“No, Father! I wasn’t tempting anyone. I was…I was minding myself. I didn’t want him to talk to me. I don’t know why he chose to. I ran all the way home,” she added desperately in her defense.
“And you believe, to be certain, that you did not tempt the young man any more than you have tempted your own father? You know that you are the Genesis seductress, Blair. ‘Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him that we may preserve the seed of our father.’”
The preacher’s breathing was becoming heavy and his speech husky, with the sing-song quality that made the back of Blair’s neck grow cold. She knew that if she turned, she would see the glassy, faraway look in her father’s eyes. Tears began to well up in her own eyes, and a fluttery fear rose in her stomach. She could not see the potato she was peeling at all clearly, and she cut herself with the paring knife. Quickly, she grabbed a sink cloth and wrapped it around her thumb.
Without turning, she said softly, “I don’t wish to tempt anyone, Father. I never wanted—”
“Ha! Never wanted? Do you not remember how you wanted, even when you were but five years old? You would come to me with stories of the devil and demons and ask to come in to my bed. I would hold you like a father, and you would squirm and rub against me like the temptress you are.”
“I was just a frightened child, Father. You frightened me with stories of the damned and then sent me to sleep in this dark room alone,” Blair protested more to the sink than to her father. She could hear him breathing heavier still, and her legs were growing weak.
“When I began to understand the will of God, Blair, how He replaced your mother, who was too weak to bear children, with a stronger and younger wife for me, you did not protest!” She could hear him fumble with his belt. “I know what you want, demon child. Lust’s passion will be served. It demands. It militates. It tyrannizes!” He quoted De Sade.
The first whip of the belt caught her high across the thighs and sent her to the floor on all fours. Tears were streaming down Blair’s face, but she could not cry aloud. The best she could voice in the way of protest was a weak, “No,” as her father pushed her flat to the floor and pulled viciously at her skirt and petticoat.
He stripped her from the waist down and proceeded to strike at her smooth, soft skin with the leather belt. Each strike revealed an ugly welt. The preacher recited a prayer while he viciously stroked his daughter’s backside. She tried to scramble away, and her father tossed the belt aside and dropped to his knees behind her. Blair fell into a different world where she felt no pain or humiliation. It was like being removed from her ravaged body. Eventually, his voice penetrated her dreamlike state. “Your sobbing will not gain you any pity, Blair.”
She was not aware that she had been crying.
“You will not make me feel guilt for implementing God’s will. You might as well stop crying and clean yourself up. You are late with Sunday supper.”
And then she was alone, curled on the cold kitchen floor with nausea in her stomach. How she wished she would die.
Chapter 5
Rescue Blair. But how? Sean grunted in desperation. His head pounded with the thoughts he’d contemplated during his hours hiking Marshall Mountain behind the homestead, shooting randomly with the treasured Conley but only half conscious of the photography mission on which he’d set out. There must be a way he could rescue Blair. He would not, could not, seek vengeance. Even though that was what he wanted more than anything, his religious doctrine prohibited it. The irony that the doctrine he chose to abide by was taught to him by the very object of his abhorrence did not escape him.
If God would allow it, Sean prayed, I would like to see Pastor Bowman horse-whipped. At the very least, the charlatan man should be tarred, feathered, and run out of town. But such call to action would harm Blair too. Folks in town are plain and simplistic. He did not doubt his neighbors would find the Preacher culpable and view Blair as a pitiable victim. But she would also be the girl who has intimate relations with her own father.
Only Sean had actually seen how it was, and only he knew that Blair had no choice. Much to his chagrin, he had actually documented the sin. But in this case, a picture would not say a thousand words. The townsfolk would not regard Blair as entirely blameless. In any case, Sean suspected that the humiliation of others knowing about her deplorable life within those four shabby walls would be far more devastating to Blair than the assigning of any blame.
Someone had to get Blair away from that house for good. Someone needed to rescue her from the evil that was her father, his pastor, without making public the need for it. So far, Sean could only think of one way to do that. It was this notion, more than the sun on his hatless head that gave him head pains. More accurately, it was knowing that he would have to break his relationship with Rebecca—Rebecca who was more than his sweetheart. Rebecca was also his best friend. He would have to break off his promised engagement with her and could not even be permitted to explain why. Sean wasn’t certain he could do it. But if he were to commit himself to the salvation of an innocent, suffering human being, and if he were to do so with pureness in his ambition and not for pursuit of praise or glory or station in heaven, then he could not tell Rebecca. Because Rebecca, in all her fair-minded unselfishness, would give her blessing even as her heart broke, thereby breaking Sean’s heart in the bargain.
It would be far easier to forget about the photograph he had locked away, and all of the ugliness that the photo betrayed—pretend that out-of-sight means out-of-mind. But what would happen to Blair? He’d tried but could not shake her tragic beauty from his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes visions came to him, unsought and unwelcome, of the Preacher in contorted ecstasy striking Blair’s delicate body with cruel abandon, forcing his bulk upon her. Of course it affected his sleep, but worse is the fact that Sean had been awake for hours and the nightmare was still playing in his head. Would he ever be able to rid his mind of it? Sean had come to a sad realization that so long as Blair was trapped in her unseemly circumstances within that squalid cabin, his conscience would not permit him to forget it.
The hike made him sweat. It was another warm day, this one stock-still and muggy. From the top of the mountain, Sean could see the bay to the south, the Pacific directly in front and under him, and the entire valley to the east. Bald Eagles nested in the high trees up there, and as he looked up, he witnessed an immature Bald Eagle soaring above. It could not have been a more beautiful panorama, but it was mostly lost on Sean. He could think of nothing but Rebecca and the emotional pain he knew he would soon be inflicting upon her. Still, it was what he intended to do. Sean made his mind up. He would ask Blair Bowman to marry him.
Sean arrived back at the house to see Preacher Bowman’s buckboard in front of the carriage house. Fortunately for Sean, his mother had insisted on a second, more secret entrance to the home, one that her boys and the hired hands could use to get up the stairs to their quarters without treading through Mavis’s fine parlor with muddy boots. Sean had never seen his mother actually hostess a ladies’ tea in the parlor that the men were all warned to stay clear of. But at times like that, Sean thought it just fine his mother had insisted on having her way. He came in through an English pantry in the back and then through a side door of the pantry, which opened into a closet in the library, which had a secret passageway that lead under the stairs and into a linen closet, which opened into the stairwell. When Sean arrived at his room, happy to have avoided greeting the guest downstairs, he yelled a whispered, “Yeah!” and kicked his heels once.
“Sean!” Mavis hollered from the foot of the stairs. “Come down here, young man.”
“Dang.” Sean muttered his favorite new word. “Sean, when you’re safe and happy, why don’t you learn to keep your mouth shut!” he admonished himself as he trudged dejectedly down the stairs. “Preacher Bowman,” he accented with a slight nod in his way of greeting the
loathsome man.
“Preacher Bowman stopped by to learn why you were not in church yesterday, Sean.” Mavis eyed her youngest son over the tops of her bifocals.
“I told you that my gullet was aching me. I wasn’t too sure my breakfast would stay down. I just hung around outside is all, waiting for ya.” He could not bring himself to look at the preacher so close to him.
“Fiddlesticks, Sean. Preacher Bowman has already told us the reason why you did not attend his service. You and that pretty girl o’ his were courtin’. Did you forget about Rebecca, Sean?”
Wyatt Marshall stuffed his pipe and toked. “I don’t see harm in talking to a pretty girl, Mavis. It’s not like the boy proposed marriage or anything. ‘Probably time he gets to thinking about his future. Can’t walk around takin’ pictures for a living.” Wyatt glanced at Sean. “And, yes, he needs to think about taking a wife. But I don’t remember Sean proposing to Rebecca just yet anyhow.” He noticed Sean looked mighty uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Wyatt, he did promise Rebecca—“
“And promises get broken, Mavis. Isn’t that why we have courtships before engagements? I believe we should leave the boy to try things for himself.”
“I just said hi to Blair and told her she looked pretty is all. And I’m not a boy, Pa. I’m twenty-two years old. I do a man’s work on this farm, and I helped to build this house. Dang. When are you gonna start thinking of me as a man?”
“Just as soon as you start acting like one, Sean. I don’t care if you miss a Sunday service here and again.”
Preacher Bowman’s and Mavis Marshall’s eyes blazed at Wyatt for that.
“But, boy…I mean, son, you have to start thinking how you’re gonna ever take a wife with nothing but picture-taking for a trade.”
“Someday, that’s how I intend to make my living.”
Well, son, that’s fine. I hope it works out for you. But that someday is a might well in the offing, I ‘spect, and you need to start givin’ thought to your more immediate future. I reckon Rebecca’s beginning to make some plans of her own. She ain’t getting younger waiting for you, Sean.”
Sean looked angrily from his father to the preacher to his mother. Mavis Marshall changed the subject. “I understand that you found a banana box with the Hudson name stamped on it, Preacher Bowman. That so?”
“It is. Went to the valley for some canning supplies. Must be ready when the berries are, you know. Saw that box leaning against a fruit stand on the main road. Asked the man if he’d part with it for five cents, and he said he would.”
“You know, Preacher, my family is related to them folks who started the Hudson Bay Company. I sure would like to get my hands on a box like that.”
Mavis could hint no stronger than that without being rude. Still, Preacher Bowman made no offer.
“You folks ain’t the only ones with distinguished lineage, Mavis. Why, did I ever tell you where the name Bowman comes from?”
“Yes,” came the response from all three, but it mattered not at all.
“My ancestor was the bow man for the king, the next thing to royalty, really.”
Sean and his father exchanged a quick glance.
“You know,” Sean ventured, “Ma’s line of Hudsons comes directly from Henry Hudson, the explorer, and Pa’s great-great uncle was Chief Justice John Marshall.” He knew the preacher would be jealous of that.
Bowman pretended he did not hear that as he tweaked his ear in false aggravation. “Well, I reckon I’ve stayed long enough. Boy, I want to see you in my church next Sunday.” He winked at Sean. As he turned to take his leave, he told Wyatt, “I believe that boy might have a work/play inversion problem.”
Sean was certain the preacher had called him boy just to irritate him. I can make myself an irritation too, Preacher. I’ll come ‘round Blair so often that you won’t have an opportunity to touch her, Sean promised as his eyes tried to burn holes in the preacher’s withdrawing backside. Under his breath and just loud enough for his father’s ears, Sean muttered, “I believe you have a dental/rectal inversion problem.”
Wyatt stifled a laugh, turned quickly and left the room.
Chapter 6
When Preacher Bowman arrived at his own home, he could see the girl sitting atop the lean-to again, pickin’ off pine needles and such. He jumped to the ground with a huff of disgust for the strangeness in his daughter. Wasn’t none of his doing, he’d convinced himself. The child had always been strange. She’d wanted to sleep with her father at a young age; was frightened as can be of God, though her father was a preacher; dressed herself funny and talked to no one save herself—an odd girl, but not of his doing. He was certain of that. The preacher told himself again that he was a man of God who had taken into account and carefully observed certain external factors that God gave him the intelligence to understand. That it was easy to dominate and define some factors more than others in order to bend his religion to fit his needs, did not often occur to him.
Every man has such needs, Bowman defensively promised himself. He glanced up at the heavens and recited one of his own father’s favorite De Sade quotes to no one in particular: “‘Sex is as important as eating or drinking and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.’”
He did not go outside his home for his manly releases. He did not seek out women of ill repute or become a party to adultery. He didn’t need to since God had seen fit to deliver him a particularly suitable wife, specific in the way that her soul had been damned upon first breath, giving him his mission to save her soul and eventually the trial to save his own. And he would deliver. Sometimes, it was necessary to beat the devil out of her, but he accepted the mission without reservation. He had convinced himself that he was doing God’s work.
In truth, he did sometimes become afraid and shrink from his own actions. But Preacher Bowman never pondered those doubts too much or for too long since to do so would raise other questions. If taken a step further, those questions might not live up to the constitutions of public opinion, respectability, and reputation, which was what truly mattered to the family name. Oh, it would surely be a danger if he were to become conscious of himself. The uncertainty he harbored deep inside would not kill his body but would certainly kill his soul. Tucked safely in the back of his demented mind, Bowman knew that he was a helpless victim of something evil that obsessed and possessed him. He was unable to help himself in any way against the demonic power of his morbid idea. It proliferated in him like a carcinoma. On the night of Blair’s birth, the idea of using her for a wife just manifested, as of a quite natural idea. And in terms of his own family’s ancestry, it was not new. So from that moment on, the idea remained unshakable. He questioned it momentarily sometimes, as he did now, but then his need would tell him more loudly that his secret fears of the unknown perils of the soul were…mythical.
“Blair!”
She bolted from the roof of the lean-to, skipping down the wood pile with the gracefulness of a doe, and rushed to the wagon. “I finished the wash, Father.” She looked away from him as she spoke. “I just took a moment to rest.”
He grunted. “When you’re through watering the horses, you may get ready the canning shed. I have fresh jars and pectin in the back here. Be quick, child. It is getting late.” Under his breath, he griped, “Child must have the weak mentality of her quadroon mother.”
“Yes, Father.” Blair grabbed the reins and pulled the horses around the back. “Like you’re not a sandwich short of a box lunch,” she murmured to herself.
Chapter 7
“Hiya, Blair.”
Again, the poor girl nearly jumped from her skin.
“Oh…uh…I’m awful sorry if I scared you, Blair. I just came by to…uh…well, to see if you could help me with something.”
“Papa woul
d be angry if he saw me talkin’ when I should be tendin’ to the horses,” she said to her shabby boots.
“If I could help ya finish your chores, then will you help me with something?”
What does he want? she screamed to herself.
Then her voice inside grew firm. You just stay quiet, Blair, an’ let me handle this, the voice said. The eyes glanced up through long, dark lashes quite seductively. “Don’t know how’s I can help you, Sean. Anywise, I have to unload the cannin’ goods to the shed…”
“I’ll do that for ya, Blair. Pretty girl shouldn’t have to lift those heavy cases. Show me where they go.”
It was the most Blair Bowman had ever said to anyone that she could recall. Her heart pounded for it, but the voice inside was very insistent.
Just quiet yourself and let me do all the talking, it said.
And Blair was far too meek to refuse the order. So she had become that other girl again, she marveled, the one who was sometimes her only friend but at other times looked upon her and her father when they did unmentionable things in the bedroom and called her names like pathetic and laughed cruelly at her whenever he beat her.
Having given the horses a quick brushing and a watering and stacking all the crates in the shed, she turned to Sean Marshall and batted her eyelashes.
“It…ah…I’m…uh…let’s go down by the river and…uh…I want to take some pictures, and I need someone to kind of stand-in so I can adjust for the light. I mean, you don’t have to model for me if it makes you uncomfortable. We can take some pictures of the critters we spot.”
She rocked a little and smiled lightly. “Okay.”
Chapter 8
Ruth Snyder and her lover, Judd Gray, were to be electrocuted at Sing-Sing. Mavis Marshall bypassed that article and the one about Babe Ruth’s sixtieth home run for the Yankees, stopping at the piece about Amelia Earhart’s flight across the Atlantic. She eyed her husband over the tops of the newspapers. Growing impatient, she willed her eyes to penetrate his paper that he might note she was disturbed by something. But Wyatt Marshall was a purposeful man, and he read his newspaper from headline to finish, stopping only for a sip of marvelous Brazilian coffee. Finally, Mavis’s patience ran out.
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