“What you do is your own business,” she said crisply. “And no affair of mine.”
He regarded her with a puzzled look, but she had no intention of explaining. How dare he act so innocent!
Gavin strolled by. “Are you keeping Roxanne from her work again?” he asked in a bored voice.
Rhodes straightened up, an angry light appearing in his green eyes. “Not any more,” he said curtly, and turned on his heel and left.
Roxanne wondered if, now that she no longer noticed him, Rhodes would sail away. But even there she was wrong—that he had not remained in port for her sake was obvious, since he continued to stay even though she ignored him.
Clarissa’s complacent manner indicated that she felt Rhodes had stayed because of her. And he did begin to squire Clarissa about more often, but Roxanne noted that he had a preoccupied look about him.
On a fine winter day when the weather was crystal clear, as Roxanne helped Clarissa dress to go out with Rhodes, Clarissa unbent a little and began talking to her—as she had once doubtless talked to Mary Bridey.
“New York,” Clarissa said, turning to view her reflection in the mirror, “is the only place to live, Roxanne.”
“Why?” muttered Roxanne, her fingers busy tying a grosgrain bow at Clarissa’s elbow—which presented a moving target.
Clarissa shrugged loftily. “Oh, it’s all there, Roxanne—Delmonico’s and the shopping, the theater and all those wonderful mansions that line Fifth Avenue.”
Roxanne finished tying the bow and stepped back. “Do you think you’ll get there?” Normally she would not have asked, but Clarissa was in an expansive mood today.
“Oh, yes,” said Clarissa confidently. “Rhodes will take me there. He’ll have everything—after he’s inherited, of course,” she added hastily..
Roxanne stared. “But what about Gavin? Do you mean his father won’t leave Gavin anything?”
Clarissa shrugged and gave Roxanne a sulky look. “Well, I don’t know why he should,” she said. “Rhodes’s mother was the heiress—not Gavin’s. The Coulter shipping fortune was really built with her money. Of course it will go to Rhodes!”
Because you want it to, surmised Roxanne shrewdly, her lips curling in a slightly contemptuous smile. “I thought Rhodes’s father didn’t approve of him,” she murmured.
“That’s only temporary,” said Clarissa airily. “He’ll approve of Rhodes—after he marries me.”
Roxanne could see that he might. After Clarissa had gone, Roxanne sat and stared out the window at the wintry street, and her face was sober. Clarissa had an impeccable background, with ancestors who’d come swashbuckling into Maryland in earliest days. Clarissa’s people, who now lay buried beneath moss-covered stones overrun with myrtle and ivy, had walked under the Wye Oak—and in their day they had ruled their corner of the earth.
What chance had a dispossessed child of the Old South against the fortunate Clarissas of the world? All she had to offer was a pretty face. . . .
Suddenly Roxanne lifted her head and frowned. That was nonsense! She was as pretty as Clarissa—prettier! She had as good an education and better manners. All she needed was an equal chance!
But . . . how to get that equal chance, that was the problem.
Later that week, Denby came by to deliver, personally, five pairs of the new slip-on gloves Clarissa had ordered. At the door, he asked for “Miss Roxanne, Miss Clarissa Calvert’s personal maid.” He handed the gloves to Roxanne with much ceremony in the front hall. Roxanne, whose hands were still damp from washing out Clarissa’s dainty French underthings, would have asked him to sit down on a rosewood chair, but Greaves was watching with raised eyebrows from the open door of Joab Coulter’s bedroom.
“I would like very much, Miss Roxanne, to see you again,” Denby said in a low intense voice.
She was touched. “As you can see, I do not have a front parlor in which to receive callers,” she said wryly, remembering Kansas and Mr. Witherspoon.
“I would be very pleased to call for you in a carriage,” Denby said gravely. “And to take you any place you desire. A play perhaps? A vaudeville show?”
Roxanne, who never went anywhere except on trolleys or on her own feet now that she had broken with Rhodes, smiled at him.
“I should like that very much,” she said slowly.
Denby’s face lit up radiantly. “Tomorrow night?”
She nodded.
And so the lady’s maid and the glover’s son began doing the town in the evening. Denby was good company; he strove to be. His quips were from the latest musical comedies. The tunes he hummed were the hits of vaudeville. He told Roxanne proudly he had gone to New York last winter to buy some materials for his father’s shop, and while dining at Luchow’s he had seen the famous actress Lillian Russell and the big spender Diamond Jim Brady. He told her Lillian Russell pedaled down Fifth Avenue on a silver bicycle, and that she owned hundreds of pairs of gloves, some single pairs of which cost more than a whole year’s wardrobe for an average woman.
In a hired carriage, Denby took her to see Fort McHenry, whose five-pointed design had given it the name “the Star Fort.” The fifteen stars and fifteen stripes that had flown over it in 1814 had inspired Francis Scott Key to write “The Star Spangled Banner.” They dismissed the cab and walked in Druid Hill Park, which had been the great estate of Nicholas Rogers.
On the way back, under the pale winter sun, Denby tried to kiss her. Roxanne resisted, and instantly he dropped his arms.
“You must forgive me, Miss Roxanne,” he said earnestly. “I was carried away by your beauty: It goes to a man’s head, it does.”
“That’s all right, Denby,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “I just—”
“I know,” he interrupted, with a look of great wisdom. “You must save your kisses for the man you marry. I understand.”
That was not what she had been about to say. She had not kissed Denby because she was not sure how she felt about the young glover.
But she was guiltily sure of how she still felt about Rhodes.
Her mind was concentrating on that when Denby said, “I would like to take you to church on Sunday, Miss Roxanne, and bring you home with me afterward, to meet my family and have Sunday dinner with us.”
Roxanne muttered a preoccupied yes, just as if he had asked her to go to a concert. Much later she realized that if he wanted her to meet his family, it probably meant that Denby was going to propose. She considered making an excuse but decided it would hurt his feelings; she’d have to let him propose and then say no as gently as possible. He had her regard—but only as a friend; somehow she must make that clear.
Sunday dawned clear and cold with a slushy snow on the sidewalk. Denby called for her in a hired carriage, but he did not take her to the small church near his home that his family attended. Instead, beneath a gray sky he took her to the flashier Mt. Vernon Place Methodist Church. Its exterior was of native greenstone, which Denby—ever ready with a fact or statistic —told her came from the Bare Hills Quarry of Baltimore County. Roxanne looked up at the contrasting reddish sandstone of its great arch and rose window and tall gingerbready spire, and made appropriate admiring noises, though she had attended the church before.
Denby looked pleased and together they went inside to hear the sermon. Roxanne prayed for Mary Bridey, wherever she might be, for Julie and Buck—and for her own soul for leading Denby on, a man she never meant to marry.
When they came outside, Denby handed her into the carriage with aplomb. As they rode toward his home, Roxanne mentioned the White Train, which Gavin had described, and relayed Gavin’s description of its wonders.
“I will take you riding on the White Train, Roxanne,” cried Denby in a vibrating voice, his face flushed. “I know you see me only as a person whose family has a flourishing business, but someday I am going to be very rich. I will have my own shop and I will take you anywhere you care to go.”
Her throat closed up at this boyish declara
tion, and she patted Denby’s hand. She felt like a traitor, in love with rakehell Rhodes and riding along primly in a jouncing carriage beside Denby.
From their expressions it was easy to tell how his family felt about her. Denby’s father, a square sturdy quiet man, obviously liked her. As did Denby’s older brother, whose admiring eyes followed her about. But the women—Denby’s mother and two sisters—were set solidly against her. They were all slender and had pale hazel eyes like Denby’s, and their smiles seemed pasted on their hostile faces.
At dinner, which was served in the small comfortable dining room of the large apartment they occupied over the shop, Denby’s mother pursed her lips and inquired about Roxanne’s family. Roxanne suddenly realized with a jolt that she was Roxanne Willis to these people, and said vaguely they were from San Francisco.
“That” said Denby’s mother heavily, giving Roxanne a penetrating look over the stewed chicken, “is a very long way away.” Her scathing tone indicated that it was too far away for Roxanne’s antecedents to be properly checked. Roxanne was painfully aware that while she, with her people’s genteel plantation background, might look down on those who lived over shops, they looked down on her as a lady’s maid and not good enough for their son.
It was at once apparent that Denby was the darling of his mother and sisters. The youngest, he was definitely a pet, and all deferred to his whims. His older brother seemed reconciled to this, and his father, sturdy and quiet, seemed to care little about what went on. All the men lit pipes or cigars after dinner, making the living room blue with smoke.
On the way home, Denby told Roxanne that his father had insisted on both his sons smoking, since he had heard it would help them avoid the dreaded consumption from which two of his uncles had died.
“And your mother and sisters?” wondered Roxanne, who had not heard of this before. “Doesn’t he fear for them also?”
Denby gave her a shocked look. “Ladies don’t smoke, Miss Roxanne!” he cried. “Why, I read in the papers that a woman was arrested for smoking on the streets of New York!”
Denby read tabloids, she knew. His conversation was sprinkled with such trivia.
Masterfully, he drew the horses to a stop on a side street and asked Roxanne if the blanket tucked around her skirts was warm enough. Roxanne nodded.
“Your mother and sisters don’t like me,” she murmured, in an effort to forestall what she guessed would be a proposal.
“That does not matter to me.” He looked intensely into her eyes. “What matters is, do you like me, Miss Roxanne?”
“Yes, of course I do, Denby, but their opinion should matter to you. They love you very much.”
He made an impatient gesture. “They think I’m a baby! Always giving me advice, fussing over me! Miss Roxanne, I think you know why I brought you to meet my family, what I’m going to ask you.”
“Yes,” she said hopelessly, beginning to feel the cold creeping in around the blanket over her knees. She shivered.
“You’re cold!” he cried, and put an arm around her.
“It is cold,” said Roxanne, feeling desperate. “Denby, I think we should drive on. The horse must be freezing. He should be stabled.”
“The horse?” Denby gave her an odd look. “I’m asking you to marry me, Miss Roxanne. To share my life.”
“You’re very sweet, Denby,” she said slowly. “But— but I’m not ready to marry anyone just yet.”
“I'll wear you down!” he cried. “I’ll bring you flowers and take you dancing! I’ll sweep you off your feet!”
At just that moment one of the new conveyances, an automobile, roared up the street behind them, and their horse snorted and began to prance with fear. The automobile backfired and Denby was hard-put to keep the horse from panicking. As it passed, Roxanne saw there were four people in it, two men and two women. All were laughing gaily.
In the back seat, leaning back with his arm around a pretty girl wearing a beaver-trimmed hat and muff, sat Rhodes.
Roxanne’s cold fingers clenched in the white kid gloves Denby had given her. Absorbed in their laughter, the auto-riding merrymakers had not seen the couple seated in the carriage.
Impulsively Roxanne threw her arms about Denby and kissed him. Taken by surprise, he dropped the reins and clutched her. His lips were warm, almost tremulous. At last she pulled away, her face flushed, and saw that he was pale and shaken.
“Miss Roxanne,” he stammered, “does this mean . . .”
Sanity came back to Roxanne. Denby was nice; she must not hurt him.
“Take me home,” she said gently. “We’ll talk again later, Denby.”
Looking blissful, Denby delivered her to the Coulters’ house. She slipped away quickly before he could kiss her again.
Chapter 14
Roxanne began using excuses to avoid seeing Denby: headaches, other pressing engagements, work. She knew it was craven of her, but she just couldn’t bring herself to break his heart by telling him they could never be more than friends.
Now, because she was avoiding Denby, she found herself in the house more. She felt trapped there, weighed down by the overwhelming presence of the Coulter men: Rhodes—silently demanding; Gavin—waiting; old Joab—disapproving and querulous.
Rhodes’s light flirtation with Clarissa had ended, and Clarissa was back with the numerous swains she had dated before. They called for her at the house, in surreys, in buggies, even in the new noisy horseless carriages. When Clarissa was home, she flounced about and was short-tempered with Roxanne, ordering her around, finding fault. Roxanne, preoccupied with her own problems, went about her duties mechanically, hardly noticing Clarissa’s bad temper.
Rhodes left her alone. He spoke to her pleasantly as he passed; occasionally, he smiled at her—and on those occasions she turned away lest he should read desire in her eyes. At dinner his eyes sometimes followed her about.
Clarissa noticed this and was piqued.
“Don’t lace your waist so tightly,” she scolded Roxanne. “It makes you look too—too conspicuous at dinner.”
Roxanne was astonished. “But I don’t lace at all,” she protested. “I don’t even own a corset!”
Clarissa stared. And then her expression grew resentful. “I wouldn’t feel dressed without my corset!” she cried passionately, and ordered Roxanne to help out in the laundry.
As the days passed, Roxanne realized that Rhodes had not given up his courtship of her—he had only postponed it. Apparently he was convinced that her rejection of him was based on pique at being so nearly bedded and then abruptly routed out and returned to the house. He courted her in a dozen merry ways: with a quick good-humored smile and a cheerful word as he passed; by being thoughtful of her at dinner and other times—even coming up to her in the street to help her in with her heavy market baskets; by tipping his hat and stopping his carriage for her, or catching up with her in the park and walking along talking to her, even though she kept her head down and marched along in silence.
Evidently his plan was to wear her down—and it was working.
Looking into those reckless green eyes that seemed so candid and open, she found it harder and harder to believe that Rhodes had callously left Mary Bridey to die while he distributed Christmas gifts. There must have been some misunderstanding, she told herself. Was it possible that Gavin had found Mary Bridey her new place and had not acquainted Rhodes with that fact? Was it possible that Rhodes, returning, thought Mary Bridey had departed for places unknown? Could the poor girl have sat and waited for a lover who would have come, but had no idea where to find her?
All these excuses she found for Rhodes—and more. It was possible, she told herself, that he never knew about Mary Bridey’s condition at all. Perhaps no one had told him. Would he then be so to blame?
But her heart was reluctant to know the truth, so she did not do what she could have done without breaking her promise to Gavin—she did not ask Greaves or Cook or Mrs. Hollister. Instead she kept a brooding silence,
and each day softened toward Rhodes.
She was on the point of forgiving him when one night, she heard the footsteps that Mrs. Hollister had warned her about.
It happened after a day in which Clarissa had been particularly difficult. Roxanne had gone to bed exhausted right after clearing up the dinner dishes. She had hurried up the back stairs to the second floor in order to avoid Rhodes, who might be lingering in the hall waiting for her. She’d had no mind to see him tonight, for tired as she was, she was afraid she might give in to him, rest her head on his shoulder, close her eyes and let him comfort her.
When she awoke it was dark, and she realized it was late, for the moon was high. Outside her door, coming from the direction of the stair landing she heard stealthy footsteps.
Roxanne sat up alertly. That was not Rhodes’s bounding step or Gavin’s precise one on the stair. Greaves would have no reason to come upstairs this time of night, nor the other servants. The footsteps were going up to the fourth floor, of that she was certain. She lay there wondering. One of the maids, no doubt, summoned to an evening’s frivolity in a big square bed on the fourth floor. But whose bed, Gavin’s or Rhodes’s?
Surely it could not be two-hundred-pound Cook or Jane, the heavyset unattractive Lizzie, or the plodding girl who had been hired when Tillie left to be married. Ella, perhaps? Though mousy, little Ella had definite possibilities; her clothes were shapeless, but she might have a pretty figure under them—who could tell?
An hour passed as Roxanne lay there sleepless, and then she heard the stealthy footsteps coming downstairs again. Her curiosity overwhelmed her. She had to know which maid it was; then tomorrow she could begin to watch and decide which bed the girl had slept in.
Quietly, she eased her door open and on bare feet tiptoed up the dark steps from the servants’ quarters to the main landing.
Clarissa, her auburn hair a tumbled mass about her shoulders, was coming down the stairs. She was wearing a very fetching nightgown, the top of which was undone to reveal most of her breasts in the gaslight. When she saw Roxanne she clutched her trailing satin and lace dressing gown about her, and for a moment her eyes widened in horror; then she got control of herself.
These Golden Pleasures Page 17
