“I—as well as my sister—would be most grateful.”
“How grateful?” He leaned over so that his face was almost touching hers.
She shrugged smooth white shoulders. “I wouldn’t think of offering an honorable man like you money. I—I thought you and I . . .” She lowered her eyes and managed a blush, not too difficult as his hot, ardent breath was making her heart pound so.
“You are offering yourself?” he asked in a low, suggestive voice.
“Well—yes.”
“Ahhh.” He leaned back. “You’ll go to bed with me if I juggle my records so that it shows I never spoke to your sister or found Johnny Reb in your cellar?”
“Yes, yes! You could have found him somewhere else. In a vacant house, perhaps. And as to the oath, it wouldn’t do to claim Amélie actually signed it. She’d find out and deny it. But if you just eliminated her name as if you hadn’t spoken to her in the first place. . . .”
“I see. And for this you and I will have an—ah— arrangement. When would you say?”
“Any time that’s convenient.’’ She hoped it would be before the Jaspers’ party. But she had to go on with her charade. To do less would cheapen her in his eyes, make her seem too anxious. She didn’t want him to think he was getting shoddy goods in exchange for the risk he would be taking in falsifying his records. Instead it should appear that a Southern gentlewoman was giving up her most prized possession, her virginity. She wanted him to understand that she had a high value and that her sacrifice was being made at great cost out of an unselfish concern for her sister.
The captain studied her, his wide mouth pursed as if weighing the pros and cons.
“In an hour, Miss Townsend,’’ he said finally, having come to a decision. “I’m staying at the Bridgeport.’’ He reached in his pocket and brought out a key. “There’s a side entrance. Room number thirty-six.’’
“But—how do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?’’
“You must trust me. You understand I’m not able to put it in writing.’’
Babette took a deep breath, her rounded bosom heaving. “I suppose I have no choice. Since you are a gentleman I’m sure I can rely on your word.’’
But he was no gentleman; she knew that instinctively. It showed in the way he carried himself, the set of his thick head, the shape of his hands. These things told her he was not—as Mrs. Jasper would term it—quality.
But she had no qualms about going to bed with him, in fact she honestly looked forward to it. His lack of breeding appealed to her in a curious way. The hint of coarseness, of lewdness in his eyes, she found exciting. When the simple stroking of his thumb could make her shudder with delight—think what his hands could do! The anticipation as she made her way to the Bridgeport, hobbling a little to spare her blistered foot, quickened her blood. By the time she got to the hotel, slipping into the side entrance and mounting the stairs to room thirty-six, she was only thinking of her own desires and had forgotten her original purpose for coming.
Inside, primping before the mirror, she paused to admire herself. How pretty she looked, with her pink cheeks and shining eyes. The captain would find her irresistible. She was sure now that she could easily wind him about her finger. If he wanted her again—and there was little doubt he would—he would have to offer proof of his good intentions. She would not be put off by talk. She would make him pay for her favors: a bolt of merino, now getting scarce, coffee and sugar, perhaps a case of champagne.
But when the captain entered the room a half hour later thoughts of proof and payment vanished. He exuded a sexual animality, a brute virility that made a shambles of logical resolve. He was not tall, but his powerful build, broad shoulders, and thick neck made him seem large.
He threw his hat on the bed and came toward Babette. His arms going round her, crushing her to his broad chest, his hungry mouth clamping down on hers, drove everything from her mind. Oh, how wonderful it was, how delicious to be held by a man again, tasting tobacco and masculine lust, feeling his hard body and the rising, swelling need jammed against her legs. She strained toward him, pressing her aching breasts into the buttons of his uniform, her mouth opening like a voracious flower. She loved it, loved this endless kiss, his guttural sounds of greedy delight.
At last he released her, looking down into her flushed face, a slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Well, well! I had no idea Southern ladies were so tasty.”
“Nor I that Yankees could kiss so well,” she replied tremulously.
“Ah, Miss Townsend—or may I call you Babette? Good. Aren’t you going to undress?”
A little taken aback by this request, she stared at him. The men who had made love to her had either undressed her themselves or, in the case of the Confederate runaways, hadn’t bothered at all.
“Come, Babbsy. This ain’t your first time,” he said, in his ardor letting go of his carefully nurtured diction. “All my ladies take their clothes off for me.”
“Then they must be whores,” she said, desire fading. A gentleman would at least play the game to the end. Even if he knew a woman was not a virgin, he would pretend she was.
When she made no move to disrobe he leaned over and pressed his mouth to the swelling above her neckline, his lips warm on her bare skin. She felt that kiss down to the tips of her toes and a hot flame shot through her body. He kissed her again.
“All right,” she whispered, “just for you.”
She undid the back buttons of her basque and drew it from her arms. Then stepping out of her wide skirts, she removed her starched crinolines.
“Wait!” he exclaimed as she began to unhook her stays. “Turn around.”
Dressed only in her ruffled pantaloons and stays, she revolved slowly.
“Ahhh—so that is what ladies wear.”
Puzzled, she did not know what to think. If women had undressed for him before, why were their undergarments such a wonder? Unless—unless those women had been whores who wore nothing beneath their gowns.
“All right. Go on,” he urged with a wave of his large hand.
For a few moments she was torn between what she ought to feel and what she really felt. She ought to feel insulted, exhibiting herself to a man whose gross preference heretofore had been prostitutes. On the other hand there was a kind of provocative relish in acting the tart.
The corset undone, her full breasts sprang out, the nipples dark and rosy. She sat down on the edge of the bed to undo her stockings, unfastening them, stripping them from her legs. She hesitated at the pantaloons and glanced at Gruber. His eyes now had a mesmerized glaze, like a hooded cobra charmed by a sorceress. Babette, keenly aware of her feminine allure, conscious of the captain’s enslavement, felt giddy with conquest. She had him! She was willing to bet her best bonnet that no other woman, whether tart or lady, had ever captivated him so. Slowly, using just her fingertips, as if she had been born to the art of temptation she slid the ruffled white garment down and daintily stepped out of it. Now she was completely nude, the shapely legs, the curly apex of pubic hair, the rounded hips, narrow waist, and the glory of full, pointed breasts exposed.
He swallowed, a hard, audible sound.
She tilted her head, eyes dancing. “Does this suit you, Captain?”
He was at her in one stride, crushing her to his chest, his fingers digging into her naked back, her buttocks, his mouth bruising her lips.
“Wait!” she protested. He was going too fast, hurting her, and she wanted to tease, to savor her ascendancy. But the sorceress’s charm had been broken, the cobra had his victim, and she was powerless in his rapacious grasp.
He brought her to the floor and was on her, splaying her legs apart. Releasing his tumescent organ from his blue trousers he shoved it in so violently she gasped. “No . . . you . . . !” But her objection was cut short by a magnificent sensation. Oh, but he was large! Wonderfully large. He filled that moist, sensitive place with the hard violence she craved. She had
time for the first twinges of pleasurable tension in her loins before he suddenly shuddered in climax. He was through, rolling away with a grunt of satisfaction.
She said nothing, repressing the urge to tell him he had vastly overrated himself as a lover. So much for expectation, she thought ruefully.
He got up. “Goot,” he said, his German accent giving the word a throaty relish. He began to undress.
Babette watched from the floor, leaning on an elbow. The tunic, undershirt, and trousers were thrown aside.
He stretched out his hands and brought her to her feet. Kissing her again, holding her, he moved his hips to and fro, rubbing his lower body against her soft-skinned belly until his manhood began to grow again. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.
He left her for a moment and Babette could see him rummaging about the top of the bureau. She thought he was looking for a cigar, but when he came back he was carrying a small pot of honey and a spoon. What a strange man!
“Do you like honey?” he asked.
“Well—yes.”
He dipped into the pot and fed her a spoonful.
“I love it!” Carefully, as if he were performing some highly delicate task, he lathered each of her nipples with the sticky stuff. Startled by this latest development, she watched silently. When he finished he set the pot and spoon down carefully on the table next to the bed and licked his fingers.
Then he straddled her, the bed squeaking under his weight. Lowering his head he began to lap the honey from her breasts, sucking them to get the last drop of sweetness, his pursed lips drawing on the reddening peaks. A stab of pleasure shot through Babette and she shivered under him. When he pushed her legs apart she was ready, moist with desire. But instead of entering her, he leaned over and lifted the pot of honey and the spoon. Raising her legs and placing each on one of his broad shoulders he ladled the treacly substance into the secret place where she had been prepared to receive him. Guessing what would come next she instinctively tried to pull her legs away, but he brought them back with a cruel twist to her ankles. Then he was flat on his stomach, his sandpapery tongue licking at the honey.
Babette’s clenched fists opened and her hands fell to her sides and gradually there stole through her body a yearning sensation like an unslakable thirst. The core of her desire throbbed unbearably as the licking quickened. “Oh, please!” she begged. “Please . . . !”
And now she was moaning, clutching frantically at the bed covers under her, her heart hammering, her senses reeling. “Ohohohoh!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as a shattering orgasm shook her.
Lifting himself, he pierced her still shuddering body, pumping furiously, bringing her to climax after climax, until at last he joined her, twitching and jerking, collapsing in perspiring satiation.
“Good?” he murmured, his chin buried in her shoulder.
“Oh, yes!” she whispered huskily. “Yes, yes!”
Chapter
❖ 13 ❖
Babette was late getting back to Cathedral Street and, as she expected, Amélie was waiting for her with an angry frown on her face.
“Where have you been?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I catch my breath. Have you kept supper for me?”
“Yes. Sadie’s gone. It’s on the dining room table.”
“I’ll have a wash first.” Babette started up the stairs but her sister caught her arm.
“Before you go anywhere, Miss Townsend, I want to know where you’ve been. You’re supposed to be under house arrest, not gallivanting around. Do you want the Yankees down on us again?”
“It’s a long story, Amélie, if you—”
“No. I’ll hear it now.”
Still clutching Babette’s arm she led her into the parlor. Babette sat on a chair and undid her bonnet.
“And, my God, what are you doing in that getup?” Amélie asked, aware suddenly of her sister’s inappropriate attire.
“I went to see Captain Gruber. And I wanted to look nice.”
“You went to see who? Oh, no! How could you?”
“It seems all you can ever say to me is, ‘How could you?’ ” Babette complained crossly.
“That’s because you’re always doing something utterly unscrupulous or wicked. Like going to see Captain Gruber.”
“It wasn’t all that wicked. I got us released.”
“You got us . . . From house arrest, you mean? And just how did you accomplish that?”
Amélie’s eyes raked over Babette. Her sister didn’t look flustered or nervous. Her hair was neatly in place, and while the hem of her gown was somewhat soiled from street dust, it was not in disarray. Yet there was that glow to her, that odor of sexuality.
“I simply told the captain you didn’t believe in oaths on principle,” Babette said.
“And that was all? He swallowed that?”
“Yes. And I convinced him we knew nothing about the Reb in the cellar.”
“I don’t believe it. It simply didn’t take you all afternoon—oh, I know how long you’ve been gone, Sadie heard you leave—to make that asinine statement about oaths and to persuade him to change his mind about our Confederate guest.”
“I had to wait for the captain—for hours, Amélie. He was out when I got there.”
“What did you give or promise to give him?”
“Nothing.”
She was lying; it was written all over her face. She had gone to bed with that man, allowed him to make love to her. A Yankee. A crude, illiterate lecher. She had behaved no better than a prostitute, exchanging her body for an indulgence instead of base coin. She had sold herself. What made it worse was that she probably enjoyed it. No, not probably—she had enjoyed it. One had only to look at her. Sleeping with Captain Gruber had been no sacrifice. Babette’s crass weakness for men had permitted Willie to claim a husband’s rights while they were yet unmarried. Of that Amélie was sure. She was not as certain about two or three of the more presentable Confederates they had harbored and with whom Babette had flirted outrageously. It was quite possible she had permitted them liberties that went beyond a few stolen kisses.
And then there was Damon Fowler. Had that seduction been entirely his fault? Damon, who had made love to them both. Both. That thought gave her pause.
How could she honestly berate Babette? How could she lecture her on decency, on virtue, on morality when she herself had sinned? It would be the height of hypocrisy. She, Amélie, had commited adultery with a Yankee and—she cringed at the memory—had enjoyed the act. She differed from Babette only in that there had been no other man but Damon. Yet that didn’t excuse her sister.
“You must never see Captain Gruber again,’’ Amélie said firmly.
“It was just this once, Melie.’’
But in the weeks that followed there were more meetings between Babette and the captain. How many times Amélie could only suspect. Babette when confronted always denied she had anything to do with the captain. Amélie scolded, reminding her sister that lying was a mortal sin, but no threat of hellfire and damnation had ever cowed Babette and it didn’t now. She went on just as she had done before. So it was inevitable that she would be seen going into the Bridgeport Hotel, known to house only Yankee officers. Amélie, hearing of this, reproached, berated, even threatened to send her sister to Waxwing.
Babette, cornered, was brazen. “Well, what of it? You'd think I was the only girl in all the South who had a Yankee beau. And look at what he’s done for us. We’re not under house arrest, are we? And where do you think that Madeira wine came from, and the lawn yardage to make new petticoats?’’
Amélie, in a rage, threw both wine and petticoats in the rubbish. But it didn’t stop tongues from wagging once word of Babette’s transgression got around. Amélie's few friends of like sympathies who hadn’t been arrested or who hadn’t fled Baltimore cut both her and Babette dead. The rare visits to Cathedral Street and the invitations for tea or supper ceased altogether. There was no place for Amélie to
go except church, which she found cold and uninviting. Even the dubious companionship of the sewing circle was now denied her.
It might as well be house arrest, Amélie thought one afternoon as she left a mercer’s shop with two spools of thread. Inside Mrs. Banks, a friend of the Harpers, had looked through her as if she had not existed. Amélie had never particularly cared for Mrs. Banks but it hurt all the same.
For the first time in a long while Amélie felt alone. Babette was no help. She had the Jaspers whom Amélie refused to befriend. While Babette gadded about with Betty Jasper Amélie spent long afternoons over embroidery or a book. Sometimes she would find herself pacing the floor. She tried not to think of little Charles, tried not to fret over Thaddeus from whom she had heard nothing in many months, tried not to dwell on Damon Fowler who haunted her dreams.
If she could only occupy herself with service, even a small one, for the South. But she had been advised by Captain Gruber, through Babette, that she was still under surveillance, and indeed she noticed a stoop-shouldered man following her from time to time. Any suspicious act on her part, even visiting the prisoners at Fort McHenry hospital, invited arrest and internment where the captain would be unable to do anything for her.
The summer of ’63 was hot and humid. In early July accounts of fierce fighting at a place called Gettysburg in Pennsylvania dominated the news. The North and South threw themselves at one another in a storm of explosive flame, blinding smoke, and terror. As the first day moved into the second and the third it disheartened Amélie to read that the Confederate army was being beaten back and finally forced to withdraw with a loss of one third of its men.
“It’s a blow,” Amélie said to Babette, “but not a decisive one as the papers make it out. We’ll be back. Just wait. The North may be superior in numbers, rifles, and shoe leather but we’ve a spirit they cannot match.”
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