Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

He bent his head and kissed my breast, and I could feel his hot breath through the cloth of my gown.

  “No . . .”

  His kisses traveled upward, his mouth resting on the side of my throat, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping, sending little thrills of pain down my spine to curl my toes. I couldn’t allow this. I couldn’t! Mustering the scattered remnants of control, I tried to break away, but he brought me back with masterful strength, quelling my last shreds of resistance. His muscular arms, his taut, hard body pressed against my trembling flesh, roused an aching need in me. When he put his hand on my breast once more, the fingers brushing my nipple, my knees turned to water.

  “The servants . . .?” His face, above mine, seemed huge, blotting out the walls, the room.

  “Gone,” I heard myself whisper.

  He lifted me in his arms. I wanted to stop him, I thought I wanted to stop him, but it was too late; the bomb’s fuse had been lit and there was no way to snuff it out now.

  Swiftly he carried me up the curving staircase, my head jammed against his cassimere-clad shoulder. By instinct he seemed to know the right door, and it went flying open under his impatient boot.

  “Colonel!” I protested. Or was it only in my mind? I was moving in a tumultuous darkness, frightening yet exciting, swimming in a dark, irresistible floodtide.

  He threw me on the bed and was over me, tearing at my buttons. Through the turmoil in my mind I was aware that he knew what he was doing, how to undress a woman. Hooks unsnapped, ribbons came loose under his expert fingers as he swiftly stripped me naked.

  I tried to raise myself, but he pushed me down. After divesting himself of his own clothing, he fell on me, raining burning kisses over my mouth, my eyes, the cleft between my tingling breasts. His bare skin next to mine kindled a sharp sweetness in my loins. And I knew with a devastating clarity that he was right: I had been starved. When he entered me with a powerful, full thrust, I arched my body to receive him into the moist, aching seat of my desire. He drove at me, locking his arms under my bare buttocks, raising me so that each forward move impaled me, and I found myself straining against the rigid shaft now tormenting me with such cruel and savage pleasure, wanting him deeper and deeper, twisting, turning, moaning.

  His climax came a split second before mine.

  He lay over me without speaking, his fingers clutching my hair. Then he got up, suddenly, without kissing me, without a word.

  I felt drained, exhausted—replete. But as the glow slowly died a sense of terrible shame engulfed me. He was dressing quickly. His eyes were on me as he buttoned up his tunic, but they were hard to read. I leaned over the side of the bed and pulled the gown up, covering my nakedness.

  Tense now, I watched him, meeting his gaze without flinching, prepared to fly at him should he make any flip remark, toss an I-told-you-so at me.

  But when he spoke, it was to say, “You are quite a woman, Mrs. Harrison. Not only beautiful, but erotic.”

  I said nothing. If he expected a compliment in return he would have to be disappointed. I was not going to let him know how sexually exciting I found him.

  “Perhaps,” he said, dressed now, looking down at me from the foot of the bed, “we can meet another time?”

  “No,” I said, my denial brutally cold. “I hope never to see you again.”

  He knew I meant it.

  Chapter 6

  Ward Gamble's savage virility had left me shaken.

  My blood turned cold when I thought of what might have happened during those moments of wild, naked thrashing and ecstatic moaning. Someone, a servant, Malvern and Page, even Judah could have returned home unexpectedly and found the colonel in my bed. All my efforts to secure Page’s future would have gone up in smoke. Judah gave me more personal freedom than most husbands gave their wives, but even he would not tolerate adultery. No man would. And yet in a sense I was not sorry. The experience had taught me something. Marriage had not changed my physical needs nor had it strengthened my ability to control them. I must never again put myself in a position of sexual challenge. Above all, I must keep away from men like Ward Gamble.

  When Judah returned home I informed him that I would rather not entertain his Yankee friends. If he had to do business with them, perhaps he could arrange it elsewhere.

  “I’d like to remain on good terms with the Caldwells and Bainbridges,” I said, using them as an excuse. “Not that they would shun me, but my hobnobbing with Unionists does put a strain on our friendship.’’

  He said he understood.

  But for a long time afterward I would lie wide-eyed at night next to a snoring Judah, gripped by a painful longing to be taken into a pair of strong, steely arms, to be kissed by a hard, insisting mouth, to have my breasts teased and ravaged. When I did manage to sleep, my dreams would fuse Gamble’s face with Ian’s, the two becoming one, always out of reach.

  Tormented, I would often wake to find tears running down my cheeks.

  Gamble did not return to the house. I took care to avoid any chance meetings with him. Judah and I no longer ate at the Spotswood Hotel, for many of the Yankee officers dined there and I was afraid I might accidentally come face to face with the colonel. I avoided Corinth Hall and Capitol Square for the same reason. But one afternoon Amy Caldwell and I emerged from a shop on Broad Street and I saw him ride by. The sight of the compact, narrow-waisted torso, the proud head, the strong gloved hands holding the horse’s reins roused the Jezebel in me. Swept by the memory of how those same strong hands had held my naked buttocks to receive his thrusts, I shrank back into the shadowed doorway.

  Amy said, “Yankees! I do declare, will we never see the last of them?’’

  It didn’t seem that way. The Yankees were everywhere, running our lives, the victors grinding the vanquished under their heels. Able Virginians who held public office were still being shunted aside and replaced by carpetbaggers and uneducated Negroes. P. T. Daniel, the Commonweal’s duly-elected attorney, was forced to step down, as were the chief of police and the sheriff, each replaced by a Yankee sympathizer. To cap local humiliation Miss Elizabeth Van Lew, the daughter of a Richmond shopkeeper and a former spy in the pay of the Union Army, was made our postmistress!

  Citizens chafed and burned under Judge Underwood’s abusive tongue and smoldered at each authoritative pronouncement from H. H. Wells, our hated governor, a one-time native of Michigan. Ex-Confederates still could not vote, and that meant most of the male population. The military insinuated itself not only in politics and in the courts, but on the daily scene. Blue-coated Yankees thronged our restaurants, theaters, and shops, strolling the avenues or riding in carriages drawn by sleek bays, their wives beside them dressed in expensive, fashionable silks. They were hated, feared, and secretly reviled. And I had allowed one of them, a man who had stamped a conqueror’s booted feet on our verandah at Wildoak to . . . But I wouldn’t think about that.

  We had been married a little over a year before I felt secure enough to ask Judah if he would buy Wildoak.

  The request surprised him. “Doesn’t your uncle own it?” he asked. “If the plantation is in the family, why should you have to ‘buy’ it?”

  “I want it for Page. I would like to have it in his name.” My birthday was coming up in a few weeks and I guessed that Judah was planning to give me a pearl necklace. Though Wildoak might cost a bit more, it was what I really had set my heart on.

  “Page is still so young, my dear. It will be years before he can run Wildoak.”

  “I know that, Judah. But buying now, when property is still reasonable, would be the smart thing to do. Don’t you agree? It will be a good investment.”

  “I’m not so sure. The farm, I’m told, is doing poorly. I would have to pour money into it with no foreseeable promise of return. I don’t know ...”

  Judah had two sides to him; the fond, pampering husband and the hard businessman. He would give me all the luxuries a wife might desire—imported perfumes, diamonds and pearls, Parisian gowns, a new ca
rriage—but when it came to business matters, as he viewed the purchase of Wildoak, he changed into the shrewd merchant. I wonder that his aristocratic forebears didn’t haunt him, but I suspect that even if they did he would ignore their ghostly badgering. Judah represented a new breed in Virginia—money tied to old family.

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, not giving up hope, never giving up hope, “you might consider it in a year or two? I would like to have it, Judah.”

  “Perhaps.” He lifted my hand and kissed it. But implicit in that “perhaps” was the message: if you give me a son we might discuss the matter seriously.

  God knows I was willing, and each time my monthly came on I felt my disappointment as keenly as Judah’s.

  One morning I swallowed my pride and wrote to Uncle Miles. In my letter I thanked him for all he had done for Wildoak but said I would be happier if the plantation’s deed were in Page’s name. His answer was just what I might have expected. He claimed that Page was still too young, that there was no assurance he would want Wildoak when he came of age, that it was better to wait. “You seem to have done quite well for yourself,” he added in a sarcastic tone I found completely uncalled for, “and I’m sure Page will benefit.”

  The letter, implying that I had sold myself in marriage, angered me—I suppose because it was true. But at the time I could only feel outrage. I was sorry I had ever written to Miles and resolved never to do so again, not even if I were reduced to begging in the streets.

  If only I had money of my own. I never dreamed that being married to Judah would still leave me with no ready cash. Though Judah showered me with gifts, the allowance he gave me was almost miserly. I could not sell my jewels or any of my Parisian gowns; he would notice their absence at once. It seemed ironic that I was no closer to procuring Wildoak now than I had been as a poor widow. Still there was always the possibility that Judah might someday change his mind. He had to.

  Agnes came home in the summer of ’69 with a suitor, André Levelier, a dark, intense young man. Some five or six years her junior, he had liberally pomaded black hair and a moustache waxed into two thin points. He showed none of the nervousness one would expect from a stranger petitioning for an only daughter’s hand. Invited to make himself comfortable, he did so with alacrity, his eyes surreptitiously assessing each object in the parlor. He claimed to be the second son of an old Louisiana family, but his accent and grammar, slipping at odd moments, evoked the Cajun bayous rather than the grand family plantation he claimed had been leveled by the Yankees. Everything about him fairly shrieked fortune hunter.

  I think Agnes must have suspected his true origins and the reason for his ardent suit. But she was in love with him as she had not been with Ian, obsessed, really, hanging on to his arm, her eyes following him with undisguised adoration.

  It was none of my affair. I was sure Judah had provided at least half his considerable fortune for me in his will, and if Agnes wanted to throw away her share on this fraud, why should I mind? Yet I had mellowed to the point where I felt somewhat sorry for her; I even felt some regret for having been so hard on her in the past. But to interfere now would only be misinterpreted as malice. Even when Levelier started to make covert overtures to me, I kept mum. That he dared to squeeze my hand, “accidentally” brush up against me, and once all but give me an invitation to his bed perplexed me. He had so much to lose. Then I realized the reason for his boldness. Levelier was one of those men who thought of himself—and probably with good reason—as irresistible to women. Experience must have also taught him that the silly females he managed to seduce could be counted on to remain silent out of shame. It should have been obvious to him that I was not going to fall into his trap, but the man had an enormous ego and persisted.

  It did occur to me at one point that Ian had also been a fortune hunter, but he at least had offered something to Agnes in exchange for her generous dowry—an impeccable background, a title, and his fidelity. In short, he was a gentleman; this man was not—

  One night as Judah and I were getting ready for bed, he said, “That nervy young man has asked me for Agnes’s hand.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “To wait a week or two. He’s poor. He made no bones about that. I’m willing to accept his poverty, but there’s one thing I won’t abide, and that is a liar. I smell something fishy there.”

  It struck me then, as it would again later, that I had underestimated Judah, that he was far more perceptive than I had originally thought.

  “I’ve had the same feeling about Mr. Levelier,” I said.

  “I don’t wonder. But Agnes is so set on him. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ve written to Louisiana and made inquiries. If he’s telling the truth, all right. But if not, his bottom will feel the toe end of my boot.”

  The letter Judah was expecting came the following week. No one in New Orleans or Baton Rouge society had heard of Levelier. The plantation, Willowfoxe, so glowingly described as his home, was still standing, owned by Tom Deventer, in whose family it had been for 125 years.

  Judah lost no time in throwing André Levelier out. Agnes blamed it on me. She didn’t care if André was an imposter, she didn’t care if he had fooled her, she didn’t care what he did or what he had done; she loved him.

  “That bitch of a stepmother has ruined my life for the second time!” she shouted. She called me several other names, using language that astounded both her father and me.

  Judah managed to get her into the library and somehow soothe her ruffled feathers. She left the next day without saying good-bye to me.

  On January 25, 1870, exactly at noon, a one-hundred-gun salute went off in Capitol Square, celebrating Virginia’s readmittance to the Union. The Stars and Stripes were run up over the rotunda, snapping in the Virginia breeze for the first time in nine years. The maligned Freedman’s Bureau was disbanding, the Union troops leaving. Governor Alker made a brief address predicting that the Old Dominion’s future would be as great and glorious as her past. Other orators followed, reminiscing, retelling tales of bygone battles, praising the gallantry of the men in gray and the heroism of southern womanhood.

  I stood with Page and Judah, among the cheering crowd of five thousand with mixed feelings. I was as happy as any to see the departure of the Yankees (and not merely because of Ward Gamble), but I must confess I did not share the popular penchant for nostalgia in all things pertaining to the Confederacy. My father had been killed in that war, and whenever I thought of him a terrible feeling of loss would grip me. It was no use telling myself that thousands of others had died too. I did not know the others, only my father, Harold Falconer. He hadn’t been a great intellect, he’d had no special talents, but he had been a warm, caring man with a certain quiet strength that supported us all. For me he died the day he went riding off, booted and spurred, the plume in his gray cocked hat disappearing through the trees. After that my whole life had changed. I’d gone swiftly from childhood to womanhood while my mother turned helpless, and the predictable, known world around me suddenly became uncertain and frightening.

  The following year Page went away to school. To me he appeared so pitifully young, just eight, but Malvern had recommended it. “You don’t want him to get behind in his education,” he said.

  The school, Latin Hall, was very expensive. It was reputed to have excellent teachers and the most modern of facilities. I myself had gone down to inspect it, making sure the meals served were ample and that corporal punishment was prohibited. Though I had been prepared for Page’s departure and managed to get through our good-byes without breaking down, the moment the carriage left (I did not trust myself to go to the station) I locked myself in my room and wept.

  I felt no better as the days wore on. I couldn’t get used to the house without Page, his empty chair at the dining table, his empty bed upstairs. I knew my feelings were excessive, that anyone else in my place would have filled her life with “good works’’ or thrown herself into a round of social
engagements. But then I had always been excessive when it came to Page.

  Judah tried to coax me out of my depressed mood, and one evening at supper he said, “Would you like to go to a wedding?’’

  “Who’s getting married?’’

  “The daughter of a business client of mine—Louis Wellington. You don’t know him; he and his family live in Chicago. He’s in meat packing, enormously wealthy.’’

  “And the bridegroom?’’

  “I don’t think Wellington said. But it should be a splendid affair. I have other business I could attend to in Chicago and we could take in the wedding as well.’’

  “I don’t know . . .’’

  “Come now, Deirdre, you can order a lovely gown for the occasion, and you’ll meet new people, see new sights. You’ve never been out of Virginia, have you? It might be enjoyable.”

  “Perhaps ... All right, then,’’ I added, but without much enthusiasm.

  We pulled into Chicago’s noisy, cavernous La Salle Street Station on an unseasonably hot October afternoon. A representative of the McCormack Tractor Company met us, a fussy little man with curling sidewhiskers and pince nez.

  “I’ve booked a suite for you at the Palmer House, Mr. Harrison, just as you ordered.’’

  When we got into the waiting open carriage, Judah explained that Potter Palmer’s establishment was reputed to be the most elegant and luxurious hostel in Chicago.

  “Fairly new and built at great expense,’’ the little man added proudly.

  I opened my sunshade as we drove. The sidewalks were jammed with people. Bowler-hatted men with preoccupied faces hurried along as if they were late for an appointment. The women walked at a lesser, but hardly leisurely, pace and also seemed bent on urgent business. Some looked like fashion plates in muslin, cambric, or lawn, pinched in at the waist and bustled saucily behind, their small flat hats loaded with flowers and fruit. Heavy street traffic, no less in earnest, kept company with us: horse cars, carriages, wagons, carts, and huge, jolting drays. The air had an unpleasant odor, one I could not place. When the wind blew it was quite noxious, causing me to put a scented handkerchief to my nose.