Faithful Read Free

him and we galloped back across the field, and then back yet again. Ghost relished it as much as I did. I lost my hat, ribbons flying, and I didn’t care.
    By this time the stable hands were out and several other riders were watching, hovering near the stable. I drew Ghost up and knew that my cheeks were flushed and my hair was in disarray.
    “Missie! Miss Margaret!” Joshua yelled as he ran. “You all right?”
    “Fine. Never better!” And it was true. I felt exhilarated, and free, for once, of the weight of my memories. Joshua grabbed Ghost’s bridle and helped me dismount. I stood on shaky legs, leaning in against Ghost as he snorted and I panted, and I gave his damp neck an affectionate hug. “Be sure to give him a good rub and extra oats.”
    Timmy ran up with my hat. Behind him I saw Mrs. Proctor, sidesaddle on her ancient, fat gelding. She regarded me with contempt, then turned to her companion.
    “If you ask me,” she said in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, “she’s exactly like her mother. Utter disregard for propriety. Lack of self-control. That’s what got her mother into trouble. I’ve heard it all, you know, the whole story. And right there is living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
    “Shame,” agreed her companion. “What did you hear?” They both eyed me, then Mrs. Proctor leaned over, and as the two moved away I strained for their words but heard only murmurs.
    I drew myself up. I thought of my grandparents, who would no doubt hear of my unseemly behavior from Mrs. Proctor. I turned my back to her as I fed Ghost a treat dug from the small pocket buttoned at my waist.
    She’s exactly like her mother. My cheeks flushed. I was angry at Mrs. Proctor, but I was also angry at myself. I didn’t need to go about compounding my situation with wild rides for all to see. Mrs. Proctor echoed the troublesome voice in my head—exactly like Mama. I burned with shame now, recalling how I’d confronted Mama after I watched her for weeks as she retreated into silence and painted those dreadful landscapes.
    Last July was sticky and damp, and all the doors and windows were open to the wash of the ocean and the hum of bees. Maybe it was the heat that had turned my mood. Again, I’d stood in the doorway of Mama’s room, full of pent-up feeling.
    “What are you doing to me?” I surprised myself with the sound of my own voice—like a crow’s caw, harsh.
    She was painting again, but unlike before, she was not so lost in herself that she could not see me. This time she turned at the sound of my voice, with a smile on her face. “Maggie?” But her smile evaporated as she read my expression. “Maggie.”
    I could not control myself. “Stop it! I want you to stop!” I moved fast, snatching the paintbrush from her hand. Paint splattered the canvas and dashed a black line across the white linen of my dress. “I hate what you’re doing! I hate it!”
    Mama sagged and crossed the room, collapsing on the narrow end of the chaise.
    My lip trembled as I faced her. “Why are you punishing me?” I burned with bitterness. For many weeks she’d been like this. My cruelty, built over time through my frustration, knew no bounds.
    “Oh, Maggie.” She lifted her face, distorted with misery. “You’ve done nothing. It’s my fault. You were so little. You have to understand. Back then I was torn in two. I didn’t know what to do.”
    I didn’t understand what she was saying. She made no sense. I shook my head to clear the confusion. “Mama. When you act like this, they snub me, too.” I choked on the words. “They look at me like I’m smudged. Stained. I’m beneath them. They leave me out.” My voice dropped, and my chin shook. “I wasn’t invited to Isabel’s party last week.”
    She said it so soft I could hardly hear. “That wasn’t my intention.”
    “But that’s what happened. That’s what you did.” I spit the words out as great tears rolled down my cheeks.