Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (2 page)
Joseph Fish heaved, then vomited. Matthew wiped his mouth, laughing through the tears flowing freely down his face. Farrell threw them a blanket. Joseph Fish rested against his kinsman’s chest.
“Matthew?” he whispered.
“Yes, Grandfather?”
“Living with women may not be such a bad thing.”
Sequoia National Park, California
1903
“This is an evening to quote John Muir: ‘The forests we so admired in summer seem still more beautiful and sublime in this mellow autumn light. Lovely starry night, the tall spring tree tops relieved in jet black against the sky. I linger by the fire, loath to go to bed.’ And don’t we all have those thoughts tonight, ladies and gentlemen? Was not the glory around us worth our trek up the new road and into the forest of the giants?”Olana Whittaker’s face masked intense interest, one of the few useful accomplishments of her finishing school education. It amused her to practice the skill, not on those her mother would have favored — dull but wealthy marriage prospects — but on this assortment of soldiers, road crew, tourists, Sierra Club zealots, and locals. Would any of them guess that the wilderness of the new national parkland bored Olana to the same degree it enchanted Thomas Parker and his audience? She thought not.
The road had turned her green serge coat the same dusty gray as their poor homespun. The lavender gauze of her hat netting was ruined. This was the sort of event a journalist had to write about? How could she have insisted on coming here, enduring these conditions? Because Sidney Lunt, new editor of the Gold Coast Chronicle, San Francisco’s fourth largest newspaper, was
her best friend. And after losing Hettie to her stuffy count and Belinda to an ancient Marquis, she wasn’t going to lose Sidney to his newspaper. Thomas Parker’s words arrested her wandering attention.
her best friend. And after losing Hettie to her stuffy count and Belinda to an ancient Marquis, she wasn’t going to lose Sidney to his newspaper. Thomas Parker’s words arrested her wandering attention.
“ … And so let us join John Muir, Frederick Olmsted, and President Roosevelt himself in the noble endeavor to keep crass commercial interests out and reserve this spacious beauty for future generations.”
This was beyond the pale. Olana tapped her ivory walking stick on the rough hewn bench, and stood. “You speak of commercial interests, Mr. Parker, as if they were not the foundation on which our country was built.”
Heads turned. Olana felt her cheeks color. Why had her elocution lessons promoted only a high-toned, birdlike softness? “Her greatness and her shame, Miss Whittaker,” the sad-eyed man replied.
Olana drew a deep breath. “If a tree were struck down in one of Mr. Olmsted’s eastern city parklands, it would be an occasion of considerable grief, I’m sure. But our western wealth is endless.”
She raised her chin, glad she’d gone to the trouble to have the heels of her riding boots elevated. A man in the audience stood slowly, removed his hat, and faced her.
He was dressed like a roadworker — homespun shirt and neckerchief, brown wool trousers, suspenders. Only the lack of patches, and the material itself — more dense, finely woven, set him apart.
“I’m a Westerner who does not share your opinion, Miss,” he said quietly.
Farrell, the crew’s cook and her self-appointed chaperone, pulled Olana down on the bench. “Now you’ll get a good story, Miss Whittaker!” He whistled, delighted, through the gap in his front teeth. “You went and got Matthew Hart riled enough to talk up for his trees!”
Matthew Hart? The man Sidney insisted she interview? Olana had expected the park’s head ranger to be much more military.
This man had the untrimmed beard, the easy stance of the roadworkers around him. She resented beards, and men’s ability to hide so much behind them.
This man had the untrimmed beard, the easy stance of the roadworkers around him. She resented beards, and men’s ability to hide so much behind them.
“He doesn’t sound the least bit riled,” she contended.
“He opened his mouth, Miss. He’s riled.”
Even the ranger’s age was difficult to surmise. Farrell had hinted at a colorful enough past to make him sixty. But Olana guessed half that, even with the streaks of silver invading his unfashionably long hair. Matthew Hart looked only at her as everyone in the audience gave him attention. “Perhaps you would feel differently if you’d seen the casualties I have. These trees were held sacred for millennia by the natural world. They’ve overcome pestilence, even fire, only to be felled by intruders ignorant of the uselessness of their enterprise.”
“Uselessness? My father’s fortune was built on —”
“The northern coastal redwoods, Miss Whittaker, whose properties are much different from these giants.”
Did they all know of her father? Did they all wonder, as she did, if he and Sidney had conspired to make her assignment impossible?
Matthew Hart continued, his voice a learned contrast to his rough appearance, though the slight drawl marked him as a Southerner and therefore unacceptable company at her parents’ table.
“Sequoia gigantea
’s wood has been proven to be of no commercial value for anything but cigar boxes. Do you think our children should be deprived of this beauty for the sake of cigar boxes?” he asked her.
“Sequoia gigantea
’s wood has been proven to be of no commercial value for anything but cigar boxes. Do you think our children should be deprived of this beauty for the sake of cigar boxes?” he asked her.
Olana’s fingers felt cold. Thomas Parker put his hand on the ranger’s shoulder. “Whatever our differences, may I speak for us all when I say we admire our visiting correspondent for the fortitude, grace, and beauty she’s brought?”
The ranger’s face pinched with, what was it, regret? His friends shouted “here, here!” and clapped the evening’s formal festivities to a close. Olana stepped into the aisle. Her heel caught on a protruding root. She felt a steadying grip at her elbow.
“Your gallantry matches your eloquence, Mr. Hart,” she managed for their audience.
The ranger only frowned, swept his wide-brimmed hat to his head, and took a stronger hold. “Come with me,” he almost growled.
Olana had to hoist her skirts to keep up with his long strides through the rising twilight mist. She looked back for Farrell, but couldn’t find him. Matthew Hart seemed oblivious to her distress as he darted them along an overgrown trail of his own making.
Just before she was going to demand he slow his pace, he released abruptly. Olana stood, locked between him and the soft red bark of one of his trees. She could see little else, between the growing twilight and the mist. It was colder, something she sensed captured his attention too, for he seemed absorbed by the tiny diamond patterns of mist captured in her hat’s netting. She forced her breathing back to normal. The scents of the forest mixed with those of the nearby camp fire, its soups and stews.
Olana felt her raised boot heels sinking into the damp moss. Now she barely reached the head ranger’s shoulders. When she moved, he held her waist as not even the most daring of her suitors ever did. As she sputtered her outrage, his fingers drummed along her side, casually. “Listen,” he demanded. “That part Mr. Parker said — about grace and beauty — I should have said something like that. First.”
He was apologizing. Casually. “I was not offended, Mr. Hart.”
He smiled, showing good teeth. “Sure you were. I was rude.”
Olana twisted out of his hold, even though the action pressed her closer against the sequoia’s bark. “I am a journalist, Mr. Hart. You’ve done nothing to provoke emotion of any kind, I assure you.”
“I see.” The smile disappeared. “The park’s got your contempt, then?”
“Not contempt, exactly. But I find the notion of protecting nature ludicrous. My father says the West was opened up only a generation ago for civilization’s use. There is infinitely more
beauty in a fine chair than in the tree that provided the raw material. Beauty for civilized people comes in reshaping the environment, not in the environment itself.”
beauty in a fine chair than in the tree that provided the raw material. Beauty for civilized people comes in reshaping the environment, not in the environment itself.”
Why hadn’t he interrupted? His head was bent at a curious angle. She must have some power in her argument. Heartened, she thumped on the sequoia’s gigantic hulk. “If our purpose were to dreamily admire this tree, the great cathedrals of Europe would never have been built! Why, we’d pave the way for godless anarchists around the world to rise up, catch us in our slumber and … Why are you laughing?” she demanded.
“That’s a mighty burden for one tree. Even one of these giants,” he drawled, slouching against the giant in question.
“It’s not the tree! It’s what the tree represents! My father says —”
“Do you let your father do all your thinking?”
“Of course not! Why, he was furious that I came among you … you …”
“Godless anarchists?”
He didn’t spend all his time among trees. He also read the fourth largest newspaper in San Francisco. Olana swallowed. “‘Czar Parker and his Cossack Rangers?’” Matthew Hart pressed.
“I didn’t write that.”
“Your newspaper did.”
“My editor enjoys a cleverly turned phrase.”
“Which you’ll be happy to provide, at the forests’ expense! Miss Whittaker, that ain’t —” He looked sharply up into the heights of the sequoia. Olana had the peculiar sensation that the tree was chastising him. He passed his hand over his unkept beard, then spoke.
“Aw, look around,” he began, curving his arm in a wide, graceful arc. The evening mist had lifted from the open grove of
Sequoia gigantea
. Lacy ferns adorned trunks of astonishing girth. This was off the road, the official trail. It seldom had visitors, Olana surmised. Matthew Hart kept it to himself. The color, texture, vibrancy tore at Olana’s very breath. Far above their heads,
the canopy of green admitted starlight. “This is a cathedral, Miss Whittaker,” Matthew Hart said quietly. “More ancient, more holy than any man-made religion. What right do we have except to wonder at it?”
Sequoia gigantea
. Lacy ferns adorned trunks of astonishing girth. This was off the road, the official trail. It seldom had visitors, Olana surmised. Matthew Hart kept it to himself. The color, texture, vibrancy tore at Olana’s very breath. Far above their heads,
the canopy of green admitted starlight. “This is a cathedral, Miss Whittaker,” Matthew Hart said quietly. “More ancient, more holy than any man-made religion. What right do we have except to wonder at it?”
Wind raced through the stand of trees and among her skirts. Concern replaced the shining marvel in his light eyes.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” she lied.
He began folding her wide collar closed. His rough hands worked on her clasp and buttons like an impatient nursemaid’s. Olana smelled pine resin and leather. Long fingers lingered at the last silk covered button. Before she found her outraged voice, he was glancing up at the clouding sky. “I told them not to bring greenhorn — not to bring guests up here so late in the season, even if the road’s finished.”
Olana yanked herself free of him. “Perhaps you’d prefer the government to have created the park for your solitary enjoyment?”
A languid smile. “Then you do like it here, a little,” he said, taking her arm to lead her from his cathedral.
Farrell welcomed them back to the camp of open fires and conversations. Everything about these people was so casual, Olana decided. Well, what did she expect? To be treated as she’d been treated all her life? As a timber princess? Isn’t that what she was trying to get away from, people who fawned over her because of her father’s wealth? Farrell held out her ivory baton.
“Left your fancy stick, Miss Whittaker. I didn’t let a body else touch it. Matty, Mr. Parker was asking for you.”
The ranger grunted, touched the rim of his hat, and left them.
The cook’s grin widened as he offered Olana a chipped bowl of pea soup. She let it warm her hands. “Are you not hungry?” Farrell asked.
Olana brought the soup past her lips and swallowed quickly. Cloves and the savory taste of smoked ham made her disregard
the questionable origins of the other elements. She even managed a thin smile of appreciation. The laugh lines sprouting from her chaperone’s eyes glinted in the firelight, forcing her own smile to become more generous.
the questionable origins of the other elements. She even managed a thin smile of appreciation. The laugh lines sprouting from her chaperone’s eyes glinted in the firelight, forcing her own smile to become more generous.
“Cook’s the highest paid member of the outfit, did you know that, Miss Whittaker?”
“Indeed? I did not,” she answered politely.
“Been doing the cooking since my mining camp days. Don’t have to anymore. Do you know I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need, and a few investments besides? Ah, but the glory that is this road through the wilderness, that’s why I’m here! I collect stories. From the rangers, the loggers, the ranchers down to Three Rivers. They tell me things and I weave them back, do you know? Into tales.”
“Tall tales?”
The Irishman smiled. “Maybe so. But when you’re as old as I am, seen what I have, you may come to my conclusion, Miss Whittaker. That life’s got to be whittled down into stories. There’s a secret to the gathering of them. Be invisible. Hard for you, pretty as you are. But if you’re drawing attention, it’ll put them on their guard, spoil all your fun.”
Matthew Hart sat, cross-legged, at Thomas Parker’s feet. Olana tried to put the cook’s words into practice. She couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, but the admiration of the ranger for his elder was strikingly apparent, though, as she also sensed rather than saw, they were arguing.
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