Now, he made love to her; and what she had done had enabled him to make love to her with such slowness and peace that he could concentrate on nothing but pleasing her, and honouring her beauty. He was soft at first, after the satisfaction she had given him, but she was so well-anointed that he was able to slip inside her, and gradually grow again until he filled her completely. Already, he thought, he had done something with Baby Doe that he would have been unable to do with Augusta. To Augusta, softness had always been unquestionable evidence that he no longer loved her.
Baby Doe was a sexual revelation to him: after all these years. She made love warmly and vigorously and with simple generosity; and when at last she clasped her legs tightly around his waist, slippery in dove-grey silk, and held him tight, and whispered, ‘Enough, enough, you’re beautiful, my sweetheart,’ he felt as if the whole world had changed, as if he had emerged from the past into the future. It was her giving which had surprised him so much; her continuous attention to his pleasure, rather than hers, although it was out of that giving that most of her pleasure had come. And somehow she had made it quite clear that she wasn’t trying to settle her account for the theatre, and for the diamond; but that she had wanted Henry to make love to her, and that was all, and that she always made love with such directness, and with such enthusiasm.
They lay side by side on the comforter for a long time, almost an hour. They heard the noises of the Corona Hotel all around them, trolleys coming and going, voices, rattling plumbing. Outside in the street, they heard the light grinding of carriage wheels, and the clatter of horses. Somebody whistled. Somebody shouted. Somebody knocked at Baby Doe’s door, but they didn’t answer, and so their caller went away.
Henry stroked Baby Doe’s hair, and felt her face with his fingertips as if it were impossible for him to believe that she was real. She lay and looked at him and said nothing while he outlined her shoulders, and the hollows of her collarbone, and the curve of her breasts. He held his flattened hand an inch or two over her mound of Venus, so that the crest of pubic hair just tickled him; and then with almost dreamlike slowness ran his finger down the moist divide of her sex, gently entering her at the very end of the caress.
There was another interlude of love; of Henry’s fingers deep inside her, of Baby Doe’s sharp teeth biting the muscle beside his neck as he made her tremble; and released her tension at last. They lay back again, very close arms awkwardly twined, breathing the same breath, sharing the same tiredness. Henry knew already that he had passed through the stage of being infatuated with her; he was already in love with her. Not that he was going to admit it yet, not even to himself. How could he? To fall in love with Baby Doe would mean that the best two decades of his life had been wasted on whiskey and poker and a good plain woman who had never shown him what a marriage could really be. A clock struck twelve midnight, and Henry sat up in bed.
‘You’re not going?’ Baby Doe asked him.
He shook his head. ‘I think I’m hungry, as a matter of fact.’
‘We can ask the kitchen to send up some sandwiches.’
He eased himself off the bed and walked across to the window. Baby Doe lay with her arm angled behind her head, watching him.
‘I feel as if everything’s changed,’ he said. He turned around. ‘Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I feel as if everything’s different.’
‘It is different.’
She got up from the bed and padded on bare feet across the carpet to stand beside him, and put her arms around him. Her hair strayed across his shoulder and her nipple, still sticky, touched against his arm. She smelled of gardenias and the sweetness of sex. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her even tighter; and kissed her.
‘You’re my third lover,’ she said. She was looking down at the darkened streets, where only carriage-lamps bobbed, now that the city’s electricity had been frugally switched off for the night.
Henry didn’t reply, but waited for Baby Doe to tell him more. Unusually for him, he felt no jealousy that Baby Doe had slept with other men. Perhaps it was because she had given him so much, and he felt no need of any extra reassurance.
Baby Doe said, ‘Bill McCourt was the first. I was only seventeen. I don’t think he knew anything more about making love than I did; and on our wedding night he couldn’t even work out where he was supposed to put it. You don’t mind me talking like this, do you? I’ve never been able to talk about it to anybody else.’
Henry said, ‘Go on,’ in a voice as soft as a leaf falling on to a wet sidewalk.
‘Then there was Jeremy Morgan, he was the owner of a men’s clothing store in Central City. He and Bill were friends, sort of; but when Bill started to hit me it was Jeremy who always came to help out. So when I left Bill, he was the first person I turned to. I liked him; I still do. I think you would have liked him, too. The only thing wrong with him was that he was completely vain. Always dressing up like a dandy, always preening himself in the looking-glass; and you’d say something, like, “I think you’re a marvellous fellow, Jeremy,” and he’d blink at you and say, “What?” because he’d been so busy prettying up his necktie that he hadn’t heard you.’
‘How long did you stay with Jeremy?’ asked Henry.
‘On and off, two or three years. I liked him, though. He was vain, but he was always kind. I think that vain people often are. Kind, you know.’
She squeezed Henry tight, and said, ‘And you’re the third. And the best so far.’
‘Why did you come to bed with me?’ he asked her. ‘One minute you seemed to be so worried about respectability; about playing whist on Brown’s Bluff, and not using a fish-knife. Then you came to bed with me and made love as if you had no qualms or conscience at all.’
She smiled. She knew that he was half-teasing her; but she also recognized that he seriously wanted to understand why. ‘I’m too old for courtships,’ she said.
‘That’s not the reason.’
She looked up at him. ‘I saw you in the restaurant and I thought you looked like just the kind of man I wanted. Is that so wrong? I do want to be respectable, Henry; it’s very important to me. But when I saw you today I looked at you and thought, he’s beautiful.’
‘Too old to be beautiful.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re mature, that’s all. And that’s what I want. Somebody who can take care of me; but won’t smother me. And when you bought me that theatre, that was the perfect way of showing me that you could do both. You took care of me, by buying it, but at the same time you gave me something which would allow me to make my own name, to do something for myself, and be a little bit independent.’
Henry kissed her forehead. ‘And that’s why you went to bed with me?’
‘That’s why I decided I liked you. I went to bed with you because I needed you.’ She hesitated, and then she said, ‘I still do, Henry. I need you very much. I mean, if it isn’t you, if it can’t be you, then it will have to be somebody else. You’re married, after all; and I don’t even know what your wife looks like. She could be a ravishing beauty. But I’d prefer it to be you; you and me; for as long as we possibly can.’
Henry gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Let me think about Augusta tomorrow. Tonight, I could do with some sandwiches.’
‘Order some more wine, too,’ said Baby Doe. ‘I love that wine. It makes me feel as if I’m dreaming.’
‘Perhaps you are,’ replied Henry. ‘Perhaps I am, too.’
They spent the rest of the night together, sleeping, then waking up again and making love in the darkness; touching each other; exploring each other’s faces and bodies as if they were the maps to their new and as yet unimaginable future. The morning was grey and overcast; from their window the mountains were almost invisible, and the air felt humid with impending rain. They took breakfast in their room (to the undisguised amusement of the bellboy): black coffee and muffins and scrambled eggs; and then they dressed. But after they had dressed, they undressed again, and went urgently ba
ck to bed, and Henry thrust and thrust into Baby Doe until she clutched the sheet tightly in her fists and panted tuh—tuh—tuh—tuh, the silk of her stockings already stained dark with juice.
After that, they spent the rest of the day lying in bed, or washing, or simply sitting together naked, kissing and talking and sometimes not talking at all. The morning went by; they ordered steaks for lunch and ate them cross-legged on the bed, drinking champagne from tall flared glasses and toasting each other with every swallow. ‘To you, my sweetheart.’ ‘To you.’ ‘To yesterday.’ ‘To Hamlet.’ ‘And Ophelia.’
They did not emerge from their room until it was dark again. They were dressed up like fully-fledged members of the Sacred 36: Henry in a formal evening suit for which he had sent out to Wallman’s the Society Costumiers on Welton Street, white tie, white collar, and a shirtfront as white as a migraine; Baby Doe in a cream silk evening gown with a low décolletage edged with a foam of Brussels lace, and an extravagant bustle decorated with bouquets of yellow lace and satin flowers; and long cream evening gloves. She had asked Henry to help her put up her hair; and, clumsily, he had held her pins for her, and fastened her curls, and although she had scolded him for pinning one side of her hair lower than the other, he had found this small experience both pleasing and erotic, for no woman had ever asked him to help her so intimately with her toilet before. He had stood by the window watching her as she powdered her face and sprayed on her eau de cologne, and the pain of what he had missed in a lifetime of marriage to Augusta was so sharp that he had almost felt like groaning out loud.
Heads turned in the lobby of the Corona Hotel as Henry and Baby Doe crossed through the crowds and stepped outside to ask for a cab. Henry asked for La Différence Restaurant, and tipped the doorman a dollar.
At La Différence, they were seated prominently next to the three-tier ornamental fountain in the centre of the room, and attended by the maitre d’ and two commis waiters, as well as the wine waiter. La Différence that season was one of Denver’s most fashionable eating-houses; and it glittered with candlelight and jewellery and solid silver cutlery, and with such wealthy and celebrated Denverites as Lawrence Phipps and Charles Kitteredge. The walls of the. restaurant were hung with French tapestries, showing 17th-century hunting scenes around the Loire Valley; and in one corner there was a marble statue of Diana, even more magnificently bosomed than Baby Doe, which had once belonged to Louis XIV.
Henry had only just ordered a bottle of champagne when there was a cheerful cry of, ‘Well, Henry!’ and William Byers came over, with a new curly moustache, and shook him by the hand.
‘And goodness me,’ he said, ‘who’s this? How did such a startling lady arrive in Denver without my knowing about her? Please, Henry, introduce me.’
‘This is Mrs Elizabeth Doe,’ said Henry, with a small smile. ‘Mrs Doe is a very old friend of the family.’
‘My dear Mrs Doe,’ said William, and took her gloved hand, and kissed it as if he were trying to suck the dye from out of the fabric. ‘I must compliment Henry on his family friends.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ replied Baby Doe. Only Henry noticed that her lips were slightly swollen from crushing kisses, and that there was a tiny crimson mark on the side of her neck: the amorous wounds of a day and a night in bed.
‘Mr Byers used to own the Rocky Mountain News,’ said Henry. ‘He’s a businessman now, and occasional politician.’
‘Occasional being the word for it,’ said William. ‘By the way, Henry, did you know that we were planning to try out our side-wheeler service down the South Platte River, first week in March? We’ve got the boat, she’s moored up by Water Street; and the fitters start work on her next week.’
‘Well, I’m pleased for you,’ said Henry.
‘Oh, she’ll be a dream!’ William enthused, rubbing his hands together. ‘Brass fittings throughout, red plush seating; a dining-room three times the size of this restaurant; as well as a billiard-hall and a fifty-foot bar. Regular service, up and down the Platte, once a week; we’ll make ourselves a million. You’re still getting your commission, of course?’ he asked, in a lower voice.
‘I expect so, William. I really haven’t looked, recently. Augusta handles all the bank books in Leadville; and David Moffat handles all the mining accounts here in Denver.’
‘And Mrs Doe?’ asked William, mischievously. ‘What does Mrs Doe handle?’
Henry gave William a sharp look, and William raised his hands in self-defence. ‘I really have to get back to my party,’ he grinned. ‘But do give me a call before you leave Denver; I must tell you what plans we have for the side-wheeler service, and for the resort town, too. Now that you’re such a wealthy fellow, perhaps I can persuade you to invest some money in them. You know, just a few hundred thousand.’
While they ate (poached trout, followed by thin-sliced bear steaks with juniper sauce), Henry pointed out to Baby Doe the famous and the rich: the men who had made their money out of cornering the city’s water supply, the men who had gambled everything they owned on buying up cement, the men who had dragged printing-presses and steam-engines and refrigeration plants all the way across the Great Plains, at a time when Denver was nothing more than a collection of shacks, and they had been unable to tell for certain whether it would ever be anything more.
‘People blame them now for profiteering and price-fixing,’ said Henry. ‘But you just think of the faith it took to come all the way from Omaha with a ten-ton steam-engine when there was nothing here but mud and dust and a creek that kept overflowing itself.’
Henry saw another face he knew: a face that he didn’t like at all. On the far side of the restaurant, his bald head shining, his chin covered by a brown false beard, sat Charley Harrison, one-time owner of the Criterion Saloon, and leader of Denver’s ‘bummers’. Harrison didn’t look their way, but Henry was fairly sure that he must have seen them when they arrived. Harrison was now the owner of a liquor business in West Denver, and an important figure in the Denver Democratic party. In spite of his past unpopularity, and his scalped-off chin, he was still as noisy and as demanding and as offensively ebullient as ever.
Henry was just about to look away when Harrison turned and caught his eye. He grinned, behind his unlikely brown beard. Then Henry saw him mouth ‘excuse me’ to his dinner companions, and come across the restaurant buttoning up his evening coat over his huge belly.
‘Well, now,’ he said, fatly, wiping sweat from his neck with his crumpled napkin. ‘Look what the wind’s blown in. How do you do, my dear, I’m Charles Harrison. And how are you, Mr Roberts?’
‘Well recovered, thank you, from our last encounter,’ said Henry, tartly.
Uninvited, Charley Harrison dragged out a chair and sat down beside them, as close as he could to Baby Doe. ‘Did this fellow tell you what happened when he and I had a contra-tom over a lady tightrope walker?’ he beamed. The elastic which held his beard was absurdly tight, and underneath his chin Henry could see the edges of what must have been a hideous red scar. William had told him that the Indians had cut Charley Harrison’s chin right to the bone.
Baby Doe glanced unsurely at Henry, and said, ‘Mr Roberts and I are only friends, Mr Harrison.’
‘And with that, I’ll oblige you to leave us, please,’ put in Henry.
‘Leave you? What nonsense! I wouldn’t be so bad-mannered, especially to a young lady as divine as this one! I’ll have to hand it to you, Mr Roberts, you can sure pick ’em; but your problem is that you can’t keep ’em. Hee-hee! Friends, indeed! Who could stay friends with a lady like this? Not me, and that’s for sure! Sooner or later, that friendship would blossom into blissful conjugation, and everything that goes with it!’
Henry was fiercely tempted for one uncontrolled second to punch Charley Harrison right in the beard. But he could see that Baby Doe was not upset by his attentions; she had been slobbered over by enough drunks and wooed by enough middle-aged satyrs to be able to keep her composure; although she looked pale.
Henry turned, and beckoned to Guido, the immaculate hook-nosed maitre d’, and simply reached into the pocket of his white evening waistcoat and took out $50 in gold, which he slipped into Guido’s unerringly-positioned palm. He nodded towards Charley Harrison, the very slightest inclination of the head, and Guido closed his eyes momentarily to show that he understood.
Guido laid his hand on Charley Harrison’s massive shoulder, and said, sotto voce, as if he were explaining that his aunt had died, ‘I regret, sir, that you must return to your own table. We would prefer if you could do so without any undue disturbance.’
Charley Harrison had been taking a deep breath in order to recite Baby Doe a love poem called ‘Your Face Is Like The Washoe’; and he let it out explosively. ‘You take your hand off of me, you greasebelly, or by God I’ll break your back over my knee.’
‘I apologize, Mr Harrison,’ Guido persisted, ‘but you are unwelcome here, and I must ask you again to return to your own table.’
‘Unwelcome?’ Charley Harrison roared out loud, silencing the entire restaurant. ‘Who says I’m unwelcome? Does this lady say I’m unwelcome? No she does not! Do you say that, ma’am? There now! Unless this lady wants me to go, then by God I’m staying, and don’t you ever dare to touch me like that again, you crook-nosed apology for a corkscrew!’
Baby Doe glanced quickly and anxiously at Henry, and then at Guido, and finally at Charley Harrison. The restaurant remained silent; not a single knife scraped on a single plate; nobody spoke; the orchestra was frozen like the courtiers in The Sleeping Beauty. Only the silent approach of two of La Différence’s burlier waiters, moving with the grace and speed of sharks, gave any indication of the latent violence that now threatened the restaurant’s elegant poise.
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