Chapter 6
The summer heat of Baltimore, which caused irritability among the staff, didn’t bother Roxanne. She was used to the sultry stifling heat of southern summers. In Kansas she had been terribly homesick for Savannah, with its lush vegetation, its rows of houses with brick-walled gardens, its gracious tree-lined streets and evergreen-planted squares, its waxy magnolias and moss-hung live oaks. But in Baltimore, to her delight, she met again the pale flowers of the tulip tree, the creamy magnolia blossoms with their heavy scent. Remembering the fan-shaped transoms and arched recessed doorways, the small entrance stoops and fine ironwork of Savannah, Roxanne felt instantly at home with Baltimore’s ornate ironwork and white marble stoops and pleasant Georgian houses. It was good to be in a port city again—where the tang of salt was in the air, and tall ships with billowing white sails glided beneath a sky smudged with the smoke of steamers from many lands.
Roxanne came to enjoy her new position as maid in the Coulter household. There was little to do, and Mrs. Hollister—who favored her for reasons Roxanne could not understand—frequently gave her an afternoon off to prowl around the city. She often spent the whole time riding horse trolleys about the town.
Baltimore, she found, was an ironclad city. Great cast-iron fronted buildings such as the Sun Iron Building rose some five stories above the street, and huge warehouses seemed to cover acres. She stood in awe before the massive brick rectangle of the U.S. Appraisers’ Stores at Gay and Lombard Streets; four, stories high it rose, with arched window tops and heavy cast-iron shutters and brick vaults supporting each floor. From the house on Mt. Vernon Place she strolled the short distance to admire the marble pile of the Peabody Institute, and on very hot days cooled off in the Library wing, looking around at the four handsome tiers of ornamental cast-iron balconies that supported the stacks on all four walls of the reading room.
At the Peabody Library, she browsed through monumental works of history, but at home on Mt. Vernon Place she filched novels such as East Lynne and Lady Audley’s Secret from a cache she had discovered at the back of Clarissa’s wardrobe, and read them by the oil lamp in her room. The servants’ wing was not fitted with gaslights as was the main structure. Roxanne guessed that Joab Coulter disapproved of such “trashy” novels, and that Clarissa had managed to smuggle them in and hide them from him.
For some reason, Mary Bridey confided in Roxanne. Because she had no one else to talk to about it, Roxanne guessed. Mrs. Hollister refused to admit what had happened; Cook was sullen in the summer heat and went about muttering; Ella, the new maid, kept her eyes cast down and seldom spoke; and Mary Bridey could hardly discuss her problem with Greaves
In the empty laundry one muggy day before she left, Mary Bridey confided, “Mr. Gavin’s found a place for me with a woman who takes in girls like me until they’s had their baby.” And added proudly, “He’s paid her ahead so it’s all taken care of, and he said to say I was goin’ to live with my sister.”
“Why?” asked Roxanne curiously.
Mary Bridey rolled her eyes. “Why, because his father don’t hold with a son of his foolin’ around with the maids!”
“But what about later? What will happen to you?”
“Mr. Gavin is taking care of that,” said Mary Bridey confidently. “He’s finding me a new situation and he’s goin’ to help me with my rent so’s I can share with another girl who’ll take turns mindin’ the baby.”
When she asked Mary Bridey bluntly if marriage had never been considered, Mary Bridey looked astonished. “Rich young men don’t marry with such as you and me!” she protested, scandalized.
Roxanne bit her lip and told herself fiercely she would never allow herself to be put in Mary Bridey’s position. Never! She would not be played with and cast aside as poor Mary Bridey had been.
Her resentment on Mary Bridey’s behalf caused her to be almost rude to Gavin. She dared not upbraid him—as she longed to do—because that would have meant instant dismissal. But she managed to turn her head in an insolent way when he was around and to keep her back to him whenever possible.
Now and then she saw a puzzled expression cross his face, and once when she rushed past him she thought he hid a smile. But she also noted that he frequently turned to watch her as she passed. And when at meals she moved silently through the room, she was aware that his gaze did not content itself with studying her face, but calmly moved up and down her figure, pausing to linger caressingly at her breasts, at her softly rounded hips, up and down. . . . Sometimes his steady regard made her so nervous that she almost dropped the serving dishes, and her face would grow flushed. She sensed, irritably, that Gavin got a certain satisfaction out of knowing he had ruffled her calm. And although she tried to avoid him, he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in interrupting her work, or asking her to do small things for him. Several times in the evening, after she had cleared the dishes, she would see him in the hall and he would ask her to bring him his pipe. Or his gloves. Or his cane.
She had the feeling all these errands were merely excuses to bring her near him, and once she was near, he found ways to make her linger. What did she think of the condition of his gloves? Would that spot come out? Oh, yes, it was merely a trick of the light after all . . . and then he would pull the gloves on slowly, smiling into her wide sapphire eyes.
These encounters angered her, partly because she could feel the physical pull of the man’s presence, knowing that he desired her. Once when she stooped to pick up a glove he had negligently dropped, she was outraged to feel his hand brush her bent back. She snapped upright, ready to upbraid him.
“Ah, did my coat brush you?” he murmured. And as the blood rose to her cheeks, he smiled damnably. As if he knew she dared not accuse him of drawing his fingers across her back lest he dismiss her—and worse, as if he knew his touch had aroused tingles all across her spine.
“Will that be all, sir?” she heard herself ask in a choked voice.
He stood considering her, a superior smile on his face. “Yes. For the moment.”
She wheeled and was gone, rushing into the kitchen so fast she collided with Cook, who cursed her roundly.
Evidently, Ella, the subdued, mousy little creature who had replaced Reba did not please Gavin, nor did the big ungainly Tillie who had replaced Mary Bridey. Roxanne guessed that he was considering her as a suitable substitute for Mary Bridey in his big square bed upstairs. The thought made her seethe with helpless fury.
Another day, Gavin caught her alone on the stair landing, and when she would have brushed by, he grasped her by the shoulders and whirled her around.
“Why do you dislike me?” he demanded roughly. “Your dislike shines out of your eyes.”
Roxanne, who realized full well that she disliked him the more because she found him attractive, shrugged off his hands and drew herself up to her full height. “I don’t dislike you. Sir.” Her voice dripped insolence.
His dark brows drew together fiercely, and for a moment she thought he was going to strike her. Then his eyes quested down her stiffly upright but luxurious figure, and a smile softened his autocratic features.
“It’s no matter, Roxanne,” he said. “The day will come when you’ll like me well enough.”
Well enough for what? she wondered, turning to watch his tall, straight figure disappear down the staircase. If he had any hope of getting her in his bed, he was sadly mistaken!
Nevertheless, she was shaken by the encounter and glad when Gavin departed on a short business trip to Boston.
While he was away, Mary Bridey left. It was a sad leave-taking, with the girl impulsively throwing her arms around Roxanne and weeping. Then Mrs. Hollister came out frowning, and Mary Bridey straightened her little hat and climbed into the horse-drawn cab that was to take her and her few belongings to her new abode. From the cab she turned and waved.
Roxanne stood and waved as long as she could see the cab. It seemed to her heartless that no one accompanied Mary Bridey to get her settled, bu
t Mrs. Hollister hurried Roxanne back into the house, saying there was work to do. Hearing Mrs. Hollister’s deep sigh as the door closed, she knew that the housekeeper was really very glad to be rid of Mary Bridey.
Gavin came back from his journey raving about the New England Limited, on which he had made the return trip from Boston to New York. A luxury flyer, it was nicknamed the “White Train” because of its cream and gold cars. A six hour run, Gavin told his father enthusiastically at dinner—amazing time! It had two Royal Buffet Smokers and seven parlor cars laden with tassels and plush, big individual chairs with hassocks, plate glass mirrors, looped silk curtains and draperies and bronze cuspidors! And after sundown its two red-carpeted restaurant cars were illuminated by Pintsch lights and the tables were curtained off from one another by heavy brocade hangings. Ah, it was the last word in luxury!
As she carried away the soup plates, Roxanne imagined dreamily wending her way across those red carpets under the Pintsch lights, clad in Clarissa’s peach and cream best, sitting down to eat pheasant under glass, on her way from Boston to New York with . . . there she stopped.
Not with Gavin. Not after the way he had treated poor Mary Bridey!
After supper, when she had cleared away the dishes, Roxanne was passing through the front hall when she became aware that Gavin was standing there alone, pipe in hand. He had been waiting for her, she decided, and almost turned on her heel. Instead, she lifted her chin and started to march past him, but his voice arrested her.
“Roxanne.”
“Yes, sir?”
He leaned down as if he would sniff the perfume of her hair, and she flinched away from him.
He kept his voice low, only for her ears, since the door was open into his father’s bedroom. “I’m not like Rhodes, tasting every flower,” he said, and for a moment so warm was his voice that she thought he was going to reach out and touch her. “I have discriminating tastes, Roxanne. Nothing but the best pleases me.”
“Then I cannot please you,” said Roxanne in a trembling voice, “for I am but a servant in this household.”
“Ah, that could be remedied,” he murmured.
She gave him a troubled look and hurried by him, sure that his eyes were following her as she moved on up the stairs.
That night, as she sometimes did on warm sleepless nights, she thought about Buck and Julie . . . frail Julie. They’d be married now, trying to make a life together, and Julie would be using up what small store of strength she possessed in Buck’s too-eager embraces. For Roxanne well remembered the violence with which Buck’s arms had enfolded her, the wild sweet frenzy as their bodies flailed together, straining fiercely there on the Kansas prairie. Julie would be . . . all used up. And yet, in a way Julie was triumphing over the death that too soon would claim her. She was fulfilling her destiny in her lover’s arms. Kind, sweet Julie.
Hot tears fell on Roxanne’s pillow as she remembered Julie. Tears for Julie, no doubt a few for her lonely self.
Sundays were a respite in the Coulter household. Joab Coulter believed in honoring the Sabbath day and keeping it holy. He barely allowed meals to be prepared on Sundays.
This was a thorn in Mrs. Hollister’s side, but it delighted Roxanne, for it gave her a day off.
Sometimes on hot summer Sundays she sauntered out of the Mt. Vernon Place house, pausing to look back at its flat brownstone front so heavily accented by bold cornices above the windows and at the roof, its conspicuous molded trim. Then she would hurry down the wide stone steps and make her way to the Franklin Street Presbyterian Church, which she loved because it looked like a Gothic fortress, and because the stroll down Cathedral Street to reach it was most enjoyable. Or she would walk down Monument Street to Park and attend the First Presbyterian, marveling at its lofty spire, which seemed to pierce the very clouds.
The Coulter family attended the First Methodist Church, which had been designed by Stanford White in 1882. Roxanne greatly admired the simple Romanesque masses of this great structure with its nine-level belltower of Port Deposit granite and its flared conical roof of heavy red tile.
Once, at an appropriate distance, she followed the Coulters, father and son, to services, finding a seat at the back of the huge oval auditorium.
She did not gain much enlightenment from the sermon, however, for sitting near her were two pert and well-dressed young girls who roguishly snapped and unsnapped the fasteners on their gloves in an attempt to attract the attention of the young men seated in front of them. Roxanne watched this innocent flirtation with amusement until a huffy dark-clad dowager said loudly, “Sh-h-h,” and the girls returned to decorum, folding their hands on their laps . . . though their eyes danced. They looked happy and vivacious and as if they belonged in these handsome surroundings. Roxanne envied them.
After church she hurried away from the handsome, leisurely crowd. Neither Gavin nor his father saw her, for they were busy shaking hands outside with well-dressed friends, many of whom were fashionable women in big hats with feathers and gorgeous clothes Roxanne longed to own.
But on the way home, her spirits rose. In her first week of employment on Mt. Vernon Place, Roxanne had found an extra key to the main front door and had quietly appropriated it. Now, knowing full well that everybody would be out if she hurried home, she decided she would use that key. Today she would not enter the house “below stairs.” Today she would march up to the handsome front door and let herself in for all the world as if she were mistress of the house!
Her key fitted the lock smoothly. She swung the door wide and walked into the cool dark hall dreamily, savoring the moment. She was momentarily blinded by the darkness after the brilliant sunlight outside, and she drifted along the hall imagining herself to be the fortunate Clarissa.
There was a ghost of a sound from the direction of the stairs. Suddenly she found herself swept up into a pair of strong arms, her breasts pinioned against a hard masculine chest, and a warm kiss planted firmly on her protesting mouth.
As she struggled to free herself, she was abruptly released, and the stranger who had swooped down on her regarded her with a puzzled expression.
“Why, you’re not Clarissa!” he cried. “But something much better!”
And to her horror, before she could protest, he swept her up in his arms again and kissed her more slowly, exploringly. His lips were warm and insistent, his tongue impudently probed her parted mouth. She felt excitement mount in her as she strained to free herself from the strong, resolute arms that held her.
Suddenly he set her free. Her heart beating wildly, she staggered back to look at the tall man whose brilliant smile flashed at her as he made her a low bow.
“Not only the key to the house but the key to my heart!” he cried, with a sweeping gesture. “Now tell me, which one of Clarissa’s friends are you?”
The flush on Roxanne’s already flaming cheeks deepened. Except for his clothes, this striking figure before her might have stepped out of the portrait of the Virginia gentleman at the end of the hall. This undoubtedly was the roving Rhodes Coulter, home from his wanderings. His hair was thick and dark and worn rakishly. His brilliant green eyes were set in a square-jawed face bronzed by wind and weather, and his smile was a brilliant flash of strong white teeth as he stood there in his sturdy seaman’s clothes and regarded her with delight, thoroughly enjoying her discomfiture.
“Since you’re temporarily tongue-tied by my manly charms, may I offer you a glass of sherry? Unless you’d prefer tea?”
I’m more than tongue-tied, she thought bitterly. He had mistaken her for one of Clarissa’s friends, a girl from Baltimore’s social set. With her rather arrogant bearing, attired in her own clothes instead of the serviceable gray cambric uniforms with large starched cotton aprons which she, like the other maids, wore, it was an easy mistake to make, she realized. But one which must be corrected and at once. There was the matter of the key, which must not be brought to Mrs. Hollister’s attention, lest she be dismissed like Reba.
/> “I’m Roxanne,” she stammered. “I must have got the front door key by mistake. I—”
“You mean you actually live here?” His broad shoulders seemed to grow broader, but he did not move aside to let her pass. “Indeed I find the house improved in my absence!”
“I’m a housemaid here, Mr. Rhodes,” said Roxanne, her voice still shaking slightly from the impact of that kiss.
“And you know my name?” His green eyes narrowed. “Wherever did we find you, Roxanne?”
“In San Francisco. I worked for your Cousin Hattie.”
“No, that was Mary Willis,” he corrected her.
“I’m Mary Willis’s daughter,” lied Roxanne uncomfortably.
He studied her, smiling. “Well, I think we’ll just go out for a stroll, Roxanne,” he said.
Roxanne stiffened. She did not like the offhand familiarity of his manner; it reminded her that she was a servant in his house. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve no time,” she said crisply.
“Ah, but you’ll go strolling with me, Roxanne,” he said softly, taking her arm in a firm grip. “Because I visited San Francisco earlier this year. I went to see Aunt Hattie, and I know that Mary Willis had no daughter.”
Roxanne held her breath. She had felt so secure, so safe.
“There’s no need to look so frightened,” he said. “We’ll just go for a pleasant Sunday afternoon stroll, and you can tell me all about it—why you’re passing yourself off as an old maid’s daughter, for instance?”
Seething, Roxanne perforce accompanied his tall form back outside and down the steps. She walked beside him in silence as he shortened his long stride to match her own. He led her past the cylindrical stone shaft of Baltimore’s Washington Monument that dominated Mt. Vernon Place, and down St. Paul past old St. Paul’s Church with its uncompleted belltower. As they walked, he kept up a running monologue, occasionally asking her questions which she, lost in thought, did not answer. She did not know how to meet this new problem. Finally, he gave her a keen look and stopped to hire a horse-drawn carriage. He gave the driver directions and helped her up to the cab.
These Golden Pleasures Page 9
