Faithful (29 page)

“Ah!” The air escaped my lungs.

Mrs. Gale turned to me. “Perhaps this is not for you, dear.”

“Nonsense!” Graybull took my arm. “Best thing to do is buck up. Tackle your fears head-on.”

Tears started to my eyes at his cruelty. Kula turned and looked at me, and a mean little smile began at the corner of her mouth.

“We’ll cross the bridge. It’s brand-new and built to the highest standards. Surely you can manage, Margaret.” Graybull steered me in his firm grip toward the bridge that crossed the river above the falls. Mrs. Gale came round to my other side. Walking between the two of them in this fashion, I could keep my eyes closed for most of the crossing, could keep the idea of walking over nothing out of my mind. But the worst was yet to come.

From the other side of the bridge we walked through a pretty sylvan setting, but all the while, the roar of the falls formed an ominous background. The trail wound closer and closer to the cliff’s edge—I could feel it—until we emerged at the head of a gully. There, tourists were descending into the gorge by a length of heavy rope that draped out of my sight over the edge. I sat down at once on a fallen log, feeling weak-kneed.

“I want to climb down for some photographs,” said Mrs. Gale. She tucked her camera inside a shoulder bag and prepared to lower herself. As she disappeared over the edge, I thought I might pass out.

“Lovely idea!” said Graybull. He turned to me. “Come, now.”

I shook my head, unable to form words.

“Margaret, Mrs. Gale requires your assistance,” Graybull said. His eyes showed no sympathy at all. I hated him.

“I’ll help Mrs. Gale,” said Kula with an exaggerated sigh. She moved to the edge and lowered herself over, following Mrs. Gale. Both of them had now vanished from my sight.

Something stirred in me—anger at Graybull and annoyance at Kula, mixed with a bit of my mother’s bravery, too—and I stood up.

“There,” Graybull said. “More to you than you thought.”

Yes, there was, and my desire to best him in every way spurred me to move right to the rope. I thought about Mama; I could almost feel her holding my hand. From the edge I could see that the gully down which the rope threaded was not so steep—as long as I didn’t look at the view farther out, I would be all right. If I held the rope and faced in to the rock . . . my stomach roiled. I gripped the rope in my gloved hands and followed Kula and Mrs. Gale over the edge and into the rushing void.

I did not look down. I stared straight into the rock wall, or up at the soles of Graybull’s shoes. The rocks were stable and rough enough for good footholds, and the slope was gentle, but I felt as if all my insides had dropped as far as the canyon floor. Small scrub trees hung on in notches and there were sheer drops of several hundred feet to either side. I could hear only the roar of the falls. As we neared the bottom of the climb, about halfway down to the canyon floor, there was a ledge on which tourists could stand and stare up and down the river and at the falls. I risked a single peek, and then turned my back, examining every crystal in that rock face from an inch away. I clutched the rock as if I would melt into it.

Mrs. Gale took photographs. I was no help at all—my hands gripped the rope and I never moved that inch away from the rock wall. At last we began the slow climb back up. I pulled myself hand over hand, bracing my entire body against the cliff. Graybull was ahead of me, Kula behind, and Mrs. Gale last. I’d been useless, but Mrs. Gale didn’t seem to mind. I started to feel as though it was going to be all right, and I would show Graybull that I could hold my own.

We were about twenty feet below the top of the cliff. So close now. Mrs. Gale called up, but I couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the falls. Anxious, I turned to look at her and felt the sick weakness of fear as I saw her take the camera from her shoulder bag and open the bellows. She held the rope with one hand. I shut my eyes fast, and when I opened them again, I saw that Mrs. Gale had moved away from the climbing route. She stood on a point of rock that thrust out over the sheer cliff edge. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

Mrs. Gale looped her arm over the rope so that she could adjust the focus. She leaned far out, propping the camera on her arm. The world slowed to a crawl and all my senses narrowed to the roar of the falls, thundering in my ears. I registered the surprise on Mrs. Gale’s face as she fell away and the camera arced lazily through the air, both of them seeming to disappear into the vast and rushing void of the canyon.

July 19, 1904

I GRIPPED THE ROPE HARD AND LEANED INTO THE CLIFF, panting. Kula, just a few feet below me, shouted in surprise. I couldn’t see Mrs. Gale or the camera. I could only take in the fact that she’d fallen and I had no idea how far.

Kula grabbed my foot and shook it. Our eyes met. “Come on!” she yelled. “Get down here! Help me!”

But I froze. I couldn’t move; I could barely breathe. I pushed my cheek against the rock, pressed my entire body into the rock, hanging on to the rope with all my strength.

“Come on!” Kula shouted again. I looked down. She stared at me and then retreated out of sight. I was still as a statue, while she moved faster than I would have thought possible, scrambling back down the cliff after Mrs. Gale.

I heard Graybull clambering up the rope to the top. I could think of nothing but hanging on to the rope, leaning into the cold rock wall. Time ceased to move; the stars wheeled overhead and fell as the centuries passed, while I clung to the cliff like lichen. The void yawned at my feet and I felt drunk with the stench of death, the widening fear.

It was half an hour before the soldiers reached me and dragged me up the rope hand over hand, then swung down past me to search for Mrs. Gale. I sat, rocking back and forth, wrapped in a blanket, listening to Graybull bark useless orders into the void. I stared at the dust at my feet and recalled my last image of Mama, her face as she turned, searching the windows of the house for me. Mama’s expression, the slight parting of her lips, her look of surprise—it was Mrs. Gale’s expression as she fell backward, away from me, into the roaring yellow chasm.

My heart clutched when an hour later they pulled the sling with Mrs. Gale up over the edge of the cliff. I threw off the blanket and bent over her, searching her face. With a flood of relief, I could see that she was breathing.

“She was lucky,” a solider said. “Trees broke her fall. Fell right into a scraggly old pine. Just a busted arm, near as we can tell. And this here girl got to her before she could go down any farther. Held on to her.”

Kula hoisted herself wearily over the cliff edge. Her face was scratched and covered with dirt, her skirt tucked up into her belt, freeing her legs, her white stockings, ripped and dirty, showing. She glared at me, her hatred evident.

“Guess you didn’t want to dirty your pretty things,” Kula hissed after the soldiers moved off with Mrs. Gale. “Didn’t want to lose your precious pin.”

I touched the cameo. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” She didn’t understand; no one could. I’d failed Mrs. Gale; I’d failed Mama. I’d failed myself.

Kula turned away.

Mrs. Gale was attended by the doctor from Mammoth, and rested in the Canyon Hotel. She had a broken arm, but by the second day she was sitting up and eating and laughing in her usual hearty way. I stood outside in the hall, feeling useless, while the hotel staff brought her blankets and tea and freshly baked pie. So many people surrounded her that she didn’t see I was there. That was for the best. I was ashamed. I was invisible even to myself. All the brave thoughts I’d had at the lake were gone.

Kula was given a heroic welcome at dinner by staff and guests, which she dismissed with a toss of her head, although she ate a splendid meal with the doctor from Mammoth and several other park employees. After that I saw very little of her. She came to my room to tend to my clothes when I was not there, but was gone, missing, for hours at a time. That was for the best, too, for her antipathy for me had grown sharp as a dagger point.

I tried to clear my head but my guilt was crippling. The weather over the next two days grew cold and gray with light rain. I took walks in the damp woods, always aware of the noise of the rushing river and falls nearby. I trod the paths, crushing the pungent pine needles, avoiding the chasm. I saw Mama’s face, Mrs. Gale’s face. I felt my own helplessness and failure. I could have stopped Mama. I should have tried to stop Mrs. Gale. If I’d carried the camera for her, or held her arm . . .

On the third day after her fall, I sat in Mrs. Gale’s room, having crept in while she slept. I must have dozed off in my chair; when I awoke, she was watching me.

I looked at my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my dear. I must have been down that cliff a half-dozen times. I know I should always keep two hands on the rope.”

“I didn’t come after you.” I didn’t go after Mama, either.

“But Kula did. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I couldn’t. It was so high. So steep.” My throat filled with tears that I couldn’t swallow.

“Maggie,” said Mrs. Gale, reaching over with her good arm to pat my hands, “I’m fine.”

“You might have died. I couldn’t help you.” I looked at her, so much guilt boiling in me that the tears streamed despite my every effort to hold them back.

“It was my own foolishness. Margaret, stop punishing yourself.”

I rubbed my cheeks, brushing away the tears. Mrs. Gale sighed. “I lost my camera. I’ll have to order another.”

“Maybe I can pick one up for you,” I offered. I wanted to do something, anything. I leaned in and clasped her good hand. “I can take the carriage to Mammoth and bring one back.”

Mrs. Gale laughed. “Oh, my dear, they can send a camera.” She paused, and sighed again. “But I have a commission to travel to Tower Falls. I doubt very much that I’ll be able to complete the work with this useless arm. It’s disappointing.”

“Then let me go.” I could help. I had to. If I’d known about Mama, why she really grieved—if I’d asked instead of condemning her—I would have helped her, too. She never would have walked on the cliff that day, and she’d still be here, with me. “Oh, please let me help.”

Mrs. Gale regarded me. “You could, you know. Your eye has become exceptionally good.”

“Please. I have to do something for you.”

“You’ll have to convince your guardian, I think,” Mrs. Gale said, with a touch of sarcasm. “But, yes, I would be delighted if you would take my commission.”

When I found Graybull, he was in the lobby of the Canyon Hotel. Papa was there, too, having made the trip up from the Lake Hotel as soon as he’d heard about the accident. I didn’t bother with greetings. “You can see that even in the company of Mr. Graybull, accidents do happen.” I hated him with every bone in my body. But I tried hard not to show it, plastering a false smile on my face.

Graybull drew himself up. “Well!”

“That’s disrespectful, Margaret,” Papa whispered.

I bit my lip, not wanting to jeopardize my chance at a trip to Tower Falls. We were still beholden to Graybull. “I’m sorry,” I said, not meaning it but sounding as ingratiating as possible. “Of course, I had no intention of suggesting that you were responsible. I only meant—”

“Mrs. Gale is not a seasoned outdoorswoman,” Graybull said, staring into the air above my head. “Hardly a proper companion and mentor, Margaret.”

“She’s teaching me photography,” I began. “In fact, I have an opportunity—”

“Fine hobby, my dear. Delightful. But time to move on.” Graybull turned to Papa. “I leave for Mammoth in two days’ time. Joining a hunting party north of the Park. Would like Margaret to accompany me. Obvious she could use more experience in the woods herself.”

“No!” The protest slipped out before I could stop myself. I was desperate. “I don’t want to go hunting. Mrs. Gale has asked me to work for her. She wants me to take photographs at Tower Falls. Please, can’t I go?”

“Margaret, really,” said Graybull, narrowing his eyes. “Charles. You’ll speak with your daughter.” He nodded good-bye to Papa and left us in the lobby alone.

We stood in silence. Papa stroked his mustache and stared into the distance. I felt his sorrow; we were both trapped. He looked at me and sighed. He handed me a telegram addressed to me, the envelope opened. “I intercepted this last week. I didn’t tell you, because it’s no longer relevant.” It was from Edward.

Though it had been only weeks, it seemed like years since I’d heard from Kitty about Edward’s vain desire to rescue me.