Faithful (5 page)

“No, no.”

“When it first happened. I’m sorry I didn’t help you then.”

He stopped and stared at me again. All I could do was remember the months when he’d sat alone in his studio after Mama had disappeared. The months when he hadn’t worked at all. That was what Grandpapa must have meant; Papa had brought us, brought Grandpapa’s firm, to the edge of ruin. Without Mama, Papa had retreated into a dark place, and it hadn’t been until the letters came from Uncle John that he finally woke up.

Yet clearly Grandpapa did not believe Papa had changed, and I wanted to know why. “Why does he think Mama’s disappearance is your fault?”

“What?” Papa’s voice was a whisper.

“I heard him. He blames you.”

Papa cleared his throat. “In point of fact, Maggie, your mother disappeared a long time ago.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but I felt sorry for him; Papa couldn’t help Mama’s behavior. But what of the rest of Grandpapa’s accusations? I picked up pile after pile of Papa’s papers. Papa and I worked together in silence for a few minutes, my mind racing, until I found the courage to ask my recurring question.

“Papa, this trip won’t ruin my chances at finding a suitable husband, will it?”
A suitable husband like Edward
was my unexpressed thought, someone both suitable and who fulfilled my deepest desire for love. “You promised we would be back in time for my debut, since we’re only going in order to bring Mama home. So it can’t possibly ruin my chances, can it.”

He had his back to me and I watched him square his shoulders. “I’ll do whatever I can to avoid that outcome, Margaret.”

“We’ll find her, and then all this will be over, like a bad dream.” I wanted that more than anything.

“Yes.” Papa’s voice rasped, soft.

“I should go speak to them,” I said, meaning my grandparents. “Tell them I want to go, so they stop worrying.”

“Yes.” He looked at me. “That would help.”

As I left his studio, he reached for me. “Remember. Say nothing to them of your mother.”

“All right.” I hastened back to the parlor, where the furniture was half draped, and my grandparents were conferring. Apparently my grandfather had chased the men out with his rage.

“Grandpapa! Grandmama!” I rushed forward and kissed each of them. “Isn’t it exciting? This tour of Papa’s is an excellent way for me to start my season!” I smiled broadly, inwardly praying that they would see the trip in this light.

“I’m glad you think so, dear,” said Grandmama, laying a hand on Grandpapa’s arm. “But we don’t agree. We think you should come and stay with us. We can help you plan for your debut properly.”

Yes, they could. I knew they could, just as I’d known they could when Kitty had suggested that very thing. But it was impossible. While a proper introduction into society was essential to secure my future, I had to go with Papa to find Mama. Not only because he demanded it, but also because he needed me. This tore me in two, my grandparents on one side offering me the life I wanted, but making their own demands; my papa and, I hoped, Mama on the other side offering the possibility of a complete life. I knew what I had to do. I locked my fingers behind my back, as if trying to shore up my soul.

“Papa’s promised we’d be gone only until the middle of July. We’d be back in time for my debut. He’s made it sound like such fun.” I felt the twinge of misery as I spoke, and I tightened my fingers.

“That man cannot keep his word!” Grandpapa blurted. Grandmama laid her hand gently on his arm again, but her hand trembled.

“I’m sure he will,” I said in a small voice. I was afraid of that very thing, but forced myself to keep strong.

Grandmama moved across the room and slipped off the white sheet covering my mother’s portrait. The frame around the enormous oil painting was still banded in black crepe. Mama’s eyes stared out over the three of us, her lip curled up at one corner; the painter had managed to capture her inner light, that hint of the rebel that just could not be suppressed.

“She was the loveliest girl in her year,” Grandmama said. “She had scores of suitors.”

“And she chose the worst!” my grandfather bellowed like a bull.

I bit my lip until it hurt.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Grandmama said. “It wasn’t her fault.” She sank onto a chair. She looked at me, her eyes dim. “History is repeating itself.”

I looked at Grandmama. With a chilling shock, I realized she meant me. She thought that I was repeating history, Mama’s history. The words tumbled out of me before I could even think: “Please. Let me take this little trip with Papa. I’ll find a suitable husband. It will all work out.”

My grandfather regarded me with narrowed eyes.

Something snapped inside me, as I looked at my grandparents’ pinched faces. I really had no choice. I had to go with Papa. I couldn’t stay with them. I’d be back—we’d be back—and I’d have the life I’d always dreamed. “Let me take this trip with Papa. And when we’re back I’ll have a lovely debut and make you proud, and things will be better than ever.”

My grandparents exchanged a look, Grandpapa’s lips set grim.

I’d promised Papa. I could not tell them the real reason for this trip. But I had to go with him and find Mama, and we’d try and cure her madness. That would drive out all this shame and disapproval and then I would have the life of my dreams.

June 3–17, 1904

THE DAY OF DEPARTURE WAS A FLURRY OF CONFUSION. Papa had sent trunks on ahead to Uncle John’s, including two of my own that I would not need on the train. Mina bustled about, readying me for the ride to Philadelphia, our first stop two days hence. I would wear my blue wool traveling suit. Mina tugged at the laces of my corset while I clutched at the bedpost as a drowning man would a spar. I wanted my waist to look long and sparrow-thin, the ideal Gibson Girl figure.

“Tighter, Mina!”

“Liebchen,”
Mina muttered, “you’ll never have a waist like Miss Kitty’s. Your fine figure is made for the
kinder,
not for the fashion.” She was right; I’d never have a waist as small as a handspan like Kitty did. Mina went on, “You should not try to be something you are not.”

As I watched in the mirror, I reflected on that thought. For the second time in two days, I wondered who I was. Who I was not.

At the moment, I was a proper society girl taking a western tour with her father, but without her nursemaid.

“You’re right.” I sighed. “I probably won’t have any help along the way. Go ahead and lace it so that I can hook the busk in front by myself.”

Mina finished the lacing and I tested the hooks on the busk to be certain I could manage alone, then Mina held out the petticoat and I stepped into it. She gathered the skirt and slipped it over my head.

I had barely buttoned my gloves and pinned on my hat when I heard Papa shouting for me. The coach waited, the remaining trunks piled onto a wagon behind. Papa handed Jonas papers and gave him instructions. When Jonas turned to look at me, his expression was grim and set.

“Jonas! Why so somber?” I teased. He glanced at Papa and nodded to me.

I hugged Mina, and then we were off down the drive. I turned to look back at our house and saw Jonas speak to Mina. Her hands flew to her cheeks and her eyes flew to me.

Mina looked horrified; I was startled. “Papa—look. Is something wrong? Should we go back?”

“Eh? Nothing wrong.” He fingered his mustache as he looked out at the landscape of our drive. An empty lorry rumbled past us, pulled by two drays, heading in the opposite direction toward the house.

I craned back again but we’d rounded the curve and the house and lorry were out of sight. What could have made Mina so upset? A tiny spark of fear ignited in me, and I pushed Papa harder. “Papa, something is not right.”

“No, no. Nothing’s wrong, except that we’re running behind. Driver,” Papa called up, “we must be at the station within the half hour.”

The flail of the station, the bustle and noise, finding our coach and settling into our Pullman compartments all took my mind away from the disturbing departure; but a niggling worry lodged deep within me and refused to budge.

In the first days of travel we passed through the familiar terrain of New England. From Providence we made for Philadelphia, our first stop. Papa had decided we’d spend a few days there. We took in the sights of the grand old city, although I’d seen them before. The Liberty Bell was gone—removed only days earlier to appear at the Exposition in St. Louis—but there was plenty to do. Papa exchanged more correspondence with Uncle John, though he didn’t reveal the contents to me, and slipped away on numerous secretive errands.

The worry born in our driveway did not abate.

Many of the great houses on Society Hill were occupied by people we knew. We had tea one afternoon in a fine old mansion, the home of old Mrs. Delaney’s married daughter, and I was uneasy. Perhaps it was the stultifying air of the first hot day of the summer and how badly my collar itched. Perhaps it was the fact that I sat across the room from Mrs. Delaney, whose glances in my direction were piercing. I hadn’t seen her since the previous August, when Mama and I had visited with her in Newport.

I had thought my normal mama was finally returned to me, as there’d been no more of the awful paintings or the melancholy. We’d walked together, shopped together, even paid calls together, and all was well. While at times I thought Mama seemed distant, she was so much recovered that I’d begun to feel she was back to normal. That is, until we had tea in Mrs. Delaney’s parlor on a hot August afternoon.

“Mrs. Bennet.” Mrs. Delaney handed the teacup across the table. She lifted her wrinkled face to gaze at Mama. “Will you be spending any time this summer in Saratoga? My husband and I will take our usual trip to Philadelphia a bit late this year. Or perhaps you’ll travel to California? That’s the new frontier, so I’m told.”

Mama blanched and set down her cup. I was surprised to see her eyes grow wide and hear the tremor in her voice. “No. No. We . . . I . . . no, we have no plans.”

“Didn’t you and your husband once travel to someplace or other out west? You were gone some time, I think?” pressed Mrs. Delaney. Her pouchy pale eyes swept ceilingward. “My memory isn’t what it was, but I do seem to remember something.” Mrs. Delaney tapped her cheek with her forefinger.

“I . . . don’t . . .” Mama’s hands were trembling, and I grew alarmed. She lowered her gaze to her lap.

Mrs. Delaney frowned. “I’m sure I recall it. It was shortly after you were born, Margaret. Let’s see. A monumental experience, I believe.” Mrs. Delaney’s eyes focused sharply on Mama.

Mama closed her eyes, began to sway ever so slightly. I was frightened; I feared she was returning to her place of madness.

“Why, Mrs. Delaney,” I blurted. “It’s so hot, don’t you think? I think Mama’s having a difficult time with the heat. I know I am. When you go to Philadelphia, I should hope you’ll have cooler weather.”

Mrs. Delaney’s gaze swept to me, and I smiled as brilliantly as possible. After an instant’s hesitation she smiled back. And I placed my hand on Mama’s so that she would remain quiet.

I’d nearly forgotten the incident altogether, and I’d not connected it with Papa’s comment about Mama’s having once been west until this moment. Mrs. Delaney stared at me from across her daughter’s Philadelphia parlor. I excused myself and left the room.

I wandered through the hallway. Massive oil paintings hung ceiling to floor. Stately women, regal men, dogs with bared teeth rolling about on the floor, frightened-looking children in starched collars, rotting fruits tumbling from bowls, haunches of venison dripping fat. The more I looked, the worse I felt.