Summers, True

by Poppy

  When Phillipa and Mr. Wilton called to take her to the church, Poppy nearly panicked. Once in the carriage her eyes must have been frantic, for Mr. Wilton put a firm hand on her arm and held her back. By the time they arrived, she was numb, shaking, and half-blind as she stumbled down the aisle. She was dimly aware of her friends on one side of the church and the glittering uniforms of the Fire Company's full dress on the other. She stood trembling at the altar, fighting to stay upright and not whirl and run out of the building in a mad frenzy of escape. She heard her own whispering voice only as an echo from a great distance, faint as the last cold breath from a tomb as the door closed and locked.

  Oddly enough, once the words were said, she began to recover so that she felt quite cool, detached, and weak. By the time they got back to the boardinghouse, she was able to notice the reception room had been made larger by opening the double doors to the dining room, forming one space the length of the deep house. At first she was aware only of the fires blazing at each end and the masses of dark red roses everywhere. Then she saw the long table along one side and the four waiters in red coats standing in front of it. She had assumed Mrs. Stander would provide a small collation of champagne punch and cake. Instead, she saw the white damask-covered board was heaped with silver platters of elaborately prepared hams, turkeys, roasts of beef and meat pies, with an enormous suckling pig in the center. Whole salmon and chafing dishes of sea-food mixture were set out beside heaps of snowy rice and glittering jellies and aspics. Hot rolls, breads, crackers, and dozens of cheeses and bowls of fruit were set out on a smaller table.

  The towering wedding cake and bowls of punch were on a table under the bay windows. The length of the house away, at the back, another table was loaded with bottles, glasses and ice, and standing beside it was a bartender who sometimes worked at the Palace.

  "Do you intend to feed an army?" Poppy gasped.

  ''This is my one and only wedding," Jeremiah said sentimentally, patting her arm. "You wouldn't want me to give offense?"

  "How many people do you know?"

  "Dozens are coming from Sacramento," Jeremiah boasted. "With their wives. The highest officials. And the members of the legislature. And the judges, of course."

  The rest was lost as the string quartet beside the living room fireplace began to play and the first of the guests arrived. As they walked in the door and she heard the deep, steady rumble of carriages outside, Poppy realized the truth. She had left everything to Jeremiah and Mrs. Stander, and they had turned her wedding into a political circus. Her husband was making a public demonstration of his friends and power.

  Not only the men from Sacramento but the city officials and army officers from the Presidio had brought their wives. Poppy knew only one thing to do. She must carry this off with royal grace.

  She stood nodding and smiling, trying to repeat and remember names. The Fire Company men were easy, as were the few San Francisco social figures. Most of them had been in the Palace at one time or another, though not with their wives. The Governor, the Mayor, and the General were simple to identify. For the rest, she tried to give the impression that seeing each of them was the greatest possible pleasure for her. She thought she was succeeding. Jeremiah's eyes were gleaming with satisfaction, and he kept patting her arm, not as much a caress, she thought, as the encouraging pats one gave a horse or a dog that was performing well. She came to resent that touch and moved as far away from his side as she could, without making it noticeable.

  Within an hour, the room was so jammed it was impossible to move, and the air was thick with smoke and sultry perfumes. Poppy's stomach knotted up, and she felt herself swaying on her feet. She knew it would be a disaster if she tried to swallow one bite of the rich, spicy food. She could only be grateful for the long hours at the Palace, which had taught her to keep smiling when her feet were burning and to juggle a glass for hours without doing more than lift it to her lips now and then. People must leave eventually.

  When the Fire Company's chorus, boasted as being the best in the city, grouped in front of the fireplace and began a concert, she almost broke down. How long would they sing? Her hands were so swollen from being pressed that she could hardly hold her glass, her cheeks were raw from affectionate dabbings, and her feet had stopped being twin throbs of agony and were now mere stumps.

  By the time the carriages began to roll back to the door and the crowd to thin, she was in a daze. She only knew she must keep standing and smiling and not disgrace herself. Jeremiah was beaming and bowing, his eyes sparkling, alive as she had never seen him. When he personally closed the door behind the last of the guests, he half pranced back into the reception room.

  He looked around, at the carpets stained and trampled, the flowers drooping in their vases, the tables a shambles of dirty glasses and dishes, and he nodded, eyes glittering, nostrils flaring wide with triumph. "We did ourselves proud, Mrs. Stander," he said, nodding again. "This is one wedding reception they won't forget. They've never seen anything like it in this town before, and it will be a long time before they see its equal again. Those that weren't here will regret it. Yes, siree, we did it up brown."

  Mrs. Stander, in severe iron-gray silk, had hovered in the background all evening. Now she walked into the center of the room, hands clasped at her waist, and said expressionlessly, "Thank you, sir. We have to clean this now to be ready to serve breakfast in the morning."

  Jeremiah nodded but did not move. He did not seem able to tear himself away from this scene of his triumph. "Yes, siree, that was some spread we put out. I said to layout everything they could think of and then double it, and that they did. Did you see old Senator Coy? Skunk drunk. Skunk drunk." He slapped his thigh.

  Poppy swayed on her stubs of feet. From far away she was vaguely grateful Dex had not seen her in the midst of this ultimate humiliation of vulgarity.

  "You remember Mrs. Dunbar has not been well, sir," Mrs. Stander said. "She looks exhausted. I've prepared everything in your rooms."

  Jeremiah glanced around indifferently. "You know the way. My rooms. I'll be along in a minute."

  Poppy was beyond speech. She stumbled up the stairs and along to Jeremiah's suite. Earlier Mrs. Stander had showed her through the rooms, the finest in the house, especially designed for his use when the house was built, with tall windows overlooking the back garden. Now a fire burned in the sitting room, and vases of red roses stood all around. A large table was placed in front of the fire, set for two with covered dishes waiting and bottles in ice buckets, obviously just refilled.

  Poppy stared numbly. She was exhausted from the strain of speaking to hundreds of people and half sickened by the memory of the masses of food downstairs. Jeremiah could not expect them to sit down to a cozy little supper a deux after that and at this late hour.

  Jeremiah's feet thudded out in the hall, and he slammed into the room. He looked around, nodded with satisfaction, shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it on a chair.

  "Now," he said with gusto, smacking his lips and rubbing his hands together. "I knew we'd be too busy with our guests to enjoy ourselves, so I had some of the best of everything brought 'up here. What will you have?"

  Poppy's head was throbbing with every pulse beat. "I had plenty."

  "Did you?" Jeremiah said absently, his eyes gluttonously looking over the food. "Oh, yes, my dear, I meant to tell you. You did very nicely. Received the whole lot of them pretty as a princess."

  That was the breaking point. He did not see she was white and sick. He had not even noticed she had not eaten or drunk. The thing she seldom thought and had never said burst from her lips. "I am a king's daughter."

  "Huh?" Jeremiah looked up, startled, and then burst into a great laugh. "Oh, sure, sure. We all can make up our ancestors out here, can't we? My family name is Bonaparte, and we all end up as kings, too. Now how about a little of the beef? Good and rare."

  "I said I had plenty," Poppy whispered, white lipped.

  "I didn't. I was too busy flatter
ing 'the ladies and polishing up the gents." He picked up a tall glass and plucked a bottle of whiskey from the ice bucket, then poured the glass full. "Sure you won't? Might as well because I'm going to enjoy myself now."

  Poppy gaped, wordless. Jeremiah did not drink. Ever.

  He threw back his head, drained half the glass, and smacked his lips. "Ah, I needed that. Sure you won't have some? All right. Here's what I want. Rare beef, horseradish, mustard, fresh bread. Ah, now I'll have something worth putting my teeth into."

  He loaded half a loaf of bread with blood-rare dripping beef, heaped on horseradish and mustard, then pushed the load into his mouth, and gave a strangled laugh as it smeared his face. He snatched up a linen napkin and scrubbed his cheeks and chin. He took another monster bite, grabbed another napkin and wiped again, and threw both on the floor. He was gorging like a famished animal and draining and refilling his glass between gulping bites. He was on his third glass now.

  Poppy closed her eyes and swallowed convulsively. If she watched one more bite, she was going to be sick as she never had been sick before, even on shipboard.

  "Ah, that'll hold me for a while," he said. Then he went into the bedroom, and she heard water splashing in the washbasin. He came back, toweling his face vigorously, and said, "Are you still just standing there?"

  "I'm very tired," Poppy said weakly. Her mind was scurrying around in feverish circles. She had thought she was resigned and numbed to anything that might happen, but his animal greed had sickened her. In his expansive mood, would he listen if she pled exhaustion and asked to be allowed to return to her old room just for tonight? "Too tired," she began tentatively.

  "Of course you are," he said. He dropped the towel on the floor and came over to her. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her into the bedroom, stumbling a little, and dropped her on the bed. He mumbled, ''Too tired, very tired, I'll do it."

  He tore the veil from her head, ripping out the pins that held the wreath to her hair, and ignored her shriek of surprised agony. Then he reached down and lifted each foot in turn and tore off the slippers. He broke the dainty ties so they lashed across her burning flesh like whips. Her swollen feet, suddenly released, ached as if they were thawing after being frozen.

  She tried to struggle up. "My dress."

  "I got it," he said thickly. He hooked his fingers under the neck of the bodice and jerked. The dainty buttons broke and flew in all directions.

  The shop owner had said this was no dress to get out of in a hurry, Poppy thought hysterically, as he flipped her over and pulled the dress down as if he were husking an ear of com. Then he caught the straps of her underbodice and jerked those away before he pulled at the waistband of her underskirts. He swore when the firm bands of silk did not break and grotesquely bounced her up and down on the bed as he tugged at them.

  "If you'll let me up," Poppy gasped.

  He staggered back. "Yeah, you do it. You get out of those while I get rid of these." He began to tear his clothes off, scattering them around him on the floor.

  Poppy pulled herself off the bed and fumbled with the pearl buttons that held her petticoat waistbands. She did not believe this was happening. She was having a nightmare, and when she woke, she would know this was only a grotesque, distorted dream. But as always in a dream, she could not stop it. She could only let it go on and on, cringing as the horror intensified and carried her along, praying she would wake before the dreadful, shocking end.

  Jeremiah tore the last bit of clothing from his thick-trunked body and slapped his sides triumphantly. "Here we are, and here we go, my girl," he said. He picked her up, threw her back on the bed, and fell on top of her.

  She lay, gasping for breath, crushed under his weight, wondering wildly if she could tear free of this madman and run somewhere, any place, for safety. He was capable of any violence.

  He slapped her knees apart and straddled her, fumbling with himself and grunting. She stiffened, clenching her teeth, ordering herself not to scream. This was happening, and she could not stop it. But she must not scream. She waited to be impaled, torn by this wild animal, but he only grunted and fumbled. Finally she realized he was talking to himself.

  "Yes, you can," he was muttering. "Yes. You go on ahead, Jeremiah, you know you can do it. Go on. This is your wedding night. This is Poppy. Now here we are. Here we are. You can do it. You know you can. Wedding night. Poppy. Wedding night."

  Finally she felt a soft dampness intruding into her as Jeremiah grunted and fumbled. Then after a moment, there was nothing. With a sob of gratification, he fell away and lay beside her, panting and patting himself happily.

  "Did it, did it," he crooned with satisfaction. "Did it. Night. Goodnight. Li'l bride. Poppy. Did it. Did it."

  She lay there more shocked than she would have been by the brutal animal rape she had expected. Her husband was impotent, or the next thing to it.

  Chapter Forty-one

  POPPY roused dully. She had suffered a terrible nightmare, born of sickness and fever. She sat upright, trying to steady her whirling head, then slipped to the floor, feeling her legs giving under her. She was almost relieved that she was ill. It meant that the night had been only a nightmare.

  Then she saw the torn shreds of her wedding gown. She gave a stifled cry, and the door to the living room opened instantly.

  Mrs. Stander said, "I've cleared away in here so you can have breakfast in front of the fire."

  "What time?" Poppy asked dazedly.

  "Nearly eleven. Did you sleep well?"

  "I was exhausted."

  "Dr. Armstrong said it would be all right as long as the wedding was small and quiet." Mrs. Stander was worried about something.

  Poppy glimpsed the new sprigged wrap laid out ready on a chair and turned to get it. "The wedding was small and quiet, anyway," she said.

  "I've heard Dr. Armstrong has a temper when his orders aren't followed," said Mrs. Stander. "Used a horsewhip on one, they say, when he urged his wife out of bed too soon."

  Mrs. Stander knew the wedding reception had been a brutal ordeal, and she worried for Jeremiah's sake. "I have no present need to consult Dr. Armstrong," Poppy said and decided to push her luck. "But until I feel stronger, I would appreciate having a breakfast tray up here."

  "Of course." Mrs. Stander came into the room and stood in her characteristic pose, hands clasped at her waist, and shook her head. "That lovely dress. What a pity."

  "Don't tell me you can find some use for these rags, too?"

  Mrs. Stander picked up the skirt. "Beautiful material. The finest embroidery and cutwork."

  "It was."

  "It still would make parlor maids' aprons and caps -for Sunday wear, of course. Or collar and cuff sets. Or jabots. With those lovely buttons."

  Poppy tried not to stare. She could no longer doubt there was some old and close association between Jeremiah and this woman. No mere landlady showed such concern and interest. But last night had been the proof she could not be his mistress. Still Poppy did wonder. Where had Mrs. Stander got the money for this house? Where had she learned her skill at running a large household with comfort and economy? It could not be a happy story. Cosseted women did not learn to make aprons and caps from discards.

  "Take it," she said, then collapsed in a chair in front of the fire.

  She managed to nibble from a dainty tray Mary brought. Then she half dozed, dazed by exhaustion and shock. She was sure of only one thing. She had been pressed beyond her returning strength. She must give herself 'time to heal again and be completely well. Until then, she must endure as she was.

  The days fell into a routine. Jeremiah woke, breakfasted downstairs with the other boarders, and was out of the house before she woke. Mary brought up a breakfast tray and cleaned the rooms.

  Whoever had gone to get her night things and then her furs had packed all the rest of her clothes. Mrs. Stander had the trunks sent up, and Poppy sorted through them. Many of the things were so worn even Mrs. Stander could only shake
her head and carry them away without any suggestions. Of all the Paris clothes, only a gray velvet skirt and cape were left unworn.

  Poppy had a vague memory the beading on the matching basque had been unsatisfactory, but she had left before another was made. Now she pursed her lips over the cape and skirt. With a bright bodice, it still would give her a handsome walking costume.

  The clothes Mrs. Stander had bought were sufficient as long as she and Jeremiah had no social life. Then she would need the changes expected of any young married woman. For the moment, she only needed gloves, bonnets, handkerchiefs, and a dozen other small necessities. But she could not quite rouse herself enough to make the effort to go shopping.