Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Patricia sat down in the yielding high grass. Then she pulled the pins and rats from her long fine hair. She laughed aloud with a nameless exultation. She unbuttoned the high lace neck of her blouse and turned it down. Her heated flesh accepted the cool breeze with gratitude. She took off her shoes and stretched her toes. She stared at the hot blue sky through the leaves, and laughed again. She picked a buttercup and rubbed her nose in the yellow pollen. She yawned and lifted her arms and observed their thinness. She wanted to hug something, she wanted to embrace with all her tall lanky young body. She pulled up her skirt, now dusty from grass pollen, and surveyed her long lean legs and thighs, which were not at all voluptuous. She sighed. She had a prodigious appetite but never gained weight, though she stuffed herself with pastries on the sly and drank cream. Her aunt in Philadelphia had comforted her by saying, “You’re just slow in developing, dear,” and then had added in a lower tone, “Marriage will cure that.” That was another exciting thought. An hourglass figure was much to be desired.

  She had not noticed another bicyclist less than a quarter of a mile behind her, which had paced her. That bicyclist was Lionel Nolan, for he had the Sunday off. He was an extremely gregarious young man, most of the time, but when he wished to think, and plot, he looked for solitude. He had seen Patricia Mulligan pedaling fast on the road and had been surprised, for she usually drove her buggy. Always curious about other human beings, he had followed her, amused by her agility, for she usually gave the impression of ladylike languor. On the few occasions when he had seen her, she had hardly glanced at him. The encounters had almost always been in church. Lionel had chuckled to himself. Who in hell would want such a skinny tall girl, with nondescript brown hair, a constricted face in which the nose was too big, a pale mouth and cat’s eyes, and with no bust and no hips; and with a neck that was like a stem? Of course she was very stylish in her rich clothes and had a certain contrived grace of movement but to Lionel she was only amusing in her pretensions and airs, and “old-maidish” in her gestures. Her voice was without resonance or sweetness or beguilement, almost a monotone, which she apparently considered refined. A very dull and uninteresting girl, Lionel had concluded, and had often wondered at Jason’s continued preoccupation with her. She had no feminine lures, no flirtatiousness, and did not know how to use her eyelashes or her smiles, which were reluctant and without warmth. But then, he would conclude, with his usual lack of self-delusion, people would probably wonder why he himself loved a cripple. True, Joan Garrity had a beauty which entranced all who saw her, but that was not enough, according to general opinion. It was more than enough for Lionel. But had Joan been a silly simpering girl of no intelligence, and as drab as Patricia Mulligan, Lionel would not have spared a moment’s thought on her. So he was sorry for Jason Garrity and felt himself very superior to his friend, who apparently was obsessed by a girl with a mind as small as a hen’s.

  It was odd that Lionel, so astute about the majority of people, and who had known that Joan was extremely intelligent and aware, had not even guessed at Patricia Mulligan’s exceedingly sharp shrewdness and ability to exploit. She was as clever a plotter as he himself, and he did not know it and would have laughed at anyone who had told him of it.

  He saw that Patricia had left the road. He stopped his bicycle at the gap. Should he follow her, or not? It would give him some secret hilarity to intrude himself upon her and watch her discomfiture at his presence. He dismounted, and as quietly as possible pushed his vehicle through the shrubbery, and then he stood at the edge of the glade. His mouth opened wide in a silent grin of mingled incredulousness and suppressed laughter.

  For Patricia had pulled her skirt and petticoats to the top of her thighs, revealing drawers of shimmering satin and lace. She was lying back on the grass, her lifted folded arms shutting out the light. Her hair was spread in astonishing disorder about her. Her blouse was unbuttoned down to the camisole, which was a mass of cascading lace and pink ribbons. Patricia had an air of innocent abandon, childlike yet female. To other than Lionel this would have appeared touching. He was not touched. He was just entertained and curious. His foxy yellow eyes narrowed; his wide freckled face broke into lines of mirth. He thought: I am not a gentleman; a gentleman would cough and move himself back a few paces, to give her time to rearrange herself. But as I am not a gentleman, I won’t do that. So he whistled a ribald cadence and strode into the glade, laughing.

  Patricia flashed upright, pulling down her skirts, pulling up her blouse, and turning a most unbecoming red. Her agate eyes bulged with mortification and embarrassment. She flung back her hair and fished in the grass for pins. “How … how dare you!” she cried.

  Lionel advanced slowly and casually into the glade. “Why, what are you doing here?” he asked pleasantly. “This is my favorite place. Did you find it too? Nice, isn’t it?” He sat down in the grass, not too near her, and his smile was ingratiating. “Glad to find someone who likes this little spot. I often come here,” which, of course, was a lie. He had never seen the glade before.

  Patricia’s scrambling had put her out of breath, but now she was decently covered. Her hands closed on a “rat.” But ladies never let men know they wore “rats” under their huge pompadours. It was almost as bad as showing legs. So she began, in flurried hot silence, to braid her hair. Her one desire was to leave as soon as possible.

  Lionel tilted his head with its high burning crest. “You have pretty hair,” he said. “It glistens like polished wood.” He was pleased by his own poetry. He must use it on Joan, with greater veracity, except that he would mention polished jet.

  “And pretty hands,” he added, and this was not an untruth.

  Patricia paused in the braiding of her hair. Young men in Philadelphia, and in Belleville, had always told her how stylish and fashionable she was, and how superb was her taste. But they had never mentioned anything complimentary about her physical person. She had hungered for such compliments.

  “I’ve always admired your fine teeth,” Lionel added, seeing he had made an impression. The poor dippy stupid girl, he thought. She can be fooled by a few kind words.

  Patricia was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. She saw his slender trim body, taut and vibrant as the body of a fox, his slim restless hands with their clean buffed nails, his long vital legs neat even in their old trousers, and, above all, his knowing intelligent eyes and springing red hair, which was carefully combed into large waves. He wore no collar or tie; his shirt was open at the throat, and Patricia could see his strong freckled neck. She had never really seen him before. He had been only one of Dada’s “help,” and therefore not worthy of consideration. Now she saw him clearly, as a man. Her eyes dropped briefly and involuntarily to his crotch, and Lionel grinned to himself with both surprise and fresh secret hilarity. This was becoming interesting. He was even more amused seeing sweat appear over the girl’s upper lip.

  “I’ve got to go,” she muttered, but she did not look away from him.

  Lionel lifted his red eyebrows. “Why? It’s early yet. And it’s cool here, and refreshing.”

  He took out his package of “tailored” cigarettes, extracted one, put it slowly in his mouth, and struck a match on the sole of his dusty shoe. He did not ask permission to smoke. For some reason this fascinated as well as vexed Patricia. He was not awed by her, nor subservient to her, as were Dada’s other employees. His voice was not fawning and placating, anxious to please. He was treating her boldly—and rudely. Patricia, to her dismay, felt a passionate excitement, and her breath caught. She should reprimand him, she told herself. But she suddenly understood that a reprimand from her would not disturb him at all. He would only laugh at her. Her agitation grew. She felt a tremendous urge toward him, and she cowered in confusion and alarm.

  Lionel shifted a little nearer her. He looked at her feet in their black silk stockings. “You’ve got pretty insteps, too,” he remarked idly. “And very pretty feet. Aristocratic.”

  Patricia g
asped. She had forgotten her shoes. She pulled them on with trembling hands and with primal seductiveness managed to reveal a well-shaped if not luxurious calf. It was all instinctive, and not deliberate. Lionel knew this. Women were easy to understand, if one took the time, and Lionel always took time. He had long ago found that women could be exceedingly useful to him.

  She said in her thin voice, “I think you are very forward.”

  He pretended bewilderment. “Why? Are compliments, if sincere, forward? What’ve I got to gain by telling you the truth, Miss Mulligan?”

  Patricia’s heart throbbed. She fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief to wipe her wet palms. Suddenly Lionel was extending his own, a very white handkerchief, carefully folded, and of good quality. Dazed, Patricia took it. She found herself wiping her face and her hands; the cloth smelled of tobacco and fine linen. A sweet warmth filled her. She mutely returned the handkerchief to Lionel, and the gesture was faintly pleading, as if she were asking a question. All her hauteur had become humility. Her keen mind reminded her that he was only “help.” Her instincts told her differently.

  Lionel decided the time had come to give her a little indifference. He turned his fiery head and looked at the mountains, and thoughtfully smoked, one hand hanging on his bent knee. He frowned slightly. “It’s taking a long time to build the new hotel,” he said, as if to himself. “And too much money, which we can’t get just now.”

  “We?” murmured Patricia. He turned to her as if surprised. “Why, yes. Didn’t you know, Miss Mulligan, that I have a share in Ipswich House? Jason Garrity got that for me. He wouldn’t sell his fourteen acres to your father, but took shares for himself, and me, in the hotel. If we ever get it built, we’ll have our fortunes made.”

  Patricia was alerted. Dada had told her nothing of this. Her eyes widened in honest and overwhelming interest.

  “I’ll have charge of the kitchens and the dining rooms,” Lionel went on. “And the menus. Haven’t you seen the plans?”

  “No,” said Patricia, and was angered at her father, who told her nothing. He thought she was too fragile! For the first time Patricia resented that.

  Lionel was shaking his head as if both amused and disbelieving. “An intelligent girl like you, too!” he said. “Your father’s old-fashioned, isn’t he? I always thought of you, Miss Mulligan, as one of the ‘new women.’”

  As Patricia had thought of herself as that, too, she was overcome. But she stammered, “I … I don’t … I don’t believe in votes for women.”

  “Why not?” asked Lionel. “Many women are as bright as men.” He studied her. “I’m sure you are.”

  Patricia flushed again. “Well, I’m a girl …” she began.

  Lionel treated her to one of his invincible tricks. He let his eyes wander very slowly from her eyes to her lips, let them linger on her small breasts, dropped them to her narrow waist, then her thighs, her calves, her feet. A violent trembling invaded Patricia’s flesh. She felt she should be outraged at this insolent long survey. Instead, she was intoxicated. All at once her body felt seductive, enticing, irresistible, steaming with virginal passion.

  “Obviously,” Lionel said. His yellow eyes brightened as if with desire, and Patricia saw this and trembled even more violently. She did not know that this was another of Lionel’s clever tricks. He really desired her as much as he would have desired a gargoyle. But she could be valuable to him, even more valuable than other women. Shyly, as if unable to resist his impulse, he touched the high instep of her buttoned shoe, then withdrew his hand with a quick gasp. “Sorry,” he said.

  He could seduce her, he thought. He could manufacture a reasonable facsimile of lust. He considered. But … there was Dada. A man had to be careful. Ensnare a girl, for one’s own advantage, but not a complete ensnarement. That was dangerous. It committed a man, and often ruined him. A playfulness, perhaps, implying future intimacies; a few tragic sighs at the hopelessness of it all. A woman never tired of deception, for she never knew she was being deceived until the last devastating and hopeless hour. By that time she was powerless to do anything but grieve and despise herself. Lionel understood women too well. If all worked well, he could make a lifelong slave of Patricia; that is, if he himself worked well. It would take finesse, and Lionel possessed a lot of that. He had had experience, even with Mrs. Lindon, who was now devoted to him and who gave him access to her pretty “relatives” without cost.

  Mrs. Lindon had once said, “You have all the ways of a gentleman, my dear Lionel, but you don’t have much education. It doesn’t take a lot of study to give the appearance of education; it just needs a little reading, a lot of listening, and a knowing air.” So she had given him books to read, and though they bored him, he had gained considerable polish. She taught him phrases to use to imply erudition.

  Thinking of this, with gratitude, Lionel almost forgot Patricia, who was fixedly regarding him with moist eyes. Her mouth had fallen open. She was like one bewitched. Lionel, with pretended humility and hesitancy, reached for her hand. He pressed it. Pleading with his uplifted eyes, he timidly kissed that hand. Patricia shivered. Her little breasts swelled and tingled. His fingers burned into her hand. She wet her mouth, and her lips became tremulous.

  Well, thought Lionel, that’s enough for now. He said, “Forgive me, Miss Mulligan. But I couldn’t help it.”

  All the longings and nameless urges Patricia had been lately enduring gathered in her with a tremendous force. She wanted Lionel’s arms about her. She wanted … She did not know just what she wanted, but her instincts urged her. She wanted to lie in his arms, close to him, held by him. In short, she was in love, entranced, helpless, overcome. She had a sudden vehement desire to take off her clothing, to reveal herself to him. In the black hot whirlpool of her female yearning she wanted his hands on her body, seeking. Lust dissolved her; she felt herself helplessly surrendering.

  Lionel, sighing heavily, released her hand. Through a mist she stared at him. She saw his sad face, his ardent eyes. “Forgive me,” he murmured again, and averted his head. Then he stood up.

  “I must go,” he muttered. “If … if I’ve offended you, Miss Mulligan, please forgive me. But I just couldn’t help it! You are so … beautiful … so desirable! Forgive me for a momentary weakness …”

  He passed his hand despairingly over his forehead and shook his head as if stricken. Then, uttering a slight sound of sorrow, he turned and ran away. Patricia heard the crashing of shrubbery. Then he was gone and she was all alone in a brilliant daze of light and ecstasy and shaking passion.

  That is how it began. She had not seen Lionel for three weeks. She dreamt of him, desiring her, embracing her. Now her dreams became more explicit, except for the final act. She could not bear it. Her days were filled with visions of him … and beds. And, of course, marriage. Patricia began to live in a world almost too exciting. The aspect of things changed. They became portents, full of leaping promise and joy. The world filled with music. Even Dada’s grossness became less exasperating.

  But Patricia had a very shrewd mind. It was all very well to dream. But one had to plan to make those dreams come true. Patricia was nothing if not practical.

  She had now succeeded with Dada. She would see Lionel often. Her heart melted with tenderness for him, for his pain. She would soon let him know that his suit was not unwelcome. She began to plan the fine house Dada would build for his daughter and her husband.

  Happiness surged in Patricia. She acquired a sort of radiance. Jason Garrity saw this in church. When he shyly smiled at Patricia, she smiled back. He did not know that she did not really see him. She was always looking for Lionel. She went very often to the glade. That she did not find Lionel there only confirmed her blissful belief that he was avoiding her to avoid his own pain. Soon she would console him. Soon she would let him know she loved him. She did not see him in church. She guessed he went to an earlier Mass, because of her. She sighed with joy.

  Of course, it was impossible for her to
know that Lionel had counted on all this, and was biding his time, waiting for her to make the next move.

  11

  On a hot July day, Patrick Mulligan called both Jason and Lionel into his office. Lionel for one startled moment had the fear that Patricia had blabbed. He was almost overcome with fear and his red freckles stood out vividly on his suddenly pale face. He said to Jason, “What do you suppose he wants us for?”

  “Probably to discuss the hotel and the finances. Things aren’t getting any better in this Panic, you know.”

  “I don’t have a damned cent in that business,” said Lionel, “so why is he calling for me?”

  “Come on, and we’ll find out.” Jason was impatient. He had been in the kitchen for half an hour—a place he loved—and had tasted and approved a new dish the youngest recruit had invented. Unlike Lionel, he enjoyed food and had subtle discrimination. The menu was definitely improving since the new arrival in the kitchen, with touches of wine here and there, and brandy on duck. The Inn-Tavern’s reputation was at its highest, in spite of the Panic. That is, the dining room was comfortably full except for Monday, but there were no longer many late guests for supper. Sometimes, at ten o’clock, there would be hardly more than a dozen people at the tables. Jason had introduced a very elegant addition to the dining room, a pianist and a violinist of fair competence, and this was much admired and appreciated. But recently these musicians were engaged only for Saturday and Sunday nights, much to Jason’s regret and his sympathy for the employees.