Thomas could wait no longer. He unbuttoned the placard of his trousers, freeing his engorged penis, then pulled her bottom closer to the edge of the desk, held her thighs around his waist and drove into her with one powerful thrust. He stood over her, joined with her as she lay back upon the desk; she was panting with her need of him, her heaving breasts so beautiful in the lamplight. She was completely at his mercy now, fully opened to him. He thrust inside again, filled her, fully seated himself, and she cried out his name. He studied her face, saw the evidence of the power he had over her as he pleasured her body. He filled her again and again, each thrust more powerful than the last, such intense friction, as he branded her, completed her, claimed her womb, and then flooded her with his warm seed.
She was sated and glowing, heated, her skin glistening when he withdrew from her and carried her to the bed. He had sent her wits flying, had shown her again all he felt with an intensity that overwhelmed them both. She watched, heavy lidded, as he removed the rest of his clothing, slowly revealing every muscled inch of him in the soft lamplight; his broad shoulders, firm buttocks, powerful thighs, and impossibly thick erection. He joined her on the bed, pulled her close, settled her body next to his and cupped her full breasts, his calloused fingers trailing over her nipples. She snuggled into him, her derriere tempting his insatiable manhood. She kissed his arm. “I love you Thomas Sprague,” she whispered. “I am the luckiest woman in the world,” she said before sleep claimed her.
Chapter Eight
Promptly at 8:00 a.m., a well-rested and decidedly chipper Edward Mansfield entered the breakfast parlor and greeted his hosts. The large sideboard was quite ornate and featured a stag looking down on carved apples, grapes and pomegranates. It was fairly groaning this morning with a lavish assortment of breakfast dishes including soft boiled eggs, grilled sausage and bacon, buttered toast and marmalade, grilled tomatoes, muffins, coffee and tea. Susannah wore a muslin day dress with a pretty floral pattern and scooped neckline trimmed with lace. She was spreading marmalade on her toast. Thomas was sipping his coffee and reading the Tribune.
“Good morning, Edward,” Susannah began. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” he replied, as he busied himself with filling his plate. “Travel by train made me more tired than I thought.”
“Before there was the train, we used to take the stage from Kansas City to Denver on the Overland Trail. Three days in a stage coach, now that was a tiring, dusty ride,” said Thomas.
“I must count my blessings, then,” Edward said. He seated himself next to his hostess and unfolded his napkin. “Susannah,” he began, “you must tell me what art projects have captivated your interest of late.”
“I continue to paint landscapes and sold another painting recently,” she replied.
“Tell Edward of your students, my love,” said Thomas with a smile.
“I have seven very promising students, mostly girls. They range in age from nine to fifteen. We have been practicing the finer points of tinsel painting this summer. There is also one boy, my little Jesse. He is learning to sketch and is quite shy. I tutor him separately.”
“That is most excellent news,” said Edward agreeably. “Where do you give these lessons?”
“Thomas built me a space for a studio in the back of the carriage house. It gives me such pleasure to share my knowledge with my students,” she added.
“And in the cold winter months?” Edward asked.
“Thomas installed a wonderful potbelly stove for us – it keeps things quite cozy so our lessons may continue,” was her answer.
“Oh, no,” said Thomas, looking up from the paper with a frown. “Another accident.”
“What happened?” asked Susannah as her face clouded. “Where was it?”
“In Alma.” Thomas then read aloud the newspaper account. “‘W.C. Miller, a Cornishman working in the Moose Mine at Alma is the latest victim of premature explosion of a blast. The iron bar with which he was tamping, was blown one hundred feet, striking a rock with such force as to bend it double. Mr. Miller’s right hand had been frightfully mangled by the explosion. His face was burned by the powder and cut by the stones. He was brought to town the same evening in a wagon and is now receiving the careful nursing of friends.’ ”
“That poor man,” Susannah sighed. “I pray he will recover.”
This was the news she dreaded most about her husband’s livelihood, the constant fear of a disaster. Almost from the moment she had met Thomas, Susannah was aware of the great risks involved in operating a mine. Accidents seemed to be an unavoidable part of this dangerous occupation and were regularly reported in the newspapers. She trusted that Thomas and Jack together would be careful and cautious, meticulous, thorough. Her fears seemed to occupy a permanent corner of her mind and Susannah hated her own weakness for her inability to conquer such negative thinking. The specter of an accident was a grim reality she did not wish to countenance. Catori had been correct when she said, ‘fear makes the wolf seem bigger’.
“How could something like that happen?” Edward asked slyly, his curiosity at war with his desire to appear uninterested.
“Sometimes those drilling holes to set new charges are unaware of an unexploded charge nearby,” Thomas answered.
In the early afternoon Edward found Susannah in her flower garden behind the mansion, a friendly cat rubbing against her skirt. “Yours?” Edward asked while bestowing a much appreciated scratch behind its ears.
“Not exactly,” said Susannah. “He behaves as if he belongs to everyone in the neighborhood.”
“A characteristic of felines, I believe,” Edward observed.
“Why don’t we sit for a few moments, Edward,” Susannah suggested, indicating the nearby bench which offered a magnificent view of distant snow-capped peaks.
“We are certainly a long way from England,” he commented as he surveyed the terrain.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But this is my home now and I have come to love it here. Of course I have had to learn new ways and make new friends.”
“I sensed your uneasiness when Thomas was reading from the newspaper this morning,” he said.
“You sensed correctly. It is a topic which is constantly on my mind.”
Edward patted her arm. “Do not let such worries intrude on your happiness,” he kindly advised. “Most of the things we worry about never happen.”
“I suppose that is true,” she conceded.
“Besides, Thomas is a careful man and his partner Jack seems very responsible indeed,” he said reassuringly.
“I appreciate your kind words, Edward. “You have been a true friend.”
“Now, turning to other things,” he said with a grin, “I am off with Charlotte to ride the trolley and do a bit of sightseeing in your fair city. Perhaps we shall take tea at one of your fine hotels,” he said brightly. “Of course we shall return in plenty of time for tonight’s engagement.”
“What a wonderful idea. You are so good to Charlotte. Enjoy your afternoon and thank you again for sharing your thoughts with me,” said Susannah with a smile.
That evening the dinner and dance at the Grand Hotel was a large function. The rich gleam of silk along with the flash of cravat pins and watch fobs sparkled through the ballroom along with dozens of glasses filled with the best champagne, port and brandy. Susannah wore a gown of violet satin with a lace shoulder shrug. The bodice was cut to flatter her lovely figure. A choker of pearls wound about her throat and diamond and pearl combs adorned her bountiful hair. Thomas looked very handsome in a black tailcoat and vest, black trousers and a silk cravat. Those in attendance were effusive in their accolades concerning the quality of the food and the ability of the orchestra.
As was customary at a leap year social, Susannah reserved the first and last dances for her husband. The ladies took care of their escorts in the very same way the men had always taken care of them. They carried refreshments to the gentlemen and asked all the proper questions: �
�are you sitting in a draft? May I get you a shawl? Are your poor feet aching?’ Some of the men loved the attention they were getting, others regarded the dancing with the air of someone waiting his turn to be executed.
Jack was sitting among the other ‘wallflowers’, waiting until a lady asked him to dance. Charlotte Mansfield had already claimed one dance with him and even now, as she was dancing with another, she was eyeing him again. In the space of one dance she had interrogated him about his family, what brought him west and if he had ever visited England. He needed to do a better job of blending in with the wallflowers. Maybe then she would lose track of him.
He watched as Edward Mansfield led Susannah into a waltz, his hand placed possessively on the small of her back, pulling her closer, and with a false smile plastered on his face. Jack studied Edward and took his measure. From the lay of his cravat to the cut of his polished boots, Edward, he concluded, was a planned production. He was a strategist, an opportunist, perfectly turned and ready for anything. Jack’s face was rigid with disapproval. Where was Thomas? He scanned the crowd for him. He was dancing with Mrs. Gibson.
“You look exquisite tonight,” Edward said to Susannah as he guided her into a turn. A blush crested her cheeks. Edward pulled her closer, her curves tempted a man to touch and linger. He glimpsed the swell of her creamy, full breasts and held her as close as he dared. “Have you found happiness here?” he then asked as he held her gaze
She thought it a bold question, if not impertinent. It surprised her, caught her off guard, and made her feel uncomfortable. Her life was full, her marriage a happy one, her new home – peaceful, and her many new friends, a blessing. She did not need to defend her decisions. Susannah started to formulate an answer when to her additional surprise, Jack cut in most unexpectedly.
“My turn, I believe, Mansfield,” said Jack firmly.
“Mr. Simmons, it is for the ladies to choose their partners,” she protested.
“Sometimes the rules are meant to be broken,” Jack said stubbornly as he whirled her away. She saw darkness in his eyes and could sense the heat and brutal strength of his immense body. The pleasant scent of bayberry shaving soap and tobacco also filled her senses.
“I had to intervene, Susannah,” Jack said honestly. He smiled at her but she pretended not to see. “Your friend Edward is a bounder,” he added bluntly.
If this wasn’t impertinence she would eat her lace. “I can look after myself, sir,” Susannah answered dismissively, “and you are being unkind.” Her vibrant eyes speared him with defiance.
His gaze was coolly reproachful. “He pretends to be something he is not. But perhaps I should defer to your superior knowledge of his character,” said Jack.
“Perhaps so,” Susannah agreed. “I cannot imagine what laid the foundation of your sentiments. Perhaps Edward made some oblique remark that you misinterpreted. But regardless, I can assure you he is a gentleman and he is also my guest. I thank you for the dance, Mr. Simmons,” she said politely as the music ended, “and bid you a good evening.”
Susannah made her way to the ladies retiring room for a few moments alone. She needed to think about what just happened. On the one hand she found herself defending Edward Mansfield like an avenging angel. At the same time, hadn’t Edward forgotten his manners with his highly inappropriate question? Was Jack seeing something in him that she was missing? Was Edward a bounder? But no, Edward had always been a friend. Maybe Jack was the bounder. She was confused. It was all very unsettling.
It was very late. The day’s events were now a pleasant memory. Thomas and Susannah helped each other undress. It was their private time, a time for loving and soft sighs, a time when they seemed to be the only two people in the world. He picked her up, carried her to the bed and gently laid Susannah on the satin sheets, among the soft pillows. He came over her, suckled her breasts, she felt his thick penis, hard against her belly. She waited, her body throbbing and hungry for that crying pleasure again. He gave it to her. He knew how. His kisses and tongue and hands, promising ecstasy. She breathed in the indescribable scent of his skin. They lay nestled together, she felt safe in his arms, and she was beyond happy.
In another part of the mansion, Edward Mansfield was drifting off to sleep. It had been a gratifying day’s work, he thought, full of possibilities. He had a plan, and the ever-reliable Mr. Brophy to set it in motion. He was rich in hopes. Susannah would be as helpless as a kitten. In illusions and in deception he knew he was unequalled.
Before the sun was up the next morning, Mrs. Sheppard was bustling about the kitchen preparing a hardy breakfast. Catori, following her usual routine, removed several clay ollas from the pantry, one containing cinnamon and another of honey. She combined one tablespoon of honey with a half teaspoon of cinnamon and set it aside in a small dish, to be served with Mr. Sprague’s breakfast. He believed a mixture of cinnamon and honey to be a very effective preventive treatment for all kinds of ailments including fatigue, indigestion and winter colds and that it was unsurpassed at revitalizing the arteries and veins. Catori didn’t believe a word of it. She viewed life as a gift from Mother Earth and good health as a blessing from the Spirit World. But she had come to know that Mr. Sprague had very definite ideas about the health benefits of many foods including vinegar, molasses, chicken soup and hot peppers. At this rate, she thought, he might easily live to be 100.
The lady who brought fresh milk each morning was at the door with their order. Mrs. Sheppard kindly relieved her of her burden and returned to her tasks. Presently the ladies heard the squeaking of the back stair steps, someone was descending and soon Mr. Mansfield’s bodyguard, Mr. Brophy, appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was carrying a small leather bag in one hand and his bowler hat in the other and he wore heavy boots. His clothes were plain and seemed slightly worn. Wherever he was going, he certainly had not needed to get dressed up. Mr. Brophy was of average height, but muscular, burly and solidly built. He had light brown hair and sported a mustache and sideburns. And he was not much for conversation. It was an unexpected surprise to see him up and about so early.
“Good morning Mr. Brophy,” said Mrs. Sheppard brightly.
“Good morning ladies,” he replied.
“You are a bit too early for breakfast, but may I offer you some coffee?” asked Mrs. Sheppard.
“No, thank you,” Brophy answered brusquely. “Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the nearest trolley?” he asked with a thick Irish brogue.
“Of course,” said Catori. “We are on Grant Street. There is a trolley one block east on 17th Street. You shouldn’t have to wait very long.”
“Excellent. Good day, ladies,” was all he said before letting himself out the back door. They both wondered what possible business a stranger to a new city could possibly have at such an hour. He almost behaved like someone who had just gotten his marching orders.
Chapter Nine
Six Days Later
Below the Five Nuggets Mine and the other mines in the area, the busy town of Pine Creek clung to the mountainside, offering everything from banks to brothels, from saloons to boarding houses. Madam Delilah’s establishment was at the edge of the town, a whitewashed two story, wood frame house with lace curtains in all the windows. Colorful pots with well-tended geraniums decorated the front porch. The eaves around the perimeter of the porch were trimmed with graceful scalloped edges. Madam Delilah was a shrewd businesswoman, she paid attention to the important details that set her establishment apart. A porcelain oil lamp with a painted floral design graced the front window. The hardwood floors were covered with attractive carpets. The walls were decorated with paintings of flowers. Her red light ladies were stylishly dressed and well groomed. There were other brothels in town, but hers looked to be high class, feminine, inviting.
She employed eight young women – all down on their luck, with no place to go when their families threw them out or abandoned them. Illiterate, poor and from broken families, these women had limited o
ptions available to them. Madam Delilah knew what lured them to this occupation, the thin thread of hope of being noticed by a miner who prospered. They were all laboring under the false belief that someone would rescue them from a wretched and hopeless existence. These fallen women and purveyors of pleasure risked disease, injury and sometimes death, gambling that prostitution might be a path to marriage. John Brophy was taking his pleasure this evening with one of Madam Delilah’s doves. Her name was Mary Dempsey, but to her customers she was Jade. She was young, had a pleasant looking face and was full-breasted, the way Brophy liked them.
It had been a productive six days for Brophy. The train let him off at Pine Creek. He had no sooner walked up the dirt road to the mining camp, when one of the managers of the Five Nuggets Mine interviewed the strapping young Irishman and put him to work almost immediately. Brophy was outfitted with an oil wick lamp, buckskin gloves, felt hat and pick ax and very soon was putting his back into the hard labor of moving ore. He was also given a brass check with a number on it. This was hung on a board at the mine entrance. If disaster struck, managers counted checks to identify missing miners.
Brophy soon became familiar with the layout of the camp and the inner workings of the mine. The passages would twist and turn, with jagged rocks lining the tunnel walls. One depended only on an oil wick lamp or miner’s candlestick to light the way. Miners would bend the end of a spike to hold the candle. The spike was then jabbed into wooden support beams or crevices in the stone walls.
The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder Page 5
