Paxton Pride (6 page)

The library door was ajar so she crossed the hall and entered, closing the heavy oak door behind her. The lantern on Barrett's desk was burning, the hiss of the escaping gas filling the room with a sibilant, sinister note. She moved to it and turned it off, plunging the room into darkness and silence, then stood quietly for a moment until the room came to her again. Smell, first; three walls of books exuded the perfumes of a thousand mysteries. Leather from the hides of beasts from around the world. What had once given form to flesh and bone and blood now lived on protecting words by the thousands. A cow from England, a lamb that had once frolicked in the plunging mountains of Spain. The noble sheep once king of an icy promontory now nestled snugly in a bank of thoughts, ideas, visions, facts and conceits. A noble beast for noble words. Perhaps it was a fitting end.

Karen walked slowly along the south wall, fingers trailing over the bindings. One she recognized, and as she pulled it partway from the shelf the odor of the Nile leaped out at her. “Early Phoenician Trade Routes.” She remembered her father poring over the maps, remembered him telling her as a child how one could learn from the ancients. She shoved it back in place.

The east window in front of her suddenly erupted in a blaze of white light as a bank of clouds cleared the full moon. Dark shadows jutted into the corners behind her, transforming them into dark pits hiding a thousand ghosts, all of which she remembered well as frightening apparitions of the unknown when first the Hamptons took the great house when Barrett's business required they have a residence in Washington. A whole world, literally and figuratively, lay in those shadows, for in addition to the books a huge globe rested on a stand of mahogany inlaid with ivory. But Karen wasn't really interested in the whole world. It was enough that she sort out the day she had spent in her little corner of it. She pulled the large leather reading chair around to face the window and curled up in it. No sooner was she comfortable than another cloud scudded across the moon, leaving only the bright silver edge of the cloud visible. It soon disappeared and the room was dark again.

Washington lay before her. Distant, dotted with pinpoints of light, the city glowed and sparkled like a scene from a fairy tale book. There the hub of the nation slowly turned while untitled princes wove invisible but unbreakable webs of destiny. Out there men and women ate and slept, worried and anguished over the thousand trivialities of their own private worlds. Out there lovers met and caressed, murmured sweet words of endearment and sated the ravening hungers of burning passion. Out there a carriage carried a handsome, frustrated young man pulling his soaked trousers away from his body as he wound his uncomfortable way home. And out there a disturbingly provocative stranger, an enigmatic outsider to this cultured center of politics and society, walked the streets with devil-may-care fashion or lay deep in sleep, his body hard and oblivious to the luxury of soft sheets, his face nobly framed by flowing earth-brown hair. The images blurred and blended, melted softly, and Karen slept. In her dream a disembodied face surrounded by dogwood and blackberries—strange combination—turned cruel and hard, then soft and tender, shifting back and forth at a moment's notice. She lay huddled against a huge wall of stone. Fascinated, fearful, unsure, unsafe.…

“Karen …” Her mother's voice startled her awake. It was still dark, but Iantha carried a coal oil lamp, the flame turned up high enough to send a thin column of oily smoke drifting toward the ceiling. Iantha wore a floor-length dressing gown, pink and padded against the night spring chill. Her hair was unpinned and hung down past her shoulders, giving evidence that Karen's own golden coloring came from Iantha's side of the family.

“Mother. Are you just getting in?” Karen asked with a yawn.

Iantha sat in a chair near Karen. She lowered the flame and set the lamp on a nearby table. “Don't be silly. I've been home all evening.”

“Papa said you were out.”

“Your father pays little attention to whether I'm in or out. I went in to greet Alfred and, after your father let me know in no uncertain terms I wasn't needed, returned to my room. I suppose I must have dozed, for I didn't hear Alfred leave. When I awoke I went to your room to say good night but you weren't there,” she said with a thinly disguised hint of disapproval.

“I'm sorry, Mother. Alfred left and I came in here to watch the city. It's so beautiful. I fell asleep.”

“We provided you with a bedroom for the sole purpose of affording you a place to sleep, my dear. It comes as a shock to think you've given up such a comfortable chamber for the dubious benefits of the library. But I suppose it is to be expected, as you have been behaving somewhat unreasonably of late.”

“Oh, Mother …”

“Karen, it isn't polite to interrupt, especially when I'm scolding you. I suppose I should find some small satisfaction in the fact you are at least alone down here.”

“Mother!” Karen managed, her voice appropriately shocked.

“Now don't be offended. Your father and I both know how you two feel about each other. And I shouldn't for one second believe you immume to the temptations of the flesh.”

“I have never allowed Alfred even the slightest indiscretion, Mother, and I don't …”

“I know. I know. Alfred is a gentleman. But a young man withall. And I hardly need point out to you that young men have, from time to time, attempted … indiscretions, as you say … with young ladies.”

Karen sat up, her ire aroused by her mother's condescension. “I suppose,” she began frostily, “it would be different if he were a loyal subject of Her Majesty's.”

“There is no need to be impertinent. I am more than aware of Alfred's antecedents. His grandfather was in Parliament and his family is vastly important even if he was, as were you, poor child, born in America.” She paused once again, no doubt relishing the misery of the true anglophile. Karen sighed in exasperation. The sound drew Iantha from her reverie and the older woman leaned toward the younger. “Karen,” she asked, “do promise me dear, that you will at least visit England on your wedding trip. Alfred could do so well over there. Both our families have no small amount of interest with the British Empire.”

Karen bit her lip in frustration and she stifled her rising anger over the way her parents had her life so patently formulated for her. “Mother … Alfred and I haven't set any plans. I don't know where you get the idea we are even thinking of anything so definite as an actual wedding.”

Iantha laughed softly. A suspiciously knowing kind of laugh. “Why, from your father, of course. We
do
speak from time to time.”

Karen felt a chill stealing through her veins. “What does Papa have to do with it?”

“Really, Karen. Alfred certainly has more to do with it than your father. And I do wish you wouldn't play games with me. I find it most distressing.”

Karen stiffened, her knuckles white from grasping the arms of the chair. She stared at Iantha.

Iantha reacted with confusion. Never had she seen Karen so.…“Alfred did tell you, did he not?” she asked.

Karen was very awake now. “Alfred had to leave rather suddenly,” she said shakily. “It was a rather brief visit. Nothing much was said. Of any importance.”

Now it was Iantha's turn to stare. Whatever could have happened? Could their plans have changed? No. Alfred would not be easily swayed. It wasn't his manner. He must have waited for …“Oh, my.” Her hand went to her mouth in a tiny gesture of suppressed mirth. “Oh, my,” she repeated, “I hate to spoil Alfred's fun, but I suppose I should go ahead and tell you.”

“Mother, tell me what?” Karen asked, her voice trembling.

Iantha sat back regally, enjoying the role thrust upon her, the bearer of such happy tidings. “Your father stopped by my room before he retired. He was in such good spirits, even smiling. He told me he had a lengthy visit with Alfred during your absence—I trust, my dear, you will be so kind as to let me know just how you spent the afternoon—and they decided … well, obviously you were not with them, but.…”

“Will you please get to the point!”

“Alfred and your father have set the date for your wedding.” Karen stood abruptly, the blood rushing from her head. “It's to be in July, on the fourth, of course—a nice touch, I thought—and will be officially announced at a gala we will hold here a week from Saturday.” She rose from her seat and embraced Karen. “I'm so happy for you, my dear,” she managed to finish, making a conspicuous show of dabbing at her eyes and stifling a sob.

Karen was stunned. She stood totally mute and unbelieving. In a little less than two months' time she would be Mrs. Alfred Randol Whitaker II. It was set. The trap had finally been sprung. Up until now her relationship to Alfred had taken on the aspects of a game. A complicated game to be sure, but a game one could stop playing whenever one wished. Now reality loomed over her. The game was nearly over. She had played too well, and had lost.

Iantha picked up the lantern and turned the flame higher. “It's late, dear. Much too late for proper young ladies to be up. And much, much too late for proper
old
ladies such as I.” She chuckled briefly, started to leave, then stepped quickly to Karen and embraced her again. “I know you're happy. Your father and I are too. Come along.”

Karen followed more through shock than obedience. Her mother chattered ahead of her, hardly aware of the silence that hung over Karen like a dark cloud. “I'm so excited. I think we shall have the wedding right here on the grounds. The formal garden is a bit scruffy, but we shall have plenty of time to make it presentable. There is so much to be decided. Guests, flowers, your gown—I'm sure we shall have Mrs. Peachman for your gown don't you think?—refreshments. I shall have our family china sent down from New York, I think. And your grandmother's carriage. Repainted and resprung it will be magnificent. And Hermann must get the bays in shape. Oh, you shall be a picture, I'm sure.…”

They stopped at Karen's door and Karen allowed her mother to hug her once more. “Good night, dear,” Iantha said tenderly. “Sweet …” She stopped and held Karen at arm's length. “My heavens! Whatever are you wearing? You are positively bare. No wonder Alfred forgot to tell you. The poor boy was probably half out of his mind. Why you insist on wearing those … those … French garments! It's very naughty of you, even if it is effective.”

“Mother. Please. Good night? Just good night?” she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes.

Iantha enfolded her in yards of chiffon. “I'm so happy, Karen. The marriage will be a good one. The Hamptons and the Whitakers! We have come a long way, my dear. We will go farther.”

Karen pushed herself back from her mother. “How far is farther, Mother?”

Iantha's gaze turned cold. Her words were measured, as if she had been waiting a long, long time to say them. “Wealth and power are not to be sneered at, my dear. Nor is position. We shall have all three in abundance. I will allow nothing to stand in my way.”

Karen could find no answer. Afraid of giving away her true feelings should she speak, she leaned forward and meekly kissed her mother on the cheek, then turned and entered her room. Behind her, Iantha watched as the door closed, then slowly walked down the hall, her head held high in triumph.

Inside her room, Karen walked to her bed as if in a dream. She kicked off her slippers and sat on the edge of the mattress. The lantern burned brightly in front of her and she stared at it a long, empty time, seeing only the light and nothing more. Finally her gaze slipped down to the table. The forbidden Zola lay there.
Les Rougon-Masquart
. She picked it up and stared at it, seeing it for the first time in its entirety. It was about the decay of a family through alcoholism and a number of other vices. “I could write a book about the decay of the Hamptons, Monsieur Zola,” Karen told the book, her voice choked with emotion. “Not through vice and corruption, but ambition and greed.” Sobbing now, she lay back and drew her knees to her chest. The tears streamed down her face and wet the pillow. “I could write such a book, sir, but I should not like to read it. I should not at all like to read it.…”

CHAPTER IV

Retta found her in the morning, eyes puffed and red from crying, still asleep, still fully dressed in her rumpled Parisian finery. The black servant stood over her for a long moment. Her little girl had cried herself to sleep. She looked so small, so fragile. Retta remembered the little girl she had watched and served and cared for over the years. Now the little girl was a big girl. How fast they grow, she thought, how rapidly the little bodies turned into big bodies. And yet how long it took for the inside to learn how to handle the hard parts of life without letting it show on the outside. She leaned over the girl and touched her tenderly. Almost her mother, she thought, I know her better than her mother. “Karen, honey? Time to wake up, chile.”

Karen's eyes came open slowly, struggling against the puffiness and red, then closed again. Morning. A new day. She glanced out the window. Clouds. Dark rain clouds, gloomy and threatening. Thank God Retta was there. She stretched, pushing and pulling the cramped muscles taut. “Retta?”

“It's me all right, honey. Yo' sure looks a sight this mornin'. If I was you I'd forgit today and try again tomorro'. You want to talk about it?”

“No,” Karen answered a bit hesitantly. “I have to figure out this one alone, Retta. I'm a big girl, now.” The Hampton determination flared in her eyes. “I'm fine, Retta. I'll just take my bath as usual. That ought to wake me up. You needn't worry about tea. I'll eat with Papa this morning.” She slid out of the bed and shrugged out of the disheveled dress, dropping it to the floor behind her as she pulled on the gown Retta handed her. She stepped into the hall, grateful for the silence surrounding her. Neither Retta nor Karen spoke until they entered the bathroom and Retta busied herself with the towels and one last jug of steaming water.