Faithful (19 page)

I stared at the papers in my hand. Grandpapa was suing to become my guardian. And Edward was ready to ride to my rescue. It was everything I wanted, everything I’d hoped for—a return to Newport, to my friends, to wealth and position, to a young man who cared enough to rescue me. I’d have money and a home, and would not have to endure Graybull for it. I could have my Ghost back, maybe even Mina. I sank onto the stairs and stared through the glass panes of the front window, absorbing this news.

I should be rejoicing and yet I was not. According to Grandpapa, Papa had all but kidnapped me. Should Grandpapa win, my father would become a pariah. His lies would cost him whatever he had left in this world, including me. I felt ill at this thought. Though he had lied to me, and I wanted him to know the hurt he had caused me, he was my father; I didn’t want him to suffer that horror.

And there was my newly devised quest to uncover the truth. The timing of the letter, the telegram, so soon after I had resolved to find Uncle John and perhaps even find Mama, the timing was all wrong. I couldn’t abandon my search, not now. Not yet. Not when I could be so close to learning the truth. Even returning to Newport and to Edward’s arms was not tempting enough to lure me away from possibly returning to Newport with Mama and Papa together, as a family.

Edward. The perfect husband, perfect for a life of balls and society. But Edward didn’t send fireworks through me with a touch of his hand. I tried to remember what Edward looked like, and . . . nothing came to mind. Oh, I remembered our moment behind the stairs; a blush crept down my throat at that. But . . . Tom.

I couldn’t get Tom out of my thoughts. He both infuriated and thrilled me. I couldn’t leave Yellowstone without apologizing to Tom. I wouldn’t leave without seeing him again. I sat on the stairs and stared into the bright morning light, and had an idea. I went to find Mrs. Gale.

She was working in the Haynes Studios, examining prints. I burst in without even a hello. “Do you know where I might find Tom Rowland?”

She looked up at me with a bemused smile. “Even here in the wilderness, we try to maintain a sense of decorum. I trust you are well?”

I took a deep breath, ashamed. “Of course. I’m sorry, Mrs. Gale. I have to speak to him. It’s important.” I tried to stand still.

“Yes, I know just where the Rowlands are. I also happen to know that they are soon off to work in another part of the Park and are busy with preparations.” She paused as she took in my nervous anticipation. “Young Tom is out at the Wylie camp.”

My shoulders slumped as I realized that the distance to the tent camp was a buggy ride and not a walk.

Mrs. Gale pursed her lips. “I happen to be going in that direction, if you’d like to come along. In, say, an hour?”

I couldn’t help myself; I hugged her with a spontaneity that made her laugh. I would see Tom again, thanks to her, and delight made me want to dance.

When we drove into the tent camp, the sun was slipping through the trees like slender fingers. The camp was cheerful and welcoming, and was spotlessly clean. Mrs. Gale stopped her buggy near a large, fixed tent on a wood platform. She pointed down the path. “That’s the one, about halfway down.”

My heart pounded hard as I hurried along, trying to come up with the right words.

Tom was there in front of a tent, loading a wagon with dry goods. He hoisted barrels and boxes into the wagon and swung his long body up to sort and stack and lash them down. I watched him move. I missed him already, even if it had only been two days. I missed him, and I longed to jump right up next to him and tell him so, straight out.

He caught sight of me and straightened. “Hello.” His voice was cool.

“Hello.” My thoughts were a jumble and my tongue a lead weight. I looked at my feet and took a deep breath and plunged. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” He was silent. I glanced at him, worried that he hated me. “Mrs. Gale said you’re off somewhere?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m hoping to take the Tour. As soon as Papa will let me go.” I was sure now that he hated me, and I wanted to melt away in misery.

“You won’t be disappointed.”

He was so quiet, so remote. And still, I rushed in, foolishly. “Tom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I offended you. I’m sorry for what I said about Kula. I . . . Can we still be friends? Please?”

A smile crept over his face. He leapt off the wagon and walked over to me. My misery vanished at the sight of his grin. “Margaret Bennet of Newport, Rhode Island, I can’t help liking you. I accept your apology.”

The smile on my face now must have shone like the sun. “So, maybe we’ll meet on the road.”

“We very well might.” He stood so close now. My throat tightened; he was so close I thought he might kiss me.

But instead he stretched out his hand. “Friends.”

“Friends.” When he took my hand he held it and he didn’t let go, and my heart lifted and my eyes lifted to meet his.

And then, as if from thin air, Kula appeared behind Tom. She came walking around from the other side of the wagon, her arms burdened with a sack.

“Ah!” The sound escaped my lips. I had to admit, she had a sense of timing that was most annoying.

Tom dropped my hand. I bit my lip hard, afraid I’d say something to Kula that I’d regret later. Tom looked from me to Kula. “Kula. This is Maggie. She’s living here with her pa.”

“I know who she is.” Kula put the sack into Tom’s wagon, not taking her eyes off of me. “These are done.”

“Thanks. Nice to have clean things,” Tom said. I watched the flush creep up his neck. He was not looking at me, but at least he wasn’t looking at Kula, either. He seemed to be studying something by his right foot.

I fumbled for the right words. “I’m sure you do excellent work.” There. That was neutral enough not to insult her, not to put something new and bad between me and Tom.

Kula narrowed her eyes—what was it about her that troubled me so?—and turned away. “I’ll see you later, Tom.”

“Good-bye,” he said. Kula moved off and Tom and I remained silent. “I don’t know her well.” Tom looked at Kula’s retreating back. “Anyhow. I need to finish loading this wagon. So, see you around?” He pulled away, looking at me only briefly, those gray eyes connecting and then retreating.

“Yes.” Oh, I hope so. I only had so much time left here, and I wanted to see him as much as I could. I lifted my fingers as he pulled away, going back to his work. “See you.” I sighed. He was busy. Maybe he was embarrassed. I couldn’t tell. But I knew my own feelings: I would have stayed and watched him all afternoon if I thought he wanted me to.

I found Mrs. Gale. On the way back to Mammoth we were both quiet, lost in thought, but when we arrived I gave her a quick hug. She said, “My dear, I was young once. Happily married, too.”

I smiled. “I’m going to ask Papa if I can take the Tour.”

“Ah! Do! I’ll be heading out myself in a couple of days. I need some photographs in the geyser basins. Perhaps we could travel together.”

I held her hand warmly and thanked her again. Then I made my way back to the cottage, thinking, making plans.

Seeing Tom had clarified things for me. Though I wanted a return to normalcy, I couldn’t leave Yellowstone yet. I couldn’t let my grandfather deter me from my quest to find Uncle John. I couldn’t let Edward come for me, come rescue me, when all I could think about was Tom. It was odd; only a few days ago, I’d wanted to be rescued and to be free of this place more than anything, and now . . . Now I needed time here to resolve these matters. Time in Yellowstone.

I sent my grandfather a telegram telling him that I might have important news about Mama and that I required time to investigate. I sent Kitty a letter in which I gushed about gloves and hats, and, yes, wasn’t Edward a gem?

At dinner I pressed Papa about the Tour. He’d said I could go once we were settled and he had an income now, didn’t he? I told him that Mrs. Gale, the Haynes photographer, would be taking the Tour and that she could chaperone me. He stared at his plate of burned potatoes and overcooked steak, at my feeble attempts at cooking. When our eyes met, I could see his guilt and his sadness, and for the first time in a while, I was sad for him. But I used that guilt to my advantage, and he agreed to let me go.

July 8, 1904

ON THE MORNING OF THE EIGHTH, I STOOD IN FRONT OF the National Hotel, ready to board my bright yellow Yellowstone Wagon with the rest of the “dudes.”

“Dudes.” That’s what the coachman called the passengers. All of us were offered linen dusters, but I had my own, which I’d pulled, still pressed, from my wardrobe.

The other “dudes” in my coach included the Hodges family from Philadelphia: a man, his wife, and their young girls, Emmy and Eliza. There were two older ladies—schoolteachers, I wagered—Miss Braggs and Miss Pym, both bony and wiry, stretched thin. A single man with a nervous demeanor, Mr. Connoly, settled on the seat in front of me. A young couple snuggled beside him, the Monroes; they were clearly on their honeymoon.

And, of course, a joy to my heart, Mrs. Gale. She sat down next to me, her camera box in her lap.

Papa stood at the coach door and cleared his throat. “Enjoy the Tour, Margaret. You deserve this. Maybe when you get back we’ll . . .” He paused as if uncertain what to say next. I felt a tug of sorrow for him. I knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Hopefully my trip would be a success, but I wasn’t ready yet to forgive him for the lies. I looked away.

The coach started with a jolt. Papa lifted his hand. I lifted mine and thought about finding Mama and bringing her back to him and making us a family, the three of us.

Our driver was a thin man with a handlebar mustache that almost reached his throat. He called out the sights in a shout. “At any moment, ladies and gents, prepare to see wild beasts—elk, bears, maybe even a moose! The flowers are all wild, too, but they’re harmless, leastwise we think so. We’ll stop to feed critters we meet along the way.

“If you want to see a mountain lion, just look off over to your right and you can see a mountain lyin’ in the distance, hah! Ah, there’s steam rising from springs on your left! Yellowstone is a natural thermal wonderland!”

I had to laugh. My spirits rose as Mrs. Gale and I exchanged glances, shook our heads, and smiled. When the Hodges girls giggled helplessly, the rest of us pitched into fits of laughter.

The road wound through stretches of tall, lodgepole pine and open rolling hills covered in groves of aspen and wildflowers. We stopped at the Apollinaris Spring to sample the sweet water there and to stretch our legs. We passed the Obsidian Cliff—“Arrowheads ! The Indians carved their sharpest points from those rocks!”—and Roaring Mountain.

At the Devil’s Frying Pan, a hot spring, the driver regaled us: “the birds round about drink that water and they get so hot they lay hard-boiled eggs! Yessir, you just check out them nests and see for yourself!”

His banter and the jollity that rocked the coach put me at ease, and provided a respite from my painful memories and lingering sadness. I almost forgot the reason I was taking the Tour. And the landscape took my breath away.

Mrs. Gale, beside me, swayed as I did with the rocking motion of the carriage. The camera box rested on her lap. There, in that black box, was a mystery and a promise. What if I didn’t go back east? What if? I saw blooming, line by line, shadow by shadow, a future of my design, one that I might focus on right here and now.

We began climbing the steep mountainsides along roaring rivers. I could not bear the sway of the carriage as we negotiated the steep hills, so I leaned toward Mrs. Gale. “Tell me about your camera, please. How does it work?” Mrs. Gale was happy to oblige. She distracted me from the sheer drops by explaining the camera’s workings. She opened the bellows and instructed me on the focus; she showed me how the plates were mounted. As we rode mile after mile, I grew increasingly fascinated with this otherworldly instrument and grateful to Mrs. Gale for her kindness to me.

A few hours later, we smelled Norris Geyser Basin, though we were still miles away from it.

“Hottest place in the Park!” said the driver as we drew nearer. “Scores of hot springs, including the second-largest geyser in the world! Why, just two years ago when Steamboat blew its top, yours truly was one of the lucky witnesses!”

The carriage crested a hill and I spied a bleak landscape from the window. It was gray, barren, with steam from fumaroles spiraling into the sky. The sulphur smell here was almost overpowering. Norris was ugly and I wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Miss Pym. “A frightful place!” She turned to the other ladies in the coach as we pulled up to the carriage dock. “I’ve brought my own water,” she said conspiratorially, holding up a flask. “I’m sure there’s none fit to drink here.”

A genial gentleman waiting to help us out of the coach said stiffly, “I beg to differ, madame! Here you will find the finest foods in the Rockies and your thirst will be slaked by the most magnificent vintages of imported ales!”

Mrs. Gale and I sat together at the long table under the tent’s shelter. Our luncheon was simple—tinned biscuits and slices of ham—but served as if it were a rare feast.

“Your father and I had a nice chat while we were waiting to board. He told me about his plans to stay in Yellowstone,” said Mrs. Gale.

I looked at my plate. They were
his
plans, I wanted to say. They might not be mine. But I changed the subject. “Do you live here year-round?”