Faithful (11 page)

I pulled my pillow over my head and heard her leave the room. I didn’t try to stop her. Maybe if I’d thrown myself at her feet and begged her to stay with me, she would have. But I didn’t. And she left.

It was my fault, then. I’d told her to go. I’d driven her out. She left my room last August and never returned, despite her promise. The consequence of my actions was that now I lay in a cold, dark room a million, million miles away from my home and my dreams. That I’d become my father’s prisoner was my own fault, my own burden.

I had so few choices now, in that room in Yellowstone. Mama had told me to follow my heart, so I didn’t make her same mistakes. I didn’t know what my heart said, or what she’d meant by her mistakes. All I knew was that everything I cared about was gone and I saw no options before me. I couldn’t leave Yellowstone of my own accord, but I couldn’t stay here, either. And if my grandparents took me in, I would regain social standing, but I’d marry the man they chose and never find the love I longed for, the love I described to Kitty.

The room darkened and the night grew silent and colder, as if the sharp edges of the high peaks drew around me like living walls.

June 21, 1904

I HUNG ON TO THE BRIM OF MY STRAW CLOCHE FOR DEAR life as we trailed up the path. Even with the ribbon tied firmly under my chin, it threatened to sprout wings. The sun shot, then faded, then glinted through streaming clouds. At least the air was warmer now, after another cold night.

I’d refused to leave my room for an entire day. I’d slept . . . paced . . . and slept again. That second morning, nothing had changed, but I’d grown weary of my dreadful room and was tired of staring at four pale walls. When Papa knocked on my door and offered a stroll through the hot springs, I assented.

“Time to get to know Yellowstone, Mags.”

I bristled, but held my tongue. He was uncomfortable with me. Fine. I avoided him. But otherwise he seemed excited, asking Uncle John questions about everything around us. My anger at him had dissipated a little until I thought again about Ghost and Mina, and my abandoned season. How he’d lured me here with expectations and promises.

“Don’t breathe in the fumes!” Uncle John seemed cheerful, and I was sure he was oblivious to my situation. “Toxic, you know.” He pointed out the various rocks, naming them for us, giving us a brief history of the geology. The white, limy stuff was sinter, deposited from the springs. The colors of the pools came from bacteria. The entire park was a huge volcano, and the hot springs were water that boiled like a kettle at the surface above the magma. “Imagine!”

I did. My imagination told me that everything here was deadly. Toxic fumes, hidden magma. It was so apt to my life that this Yellowstone was a place of death. A damp vapor curled in my direction and I put my handkerchief to my mouth. It smelled noxious, like rotten eggs.

I walked rapidly away from the smell—and from my father and uncle—and turned to climb the broad and gentle path to the next terraces, my head down.

“Hello, again.”

I looked up, squinting. Tom. Tom Rowland, who made me feel like an embarrassed dolt. Whose eyes I could not forget. I hadn’t expected to see him again, much less so soon after our meeting. Much less right after I’d lost everything important in my life. The pleasure that I felt on coming upon him was welcome and it surprised me that I felt happiness. My heart beat faster. I looked up at him, standing above me on the slope, and wondered what he thought about me. Could he see the shadow of destruction that I trailed now?

He stepped down to stand next to me. I tried to pull myself together. I felt foolish and fluttery in his presence—more than I’d ever been with Edward. In comparison, Edward seemed pale and bland, my feelings about him almost childish. I smiled like an idiot at Tom until I thought he would see me as the very picture of silliness.

He gave me a swift grin and asked, “Finish your book?”

“Yes,” I lied. I stuffed the handkerchief into my sleeve and hoped my hat would please, please stay put. “No. Actually, the book was boring.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How do you like it here?”

“It’s smelly.” He laughed, and I smiled. “But . . .” I looked around. For all of the hellish aspects, there was an unearthly beauty. Streaks of bright green and yellow painted the white sinter rims of steaming pools, whose centers were a clear pale blue. “All right. It’s beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.”

“This is nothing. Just wait! You and your pa heading out on the Tour today?”

“No.” I stared over the milky-white terraces, avoiding his eyes, plucking at my gloves. Whatever the Tour was, it would cost money. Which apparently we had none of. I sighed. “What is the Tour, anyway?”

“It’s a tour through the entire Park. You’ll see it all, all the geysers, hot springs—with any luck, animals, too.”

“Ah.” I recalled the bear, and my odd attraction and fear. I adjusted my hat, avoiding Tom’s eyes. My new status as poverty-stricken non-tourist embarrassed me. Though I knew I’d have time to see this place, I wanted Tom to think otherwise.

“How’s the National?” he asked. “It’s new. I’ve only been in the lobby.”

“Lovely.” I wished he would leave off his questions. I didn’t want to tell him we were staying at the Cottage. It was humiliating. Only two days ago I’d thought myself above him, in his humble clothing, above so many of the others in the Livingston Depot. And now . . . It was bad enough when people of my own class rejected me because of my mother. But now I didn’t belong to any class. I fidgeted with my gloves again and bit my lip.

“Tom!” A voice rang out across the springs.

“Coming!” he shouted back. “My pa. I’m giving him a hand.”

“Oh!” I followed Tom’s gaze up the path. “What’s he doing?” Tom’s father leaned over a terrace edge, chipping away at the rock. “Ah! Does he sell souvenirs, then? That must be a good way to make a living. I wondered how someone might make a living here. That’s very clever, selling bits of rock.” I thought I was being clever myself, until I met Tom’s eyes.

He looked at me as if I’d grown scales. “Are you really as stuck-up as you sound?”

My insides froze solid. I wished I could teach my tongue to do the same.

“My father’s with the Geological Survey.” Tom’s words were clipped. “It’s his job to collect samples. And, no, you can’t just whack away at the rocks collecting souvenirs. This is a protected park.”

Now I saw the soldier who stood near Tom’s father. “Right. I see. I’m sorry.” My words tripped out of my mouth. “I’m an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.” Which was true. I was acting like a full-blown fool. I had no business assuming anything about anyone’s social status, considering what had recently become of mine. His words stung. I cupped my hand beneath my hat brim to hide the shame written on my face.

I dropped my hand and blurted, “But I’m not stuck-up. You don’t need to say that, because I’m not.” And I met his eyes with a level gaze.

That errant lock of hair fell across his forehead. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He looked at his hands that worked the canvas bag he held, kneading it like dough. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Can I make it up to you? Maybe we can start over.” He pointed down the hill to the hotel. His clear sea-gray eyes met mine and my stomach flipped. “So, Miss Bennet, could I buy you an ice cream this evening after supper?”

I’m sure my face had gone deep scarlet because it felt like it was on fire. Tom kept me off balance, dancing on a keen edge, speaking without thinking. I’d never met anyone who made me feel this way. Certainly not Edward. I managed an awkward, “All right,” wishing I could pour my heart into his hand.

It was odd. I could hardly look at him; I could hardly keep my eyes off him. To avoid meeting his gaze, I looked down the hill. That horrible little man from the coach—George Graybull—climbed the trail toward us. I moaned.

“Hello again, Miss Bennet.” Graybull tipped his hat, and I inclined my head to him.

As Tom and Graybull exchanged nods, I couldn’t help but see, with secret delight, that Tom towered over Graybull. I straightened my back so that my eyes were level with Graybull’s. Even
I
was taller than this irritating man.

“Seen any more bears?” Graybull asked me. There was a lilt in his voice. He had a peculiar way of sticking his tongue between the gap in his teeth, like he was getting ready to taste something. “Lovely griz the other day,” he said to Tom. “Unusual sighting. Frightened Miss Bennet, I’m afraid.”

I felt Tom’s eyes on me and my face went hot all over again; but I wanted him to look at me forever. I stood even straighter. “We’re only touring Mammoth today,” I said.

“Ah! I’ll be out with a hunting party west of the Park in ten days or so. Hope to bag a bear.” I sensed Tom stiffen. “Do you hunt?” he asked Tom.

“No, sir.” Tom’s words were sharp. Then he said, his voice soft, “I’d give anything to spend time really watching a griz.”

“Pity. Was hoping you could spare some tips.” Graybull cocked his head at the sky. “Clearing weather, looks like. Warmer.” He turned to me. “Understand your father is an architect. Noble profession. And you’re here for a while. Going to work in the Park with Reamer, is he? Reamer’s a good man. Friend of mine. The right sort, of course.” Graybull cast a sideways glance at Tom.

I fumed. Judgmental little man. Graybull was a pompous boor who had just revealed to Tom the extent of my humiliating situation and newly humbled status. My cheeks grew dark. I could feel Tom’s eyes on me again and wished he’d look away. I feared that now that I was exposed as a fraud, he’d think even worse of me.

Graybull nattered on. “I’ve asked, Miss Bennet, if you and your father would join me for dinner this evening in the National dining room. My treat. Decent food, somewhat. Your father’s agreed. At about eight.”

I felt a shock of anger ripple through me.
My father
had agreed;
I
had not. But I had no choice. I was still subject to my father’s rule. I smiled coldly, trying to mask my irritation with false charm. “Then I’ll look forward to it.”

“Right.” Graybull looked from me to Tom with a rival’s appraising stare. I thought he seemed to be sizing things up. Tom met Graybull’s eyes without hesitation.

I wanted Graybull to be on his way. “Then I’ll see you this evening.”

He tipped his hat. “Cheerio.” He nodded curtly to Tom and sauntered on up the hill.

“Do you know him well?” Tom asked, when Graybull was out of earshot.

“We met on the coach.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t like the way he talked about ‘bagging’ a bear.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling. I didn’t like Graybull either, but Tom’s comment hinted of jealousy. Perhaps he did like me, after all. I wanted him to feel that jealousy. “He’s a sportsman. He said he’d been on many safaris.”

“Now I really don’t like him.” Tom looked at me, his face dark. “The Lakota view the grizzly as a sacred totem. Grizzlies are the biggest predator in North America. We assume we’re better just because we have guns.”

The bear rug that graced the floor in Grandpapa’s smoking room came to mind, something I decided I would not wish Tom to discover. I asked, uncertain, “It’s not illegal to hunt them. Is it?”

I barely had the words out before he responded. “Does it have to be illegal to be bad?”

I had done it again—I came across as an idiot. “No. Of course not.” I only wanted him to like me. I reached. “They are fascinating. The bears.”

I glanced at his profile; a small smile curled his lips. “They are,” he said without looking at me. I took a breath. He twisted the sample bag in his hands. “I guess we have to postpone that ice cream.”

Now my disappointment was deep. I’d rather be with Tom than that awful Graybull. I resented the missed opportunity. “Maybe tomorrow? Tomorrow at noon?” I spoke so quickly I didn’t grasp how desperate I sounded. I bit my lip to keep from saying yet another stupid thing.

“That’s great with me.” His smile made me feel light-headed. And did I detect a mirror to my eagerness? A thrill crept through me at the thought. “Shall I pick you up at the National?”

The drop back into reality was swift and hard. I looked at the white sinter at my feet. I had to tell him. “We’re not at the National. Things have . . . changed. We’re at the Cottage.” I glanced up. I saw no judgment in his eyes, just kindness. I sighed. “It’s quaint. Kind of rustic.” I shrugged.

“Tom, I need that sample bag,” his father called, impatient.

“Got to go. I’ll find you tomorrow at the Cottage, then, around noon.” He turned and walked off, his long arms swinging, the sample bag a pendulum.

“Bye!” I called. As I watched him move away I realized that for these few minutes, I’d forgotten about Mama. I’d been transported in the company of this Tom Rowland and, for that short interval, forgotten my situation. I stood on the path in the midst of Mammoth Hot Springs, a landscape as desolate as my soul, and I was enraptured.

Papa and Uncle John had disappeared; George Graybull had vanished; Tom and his father hiked away into the upper reaches of the springs. I was alone with my thoughts.

The steaming pool to my right bubbled and hissed. It looked clean and pure; the snow-white sinter invited a touch. But I could tell that the water was ferociously hot and would burn flesh to the bone. A thin crust of silica, not strong enough to hold my weight, bordered the edge of the pool.

As if to confirm this, the stark white ribs of some unfortunate animal thrust from the pool. I pressed my fingers to my eyes.