A flash of red caught his eye, and his mouth curved in a smile against his champagne glass as he observed Hattie. She was trapped in conversation with Aurelia Donaldson, one of Mattawa society’s guiding lights. A favorite affectation of Aurelia’s was an old-fashioned lorgnette, which she wielded to great effect. As he watched, she alternated between peering fiercely through the lenses at the bristling little redhead standing before her and tapping the frame against Hattie’s arm to underscore a point in her conversation. Hattie was clearly struggling to remain polite, but she looked seconds away from snatching the mounted glasses and snapping them in two.
Before Jake could push away from the wall to go to her rescue, Jane-Ellen swept up, exchanged a few remarks with Aurelia, and deftly whisked Hattie away.
Hattie’s flaming mop reminded Jake of his going-away party at Mamie Parker’s establishment the evening before announcing their engagement. Not that Mamie’s hennaed hair compared with the natural brilliance of Hattie’s, but it was dyed in a close enough approximation to elicit a small synapse of remembrance. Mamie had lamented Jake’s upcoming marriage, swearing over the tinny piano music that her girls threatened to don black to mourn their favorite customer’s passage from bachelor to husband. She’d grinned around the black cheroot clenched between her teeth and told him his next visit was on the house.
“Thank you kindly,” he’d replied. “But as of tomorrow, my heart belongs to Jane-Ellen.”
“Honey, she can have your heart,” Mamie had replied with a dirty laugh. “What I want is a whole lot farther south.”
Jake had grinned and left it at that. But he had every intention of being a faithful husband. He had a whole lot of love to give, and he’d merely been whiling away the hours with Mamie’s girls until Jane-Ellen was his. He wouldn’t have gone to them at all if Jane-Ellen had allowed him to express his love with a little more freedom than a few openmouthed kisses.
He’d rather hoped that once engaged, Jane-Ellen wouldn’t find it quite as necessary to adhere so rigidly to the rules. But she was highly moral, his Jane-Ellen. And the few times he’d tried to touch her breasts, she’d frozen in shock and indignation.
Well, hallelujah, they were legally married. In a few short hours, his very own wife would supply everything he’d formerly obtained from Mamie’s girls. More, because he loved Jane-Ellen.
Jake grinned broadly and straightened from his indolent slouch against the wall. Slipping his empty champagne glass onto a passing waiter’s tray, he spied his wife in the crowd. He swooped down on her, laughing, and swept her onto the dance floor for a waltz around the ballroom.
7
It was Jake Murdock’s wedding night. Roger Lord turned away from the rain-streaked window and crossed the room to take a chair in front of the unlit fireplace. For several long moments, he stared broodingly at the prearranged kindling and logs; then he rose to tug the bell pull. The logs required only a match to set them ablaze, but Roger saw no reason to do a chore himself when there were servants to do it for him. He poured a brandy and resumed his seat.
The maid entering the room was young and nervous. She shot an apprehensive glance at Roger and scurried to do his bidding. As she was leaving moments later, his voice stopped her. “When I looked in on her, my wife was asleep.”
The girl nodded jerkily. “Yes, sir. She wanted to stay awake to hear all about the wedding, but she fell asleep quite early this evening.”
He nodded as well. Gertrude had been quite animated when she’d asked him to make note of all the details so he could relate them to her. She was a good woman. But she’d been an invalid for years now and was frail. “Wait for me in my room,” he commanded the maid, enjoying the fear that entered her eyes. He watched her hurry out of the library and thought about Jane-Ellen Murdock, Jake’s new bride.
It was obvious she was a virgin. One, moreover, who was clearly terrified of the night ahead—and no doubt damn near everything else the least bit earthy. The mere thought of tearing into that tender, unused body, of looking into her eyes and seeing her pain, her fear and revulsion, aroused him tremendously. She was perfect, just ripe for the teaching.
And utterly wasted on the likes of Jake Murdock.
He’d heard the talk at Mamie Parker’s place. They said that even with the whores Jake took his time and tried to ensure their enjoyment. Their enjoyment, for Christ’s sake! The man was a fool. Worse than that, after working with him Roger knew Jake possessed an even more damning weakness: he was a damn bleeding heart.
Roger didn’t understand. Murdock was a superior personage by right of birth. He was a member of the higher classes, he was male, and he had a standing to uphold in the community. Yet more than once he’d accepted pro bono cases over Roger’s objections.
It was ludicrous, a man of such obvious breeding wasting his very real legal talents, working gratis to solve the problems of people of the lowest echelon!
Watching Jake misuse his rightful powers filled Roger with contempt.
He detested weakness but exploited it where he could. There were times, however, when a situation could not be turned to one’s advantage no matter how much research one put into it. Tonight was one of those. Jake had an opportunity for which Roger would give much—that of breaking in a well-born virgin. And the fool was going to mishandle that, too.
A woman should be dominated from the onset, trained to know her place. Not looking at it that way was Murdock’s weakness. A man who tried to give whores pleasure with his God-given sword hardly displayed the necessary intelligence to indoctrinate his new bride to her proper place. Oh, what Roger would give—
He was bored with debauching servants. It was too damn easy; all he really had to do was ensure the women entering his employ lacked a family to look after them. Where was the challenge in that for a man of his superior intellect? His deepest desire was a chance at someone like Jane-Ellen, a complete innocent whose descent into pain and fear would be all the sweeter for having been sheltered all her life.
Gertrude had begun fading away these past few years, and he didn’t believe she was long for this world. He supposed he could always remarry—the mamas of Mattawa loved parading their fragile flowers under his nose, even with his invalid wife still alive. But ultimately fear left a woman’s eyes and resignation took its place. And who wanted to be saddled with a whining female once the thrill was gone? Not when it was a simple matter to write an excellent reference for his current toy, then put the maid on a train to Eugene or Portland and move on to the next.
It galled Roger that a fool like Jake should be awarded a prize like Jane-Ellen when there were men eminently worthier to show her her place. Cursing softly, he finished his drink.
Then he retired to his room to wreak vengeance upon the hapless body of the latest in a succession of orphaned, friendless servant girls.
* * *
—
It was Jake and Jane-Ellen’s wedding night. Hattie sat on the edge of her bed to tug off her shoes, wiggling her toes the instant she liberated them. She’d overheard two men at the reception laughing and exchanging low-voiced jests about wedding nights and fornication. Was that what Jake and Jane-Ellen were doing?
Hattie had a vague knowledge of fornication, gleaned from overheard snatches of conversation and by once sneaking into the stud barn at the ranch to watch a stallion cover a mare. The stallion had possessed this huge, glistening thing between his rear legs, which he’d plunged into the mare. He had then worked it in and out with powerful thrusts of his haunches, and it had made Hattie feel very peculiar. Repelled for the most part. Yet a bit drawn by the act as well. She remembered feeling flushed and sort of weak, and to her embarrassment she especially remembered the strange lightning-like darts of sensation streaking through the not-to-be-mentioned private place between her legs.
Was that how Jane-Ellen felt right now? Did Jake possess one of those things like the stallion, and
if so, where did he hide an extremity of such size during the day?
Wearing only her white silk stockings, rolled, then twisted around a penny to secure them above her knees, Hattie glanced guiltily around the room as if Mirabel or Aunt Augusta might appear at any moment to deliver a lecture on the virtues of maidenly modesty. When no one materialized, she crossed to stand in front of the cheval glass. She stared at herself in the mirror.
Her body had been undergoing a great many changes recently, and criminy was it confusing. She was growing bosoms. At first, they’d merely been two barely there swellings on her chest. Then the little flat disks in the center of them had puffed up. That had kind of shaken her, so she’d asked Aunt Augusta about it.
Augusta, usually so unflappable, had grown all flustered and turned red. But not one to shirk her duty, she’d finally informed Hattie the disks were called nipples and what Hattie was experiencing was natural for a girl nearly twelve years old.
Feeling ever so much better, Hattie had tried to work the new word into a couple conversations, but that had only landed her in all sorts of trouble. Like “sonovabitch,” “nipples” was a word apparently best discarded if you didn’t want your mouth washed out with soap.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Hattie had to admit her bosoms were beginning to assume a womanly shape, having grown beyond that first immature swelling. They weren’t as fully developed as a grown-up lady’s, but already their new shape had attracted some unsolicited attention. The least amount of activity seemed to make them bounce beneath her thin chemise, and just last week she’d completed her turn at the jump rope and looked up to find Moses Marks turning four shades of red as he stared at her chest.
Imagine what his face would look like if he saw what was happening to her private place.
If “nipples” wasn’t a word to be bandied about, she didn’t have to be told her secret place was not a topic for polite conversation. It was growing hair and she needed to talk to someone about it. But imagine asking about that at the dinner table! Lord, she wished Aunt Augusta hadn’t been so uncomfortable over the nipples inquiry. Why on earth was this happening to her?
She studied the sparse ginger-colored wisps in the mirror and worried what people said about her might be true. Maybe she was wild. True, the hoity-toity girls at school had taken Hattie accidentally flashing her knickers climbing the schoolyard tree and blown it way out of proportion. They’d even blabbed to their parents, which Hattie learned when it got back to Aunt Augusta. So, was this new development on her secret place a brand testifying to her wildness?
But if that were so, wouldn’t it be placed in a more conspicuous spot for all to see? Pastor Stone loved to thunder about the wages of sin, but Hattie didn’t see how that applied to her. Biggest sin she’d ever committed was helping Moses put that little garter snake in Miss Cooper’s desk, and that wasn’t even a real sin, was it?
She had never killed, stole, coveted, or lied. Well, okay, she’d told a number of half-truths this past year, but according to Aunt Augusta that was deemed acceptable behavior. Like remarking on the pretty color of Miss Martha Smits’ gown when asked how she liked it, instead of pointing out the style made her look like a pumpkin.
Hattie donned her nightgown. The hoity-toity girls didn’t like her much. They either ridiculed her or ignored her, and she knew from comments they made they didn’t consider her as properly civilized as she should be.
So, clearly, she couldn’t ask one of them if they experienced anything the likes of which she was undergoing. The farm girls were nicer, but they kind of stuck together and left the minute school was over to lend a hand on their ranches or farms. The boys liked her better, but she was pretty sure this was one of those things where it was best not to solicit a boy’s opinion.
Hattie climbed into bed and picked up Lillian, who spent more time on the pillows these days. She hugged the doll to her chest, trying to alleviate the feeling of emptiness there. She hated to cry, hated the loss of control, but hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes despite her efforts to stop them.
There was only one person she felt she could ask about the strange things happening to her without embarrassment. Only one person who would not be horrified, talk about her behind her back, or ridicule her. But he was on his wedding night.
* * *
—
Jake had reserved a suite at the Buchannan, where their reception was held. Tomorrow he and Jane-Ellen were leaving for a two-week honeymoon up in Seattle. Tonight, he opened the door to their room and swept Jane-Ellen up in a billow of lace and satin. Stepping over the threshold, he kicked the door closed behind them. Still holding her against his chest, he whirled in a circle and laughed down at her. “Welcome to your honeymoon suite, Mrs. Murdock.”
Jane-Ellen smiled up at him with radiant joy. It momentarily eclipsed the fear, which had steadily increased as the evening shadows grew longer across the ballroom floor. She tightened her arms around his neck. “Mrs. Murdock! Oh, Jake, that sounds so wonderful.” She raised her mouth to bestow a warm, chaste kiss on his lips.
Jake was swamped by a nearly overwhelming emotion. He had an urgent desire to devour her, like a wolf tossed a scrap of raw meat after being tethered just beyond reach of a meal. Starved for her affection, he wanted to sink his teeth in, slake this awful hunger, and take without regard to fine manners, finesse, or gentleness.
Shaken by his impulses, he very carefully returned Jane-Ellen’s virginal kiss and set her on her feet. Running a finger beneath his stiff celluloid collar, he glanced around the suite, grateful to spy the service trolley in the sitting room. “Good, they sent up the tray I ordered. Sit down and let me serve you. You barely touched a bite downstairs.” He seated his new bride on the silk-covered settee and pulled up a small table in front of her. He dished up portions of oysters, prime rib, steamed carrots, and flaky oven-fresh rolls. He poured her a glass of champagne, watched her take a few sips, then hand-fed her bites from his own plate.
And all the while his need grew, simmering and percolating below his surface attentiveness.
After their meal, Jake drew a bath for Jane-Ellen and left the bathroom to give her privacy. Then he spent what seemed an eternity pacing and trying to gain control over the emotions rampaging through him like spooked cattle. God, he’d waited a long time for this! But he needed to cool down. He already knew she was apprehensive. She’d die of fright if he went at her like a mad dog.
Jake eyed the opened champagne bottle longingly but saved it for Jane-Ellen. She’d need it to relax her. He, on the other hand, could make it easier for her by keeping his wits about him.
He crossed to his portmanteau and extracted the case holding his straight-edge razor and badger-hair shaving brush. After setting them atop the dresser, he removed his collar and cuffs and added them to the growing clutter. With nothing left to do, he examined the room’s furnishings and stared out the window at Commercial Street two stories below. Finally, he pulled out his timepiece, snapped it open, and checked the time. Was she ever coming out of there?
* * *
—
For the tenth time, Jane-Ellen rearranged the fit of her fine lawn night rail. She studied her reflection in the wavy mirror, looked around the room, and knew she’d delayed as long as she could. Heart beating heavily, she opened the door a crack and slipped through.
Jake crossed the room, stopping to pour her more champagne before coming to stand in front of her. He extended the flute to her. “You look beautiful,” he murmured in the deepest voice she’d ever heard.
“Thank you,” she whispered and sipped her champagne. Her heart pounded as her new husband ushered her over to the bed. “Wait here,” he instructed in a gentle voice. “Have more champagne if you like. I’ll only be moments.” Gathering his grooming supplies off the bureau, he went into the bathroom and closed the door.
He must have raced through his toilet, fo
r he was back in record time, wearing only a towel around his midsection. Jane-Ellen’s eyes flared wide in panic. Wasn’t he going to put on a nightshirt?
The mattress dipped as Jake sat on the side of the bed and reached for her. She tried to relax but couldn’t shake the stiffness in her spine as she allowed Jake’s embrace. When he would have kissed her, however, she whispered, “Jake, the lights.”
“I want to look at you.”
Dear God. “Please.”
He got up and doused the lights. Then, in a darkness only slightly relieved by the dim glow of a streetlamp down on the corner of Commercial and Main, Jake crossed back to the bed. Dropping his towel on the floor, he climbed under the covers. He rolled over and pulled her into his arms. “God,” he said hoarsely. “I thought this day would never come.” He kissed her.
Jane-Ellen had never truly grown accustomed to Jake’s openmouthed kisses, but she tried desperately to relax and respond. Her arms around his neck held him limply as she lay waiting for what would happen to happen. Time seemed to stretch endlessly before Jake’s mouth left hers and he trailed his lips down her throat, pressing kisses into her skin. He slipped the tiny buttons of her night rail from their loops and she couldn’t stop herself from going rigid as her nightgown parted down the front.
“Shh,” he whispered with the same softness he’d use to soothe a fractious mare. His fingertips gently brushed over her collarbones. “Easy, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle. It can be so beautiful, Jane-Ellen. You’ll see.” His mouth moved lower, pressing soft kisses across her chest. Slowly, one of his hands lowered to carefully cup her breast.
The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Page 6
