Not that drifter, God. You can’t mean that. Why, he nearly killed
Atticus, and Atticus is good through and through. Now, if he’d attacked
me, that would make sense. But I don’t see how I can forgive him for what
he did to Atticus.
Opal joined in the final hymn. Singing always made her feel better.
‘‘What happened?’’ Alicia asked later after they’d eaten dinner and retired to their rooms to change into play clothes.
‘‘I guess I got to thinking of home, and then I couldn’t stop crying. I never had that happen before.’’ Opal carefully hung her bluebell gown in the chifforobe. ‘‘That surely is a lovely gown.’’ Her hand trailed down the fabric.
‘‘And you looked lovely in it.’’ Alicia propped herself against the bed pillows, her book on her lap. ‘‘Tell me about Atticus.’’
So Opal told her the entire story as she sat on the end of the bed, her arms hooked around her raised knees. ‘‘So you see, it is all my fault.’’
‘‘No, it isn’t. It’s the drifter’s fault. He chose to attack you. Men can’t be allowed to act like that. That’s what we have laws for.’’
‘‘Not where we live.’’
‘‘No wonder Ruby thought you would be safer here.’’
‘‘There you are.’’ Penelope and Jason stood in the doorway.
‘‘You want to play croquet? Father is setting up the wickets.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ Opal scooted to the edge to stand up. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Do you mind if I talk to Mother about this?’’
‘‘No. I’ll tell her if she wants.’’
‘‘Good. I guess things really are different out West.’’
‘‘Well, one thing sure, we don’t have any grass flat and smooth enough for croquet.’’
‘‘What would you like to do today?’’ Alicia paused in the doorway to Opal’s room.
Opal looked up from the letter she was writing. ‘‘I’d like to take the trolley all over.’’
‘‘A trolley rather than the carriage?’’
‘‘Yes. All the way down to the Battery. And I’d like to see as much of the Statue of Liberty as possible.’’
‘‘Let me ask Mother.’’ Alicia turned, then paused and said over her shoulder, ‘‘It’s going to be hot today and sometimes the smells . . .’’ She shuddered delicately.
‘‘Thanks.’’ Opal dipped her pen in the ink and continued describing the electric lights and the huge buildings ten and twelve stories tall here in New York City.
Higher than the bluffs behind the house, I think. But, Ruby, there are people everywhere here. They remind me of our herds of cattle at roundup time. They pour off the ferries and the trains. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday. There’s a special layer for pedestrians; the traffic flows along eighteen feet below. It is one of the marvels of modern construction with huge towers and steel cables. Jason gets all sparkly eyed when he talks about it. He has studied the building of it extensively. I think that’s what he would like to do someday, after he becomes a cowboy, that is. Working at his father’s firm is not what he wants to do forever.
She stopped and gazed out the window. A tall elm tree sent shadows dancing on her floor. At home she could look out her window and see the waving grasses and sometimes a deer at the edge of the brush. A sigh escaped before she could catch it. Lovely as this room was with its light green embossed wallpaper and matching curtains and bedspread, she’d take the cold floor with the bearskin rug by her bed any day. She’d just signed the letter with an admonishment to Ruby to hug Per for her and not let him forget who she was when Penelope rushed into the room.
‘‘We’re all going on the trolley like you want, and Mrs. Klaus is packing a picnic basket. You have the best ideas.’’ She stopped by the tall carved post of the bed. ‘‘Maybe tomorrow we could go play lawn tennis again.’’
Opal groaned. She’d rather lasso cattle any day. If she’d been able to wear her divided leather skirt, the game might have been fun, but in the skirt and petticoats and drapes they all wore, why, it was lucky someone didn’t fall and break something.
They took the elevated train down to the Battery District and stared out across the river to Fort Wood on Bedloe Island, where the Statue of Liberty’s granite pedestal could be seen with an iron framework rising above it. While she’d seen pictures of the various pieces of the gift from the people of France, the size of it made her shake her head.
‘‘It’s going to be taller than the buildings.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Mrs. Brandon stood beside her, Alicia on the other. ‘‘When I read the poem that Emma Lazarus wrote to help raise money for this project, I weep for joy. It is so fitting a picture of our country. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’’’
Alicia added, ‘‘‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’’’
‘‘That sounds mighty fine, but there’s a lot more room for those immigrants out West than there is here, let me tell you.’’
Mrs. Brandon laughed and, shaking her head, put an arm around Opal’s shoulders. ‘‘Leave it to you, my young realist, but here is where most of the jobs are.’’
‘‘True, but we have free land for those willing to work hard enough to homestead it.’’ Opal stared upriver, where ships lined the docks like piglets at a sow. People and cargo came off those ships every day, then other wares were loaded on, and the ships left again. She stared down at the water, the sheen of oil on top, floating boxes, barrels, and bottles, the water a sluggish gray.
Uff
da,
as Ruby so often said. One surely would never swim in this water. She’d take the muddy Little Missouri any day.
On the trolley ride home the emaciated face of a little girl digging in the trash haunted Opal. There was a lot of money in New York to be sure, but people were starving just the same. Wasn’t there something that could be done about that? She wished she could have given the child the food left in the picnic basket. One thing she knew for certain. She preferred the vast open spaces of Dakotah Territory over this teeming city of New York.
At supper that evening the discussion came around to Theodore Roosevelt.
‘‘I know him,’’ Opal said. ‘‘He’s a fine gentleman, a good cowboy too.’’
‘‘You know Mr. Roosevelt?’’ Jason stared at Opal, his eyes taking up his whole face.
‘‘Yes. He has been to our house for supper several times. He showed me the pictures he’d drawn of our prairie hens and grouse. He really likes our part of the country and said that toughening up to become a cowboy and hunter saved his life. He likes to write and draw, and he loaned me one of his books.’’
Jason looked from Opal to his father. ‘‘Can you believe that?’’
‘‘Well, his ranch, the Maltese Cross, borders ours. Not that we own the grazing land, just that around the ranch house.’’
‘‘Do you realize who he is?’’ Mr. Brandon looked over his glasses.
‘‘Well, I know he is from New York and he comes back here a lot. I think he’d rather stay in Dakotah Territory, though.’’
‘‘I’ve heard there are some who want him to run for mayor of this city.’’ Mr. Brandon tapped his coffee cup to signal a refill by the maid.
‘‘I like the way he writes of the West.’’ Jason propped his elbows on the table but jerked them back at the sound of his father clearing his throat. ‘‘He goes hunting all the time. And does roundup, like you do.’’ He smiled at Opal. ‘‘I would give my right arm to ride in a roundup.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t be much good without a right arm.’’ Opal kept a straight face. ‘‘But I can teach you to rope if you want.’’
If I’d
only brought my rope
. ‘‘And riding out there is as different from riding in the park as walking is from riding the train.’’