The Great Plains (9 page)

‘Damn it.' He did his best not to think about Philomena during daylight hours, it was bad enough that she invaded his nights, leaving him restless and confused. And yet here he was imagining her at the reservation, thinking of her hard, stony stare and the way she appeared at the asylum the day he'd first laid eyes on her. There was such unrestrained superiority in her gaze. It made him marvel at how little it took to corrupt a child. At how family could be so easily supplanted. It also chastened him. At nights he recalled the long walk down the asylum hallway, Serena weighing heavily in his arms. Blood-ties notwithstanding, Aloysius had taken what was not his and in doing so had done to Philomena what Geronimo had done to him.

He never shared these thoughts with Annie. Her one consolation in not meeting Philomena was the little girl that made chains of flowers, creating a world full of smiles. Serena was a symbol of hope and Aloysius knew he had done what his brother would have wanted, what Ginny would have expected, and yet he was left wanting. He could forget Philomena, but how does one forget a woman like that, a creature with such endurance, such intensity of spirit? Perhaps that was why he dreamt of her. Philomena did not belong in his world and he couldn't reach her. She would never come home.

Two years later
June, 1898 – Dallas, Texas

There was a tumbling noise followed by a thud. Aloysius turned on the porch where he'd been admiring a whirl of cloud that resembled a horse tail and rolled his eyes at the heavy oak door through which the noise had sounded. He'd left Annie with her breakfast tray in bed and Serena was with her maid. Aloysius briefly considered investigating the noise, however, he'd planned to be at the newspaper early today in spite of Annie's pleas that it was time to retire. How could a man retire, he pondered, observing Thomas driving the surrey around to the front gate? Dallas was finally recovering from the panic of '93 and it was proving to be an excellent year for the newspaper business.

The United States had declared war on Spain in late April, some time earlier Annie Oakley had written a letter to President McKinley offering the government the services of a company of fifty lady sharpshooters should war break out. The leading Dallas matrons were appalled, the younger set intrigued and East Coast Society mortified. It really was splendid stuff. Some days it was difficult trying to decide what story should lead the news. Accordingly, the opening of the Trans-Mississippi Exposition World Fair in Omaha, Nebraska was positively mundane.

Picking up the leather satchel at his feet, Aloysius admired the brown of the gelding's coat as it merged in and out of rust-coloured leaves. The only sour note to the week was Clarence Hocking's death. The funeral was to be held this morning. His old friend had hung himself in the linotype room, his suicide note citing financial catastrophe. The man was nearly bankrupt. Hugh broke the news to him over the telephone and although one had to make exceptions for the bereaved, Aloysius had been none too impressed with his tone. Anyone would think he'd forced Clarence into buying the silver shares. Clarence had been with them from the beginning and would be sorely missed, but his son, well it was probably time to lessen his ties with Hocking & Son now the masthead had snapped and sunk.

Thomas reached the front gate, jumped down from the surrey and patted the animal.

‘Aloysius?'

Annie's voice was unusually high pitched in its urgency, and Aloysius quickly re-entered the house, fearing Serena had come to harm. At the opposite end of the entrance hall a figure lay at the bottom of the stairs. It took time for Aloysius to adjust to the dark as he walked back inside.

‘Annie, Annie, are you all right?'

There were two figures on the ground. Gwen lay crumpled at the base of the stairs, one leg twisted beneath her body, an arm clearly broken. Annie, still in her nightgown, grey-streaked hair tied with a beige silk ribbon, knelt by the girl's side. His wife's face was the same colour as the lifeless maid. Very slowly she lifted her chin and glanced to the landing above. Twelve-year-old Serena looked down on the scene, her features immobile.

Aloysius's knees creaked as he joined his wife on the floor. ‘What happened?'

Annie shook her head.

‘What happened, Serena?' Aloysius checked Gwen's pulse and looked to the child for answers. Serena appeared to see no-one. It was as if she were in a world of her own.

‘She's still breathing,' Annie advised. ‘I'll ring the doctor.' She ran to the telephone in the hall.

Aloysius listened to the sound of heels click-clacking across the timber floor and then to his wife's urgent voice.

‘What happened, Serena?' Aloysius repeated.

Serena tilted her head to one side and skipped away.

Once Gwen was laid out in the rear of the ambulance, Dr Fitzgerald removed his spectacles and rubbed at them with a handkerchief. ‘A broken leg and arm, severe concussion and who knows what other ailments.' The two horses pulling the covered wagon shifted the weight on their legs and the wheels creaked as the ambulance rocked back and forth.

‘But she will recover,' Aloysius stated more positively than he felt. He could sense Annie watching them from the landing of the house. She'd been standing there silently in her dressing gown since Gwen had been carried from the base of the stairs, her one concession to decency a woollen shawl that she clutched to her breast. Moments earlier their cook, Marg, had returned from the markets with two laden baskets and she was now at the side gate, deep in conversation with Thomas.

The doctor glanced at his patient. ‘We'll set her broken bones and hope she wakes up promptly. Only then will we know the full extent of her injuries. I must say she has done some damage to her person, she has taken quite a tumble. I have to wonder how she fell.'

‘I imagine she tripped,' Aloysius suggested. ‘There is no accounting for young people's foolishness at times.'

Tucking his spectacles in his breast pocket, Harry produced a pad and pencil. ‘Well, I must do a report for the sheriff's office. There were no witnesses?' He noted down Gwen's name, the date and time and listed the patient's known injuries.

‘No,' Aloysius dug his hands deep in his trouser pockets, ‘no witnesses.'

Both men watched as Thomas carried the baskets around the side of the house to the kitchen. Marg, following up the rear, kept turning to stare at the ambulance.

‘Then I'll say young Gwen's injuries were accidental?' His tone suggested an element of disbelief. ‘And how is young Serena?'

‘Flourishing, as you said she would.' Aloysius shook the doctor's hand and bade him farewell. Only when the ambulance and Harry's surrey were both some distance away from the house and heading in the direction of the Parkland Memorial Hospital did Aloysius join his wife and Serena in the drawing room.

‘He asked if it was an accident.' Aloysius poured coffee into a porcelain cup from the tray on a table and, adding two lumps of sugar, stirred the hot drink thoughtfully. There was a fire burning in the hearth, which was quite unnecessary for this time of year. This task had been completed quickly for bits of kindling were strewn across the floor and at the moment there was more smoke than flame. He noticed a bird's feather lying near the hearth and ash on the bottom of Serena's white skirt.

Annie and Serena sat side by side on the chaise-lounge beneath the bay window. The child picked absently at the fringing on Annie's shawl. Her feet were bare and filthy, as if she had run a marathon.

‘Gwen will recover?' Annie cradled an empty cup and saucer, which she turned in her palm.

Aloysius brushed some twigs closer to the fireplace with the toe of his boot. ‘When she wakes we will know the extent of her injuries. I imagine her convalescence will be lengthy.'

‘Dear me, I can't understand how such a thing happened. Serena, I must ask you, my child,' Annie took the girl's hand in hers, ‘before Gwen fell I distinctly heard the word
no
.'

Tugging her hand free, Serena continued to ply the fringing on the shawl. The girl already showed signs that although she would not be a great beauty like her grandmother and great-grandmother, she was still a most enchanting looking young woman. Her hair had darkened from the silver hue she'd been born with but was flaxen in the morning light, her features perfectly symmetrical and an olive skin set her apart from her ancestors' fair complexions.

Annie looked to her husband. ‘I'd just left the bedroom to call Gwen to make some fresh coffee, mine being cold. You know how I like my coffee, Aloysius.'

He nodded. ‘Did you see what happened, Serena? Were you there?'

The girl's hazel eyes were unblinking. Reaching out a hand, Annie stilled the girl's busy fingers. ‘Do concentrate on what your grandpapa is saying, Serena.'

The girl moved to the window behind the lounge and, with her back to the room, rested a small hand against the glass. Aloysius paused, his cup poised at his lips. He was reminded of another time, of another young woman.

‘You were standing at the top of the stairs, Serena, we both saw you,' Annie persisted.

‘I don't like Gwen,' Serena answered, her gaze fixed on the garden. ‘I never have and I never wanted a maid.'

‘But Gwen is here to help you, my child,' Annie responded, her eyes meeting her husband's. ‘All young ladies have maids.'

Serena's fingers crawled caterpillar-like across the glass. ‘Did my mother have a maid?'

Aloysius cleared his throat. ‘Of course.'

‘Gwen is here to help both you and I, Serena,' Annie continued. ‘She helps us dress, ensures our hair is fashionable and our clothes clean.'

‘As well as fetching more coffee,' Aloysius added lightly.

‘I want to go outside,' Serena answered, ‘now.'

‘Don't speak like that, Serena,' Aloysius admonished. ‘Sit back down beside –'

‘I don't like Gwen.' Serena flopped back onto the lounge. ‘Gwen's mean to me.'

Aloysius frowned. ‘Mean to you? In what way? What has the girl done?'

‘She tells me what to do and says nasty things.'

Annie's eyebrow arched skywards. ‘I can't imagine that of her, Serena. If she tells you things then surely it is for your own good. Gwen is most amenable, as you well know.'

Aloysius's cup clattered as he sat it on the tray. ‘Did you push her down the stairs?'

Serena looked at him directly. ‘Yes.'

Aloysius flinched. ‘Heavens, why?'

Serena hunched her shoulders.

‘That is a terrible thing to do, child, and I want you to promise me to never do anything like that again.'

‘Why?' Serena asked.

‘Because it is wrong,' Aloysius replied.

‘It was not wrong for me.'

Annie tugged at the shawl about her shoulders.

Aloysius dragged an armchair across the floor until he was positioned opposite his ward. ‘I am sure,' he began, ‘that there is some blameless explanation for this disaster.'

‘Of course there is, Aloysius,' Annie agreed, ‘there has been some terrible misunderstanding for Serena is but a child and Gwen has been with us for ten years.'

Aloysius gently began to enquire as to the nature of Gwen's taunts, hopeful of getting to the heart of the matter.

‘Am I an Injun?' Serena finally asked. ‘Gwen threw away the bones under my bed and the snails in the garden shed and my other special things, like bird feathers and a dead cat's skull and a piece of skin from a dog –'

Annie blanched. ‘A dead cat's skull, a piece of skin from a dog …'

Aloysius raised a hand for silence.

Serena circled the drawing room, her feet dragging against the timber floor, rumpling the wool rug in front of the fire. ‘She said that my father was an Injun and my mother too and that you weren't really my kin and that I was lucky to have been taken in by you on account of the fact that I was a nobody.' The ceaseless circling stopped.

‘When exactly did she say all that to you?' Aloysius was buying time, unable to form an explanation.

‘After she cleaned my room and threw my things away, I took the little wooden box her father gave her and smashed it. That's when she said I was an Injun.'

‘I see.' Aloysius drew the tips of his fingers together. ‘Gwen was wrong to tell you that. Your father was my brother and he was murdered in the territory of New Mexico many years ago. Your mother Ginny was already dead, she died in childbirth. You had a brother as well. You know all this, Serena, I have told you before. Don't you remember? You have seen their miniatures. You are their likeness.'

‘Then why is Cousin Edmund so much older than me? And why does Aunt Chloe tell me to go away when I come near her and why can't I go to school like everybody else instead of taking my lessons in my room, and why did Gwen say I was an Injun, and why do my nieces and nephews say I'm special?'

‘You are special, my dear sweet girl,' Annie placated, ‘because we became your parents when yours died.'

‘Can I go outside now?'

‘Yes, go outside,' Aloysius allowed, ‘but this is not the end of our conversation, Serena. You have done a very bad thing hurting Gwen.'

The girl narrowed her eyes and left without saying a word.

Annie pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘She doesn't believe you, Aloysius. I did tell you that Serena would learn the truth of her birth eventually and that it was wrong to keep the facts from her. How Harry thought hiding the past from the child would be beneficial intrigues me, especially when most of Dallas knows about Philomena.'

‘I think the problem lies closer to home.'

‘You think one of our children said something?' Annie worried. ‘Or perhaps Susan or Chloe?'

‘It's possible,' Aloysius agreed. ‘I doubt ours would purposely say anything, however Chloe is a different matter. You may have found Edmund a very eligible wife, but she will always resent the fact that she was not informed of Serena's birthright before her marriage to our son.'

‘Well, it's possible that she may not have married him otherwise. Besides it can hardly be my fault, I assumed that the girl's family would have done their homework.'