Between Earth and Sky(46)

“I thought we palefaces were forbidden from your practices.”

Usually he grimaced when she used Menominee words. So, of course, she did so at every chance. This time, however, his mischievous smile did not falter. “It’s a game.”

A white man’s game? Alma had never seen it played before. “And yet you deign to participate?”

George shrugged. His dirt-streaked shirt clung sweaty to his chest. “Not so much fun as , but Mr. Simms took all our sticks.”

Alma covered her mouth and feigned a yawn, but George continued, shifting his gaze to her more enrapt companions. “Football, they call it. They’re playing it all over—even at Carlisle. How can big chief Blanchard object?”

Minowe’s cheeks had taken on a pink glow. She leaned forward as if the conversation were somehow interesting. Alma noticed she’d not bothered with her top two buttons, leaving the delicate curve of her collarbone plain to view. “Where did you get the ball?”

“Mrs. Simms.”

“Poppycock,” Alma said. “She hates your silly games as much as we do.”

He turned back to her with a glint in his eye. “It’s true. Frederick asked her to set aside . . . what’s the word . . .” He tapped his finger against his lips in mock concentration.

Alma rolled her eyes.

“Pig’s bladder. That’s the word.”

Her stomach turned. She wiped the tip of her boot in the brown brittle grass.

“Sure you don’t want to play, Miss Alma?” he said with a laugh.

She tried to fashion her usual sneer, but managed only a half-hearted frown. Turning her back to him, she yanked another sheet off the line. Insolent boy. A constant burr inside her stocking. Yet she found her ears straining to catch his voice amid the clamor of the game, found her eyes drifting toward the playing field. Only because she hated him, of course. Only because she hoped he’d stay away.





CHAPTER 21


Wisconsin, 1889



“Can I turn around yet, Mother?”

“Be still while I finish with these buttons.”

But Alma couldn’t. Her heels danced. Her knees bounced. Her fingers played amid the silk flounces cascading about her hips. Her mother had laced her corset so tight that Alma managed only shallow inhales. A wink of cleavage showed above her collar. She tugged down on the lace, only to have her mother reach around and yank the frilly décolletage up again. “If you’d stopped fidgeting, I’d be done by now.”

It took all Alma’s will, but she stilled and glanced out the window. Outside, the snow cover sparkled orange in the setting sunlight. They mustn’t be late. She couldn’t bear to miss a single dance.

“There. Turn around.”

Alma spun around and looked in the oblong mirror above her mother’s vanity. A smile blossomed across her reflection. She ran her hands down the smooth bodice of her dress and swished her heavy skirt. The silk danced and rippled, flashing from soft rose to shiny gold in the lamplight.

Her mother gave the bustle a final fluff and her steel-blue eyes softened with approval. “Parfait.” She retrieved a small bottle from the vanity and removed its crystal stopper. A bouquet of rosewood and lilac bloomed in the air. She dabbed Alma’s neck with a few drops of oil. “You mustn’t let any gentleman sign your dance card more than twice.”

Alma fingered her pearl necklace, still lost in her reflection. “Mm-hmm.”

“Save a dance for Mayor Donelson’s nephew, Mr. Ellis. He runs his own iron factory in Milwaukee, you know.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, the mayor’s nephew.” She tore free from the mirror and hurried to her room.

Her mother followed, hovering like a mosquito, fussing over this ribbon or that bit of lace, her voice a constant buzz. “Avoid lingering by the refreshment table, someone’s bound to spill punch on your dress. . . .”

Alma collected her gloves, fan, and reticule. A splash of primrose in the small, handheld mirror atop her desk made her stop and admire her dress anew. Edward would be there tonight. Would he ask for a dance? Her stomach thrilled at the thought.

Laughter rang down the hallway followed by echoes of her friends’ voices. She spun toward the lighthearted sound and found her mother still standing in the doorway. “One more thing, dear.” Her face was drawn, her eyes once again chilly. “I know you fancy the Indians your friends. Such . . . associations cannot be helped here at Stover, but there’s no need to appear overly familiar. Certainly not on occasions such as tonight.”

“Ignore them, is that what you’re suggesting? Pretend we came by separate carriages? They are my friends, Mother, and I—”

“You’re a young woman now, Alma. You must exemplify taste and circumspection in your acquaintanceships. Indians do not fit within those parameters.”

Alma frowned. “Says who?”

“I don’t say these things to hurt you, dear. I just . . .” She straightened Alma’s pearls. Her voice was unusually husky. “I had to settle. I don’t want that for you.”

Alma swallowed her brusque reply. A twinge of sympathy surged as she watched her mother glide away to collect her own adornments. Never before had she imagined her mother as a young girl—beautiful, rich, and full of hope. She’d seen the embossed dance cards tucked away between layers of tissue paper in her mother’s closet. Every dance spoken for. At what point had she settled? Marrying her father? Coming here to found Stover? Somehow it was hard to picture her—even at sixteen as Alma was now—carefree and gay.