Faithful (12 page)

As appealing as I found Tom and the raw beauty around me, they only served to remind me of what I missed. Now that I was alone again, it all came tumbling back into my mind. I was caught here, when what I wanted was my home, my Ghost, my Mina, my comforts. My mama.

Mama. I’d thought we were here to find her. I thought I’d be on my way home now with Mama, going home to Kitty and Edward and Ghost and my season and all the things I’d planned for my life. I pressed my fingers harder against my eyes, trying not to cry, biting down the tears. Mama. Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you keep your promise? My tears tasted bitter when I swallowed them, and my throat felt thick and raw.

I knew the answer. It was my fault. I’d sent her away without my love. I told her I didn’t want to see her again. What I would give now to take those moments back and rearrange them as if they were pawns on a chessboard.

I took my hands from my eyes. Below me, the buildings with red roofs stretched in a thin row.

There was a girl walking between the buildings, and she had a long plait of dark hair so like Mama’s it stopped my breath. I watched the girl unhitch a horse and lift herself into the saddle. I watched that thick braid as it swung over her shoulder and she nudged the horse and moved off at a trot, heading down the road toward Gardiner.

Heavy misery descended on my heart. The thought of Mama, the reminder of her, the thought that I might never see her again all weighed on me. Either my legs would collapse beneath me or I would run. I’d run away. I’d run until I could not move again. I gathered my skirts. I’d run all the way back to Newport if need be. I’d run toward the sunrise, leaving Papa, leaving this godforsaken place, even Tom.

And I did run. I set off down the slope, picking up speed. The turns of the winding paths slowed me, and I was tempted to fly right across the sinter, heedless. I lifted my skirts higher, my stockinged legs visible to the knees, so I could run faster.

And still I couldn’t move fast enough, skittering along, winding and turning, and then . . . An arm stretched before me as a soldier, with two smart paces, stepped in front of me and we nearly collided.

“Miss! No running permitted on the trails.” I tried to sidestep him. “Miss, I’ll have to escort you back to your hotel meself.” He took my arm, his grip unyielding.

People were watching us. I dropped my skirts, smoothing the fabric, and straightened my side-slipped hat. “I’m fine, officer. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go. We’ll just take you to your folks, right?” He tugged my arm, dragging me downhill toward the hotels.

“I’m fine! Please let me go!” He was treating me like a common criminal.

“Here, Caleb, I’m certain the young lady will be all right,” a voice rang out from behind us.

I turned, and faced a genial woman coming down the path and carrying a camera case and tripod. Our eyes met and she smiled at me.

June 21, 1904

THE OFFICER TIPPED HIS HAT. “MRS. GALE. YOU KNOW this young lady?”

I panted as I tried to catch my breath.

“You have a fine sense of duty, Caleb.” Mrs. Gale rested her tripod on the ground and handed me the large, leather camera case, as if we were the best of friends instead of perfect strangers. The case was heavier than I expected; Caleb narrowed his eyes as he watched my clumsiness with it.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Caleb shifted, uneasy. I was sure he sensed her ruse. “I must escort this young lady off the hill. Running ain’t permitted.”

“Ain’t permitted” rang throughout my life. I looked down the slope, wondering if I’d see the girl whose long braid like Mama’s had started my little rebellion. She was gone but no matter, it was fruitless. I was running away from a prison that I couldn’t escape. My limbs went heavy and tears filled my eyes and I set the leather box on the ground at my feet.

“Yes, but I needed something and asked her to make haste. Caleb, let me handle this, if you will.” Mrs. Gale turned toward me, meeting my eyes with a quick, private look that let me know I should play along. “My dear, haste doesn’t mean running.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

Caleb grunted, but trailed off, tipping his hat again with a wary glance at me.

“You were in quite a hurry,” Mrs. Gale said, her voice soft.

“There was a girl down below. She looked familiar. She reminded me of someone I miss.”

“Missing is hard, isn’t it?” She knew what I meant; she understood. I liked her immediately.

“Yes.” I looked away. “Why did you help me?”

“Oh, you remind
me
of someone.” I looked at her, her eyes sparkling with humor. She bent and began to unpack her equipment. She opened the tripod and took a camera carefully from the leather box. She opened the bellows and positioned the camera on the tripod, locking it in place.

I’d seen cameras before, of course, but something about Mrs. Gale—her strong, set face, the way she deftly maneuvered the equipment—was impressive. She was so independent. Here she was, alone, I realized suddenly, looking around for a companion and seeing no one. She carried heavy equipment with an assured air; yet she dressed well and wore several large pieces of jewelry. She had the refinement of a lady. I wasn’t sure what to think of her, except to be grateful that she’d come to my aid.

“It is dangerous to run near the springs,” Mrs. Gale said without pausing in her work. “The rules are there for a purpose.”

Rules. Her words brought me back to my miserable situation. “I’m tired of being told what to do.”

Mrs. Gale laughed. “Aren’t we all? So many things that aren’t permitted! Especially for a well-brought-up young lady.”

The camera was set, and after peering through it, she stepped back and looked squarely at me. “Have a look.”

I took the smooth leather gently between my gloved fingers and bent, covering my head with the hood, and gazed through the lens. I caught my breath.

I saw the world anew, upside down, reduced to a single sight line, bereft of a periphery. Time slowed. Then stood still entirely. I was suspended in the exact moment of the image in the viewfinder. I heard the hiss of steam, the soft bubble of water, the call of a crow; I smelled the sulphur. But these senses were disconnected from my vision. I experienced only the otherworldly image framed in microcosm through the lens.

I straightened. “I had no idea.” It was the first moment of pure pleasure I’d had in a long time. This unexpected swing of emotion was heady. I smiled at Mrs. Gale, grateful.

“The camera focuses the eye so that the details stand out. Go ahead, have another look. Tell me what you see.”

I bent to look again. The pools were edged in lace. Steam curled toward the sky in soft wisps. The cliffs were stacked in layers like a parfait, and the rocks beneath the water were banded like hard candy. These details had been lost to my naked eye.

“I see . . . stripes. Lines, curves. I see what’s there under the water. Things I didn’t see before, like the way the edges seem ruffled.” I stepped back again. “It’s magic.”

Mrs. Gale turned the camera in another direction, facing down the springs toward the cottages. “Now what do you see?”

The cottages stood crisp and sharp. The road was empty of movement. It was what I didn’t see that struck me. “I don’t see her.”

“Who, dear?”

“That girl, the one who reminded me of . . . of someone I miss very much.” As much as I liked the magic of the camera, I knew that moment had passed, and it alone couldn’t make wishes come true. A ripple of sadness ran through me. The world righted itself and broadened around me as I stepped back. “But I love it, looking through it.”

Mrs. Gale smiled. “I do, too.”

The Cottage Hotel was below us on the other side; Papa and Uncle John were now standing on the front porch, watching me. It must be close to noon and I would be expected for lunch. I sighed. “I must go.”

“Please come and find me again, dear, if you’re here for a while. I’ll be out every morning. I can always use the company.” I nodded to Mrs. Gale and watched as she got to work, setting the camera to take pictures of the terraces above us.

I walked slowly down the path toward the hotel. I had made a friend. I had found something remarkable. For the first time in a long time I felt . . . hopeful. Art was a pleasure that I’d forgotten.

Mama was an artist. When I was very little, she’d take me to the cove, a smaller, protected beach, where I would wallow in the sand and she would set up her easel and paint her watercolors. She gave me my own paints and let me make paintings with my fingers. She taught me to look with an artist’s eye, to see the tiny ribbings of a shell or the partings in a gull feather. It made me sad, remembering these happier moments; but Mama had given me a way to see. She had given me art.

But later, art became an expression of her inner torture. I swallowed hard. Those strange oils, the demonic ones that were driven by her madness. Her paintings of hell, of her personal torment. Those close, tight portraits of peculiar forms, of dreamlike landscapes filled with vapors and steams, hideous . . .

I stopped in my tracks, staring at the hot springs. The thrill of recognition that shot through me nearly made me cry aloud, and I had to stifle my voice with my gloved hand. I whirled around, staring up the hill, then down; my knees grew weak as I recalled the details of her paintings, those hellish landscapes. I shut my eyes, remembering; and when I opened my eyes, there they were, all around me.

She was painting this. She’d been here. These were her landscapes.

They had not been portraits of some inner hell, but memories of this place. I turned. The bubbling springs were just as she’d depicted them. The vapors. The striking colors, the white that I’d thought was ash. One view after the other, I recognized them all. Mama had been here.

She hadn’t been insane, seeing vast hells of her own making. I laughed out loud, then caught myself, trying to keep the bubbling thrill of this discovery from making me appear to be on the verge of madness myself. For that was the thing: if Mama was not insane, I did not have to fear becoming insane like her.

Her paintings were not tortured expressions from her soul. Her paintings were memories.

Her paintings were clues.

But clues to what? Mama was sending me a message across time and space, but what could it mean? She’d been here, yes, of course; but that experience clearly pricked at her. Why could she not leave it behind?

And Papa—Papa had brought us here, not to find her after all. He must have known what she was painting. Hadn’t they been west together? Then why did he not think he could find her here again? I stared across the hot springs and narrowed my eyes. The pieces of a puzzle lay scattered across this vast and peculiar landscape. I had to know why we were truly here, why Mama could not leave Yellowstone behind. Why Papa had lied to me again about our reasons for coming. Yellowstone was still my prison, but it was a prison that contained a great secret I had to uncover.

June 21, 1904

“I FEAR WE’VE LOST THE ATTENTION OF YOUR CHARMING daughter,” I heard Graybull say.

“Not at all.” I yanked myself back to the moment. I was lying, of course. My mind had not been on Graybull’s dull conversation but had been wandering all over the terraces outside, drifting from Tom, to Mrs. Gale, to Mama and the mystery of her obsession with Yellowstone.

We dined in the National Hotel. It was surprisingly elegant: the pianist played Strauss waltzes, the crystal was faceted lead. The menu sported baron of beef, planked whitefish, and Nesselrode pudding. I wore the green silk, for its magic properties and to celebrate my discovery—it was my link to Mama, the charm that might bring her back.

I had to admit, I did enjoy the pampering. But Graybull was dull and my entertaining uncle had unfortunately left to complete work somewhere else in the Park. Papa was distracted. I was even angrier with him now, since he had imposed this dinner on me. I tried to be pleasant, but it was hard.

Graybull leaned toward me, determined to hold my wandering attention. “Do you shoot?”

“Shoot? You mean, a gun? No. I’ve never held a gun.”

“Ah! Those slender arms of yours could use some practice. Would you allow me to lead you in a session? Take you shooting?” He smiled. He seemed thrilled to become my tutor, pushing his tongue into that little gap in his teeth. His tic reminded me of Toby, Cook’s cat, when he cornered a mouse. “If your father will permit me, of course.”

The last thing I wanted was a shooting lesson, especially from Graybull. I had many more things on my mind. I looked at Papa through veiled lids. In earlier times I might have been able to signal him to say no. Now our disconnect was so great that I clenched my fists beneath the table, as if to bring him around by sheer will.

Papa’s face betrayed little emotion. I forced a winning smile onto mine but my eyes betrayed my thoughts and bored into his.

My attempts at telepathy were fruitless. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Papa said. “We’re here in the wilderness and Margaret should have some knowledge of guns.” Papa smiled at Graybull. “Thank you, George. I’ll only need her help for a few hours a day, and she should explore Yellowstone. Yes. That would be excellent.”

My smile grew icier as Papa warmed to this awful man. “I don’t want to learn to shoot. Guns rather frighten me.” I didn’t want to spend five minutes alone with Graybull, either. Graybull was smooth and slick, with a neat mustache and attire chosen to compliment his powerful, short frame. His accent was charming and his eyes were sharp; like a badger, he had keen, narrow eyes. And he had the self-assurance of someone who was used to getting his way.