Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (3 page)

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

That was the problem. They had little time left to complete this project. And with her father ill and Mr. Toddman in rebellion, she was afraid the bulk of responsibility for the project was now going to fall upon her.

Was she up to handling it?

Was it possible that she, a mere woman, could succeed in seeing the manuscript finished when the men in her life had so far failed?

“Genny?”

“Yes, Father?” She opened her eyes.

“Did you read the letter?” Viscount Rohan gripped her hands as she leaned over him.

“No, Father, not yet. But I—”

“Read it, then…oh,” he said, as Genevieve picked up the paper, “never mind.” He glanced at the ceiling. “It doesn’t make any difference now. It’s impossible, I tell you. Can’t get the bloody Blackfeet here. Can’t go to them. But I need to, Genny; I must…or else…”

“Father, what—”

“Look at the letter. It’s from the publisher. They won’t even consider the project finished without a study of every major American tribe. And they specifically include the Blackfeet. But that’s not all. Oh, Genny, what can I do but get out of bed? I must go there, and I must leave here at once.”

As the viscount made to get up, Genny gently pushed him back onto the pillows. “You’ll not be going anywhere. Not until the doctor says you’re able.”

Viscount Rohan flopped back against the bed. “Oh, what am I to do? What am I to do?”

“It may not be as bad as you think. I just this morning had a talk with Mr. Toddman, and he believes it might yet be possible to get someone from the tribe to come here. He’s hired another couple of trappers.”

“Won’t do any good.”

Genevieve frowned. “What do you mean? Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do these past few months?”

“Read the letter, Genny. Read the letter.”

“Yes, Father, but I…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze already skimming the paper in her hand. “I don’t see what—” She sucked in her breath, barely managing to keep her grasp on the letter. “Oh my…how can this be? It’s not possible.”

“It’s what I would have thought too, Genny, but as you can see, it’s already happening.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Mr. Catlin was merely painting the Indians’ portraits…”

“It happens all the time. Haven’t you noticed how, the moment you get a project in mind, you have to act on it right away or someone else steals it from you?”

“No, I haven’t…well, perhaps—”

“And without so much as talking to you about it?”

“I suppose—”

“Someone has to go there, Genny. There’s no longer time to hire another to do it.” He sighed and glanced over toward the window. “You’d best bring young William Toddman to me, Genny. It’s the only way now.”

“I don’t understand. How can this be?”

Her father didn’t answer, and his lack of response told her, more than anything, that the situation of which she read was, indeed, just this serious.

“Father,” she said, “it still states here that George Catlin is merely painting Indian portraits. He is not doing an anthropological study as we are. Surely that’s not truly competition. Our projects are worlds apart. They can’t drop our studies just because someone else is interested in doing something similar to ours. It’s not done. It’s…”

“The publishers haven’t stopped their support. But with Catlin actually visiting the Indians in their own country and painting their portraits, we stand to lose our project. We aren’t holding as strong a position as we once did. We haven’t been there. He has—he is.”

“Still,” she said, “it can’t be as bad as it seems. Catlin is, after all, American, and your publishers are English. Perhaps we should talk to Mr. Catlin and see if we can collaborate on this project, since we are both interested in the same thing. Maybe we could persuade Mr. Catlin to publish his works with ours. It’s possible. And if, after we talk to him, we still can’t… Well, Father, you have nothing to fear. Our publisher is English…English. Now, I ask you, would an Englishman take an American’s story over one of his own? Really, Father.”

The viscount sighed, leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes. A long moment followed, the silence between father and daughter somehow echoing their mutual distress. At length, Viscount Rohan opened his eyes, staring out the window as though something of great interest lay just outside. He said, “There’s more to it, Genny. I made a foolish mistake. I admit it now. Wish I could take it back…can’t. Too bloody cocky, I was.” He shook his head. “But it’s too late now, much too late, and I…I’m so sorry, Genny.”

Genevieve took her father’s hand in her own. “Don’t worry, Father. We’ll find a way out of this. Haven’t we always done so in the past?”

“Not this time, Genny. Not this time. Too much at stake.” He gritted his teeth. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“It’s not so bad. It’s not as though
all
of our wealth is tied into this project. We still have our home, our lands. In truth, though I want this project to succeed as much as you do, what would be the worst thing that could happen if it didn’t? We’d go back to England, find some other project, and off we would go once again. Oh, I know your reputation would suffer because of it, but really, Father, such a thing is so easily remedied. Perhaps we could study the Indians of South America and their languages instead.”

“Oh, Genny, no. It’s worse than that. Should have told you, I guess. Didn’t think I’d ever have to. Too damned arrogant for my own good is what I was.”

“And with full, good reason.” She smiled. “After all, you are England’s leading—”

“Genny, no.” He withdrew his hand from her own. “It’s more complicated than that. I’ve done something I haven’t told you. Something that will make you hate me. Something—”

“Never!”

The viscount shook his head. “Listen to me. I must tell you this now. I should never have withheld this from you. It’s just that…I never dreamed I would get so ill. How could I have known?”

“Exactly, Father. Whatever it is, we’ll see our way through it.”

He breathed in deeply. “I don’t know, Genny. I fear… It happened back in England, a few weeks before we were to set sail…”

“Before we…? What are you talking about, Father? What happened?”

“He came to me late one night.”

She shook her head. “He? Who is he?”

“The Duke of Starksboro.”

“The Duke of Starks—” Genevieve paused, a wave of foreboding coming over her. “Father,” she began, “why would you even see the man? I don’t care if he is a duke. He has meant you nothing but the utmost harm ever since you beat him to that African project so many years ago. Plus, he is the most terrific bore when it comes to this sort of work—thinks he knows all about it while he displays his utter stupidity. Why, do you know that he told me that he thought the American Indian was no more human than the ape? That it was pointless to study such a person? There’s something quite evil about the man, Father. I think you should have no further contact with him.”

He sighed. “I have to, Genny.”

Her stomach dropped. She raised her gaze to his. “Have to?”

He slowly nodded. “And so do you.”

“Stop it! How can you say such a thing?”

The Viscount Rohan closed his eyes, a gloom appearing to descend upon him that had nothing to do with health, or the lack of it. “Should have told you sooner.”

“Told me what, Father?”

He swallowed, a noisy affair, set off as it was against the silence in the room. “I made a bet with the man.”

Genevieve sucked in her breath.

“I know, I know,” he said as though she had spoken. “I just couldn’t suffer his gloating any further.”

“But Father—”

“Bet him is what I did,” he continued. “Bet him that the Indians were human, real people. Bet him I’d bring back evidence of their civilization, of their intelligence. I wagered all that we have, Genny. Everything. Our home, our land. And something more.”

He paused, and Genevieve, squaring back her shoulders, sat up straighter in her chair. She thrust out her chin, trying to ignore the feeling of dread settling over her.

“You have to understand, Genny,” Viscount Rohan went on. “I didn’t see how I could fail. It was such a fantastic bet to make, and so easy to win. Or so it seemed. Of course these Indians are people. Of course they have their own civilization. How could I fail? And he had challenged me with double what the publishers are paying me, plus he threw in a good-sized portion of his land as well. How could I resist? Or more importantly, how could I lose?”

Genevieve looked at her hands in her lap. “I understand. What else did you bet him, Father?”

The older man sank back farther into the pillows, if that were possible. “I gambled…” He paused. “Genny, please try to understand.”

She cleared her throat. “What else did you bet?”

Viscount Rohan squeezed his eyes shut. At last, he muttered, “My work, Genny.”

“Your work? I don’t understand. I… How could you—”

“I…I gave the duke my word of honor that if I fail, I will quit doing these studies on my own. I promised that I would work only for him—”

“No! Father!”

“But I promised this only if I fail, Genny. And it just didn’t seem possible at the time that I couldn’t manage this simple project.”

Genevieve Rohan sat in silence for a short while, her gaze focused downward. At last, though, without lifting her head, she said, “Perhaps there is still a way out of it. You could always put your work in my name. I haven’t—”

“Won’t work, Genny.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a woman.”

“What does that have to do with it? I’m your daughter. I have seen other women carry on in the names of their fathers.”

“That’s just the point, Genny: in the names of their fathers. Besides, the duke must have anticipated this. He made me promise him your work too.”

“Father!”

“But look at what I had to win.”

“Or lose.”

“Genny…”

She sat still, her mind in a whirl, though conversely, she couldn’t seem to think at all. Suddenly, she frowned and looked up. “We have very little time, then, don’t we? Perhaps you had best forget the Blackfoot Indians and the studies of their culture and language. If we begin work right now, we have barely enough time to catalogue and put onto paper all we have learned. Perhaps it is best, then, if we set sail back to England at once.”

Her father slumped his shoulders, his head down. “I can’t, Genny,” he said. “You
read the letter. Without a study of that tribe, I can’t even begin to submit the manuscript for publication, especially not now that Catlin is making ready for a trip into Blackfoot country himself.”

Silence. “I see,” Genevieve said at last, although she wasn’t certain that she did. She scowled. “Father, I’m not quite sure that I understand. How does your finished manuscript fit into this? Did you merely bet the duke that the Indians were people, or does this somehow relate to the finished work of this project?”

He gulped. “To the finished work.”

Genevieve gasped, her breathing becoming more pronounced, more difficult. She said, “Tell me exactly how it is that this wager is based on your work.”

Her father shrugged. “Since I had to finish the project anyway, and you know what an ‘authority’ the duke is on anthropology, I wagered that I would find the Indians with culture, language and a way of life of which to be proud, each and every tribe, and that he could use the completed work as his proof.”

She nodded her head. “I see. And there is only this Blackfoot tribe left to study, and then the whole project is finished—at least from a research standpoint?”

“Yes.”

“And you have all your notes and observations already written about the other tribes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure this Blackfoot band is the only major tribe left for you to study?”

“Certainly.”

She rose slowly, pushing down at the material of her skirts as she did so. Her hands shook, and she found herself unable to meet her father’s gaze. At length, though, she said, “I will have to think about this, Father. It seems as though we are in an unsolvable dilemma. I will have to see if there is some way for us to resolve this. In the meantime, I would not rely on William Toddman for any more of your projects. There is something wrong with the man, more than just his wasteful gambling, but I can’t quite ascertain what exactly. While it’s true that he has spent most of our money at the gaming tables, I fear there is something undisclosed that is driving him…something I can’t quite…” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I do not trust him, Father, and I do not believe you should either… I—”

A knock on the door interrupted her, and a few seconds later, the local doctor stepped into the room.

“Hello, Dr. Gildman,” Genevieve said, extending her hand toward the man. “I’m so glad you were able to come and see my father.” She turned then, and gazing down at the worried countenance of her father, she smiled, even though it was a wary smile at best. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. You just concentrate on getting better.” She bent down to press a kiss to her father’s forehead. “I’ll be up to see you tonight, Father. Dr. Gildman,” she acknowledged, and, shifting away from the two men, she quietly left the room.