Faithful Read Free Page B

Mama’s eyes that evening last July, I might have seen the promise broken. I might have seen why, only two months later, Mama was gone.
    After Mama disappeared, Papa insisted on a massive search. Bored officers carried out a job they believed to be fruitless. They found her robe, tangled in the rocks. “The waves, sir. You must understand. The riptides, sir. Surely you understand . . .” Papa was shocked to silence and retreated; he was like the rabbit in the mouth of the fox—not yet dead, but no longer able to struggle. For weeks, I’d watched them all—Papa, the police, my neighbors, my friends—relinquish themselves to thinking Mama had been lost to the waves. Not me. I refused to believe she was dead. I wouldn’t believe she could break her promise and abandon me.
    Papa would do nothing, lost as he was in his own grief. And so finally, I did the only thing I could. I threw myself into planning my season and my future. With or without her, my life would go on—it had to. I refused to let my prospects die while I waited for her to return.
    Until two days ago. Two days ago Papa had surfaced from his self-imposed imprisonment with tales sent by his brother and with maps in his hands. Maps of far-off places, of Montana and Wyoming, of the wilderness; maps of rivers and mountain ranges and plains that were unknown to me. Papa emerged from his study with bright eyes and plans and hope.
    I gave Ghost another treat and pressed a few coins into Joshua’s palm. “Take good care of him while I’m gone. Make sure he gets daily exercise.”
    “Yes, miss.” I watched as Joshua led Ghost away, his white coat shining until he vanished into the gloom of the stables. I found Papa’s man, Jonas, polishing the brass on the lanterns of the phaeton, waiting to take me home.
    When I joined Papa at dinner, he rambled on about his plans for our trip. Yet I was distracted. I kept returning to Mrs. Wolcott’s sneer and Mrs. Proctor’s snide gossip. I picked at the linen tablecloth, having lost my appetite.
    “We’ll have a grand tour along the way, Maggie.” Papa carved into his beef with intensity.
    I watched Papa’s knife saw back and forth. “Papa, why west? Why do you and Uncle John think we will find her there, and not somewhere else?”
    Papa concentrated on the piece of beef on his fork. “It’s complicated, Margaret.” He took a bite, then looked at me, wiping his mustache with his napkin while he finished chewing. “We can discuss this later. It’ll all be a surprise! An exciting surprise.” He flashed a smile at me and returned to his meal.
    My stomach knotted. I lifted the glass to wet my dry mouth. I didn’t want to lose Mama, not again. Nor did I want to lose my season and my only chance to make a good match and secure my future. I picked up my fork and twisted the tines against the plate. “I hope we can find her. Bring her home. I hope we can make her well.”
    Papa said nothing. The click of metal on china filled the room, bouncing off the oakwood floor and plaster walls.
    “Things are hard, Papa. Hard for me,” I said in a low voice. “It’s all so hard without her.”
    Papa sawed his meat, his eyes cast down.
    “People—Newport people—they aren’t sure about me. They say things . . .” I searched for Mrs. Proctor’s words, “They say I lack propriety. That I’m shameful. Like Mama. But I’m not. And if I am to find a husband, I need to prove to them that I’m respectable.” I picked at the tablecloth, making tight little fabric hills. “It’s important to me, Papa. It’s my future.” I looked up at him. “This is all I have, right here in Newport. This is where I belong. And right now, they don’t want me.”
    His hands stopped moving.
    “I need my debut, a really fine debut, with everything done exactly right, to make them want me. I want to prove to them that . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence, but what came to my mind was, “that I’m not like Mama.”
    I reached down