A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Eight





Lizzie moved directly to the rope bed in the corner, dropped the dress Vivian had given her at the foot, and skimmed the tunic over her head. She tossed it in the middle of the bed and stepped out of her leggings. A scented breeze drifted through the open door, chilling her bare limbs, and she reached eagerly for the blue-and-white-checkered dress.

A startled gasp sounded behind her, and she stifled a sigh. What had frightened the white woman this time? Spiders, a dog’s sudden yip, an owl flapping its wings—all of these things had brought a distressed reaction on past visits. Lizzie turned around. Vivian stood in the doorway, holding the rabbit the way Lizzie might hold a porcupine. Her cheeks glowed red, and she stared openmouthed.

Lizzie scanned the area but found nothing amiss. She angled her chin to the side. “What is it?”

Vivian deposited the rabbit and gun on the bench by the door and flapped her hands in Lizzie’s direction. Her gaze bounced around the cabin, as frantic as a fly bumping against a windowpane. “Where are your . . . your . . . ?” She danced her fingers across her bodice. Her neck blotched as bright as her face.

Lizzie glanced down at her own length, puzzled. “My . . . ?”

“Undergarments,” Vivian whispered.

Lizzie processed the English word. It was new, but she understood under and garments. She pointed at the discarded leggings on the floor next to her feet.

Vivian cleared her throat, seeming to examine the rafters. “I refer to drawers. And a chemise. I realize you couldn’t wear a petticoat beneath your tunic, but . . .” She sucked in her lips as if she’d tasted an unripe rose hip and then spun around, presenting her stiff back. “Kindly cover yourself. The door is wide open, and—” She folded her arms across her ribs, reminding Lizzie of a turtle shrinking into its shell. “Quickly, if you please.”

With a grunt of irritation, Lizzie turned the dress this way and that. How did a person find her way into such a voluminous costume? Donning her tunic was easy—pull it over her head and let it fall to her knees. But this dress, with its yards of fabric, defied entry. She marched across the room and thrust the wadded-up dress over Vivian’s shoulder. “Help me.”

Vivian let out a little yelp of surprise. She kept her arms pinned to her sides. “In polite circles, one requests assistance rather than demands it.”

Lizzie pursed her lips tight.

Vivian said, “You should say, ‘Would you help me, please?’ ” Her voice lilted sweetly.

Lizzie repeated flatly, “Would you help me, please?”

Vivian’s head bobbed in agreement. Her gaze low, she plucked the dress from Lizzie’s hands. With a few deft flicks of her wrists, she created an opening and popped the dress over Lizzie’s head. Lizzie wrestled her arms into the long, tight-fitting sleeves, and then Vivian bustled behind her and began fastening the buttons that marched from the base of her spine to her neck. Such a lot of fuss, wearing this dress.

“You really shouldn’t wear a dress without a chemise, drawers, and a petticoat,” Vivian said in a scolding tone. “I had no idea you were . . . er . . . lacking such basic garments.” She cleared her throat, and Lizzie imagined Vivian’s face flooding with pink again. “I don’t have extra to spare, but at my first opportunity I will prevail upon Clay to travel to Fort Yukon and purchase some batiste or lawn . . . or muslin if those fabrics aren’t available. We must sew proper undergarments for you.”

Lizzie stood silently while Vivian completed the buttons, contemplating wearing all of the unknown items the woman had mentioned. The dress felt strange enough—she had no desire to wear something else unusual. But if women in San Francisco wore chemises and petti-drawers, she would, too. She smoothed her hands over the full skirt and turned to face Vivian with a sigh. “I have much to learn.”

“We both do.” The white woman’s tone lost its scolding edge. She clasped her hands under her chin and looked at Lizzie’s hair. “May I unbraid your hair and try something?” She patted her skirt pocket. “I brought a comb and some pins. . . .”

Lizzie frowned. “Pins?”

Vivian pulled a handful of black squiggly things from her pocket. “Hairpins. To put your hair in a bun.”

Lizzie circled Vivian, examining her red-gold hair. Swooped away from her face and twisted into a knot that resembled a bird’s nest, it looked complicated. She pinched the puff of hair on the back of Vivian’s head. “Like this?”

Vivian twisted her head slightly and stepped away from Lizzie’s reach. “Yes. May I?”

Lizzie shrugged and dropped onto a chair. She fiddled with a loose thread on the dress’s skirt, trying to sit still while Vivian pulled the comb through her hair and poked her head with the little pins.

Finally, Vivian moved in front of Lizzie and smiled. “There! All done, and I must say, it looks wonderful.”

Lizzie carefully fingered the thick, coiled bulge at the back of her head. The light touch pulled the hair at her scalp, and she winced. “So I must wear a dress and build a nest of my hair. . . . What else will I learn today?”

Vivian touched her arm, and Lizzie met the other woman’s gaze. Her cheeks bore a stain of pink, but her lips softened into a crooked half smile. “Lizzie, an important thing you should remember . . . a lady only disrobes in private or in the presence of a maidservant. Women who bare their bodies to others are considered”—she gulped, the color in her face brightening again—“indecent.”

Another new word. Lizzie crunched her forehead. “Indecent—that’s bad?”

Vivian nodded rapidly. “Indecent women aren’t accepted in polite society. And this is what you want, isn’t it? To be accepted?”

This time Lizzie nodded, but slowly, her thoughts tumbling. Mama had never hidden herself when undressing. For the first time, Lizzie experienced a rush of shame when considering nakedness. Maybe undressing freely was one of the reasons Pa had said Mama wouldn’t fit in his world. Lizzie vowed to never remove her clothing in another’s presence.

But Vivian had fastened the buttons up the back of the dress. How would Lizzie unbutton them on her own? She opened her mouth to ask, but the white woman began tugging at the shoulders of Lizzie’s dress, her eyes roving across the bodice and down the skirt.

Finally, Vivian stepped back and put her hands on her hips. She nodded. “The hairstyle is becoming yet simple enough for you to fashion yourself, with some practice. And the dress fits you very well. The color . . .” She smiled. “I knew it would bring out the blue of your eyes. You look lovely, Lizzie.”

Lizzie’s chest tightened. When she reached San Francisco and located her father, would he recognize her by her sky-colored eyes that matched his own? “This dress . . . it is suitable for living in California? For San Francisco, California?”

Vivian’s eyes sparked with interest. “Is that where you want to go?”

Lizzie nodded.

“You know someone there?”

Again, but with hesitance, Lizzie nodded.

Vivian looked the dress up and down, her brow pinching. “This dress is rather simple—more suitable for living on a farm or for small-town life.” Her face brightened. “But I have several gowns in Oklahoma that would be appropriate for San Francisco. I’ll write to Mother and ask her to send them. I have no need for them any longer, since I have no intention of ever leaving Alaska.”

“You . . . will stay here forever?”

Pain seemed to flash across Vivian’s face. “Yes.”

“But why?”

Vivian tipped her head. “Why do you want to leave?”

Lizzie decided she’d rather not answer. Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, she rose and took a cautious stroll around the hard-packed dirt floor. The skirts brushed against her legs. The fabric felt strange yet not unpleasant against her skin. It swirled around her ankles and made a soft swishing sound. She frowned at the folds of fabric. She wouldn’t be able to move silently in this dress. “It makes noise,” she said.

“Noise?”

“Yes. A whish-whish. Animals might be frightened away when I hunt.”

Light laughter trickled from Vivian’s throat. She covered her lips with her fingers and stilled the sound. “In San Francisco, you won’t need to hunt.”

Lizzie supposed Vivian was right. She changed direction and started another loop.

“Don’t hold your legs so stiffly when you walk.” Vivian hurried to Lizzie’s side and linked elbows with her. “Walk the same way you would if you were in your buckskin clothes. You have a very natural grace.” She urged Lizzie across the floor.

Lizzie tried, but her legs refused to cooperate. The feel of the loose skirt was so different from her slim-fitting leggings. She tugged free of Vivian’s light grasp. “Dogidinh—thank you—for fixing my hair and for bringing the dress. But I will put on my own clothes now.” She turned toward the bed.

Vivian captured Lizzie’s arm and drew her to a halt. “Oh no, you don’t. If you truly intend to live in San Francisco, you must become accustomed to the clothing worn by white women.”

Lizzie puckered her face into a scowl.

Vivian smiled. “I know it feels strange, but truly, you’ll be comfortable in no time.”

Lizzie raised one brow, uncertain.

“Please leave it on. You look lovely. I can’t wait until Clay sees you—he’ll be so surprised and pleased.”

Heat rose in Lizzie’s face at the notion of Clay finding her appearance pleasing. But she shouldn’t want to please another woman’s man. She pushed aside images of Clay’s thick curling hair and easy grin and focused on the skirt. Catching hold of the folds of fabric, she held it away from her legs. “I won’t remove the dress, but I will wear my leggings underneath.”

Color streaked Vivian’s cheeks. She tangled her hands in her skirt. “Very well—your leggings can serve as drawers until which time I can stitch a pair for you.” She scurried toward the door. “I’ll wait outside while you . . . you . . .” She bustled out.

Lizzie clicked her tongue on her teeth. As much as she wanted to learn white men’s ways, this white woman puzzled her at times. Lizzie doubted she’d ever completely understand Vivian. She tugged her leggings into place and then looked longingly at the tunic. Her finger traced the line of red beads zigzagging around the tunic’s neckline. Then she touched the simple scooped neck on the dress and slid her hands down the smooth, unadorned bodice. Not even the hem of this skirt bore any kind of beadwork or fringe. White women’s clothing was plain compared to her embellished tunic. But she would be out of place in her father’s world in her buckskin clothing, so as Vivian said, she’d learn to be comfortable in the dress.

She lifted the tunic and started to hang it on a wooden peg inserted in the wall, but the raucous barking of her dogs interrupted the task. She dropped the tunic and dashed for the door, forgetting about the swirling skirt of the unfamiliar dress. The fabric tangled around her legs, and before Lizzie could stop herself, she fell flat in the dirt. Pushing her hands against the ground, she raised her head and looked into the startled face of Clay Selby.





Vivian, her eyes wide with alarm, dashed for Lizzie, but Clay got to her first. He grasped her elbow and lifted her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She swept her palms across the dress, removing dust and bits of grass and leaves. “I’m fine. But this skirt makes me clumsy.”

Clay took a step back, his eyes traveling from the dusty, wrinkled skirt to Lizzie’s face. She’d done something different with her hair—pulled it back the way Vivian wore hers. The change drew attention to her high cheekbones and delicate jawline. And her eyes seemed more vividly blue, perhaps enhanced by the blue checks on the dress. He stared, spellbound.

Something poked his shoulder, and he grunted at the intrusion.

“Clay?”

Vivian’s voice held amusement. He glanced at her and caught her grinning. He cleared his throat. “What?”

“You’re staring.” She whispered, apparently trying to spare Lizzie’s ears.

Clay looked again at the Gwich’in woman. She stood looking back, her face reflecting the same stoicism he often witnessed on the villagers’ faces. If she’d heard Vivian’s comment, he’d never know.

“Clay?”

He shifted his attention to Vivian.

“Why are you here?”

Why had he come? He tried to retrieve the purpose in coming to Lizzie’s cabin, but the reason eluded him. The sight of the Gwich’in woman with her hair up and attired in the blue gingham dress had stolen his ability to think. “I . . . um . . .”

Vivian snickered. She held her hand toward Lizzie. “She looks wonderful, doesn’t she? Like a real lady.”

Clay swallowed, offering a slow nod. “Yes. She’s . . . lovely.” He allowed himself a lingering head-to-toe look. Lizzie was lovely, as he’d said, yet an element of disappointment also wriggled through his mind. Somehow the voluminous dress and American hairstyle stole something from Lizzie. But Vivian looked so pleased with herself, he didn’t dare voice the thought.

Lizzie gave the skirt of the dress another vicious swipe with her hand. “It will take time for me to learn to walk in this dress.” She caught the hem and raised it several inches, revealing her buckskin leggings and moccasins. “It’s much easier to move in my leggings.”

Vivian gasped.

Clay coughed to cover a laugh.

Vivian dashed forward. She pulled the fabric from Lizzie’s hand and smoothed the skirt back into place. “Lizzie, Lizzie, remember what I told you?”

Lizzie’s dark brows crunched together. “I didn’t remove the dress.”

“But you mustn’t show people what you’re wearing underneath it, either!”

Clay nearly swallowed his tongue, holding his laughter inside. Vivian had managed to transform Lizzie’s exterior, but it might take a few more visits to bring change to the native woman’s long-held habits. But maybe Vivian shouldn’t try to change Lizzie—she was enchanting just as she was.

He rubbed his finger under his nose, finally recalling why he’d come seeking Vivian. “Viv, a trader came to the village today and delivered your stove from Fort Yukon.”

Vivian’s face lit. “Already?”

He’d sent a message with a passing trapper to order the stove only two weeks ago. He hadn’t expected to receive it so quickly, but he knew Vivian would want to use it right away rather than continuing to ruin their food over an open fire. “I’ll put it together for you this afternoon, but I wondered where you wanted it placed in the school.”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, I think you should put it in the very center of the large room. Then it can be used as a heat source in the winter. Don’t you agree?”

“That’s what I would have chosen, but I wanted to be sure it wouldn’t be inconvenient for you when you use it for cooking.” Clay’s gaze drifted to Lizzie, who stood with her hands on the back of her head, her face set in a displeased scowl. “Is something wrong?”

She grimaced. “This nest . . . it pulls.”

“Nest?”

Vivian caught Lizzie’s hands and drew them away from her hair. “Not a nest, a bun.” She moved behind Lizzie and seemed to inspect the hairstyle. “It pulls because your hair is so long and thick, which makes it heavy. We might have to cut—”

“No!” Lizzie and Clay burst out with the word at the same time. Both women shot Clay a startled look.

Heat built in his face. “I, um, meant to say . . . a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. If at all possible, you should refrain from . . .” He used his fingers to mimic a scissors.

Vivian put her hand on her hip. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to suffer headaches from the pull of a weighty coil of hair.” She plucked the pins from Lizzie’s hair and let it tumble free. The thick, straight tresses fell nearly to Lizzie’s waist. Immediately, the native woman divided the locks into two portions. She deftly twisted one braid, then a second. Even without ribbon at the ends, the shining ebony plaits held their shape.

Clay realized he was staring again. He waved one hand in the direction of Gwichyaa Saa and inched backward. “Well, if you trust me to place the stove, I’ll return to the village and . . .”

“Can you stay a little longer?” A playful grin twitched the corners of Vivian’s mouth. “Lizzie is going to teach me to”—for a moment, her face puckered—“prepare a rabbit for frying.” She swallowed, and the teasing glint reappeared in her eyes. “You can sample my efforts.”

Lizzie nodded hard enough for the ends of her braids to unravel. “You stay, Clay Selby, and watch Vivian learn the Athabascan way of cooking a spring hare. You’ll see if she is as good a learner as she is a teacher.”