Алма Катсу - The Hunger

“I would bet there are women—even in our little caravan—who think otherwise, Mr. Stanton, and would prove it to you, if you gave them half a chance,” Lavinah Murphy said. “Spent less time off by yourself and more time with the rest of us.”

He didn’t like the subtle implications in her words, in the way Lavinah squinted at him, appeared to study him beneath long lashes. The women had their own kind of power, he knew. All it would take was one accusation and they would be at him. It was the same as it had been before. No one had doubted what Lydia’s father had said about him back home, even though he was the grandson of one of the most prominent ministers on the East Coast. It had happened over a dozen years ago, yet it still made his heart seize with a kind of panic.

“I try to steer clear of women I can never have.” He stood up, all too aware of how hypocritical the words were and was just grateful Tamsen wasn’t there to hear them.

“Then perhaps you’ll find a sweetheart on the trail,” Lavinah Murphy said. “The good Lord wants us all paired up.”

“Soon all the best girls will be taken,” one of the younger women chimed in. Sarah Fosdick. She was only recently married herself, and obviously a little drunk. “You’ll be left with an old sow.” She laughed.

“You’ll have to forgive my sister, Mr. Stanton,” a voice behind him said. “I think she’s had a touch too much spirits.”

He turned and saw a girl he recognized vaguely as Mary Graves. She was sharp-featured and very tall for a woman. He’d never seen her up close before. Her eyes were extraordinary, the gray of an early dawn.

“You’re Franklin Graves’s daughter, then?” he said, although he knew it. He had noticed her before but it seemed she was always with her family, surrounded by her parents or a horde of little children clamoring for her attention.

“I am,” she said. “One of them, at least.”

The women’s chatter died off as the two began walking together almost unconsciously, simply drifting away from the others to head toward a stand of pines on the edge of the encampment.

“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous giving you advice, Mr. Stanton, but you should just ignore them.” Her skirts fluttered with every step, grazing the wild prairie grass. She walked with a long, loping stride that reminded him of a young mare, fine and athletic. “They’re only teasing you. Married women don’t like to see a man by himself. I think it makes them nervous.”

“Why should a single man make them nervous?”

She laughed. “It is one of the mysteries of the world, I suppose.”

“Edwin Bryant—did you meet Edwin?—had a theory about this. He thought it appeared to be a kind of rebuke, choosing not to marry.” As they walked, the picnic shrank to a miniature circus in the distance, a blur of movement and color, until all that was left was the faint drone of Halloran’s fiddle carried on the wind and the occasional shriek of a child’s laughter. People would talk, of course, if they walked too far together. But Stanton didn’t care, and anyway, he wanted to get away from the other women before he said something he regretted.

It appeared that Mary Graves wasn’t concerned about gossip, either.

She frowned in concentration. “Rebuking women, or the institution of marriage?”

He hesitated, thinking it over. He liked the quick, easy way she spoke. So many women seemed to turn their words over in their mouths like sugar cubes, until you could never be sure of the shape of the original thought. “Both, I think.”

“Some women might find it insulting, but I don’t. Not everyone is meant to marry,” she said. “Did you know that Lavinah Murphy married her fourteen-year-old daughter to a man she’d only known for four days? My stepsister was right about one thing. There aren’t many eligible women left in the party,”

He shook his head. “Does this mean you’re spoken for, Miss Graves?” He had meant it mostly as a joke, but when her face clouded, the words took on a sudden, hollow seriousness.

“My fiancé died recently. That’s why my family is headed west,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He felt as if she had been swept suddenly beyond a veil. “Leaving bad memories behind, then?”

“Something like that.” She was still speaking casually, but for a moment he saw beyond the carefully arranged look of unconcern, and knew she was truly unhappy. “That could probably be said of nearly everyone in the wagon train.”

“You’re right about that—still, I’m sorry,” he repeated. He had the wild and inappropriate desire to take her hand.

“It’s all right. I didn’t know him very well.” So if she was unhappy, it was for some other reason. Mary Graves brought a hand quickly to her mouth. “That sounds even worse, doesn’t it? I’m always saying the wrong thing.”

Stanton smiled. “That makes two of us. You’ll have to tell me the whole story now.”

She ducked her head to pass under the low branch of a small pine. “It’s not a very good story, I’m afraid. As a matter of fact, it’s terribly common. I’m sure you’ve heard it before: dutiful daughter agrees to an arranged marriage to a rich man to pay off her father’s debts.”

“Maybe you’re lucky things turned out the way they did, then,” Stanton said, and then, realizing how that sounded, hurried on, “I hope they picked a nice man for you to marry, at least.”

“He was sweet enough to me. Everyone says we would’ve had a good life together. Still, who knows?”

Her voice had a low, musical quality that made him wish she would never stop talking. “What happened?” he asked. When she hesitated, he added, “If you don’t want to tell me…”

“No, that’s all right.” She snapped a twig off the nearest branch and crushed the pine needles absently between her fingers, releasing the smell of resin. “Two weeks before the wedding, he went out deer hunting with his friends and was accidentally shot. The friends carried him back but there was nothing anyone could do for him. He died the next day.”

“That’s terrible.”

She turned. Stanton knew the expression on her face; it was guilt. “Do you know something even worse? The friend who was responsible, he was torn up with grief. Practically went insane with it. I was shocked, yes, but I barely cried. Do you want to know the God’s honest truth, Mr. Stanton? I was relieved. Relieved. ” She mustered a tiny, bitter smile. “That makes me a perfect monster, don’t you think? I should have been upset—for my father, if not for poor Randolph or his family. Without the money that would have come from the marriage, my father was ruined. We had to sell everything. Father couldn’t stand the thought of starting over in the same place, proving himself to the same people all over again. I put the idea of moving to California in his head. So whatever happens to us, whatever waits for my family in California, riches or ruin, I’ll be responsible.”

“You, a monster? Nonsense. I think you’re a remarkably honest person,” he said, and she smiled again.

“Perhaps. Or maybe I feel the need to confess my sins to someone.” She turned and continued walking.

“Are you always so forthcoming with strangers?” Stanton asked, as he followed her. The camp was far behind them now, the voices and music faded away to almost nothing.

“I’m still in mourning. When you’re in mourning, people will let you say just about anything—haven’t you noticed?” She turned briefly, raising one eyebrow. Her profile was long and sharp, like something that might have been formed with a scalpel. “Now it’s your turn. There’s a reason you’re not married already, Mr. Stanton. Are you going to tell me why?”