These Golden Pleasures

by Valerie Sherwood

  With a newfound composure, Roxanne sat back in her seat and waited for the train to arrive in Baltimore. Buffeted by events, she had grown up a little and her purpose had hardened. She would be no man’s plaything! Especially not such a man as that!

  Roxanne Rossiter, with all her young dreams, was gone, she told herself firmly. As Mary Willis she would arrive in Baltimore, and there make a new life for herself.

  Part Two:

  Baltimore 1895—1896

  Chapter 5

  Dawn was breaking when Roxanne arrived in Baltimore. The day was warm and cloudy, and a pale sun cast its gray light over the smokestacks, the warehouses and the tall buildings of the big industrial city with its great port. Soon it would be blistering hot.

  She alighted at the magnificent new Mt. Royal Station, a monumental building of massive granite set in a hollow of the city, its tall clock tower giving it the austere look of a Norman keep. In the enormous waiting room with its polished marble columns and huge fireplace and oak paneling, she seated herself and read again the letter from Joab Coulter. People came and went. Near her on a comfortable rocking chair a big woman sat stolidly and fanned herself. After a while Roxanne got up and took a deep breath. There was no point in postponing the moment.

  She found a carriage for hire and gave the driver the address on the letter. He took her to a tall, frowning brownstone town house on fashionable Mt. Vernon Place.

  With her heart beating wildly, Roxanne alighted and paid the driver. Carrying her little valise, she climbed the seven stone steps to the massive front door and banged with the iron boar’s head knocker.

  To the dignified manservant who opened the door, she said she was Mary Willis of San Francisco and she was expected. Barely able to conceal his surprise as his eyes took in her pert lush figure and fresh-faced youth, he led her into the front hall and told her to wait. Roxanne sank down on a small rosewood chair and looked about the paintings, which she presumed to be family portraits. Their heavy gilt and walnut frames were set against the imported Renaissance-design paper that covered the walls above the dark wainscoting. The backgrounds of these portraits were green and rural, most of them depicting a rolling limestone countryside shaded by enormous oaks and red maples. She liked the faces of the people—open and candid with eyes that regarded her, steadily. The best displayed portrait, lit by a shaft of fight from the stairway, was apparently an older painting than the rest;, its subject looked to be an English gentleman standing on the terrace of his ancestral holding. He was broad-shouldered, wore a satin coat and knee breeches and had a commanding look about him.

  But her favorite portrait was one in the darkest corner, which she could see only by moving closer: It depicted a man of good height and proportions, seated on a spirited horse whose dark mane—like the rider’s hair—blew eternally in a painted wind. It was not the man’s figure that arrested her, nor his obvious look of command, nor yet his handsome regularity of features. Rather it was the wildness of his green eyes, the humorous twist of the mouth, the firmness of the square jaw. A worldly face, she thought, and wondered who this gentleman was and why he was hidden in the darkest spot behind the stairs.

  After a moment the manservant returned and led her into a long dining room where a tall thin man with iron-gray hair and bright, sunken eyes in a cavernous face sat alone at breakfast. He looked startled at sight of her, and his thick dark brows drew together.

  “You are Mary Willis?” he demanded incredulously. Unused to deceit, and afraid he would read guilt in her face, Roxanne bobbed a greeting and answered in a stifled voice, “Yes, sir.”

  He leaned forward. “Surely you cannot be the Mary Willis who was in service to my Cousin Hattie for some thirty years?”

  Roxanne hadn’t known he knew that. She swallowed and improvised.

  “I—I’m her daughter, sir. When she died I took her place in Miss Hattie’s household. Miss Hattie trained me, sir. She was fond of me. And it’s because I’m young that she wrote to you, sir. She didn’t want me led into evil paths.”

  She had not mistaken the fanatical gleam that shone in those eyes. At this last statement the frowning gentleman looked somewhat mollified. He sat back and drummed his bony knuckles on the tablecloth.

  “Mrs. Hollister, our housekeeper, informs me we’re in need of an upstairs maid. And you can attend Miss Clarissa as well when she returns. You look to be a strong clever girl; you should be able to do double duty as a young lady’s maid.”

  He had accepted her story! Dizzy with relief, Roxanne inclined her head in meek assent.

  “Mary.” He pondered. “We’ve two Mary’s in this household already.”

  “My name is Mary Roxanne,” supplied Roxanne hastily. “You could call me Roxanne, sir.”

  “Roxanne.” He rolled the name over his tongue. “Yes, that will do.” He rang a little bell beside him and the manservant, whom Roxanne now presumed to be the butler, appeared.

  “Greaves, tell Mrs. Hollister I wish to see her.” Greaves disappeared and, ignoring Roxanne, the elderly gentleman returned to eating his breakfast.

  She took the opportunity to look around the, handsome room, which was large and paneled in dark walnut. Occupying a commanding position on one wall, a large mahogany sideboard held a rich assortment of silver bowls and platters from which the butler had obviously just served Joab Coulter his breakfast. Watching him eat made Roxanne hungry, for she had not yet eaten this morning. The table was long, and she decided it must have extra leaves to lengthen it still further, for there were a number of extra chairs set between carved servers and a large mahogany china closet. Overhead a branched crystal chandelier caught the light from the windows and sparkled.

  But again the portraits were what interested her most. There were more of them here, crowded into all the available wall space, as if no one must be left out. While the countryside in the background of these paintings was as rich and green as that in the hall portraits, these people were of a different cut altogether. They seemed to represent two distinct types: Most were handsome men and women with carefree faces and the look of pleasure lovers about them, but a few of the faces were cold and austere—and their painted eyes chilled Roxanne. There was a cruel look about the mouths of this latter group; their lips were a trifle too full for beauty, and a kind of knowing malice lingered behind those intelligent painted eyes.

  Studying these dining room portraits as she waited patiently beside the long table, Roxanne was puzzled. It seemed impossible that these people could share the same blood as those in the front hall.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Hollister, who gave Roxanne a surprised look, but recovered herself and listened with rapt attention as Roxanne’s circumstances were briefly recounted.

  Mrs. Hollister, who was plump and stood with her whole body slightly inclined in a birdlike way, listening to her employer’s terse words, straightened up and dimpled.

  “I’ll see to her, sir,” she chirped and motioned Roxanne to follow her. In the doorway she turned and gave her employer a sunny smile. “Miss Clarissa will be glad she’s so young.”

  “Time,” said Joab Coulter with perhaps unconscious humor, “will correct that.”

  His tone, though sententious, was slightly scathing, and Roxanne smarted a little under it. She followed dumpy little Mrs. Hollister into the hall, amused to observe that the housekeeper wore an old-fashioned bustle, which made her stout figure appear even stouter.

  At a clattering noise from the street, Mrs. Hollister paused and cocked her head alertly. “I believe I hear the ice wagon coming,” she said. “He hasn’t been delivering enough ice. He’ll be stopping at the neighbor’s and were next. I’ll just show you to your room, Roxanne, and then I’ll come back down and wait for him. You can unpack, and I’ll send Reba up to get you started; she'll show you where things are. There’ll be little for you to do until Miss Clarissa returns.”

  “Who is Miss Clarissa?” asked Roxanne.

  “She’s Mr
. Coulter’s cousin by his first wife—the one from the Eastern Shore. Mr. Coulter is Miss Clarissa’s guardian, and so she makes her home here since her parents died. She’s away visiting just now.”

  “How large is the family?” ventured Roxanne.

  “Only three really—except for Miss Clarissa. Mr. Joab Coulter has two sons: Mr. Gavin is the elder son, and Mr. Rhodes is the younger. Neither of them is married.” She turned and fixed Roxanne with her bright, birdlike gaze as if to emphasize her next remark. “Both of them are fine young men.”

  They had almost reached the stairs.

  “I don’t understand about the portraits,” said Roxanne. “They look so different—the ones in the front hall and those in the dining room.”

  Mrs. Hollister paused and considered her. “The ones in the dining room are of his first wife’s family,” she explained. “Those in the hall are of his second wife’s family.”

  Roxanne looked down the hall. “Who is the commanding gentleman in the dark spot behind the stairs?”

  “He was Mr. Rhodes’s grandfather on his mother’s side—a Virginia gentleman. Mr. Rhodes looks just like him.”

  And his portrait was consigned to the darkest part of the hall. Plainly, Joab Coulter had not cared for his father-in-law. She wondered what Rhodes would be like, a man who looked like that. . . .

  On the second floor landing Mrs. Hollister hesitated, a little frown on her face.

  “You’re very pretty,” she murmured. “I think— yes, you should sleep on the third floor instead of on the second floor back with the other maids. It will be more convenient for you, being near Miss Clarissa and you’ll be right next door to me.” She studied Roxanne thoughtfully. “I sleep soundly, but I don’t mind being waked. Just call out if you’re frightened.”

  “Why would I be frightened?” wondered Roxanne.

  “Oh, it’s a big house,” shrugged Mrs. Hollister. “And when Mr. Rhodes is here, he comes in at all hours. Mr. Gavin does too, for that matter. So you might wake up and . . . hear footsteps. There’s nothing to be frightened of. Nothing at all.”

  Roxanne thought uneasily that Mrs. Hollister protested too much.

  They continued to the third floor. On the landing, her head inclined as she listened for the iceman, Mrs. Hollister launched into some rules of the house.

  Roxanne was instructed that henceforth she would use the servants’ entrance, which was below and to the right of the stone steps that led to the massive front door. She would sleep in the servants’ wing on the third floor back—which was the top floor of the servants’ wing, although the main structure, the front, was four stories tall. She would use the servants’ back stairway. Since Miss Clarissa’s rooms occupied the entire third floor of the main structure, Roxanne’s room would be located close to the main stair landing— where Miss Clarissa could call her conveniently.

  Because the rooms in the servants’ wing were lower than were the rooms in the main house, Roxanne found herself going down three steps from the third-floor stair landing before reaching the narrow hall where her small room was the first door on the right. A closet used only to store boxes and trunks faced her room and, at the end of the hall, the larger room that occupied the whole back of the servants’ wing was Mrs. Hollister’s.

  There was a clattering noise below. “Ah, that’s the iceman now,” Mrs. Hollister said and scurried away.

  When the door closed on the housekeeper, Roxanne surveyed her new surroundings. Small and square and with only one window, the room was stuffy and airless in the muggy summer heat. Its walls were painted a dull buff. The effect was almost colorless.

  Removing her hat, she flung it on the narrow, lumpy iron bed and began to unpack her valise. There was little to unpack, but carefully she hung her worn yellow calico on one of several hooks in the wall. The little toilet articles Julie had given her she arranged in the top drawer of the battered pine washstand, whose cracked marble top supported an ironstone washbowl and pitcher. In a lower compartment was a sturdy white ironstone slop jar. The room was devoid of decoration—there was a roll-up blind but no curtains, a mere scrap of hooked rug was the sole floor covering, and in one corner stood a rickety pine dresser and a straight chair.

  Roxanne sighed and taking the pins out of her hair, began to comb it energetically before the cracked mirror that stood atop the washstand. She hadn’t expected luxury, she told herself firmly.

  While she was combing her hair, Reba came in. Reba was a tall, lanky redhead with dark eyes and a wide mouth that wore a cynical expression.

  “Well, old Holly said you were pretty,” she observed. “For once she was right!”

  Roxanne laughed. “I’m Roxanne—”she started to say “Rossiter” but caught herself and said, “Willis.”

  “I know. I’m Reba Payne.” Reba grinned at her. “Holly told me you were going to be lady’s maid to Miss Clarissa.” She laughed. “Better you than me!”

  “Oh? What’s Clarissa like?”

  “Miss Clarissa is eighteen years old,” said Reba, “and spoiled rotten. She gives us all a fit what with wanting her dresses pressed right now, and when we’re busy always wanting things fetched and carried. She’s never satisfied with anything, not Miss Clarissa. So you’re to be her maid? Well, well!”

  Roxanne began to have forebodings about her new mistress. Life on Mt. Vernon Place might not be as serene as she had hoped. Oh, well, she would endure whatever was necessary, and if she did not like it here, would eventually get herself a recommendation as “Mary Willis” and find herself a new position!

  “Mrs. Hollister told me there were two sons in the family. How old are they?”

  “Mr. Gavin is in his early thirties. He’s the son by Mr. Joab’s first wife—she came from the Eastern Shore and was rich. Mr. Rhodes is the son by Mr. Joab’s second wife—she came from Virginia and was even richer.” Reba plopped herself down on Roxanne’s bed. “Mr. Rhodes is in his twenties.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “The cook we used to have—she’d been here forever and finally dropped dead in the kitchen—she said Mr. Rhodes’s mother married Joab Coulter on the rebound after she’d had a terrible fight with her lover, else he’d never have got her. They weren’t happy together. Mr. Joab Coulter’s very religious,” she added, “and he likes Mr. Gavin best. But everyone else prefers Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Mrs. Hollister said you’d show me where things are and get me started.”

  Reba shrugged and got up and led her to a large step-down linen closet reached by a door from the stair landing. Now Roxanne knew why the box room opposite her was so small: the enormous linen closet reached into the servants’ wing and took up most of the space! Stacks of neatly folded bed linens met her eye, piles of blankets and coverlets and towels and heavy quilts—for winters were cold in Baltimore. Although it was dark in the linen closet, all these neat, freshly laundered things gave Roxanne a feeling of luxury and plenty.

  She closed the door behind her with a smile and waited for Reba to tell her what to do.

  “Look, just make the beds and straighten up and dust,” Reba said hastily. She stuck a dust mop in Roxanne’s hands. “Sheets don’t get changed until tomorrow. Start on the first floor and work your way up. We’re working on the ironing, and I’ve got to get back downstairs or Holly will be screaming for me. When you finish, come on back behind the kitchen. That’s where you’ll find me—in the laundry.”

  Reba accompanied her downstairs, chattering companionably. On the first floor she showed Roxanne Joab Coulter’s bedroom which Roxanne was surprised to see occupied the large room that normally would have been the drawing room. This was due, Reba told her, to the fact that he had rheumatism, which kept him incapacitated much of the time. Behind his bedroom, at the end of a short hall that branched off to the right of the main hallway, was a small office where business with tradespeople was transacted, and where ledgers were kept. And behind it was a private study that could be entered only from Mr. Coulter’s bedroom. Across the entire
back of the house, Reba indicated with a wave of her hand, stretched the long dining room; and behind it, in the servants’ wing, were the kitchen and laundry and two cubbyhole rooms where Cook and Greaves the butler respectively slept, since Cook needed to be near the kitchen and Greaves was on more or less constant call.

  “Enjoy yourself!” said Reba blithely, and hurried away to her ironing. Roxanne watched that swinging stride depart and then, dust mop firmly in hand, went in to make up the big towering four-poster in Joab Coulter’s baronial retreat. She found the room vaguely unpleasant with its stiff horsehair furniture and heavy olive drapes and shadowy corners in the dark oak paneling. On the walls were vast paintings of sea battles. Joab Coulter seemed to have a taste for gore. These were not pictures in which the landing of cannon balls was recorded in puffs of smoke—these were close-up scenes of decks slippery with blood as men with angry faces grappled hand to hand, slashing and maiming. Roxanne studied them and shuddered at the mind that would care to regard such scenes before falling asleep at night. Over the mantel was a large lithograph of an angel—but even this angel carried a sword in one upraised hand and had an avenging expression in the eyes that blazed beneath his mop of golden hair. On a handsome commode by the bed lay a large, well-thumbed Bible, open with a velvet bookmark. This mixture of bloody battle pictures and godliness made her wonder about the past of the gaunt man with the fanatical gleam in his eye.

  Joab Coulter’s private study was a small, darkly paneled room dominated by an ornate desk of rosewood and mahogany with a brass galleried top, ornate front legs and four drawers that opened down the side. Beside it stood a small, glass-fronted bookcase stuffed with letters tied with twine, and numerous other papers. Roxanne, industriously wielding a dust cloth, wondered if her employer spent much time in this gloomy place.