Woman's Own

by Robyn Carr

  Dale’s smile was lazy and shrewd as he watched her reaction. This was the type of woman he understood perfectly. Not only had his father married two such creatures, he had made a sport of similar ingénues for the past few years. He could tease her with fancy dinners or a ride on his father’s yacht. He would soon part that reluctant virgin’s flesh. The worst that could possibly befall him was to be forced to drop a little money into the widow Armstrong’s palm to atone for her daughter’s poor judgment. This was just another upstart; it would be no more than she deserved.

  The mere thought put a strain on his trousers. He felt the familiar ache of impatience begin to swell.

  “How’d you manage an invitation to this?” he asked.

  “Oh…a friend of mine, Mary Ellen Jasper, introduced me to my escort, Wilbert Kennesdow.” As she said this, she glanced around a bit, but she didn’t see anyone she knew. It didn’t worry her much. There were still many floating dancers.

  “Wilbert?” he laughed, now more aware than ever how much Patricia would sacrifice for a single opportunity to be among the fashionable rich. He suddenly found Patricia’s desperate attempt hilarious. “Good God, you must have nearly caused the old boy to faint! He wouldn’t know what to do with a beauty like you!”

  She flushed slightly at what she believed was a compliment. “As it happens, he doesn’t know what to do with me. He hasn’t spoken a word to me all evening.”

  “But you weren’t lonely, were you, darling?” he asked, and she cocked her head, unsure whether there was a mocking quality in his voice. “You did have a good time?”

  “Oh yes, certainly.”

  “Will you send ‘round a note for me?”

  “Well, I’d like to,” she said, her eyes not on his face, but on the stickpin. “But…well, here’s something I can do. I can attend a lecture with my sister next Thursday afternoon. We’ll be passing by the theater, and Lilly always stops to read the bills. Meet me there at half past one, and I’ll tell you if I can plan a day for you soon? Hmmm?”

  “Wonderful.”

  She dropped her gaze, feeling uncertain for the first time that evening. “I…you know…I don’t have a deep wardrobe, Dale. I…”

  “We’ll do something that will make good use of your dress. There is no one more beautiful than you in that lavender.”

  She raised her eyes, reassured, feeling confidence surge through her once again. Her mother and sister were so wrong about these people, these very rich members of elite society. She had never met such an indulgent and generous lot. No one had yet spurned her for her lack. All had offered to share with her. Her mother, who had been one of them, should know this.

  “I have to find Dorthea--can’t have her looking for me.” He leaned closer to Patricia, and his voice was husky. “Don’t let me down, darling. I want to see you again. I want to take you someplace…special. Very special.” He brushed his lips against her cheek. She shivered at the sensation, withdrawing slightly. She disliked his breath.

  She watched him stride across the ballroom toward a small gathering of young people waiting in the foyer. He had a handsome enough face, and he was large. She had witnessed his quick strength, but his physique was somehow bulky. He was more bearlike than lithe. He swayed as he walked, unsteady and lurching. His carriage must be aristocratic, she decided.

  She watched Dale take the cloak of the homely young woman and solicitously drape it over her shoulders. The ugly girl glanced back at him, an affectionate glance. Then she touched the hand that lingered on her shoulder. Friends, Patricia thought. Humph. If I can’t get him away from her, I am nothing!

  A shudder ran through her. It didn’t occur to her to think about the reasons she disliked Dale Montaine. He was not nearly so solicitous of her as he was of this friend. And, largely due to the fact that she had not eaten, had consumed a great deal of champagne for a girl who had never before sipped alcohol, and was awake later than ever before, she made an excuse for the reason that Dale did not whisper to Dorthea Lancaster to sneak away to meet him. Dorthea’s mother was not angry with him, after all.

  When feelings of distaste and suspicion threatened to rise in her as she watched him, she forced herself to think about yachts and diamond stickpins. No man had succeeded in causing her to feel any desire; it hardly mattered that Dale had not. She doubted she would ever feel anything other than the shuddering revulsion that consumed her when a man touched her. From all that she’d read and heard, her feelings were completely normal. Women disliked this need in men. But she still intended to marry--and marry well. There simply wasn’t anything else she could do with her life.

  Dale gave her one last lingering look over his shoulder as he was leaving. He smiled briefly, suggestively, lifting his dark brows. She responded with her most fetching smile, raising her chin slightly in what might be a secret little laugh, a pact. Then she sighed heavily, rather exhausted by all of it. She hoped all the coyness, the acting, the pretending to be gay every moment and intrigued when she was bored would soon culminate in a successful marriage. She doubted she had the stamina to go on like this for long.

  After Dale had gone, she began to search more sincerely for the people who had brought her. She was invited to dance, and she obliged though her feet were blistered. The satin-covered slippers lined with white faille that Mary Ellen had provided were too small, but she was without options; she could hardly wear her brown leather kids, and she would not be seen limping about.

  She danced twice more, though she was less happy about dancing now. She scanned the room, seeing that there were most definitely fewer people; the walls, papered in a French design, were glaringly easy to see. It was not long past midnight--what of the dancing till dawn?

  “Excuse me, but I simply must find my escort. I don’t see him.”

  “Well, darling, a little late to think of that, isn’t it?”

  She stared at her grinning partner. He smiled as though he had some secret on her and she felt her cheeks flood with embarrassment.

  The Jaspers and the Kennesdows were not in the room. Her heart began to race in the panic of defeat and she hurried in the direction of the powder room where she found the uniformed maid drowsing in the chair.

  “Excuse me,” she said, gently jostling the girl’s arm. “I’m looking for my friend, Mary Ellen Jasper. Have you seen her?”

  “I don’t know ma’am. There’s been so many.”

  “Well,” Patricia faltered, “she’s about so high,” she said, using her hand, “wearing a faded rose satin, roses in her hair and along the bodice, and a white fan painted with roses. Oh, and spectacles.” And mean as a rabid cat, she wanted to add.

  “Oh! Oh, ma’am, is this you?” she asked, reaching into the pocket of her white starched apron and pulling out a note card. Patricia looked at it closely. It bore her name in perfect, large script.

  She nodded and took the card, reading the other side. Her face slowly grew crimson. “Keep the dress. You’ll need it. I’ll have your clothes sent to you. MEJ.”

  “Well! Of all the--”

  “Everything all right, ma’am?” the little maid asked. Clearly the girl could not read, or she would know.

  “Fine,” Patricia said, lifting her chin and trying to look as though she faced only a minor inconvenience. Or, that she had a plan, which she did not. “Will you find my cloak for me, please? The black velvet with otter trim.” If she’s bothered to leave me the wrap, she thought venomously. When the cloak was delivered to her, she felt a slight victory--for a moment.

  Even within the folds of the costly wrap, no solution came to mind. She wandered down to the foyer, looking into the ballroom. Only a few people were milling about. The members of the orchestra were putting away instruments; the dancing was over. No one she knew was in the room, not one of the nice young men who had danced with her and asked where she lived.

  A thick knot of young people stood in the foyer. They seemed to stare at her as a group. She sensed their amusement and superiority
, and her throat begin to ache at the thought that she would have to pass through them to leave. Earlier it had seemed worth the risk to wait near the roadside until dawn or to walk the great distance from the senator’s house to the park where she could find the first early morning horsecar. She had really believed that some gentlemanly fellow would offer her transportation. Now, when it was so late and dark, and the dozen or so gay young people in the foyer were just waiting to make fun of her as if they knew she’d been abandoned, she felt both foolish and angry. Had they been watching her all evening?

  She made her way toward the door, and someone leaned aside and said to his companion, “It’ll be our turn to make love next, if she’s been left without a gig.”

  Her cheeks burned, and she bolted toward the door where a servant seemed to bar her departure. “Your escort, madam?”

  “He’s…he’s waiting for me in the coach,” she stammered.

  “Yes, madam,” he said, opening the huge double doors. She stepped outside. There was a full moon in a clear sky, better to light her way. She nearly choked on her tears of humiliation. Left behind, her escort and friend gone! How could Mary Ellen do such a mean thing? She would never forgive her!

  The drive was lined with five or six coaches, each one monogrammed and therefore not for hire--not that she had the money. The tears filled her eyes, but she walked past the coaches with her chin high. When she had passed the gigs, she stepped off the stone drive and onto the lawn, pulling off the shoes and lifting her bulky skirts. She gulped on a sob. Damn them. Damn them all! Had she thought them generous and indulging? Mightn’t Wilbert have fixed her a ride home if nothing else? Didn’t he worry what might happen to her, abandoned and left to traverse a dark, country road alone? He could have afforded the cost of a hired carriage even if he didn’t wish to share the ride.

  She heard laughter behind her as the group she had passed went to their coaches. She refused to turn, knowing they were making sport of her. Were they all so high and mighty that they could laugh at the bad manners of one of their number? Did they think this was her fault? She held in her tears.

  She walked toward the iron gate that was fixed open for the departure of the rich, horse-drawn traps. Despite her efforts to be stronger than the pain, she limped slightly. A coach rattled by, followed by a second and a third. The horses churned up dirt that she feared might ruin her cloak and gown, the least she had earned from this mortifying night. Damned rich fools, she thought vindictively. I’ll show them someday--I’ll show them all. Someday the bloody lot of them will be walking home barefoot from my house. Somehow. The tears filled her eyes so that she couldn’t see the face of the young man who leaned out the window of his passing coach, waving and shouting, “Have a decent stroll, darling!”

  A servant was following her at some distance. It didn’t occur to her that he was going to lock the gate; she knew only that she couldn’t bear to face even a servant in this disgrace. With a strangled sob, she rushed through the gates and began down the road toward the city. The knotted and gnarled branches of trees formed a dark canopy over the dirt road, blocking the light of the moon, and she cried aloud, her feet throbbing and her heart breaking. This was to be her beginning, her chance to do better with her life! What had gone wrong? What secret little things should she have been told about people with money? Would they have treated one of their own-- one like Dorthea Lancaster--with such cruel dismissal? How had they been so certain she was not just like them? How had they known she was a nobody?

  She was in such misery that she couldn’t see very well, and she didn’t hear a sound above the noise of departing coaches, their dust only thickening an already dark passage. She was startled when she heard a male voice. She nearly jumped right out of her precious lavender satin.

  “It’s a mighty long walk,” Noel Padgett said. “Like a ride?”

  Chapter Five

  Emily didn’t sleep, and the reason was very difficult for her to accept. Noel had been wearing a formal suit when he departed in a hired coach, and her curiosity, indeed her concern had been provoked. She would hear him return; her opened window above the porch faced the street. Would the scent of perfume waft upwards? Why would he dress so for the evening if there was not a woman? Not for men.

  By the chimes she had heard from her highly prized Swiss clock on the pie safe downstairs it was after one, but she waited. To judge his mood, to listen to whether he whistled as he came into her house, to know the exact time, for she cared more than she liked. She hoped she had not contrived his interest, that he would come home tired and bored. And soon.

  These worries were both painful and delicious. The exquisite suffering of wanting a man, barely a memory to her after so many years, made her every sense sharper and more alert, every feeling more intense. She was aware of the risk, the danger of feeling so--but she had never felt more alive! Like being born, the slow, dramatic unfolding of emotion grew wide and full, like the opening of a rose. Noel was not like Ned. Emily Armstrong no longer had anything for which she could be used.

  She heard horse hooves and squeaking wheels, hinges and straining bolts that rattled and creaked as horses pulled a gig through ruts on their pot-holed, uncobbled street. If she peeked out the window, she could watch the coach pass under their only gas light, but instead she lay still, anxious, waiting for the sound of his boots on the steps, then on the porch, then on the stair, then-- But there were voices! Emily’s heart began to pound. She heard Noel’s voice and a woman’s, both hushed and secretive, the words cloaked by the sound of the hired trap’s departure. Surely he wouldn’t! He could not imagine she would allow him to bring a woman into her boardinghouse. Yet the soft scream of the screened door as it was being opened was loud. How dare he! was her desperate, furious thought. She flounced out of bed instantly, rummaging for the tinder box to light a night candle. She had to search for a wrapper to cover a bedgown that was every bit as concealing as her muslin daywear.

  She flew down the hall to light the wall lamp to illuminate the front staircase. In her panicked thoughts she had imagined herself chasing Noel and some evening mistress out of the house, but she was frozen in shock as she looked down toward the front door. Patricia stood at the foot of the stairs, but Emily barely recognized her.

  For a moment Emily couldn’t move. Patricia stared back, not embarrassed or afraid or ashamed. Her eyes were red as though she’d been crying, but filled with defiance. Emily noticed the daring ringlets that framed her new coiffure. The clothing she wore was strange: a rich, fur-trimmed wrap, buttoned gloves, satin slippers, and peeking out through the folds of the cloak was a shiny gown. Her first frantic conclusion was that Patricia had lied and sneaked away for an evening with Noel!

  Noel looked up the staircase at Emily. He had loosened his tie and removed the top two studs so that his shirt was finally comfortable. He observed Emily’s mute surprise and confusion, though it was hard for him to remember their problem when he was distracted by the sight of her loosened hair. Long, dark burnished gold hung in a thick mane down her back, just as he had always imagined it would. He had no experience in dealing with problems between mothers and their daughters, but forced himself to seize some instinct. “Mrs. Armstrong,” he whispered. “Please. Come downstairs.”

  Her bare feet were slow on the steps. When she reached the bottom, her gaze drifted between them, her lips parted in question. “Let the girl go to bed,” he said. “She’s all right, just disappointed.”

  “Patricia?” she asked.

  Patricia lifted her chin. Emily was actually relieved to see her eyes well with tears, replacing defiance. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go, Mama. Mary Ellen invited me to the party…a fancy party at a mansion and then Mary Ellen just left me and…”

  “What have you done? Oh, Patsy!”

  She felt Noel’s fingers gently pinch her elbow. When she looked at him, she was astonished to see pity. “Mrs. Armstrong, I expect you’d like a few answers. We can talk a spell in the kitchen.
Let’s don’t wake up the whole house over this.”

  Emily reached out to touch Patricia’s arm as if to reassure herself that her daughter was here, home, but Patricia actually pulled back. Emily could taste something metallic in her mouth and knew that what she tasted was fear. A distinct image of herself, an image of a girl nineteen years old, sneaking into her mother’s house after Ned had seduced her and spoiled her was as clear as if it had happened yesterday. What had her daughter done? And why? Am I too late? Emily asked herself. How can I make her see she must listen to me, believe me? She must!

  “Mrs. Armstrong. Emily.”

  “Yes. Yes, we mustn’t wake up the boarders. Patsy, go quietly to bed. We’ll talk in the morning,” she whispered. She wanted to say, “I love you, Patsy.” But she didn’t.

  Patricia rustled noisily up the stairs in her full, borrowed petticoats; Lilly would be awakened and startled but Emily couldn’t worry about that now. When Patricia closed her bedroom door, Emily turned to Noel. “Do you know what’s happened to my daughter?”

  Noel had a heavy kind of weight in his gut and wondered if this was a fatherly feeling. But wouldn’t a father have pulled Patricia out of there, or maybe put a strong arm on a few young men? At the very least a father would want to throw up that young coquette’s skirts and paddle her rump. He had been trying to decide all evening how he was going to do the right thing--tell Emily the truth about her daughter’s behavior--and yet remain in her good graces. “Maybe we could put that teapot to boil?” he asked.

  “Oh…Mr. Padgett,” she began, her hands pulling at the sides of her robe as if considering her state of dress, the hour, what people might think. A naked foot popped out, and she jumped quickly to conceal it. Noel was surprised she didn’t gasp and blush. He found her notions of propriety suddenly ridiculous.

  “Aw, spit,” he muttered, taking her elbow and steering her toward the kitchen. “You know something, Emily, there’s nobody can’t appreciate all your prim little manners more than me, but you have a young ‘un in trouble, and I’m the one brought her home for you.” He found a match by the stove and lit a lamp. He then crouched down and found some kindling in the wood box and lit it. When the coal took light off the kindling, he stood and faced her. “There’s manners and there’s manners. Just now I think we’d all be a sight better off if you’d make yourself a cup of tea and let me tell you what I know about this here party.” She stared at him for a long, quiet moment. He lifted his eyebrows. “Find the teapot, Emily,” he slowly instructed, and she lurched into the task as though she couldn’t have done it by rote and needed someone to direct her. Once in motion, however, she moved with dispatch.