Between Earth and Sky(85)

“Not much of a conversationalist, that one?”

“He was just nervous.”

“Why should he be nervous coming back to Stover? More of a simpleton, I should think.”

“He’s really very bright.”

“Bright?” Her mother laughed. “He could barely string together more than two sentences.”

Alma balled her napkin and threw it down beside her plate. “Not everyone has to be a prattling fop. Besides, English isn’t the language he was born to.”

“Come now. You can hardly count those funny noises they make at one another as a true language. It’s gibberish!”

“Mother, how can—”

“You’re far too impassioned about this, my dear. Your entire face is ruddy, even your ears. It’s not at all becoming.”

Alma took a deep breath. Engaging her mother like this would hardly benefit the situation. She needed the woman as sanguine as possible when her father broke the news. “You’re right. Forgive me. Come, let me play something for you in the parlor.”

“That would be nice. My nerves are a bit frazzled from all this tedium. Some Chopin would be love—”

“Alma Marie Blanchard!” Her father’s voice bellowed down the hallway.

Alma cocked her head. His voice was like the shrill cry of reveille after a fitful night, confusing and illusory, and she wondered whether she’d heard the sound at all or just imagined so.

He hollered again, the dark timbre of his voice unmistakable. She stood and hurried toward the study. Her mother kept pace behind her. “Good heavens, what’s he ranting about now?”

“Alma!”

What could possibly have gone wrong? Her throat squeezed around her voice. “Coming, Father.”

When they reached the study, she found her father pacing before the crackling hearth. His head twitched from side to side. His lips moved without sound. stood near the doorway. His eyes blinked in rapid succession. His mouth hung agape. She took a step toward him, but her father looked up and pinned her feet to the ground with a wild stare.

Her mother too stood paralyzed at the doorway. “Francis, whatever has come over you?”

His eyes remained fixed on Alma. “George tells me you wish to marry.”

She looked between and her father. “I do.”

“Marry whom?” her mother asked.

She took a deep breath. “I should like to marry George.”

“This George? An Indian?” Her mother laughed. “Impossible, ridiculous.” No one else joined her laughter. Her face turned pinched and waxen. “This is madness.”

“She’s confused is all.” Her father turned to Alma, eyes suddenly pleading.

“You said but a minute ago how proud you were of George,” Alma said.

“Proud? Proud! That is entirely irrelevant.”

Alma straightened and looked her father directly in the eye. “I love him.”

Her mother collapsed into an armchair and began to sob. “I told you something like this would happen, Francis.”

He waved her off and continued to pace. “Unnatural. Unholy. Think of the disgrace you’d bring to this school. After all these years of work.”

Alma shook her head. What had come over him? “You said yourself—”

“Enough!” He sliced the air with a wild gesture. “I’d sooner escort you to the grave than to the altar with this man.”

Alma staggered back, clutching the doorjamb for support. moved toward her.

Her father’s eyes widened with venom. “Don’t.”

For once, obeyed.

Silence choked them. Only the popping fire dared to sound. Then her father straightened, smoothed his coat, and rang a small silver bell. Abraham, a young Ho-chunk boy apprenticing as her father’s assistant, hurried in through the parlor.

“Fetch Mr. Simms.”

Abraham nodded and scurried away.

“Shut the door, Alma.” A measure of calm had returned to her father’s voice, but his jaw clenched around the words.

Alma refused to move, disbelief as much as anger anchoring her where she stood.

He shouldered past her and jammed the door into its frame.

Another whimper from her mother. Her father paid the noise no heed. “Have you made your intentions known to anyone else?”

“No,” Alma said. “We wanted your blessing first.”

He moved to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers. “And what about you, boy? Have you told anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Then we can all forget this discussion ever happened.”

“What?” Alma took a step forward. “No—”

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door and Mr. Simms entered. His wiry hair stood on end, and a day’s worth of white stubble covered his sunken cheeks. “Something you be needin’, Mr. Blanchard?”

“Escort George here from the grounds.”

“Father! What are you doing?”

Mr. Simms looked between and her father with an arched brow. After a moment, he shrugged. “Come on, lad. Off with ya.”

“No! You can’t do this! Father, I love him.” Alma ran to and threw her arms around him.

,” he whispered. “We’ll find another way.” He peeled her arms from around his neck and stood to face her father. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “You’re a hypocrite, Mr. Blanchard. You say the Indian is the brother of the white man, but in your heart you don’t believe.”