Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (26 page)
“Do I?”
She started a giggle that careened and tumbled into laughter, over the same circumstances her mother would find amusing, something that tied him to the earth, even in his sleep.
He sat up, pulled off one boot without difficulty. Possum scampered to his aid, tugging his remaining foot free, falling over in triumph. Again, laughter. Matthew couldn’t abide the sound of it. He stood, went to the window. She followed.
“Don’t cry,” she said, a touch of fear in her voice. “I’m sorry I’m a damned Breed. That there is no sun in my hair.”
He looked down. “Possum, you ain’t … sun?”
“Even in the night yours has the gold. Mine is all shadow.”
He knelt, though he feared his swollen eyes would frighten her further. “You are your mother’s gift to me, brilliant in your beauty. I love you.”
“Why do you go away dancing with bears?”
He smiled. “They dance with me. There’s a difference.” “What difference?”
“Of choice. I’d rather dance with you.”
She laughed again, but the sound didn’t hurt as much this time. He lifted her high in his arms. Matthew found himself swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the waves below, the way he used to when she was an infant in his arms.
“Sing, Daddy,” she urged.
He obliged with the first song that came into his head.
Go to Joan Glover and
tell her I love her and
by the light of the moon
I will come to her
tell her I love her and
by the light of the moon
I will come to her
His daughter listened to the words once, then took up the second part as they waltzed before the window. It astonished Matthew at first, her pure, flute voice knowing the song his mother had taught him as a child. Then he laughed at himself, because his mother was also hers. Of course she knew the old round as well as he did.
Why did he leave this child? Why did he think he couldn’t care for her? She now completed the triumvirate of his badgering women. They would not part with her, not while she was still a child. He could only dream of climbing the Sierras with her on his back, far away from the talk that made her feel anything but beautiful.
San Francisco/St. Pitias, California
1904-1905
Olana collapsed on the sofa. “I won’t be allowed out of the house. I’ll miss the social season! I need this season, Aunt Winnie!”“Oh, I’m afraid that’s neither here nor there with your parents now. You’ll be living under your mother’s demands from this day forward, your father agreed to as much. Oh, lovey, I tried, but after the first few days, and with no communication, except your infrequent but perfectly delightful mental images … well, Olana, even I couldn’t go on pretending I’d misplaced you like a forgotten piece of luggage! And that horrid man is so persistent.”
“Man?”
“Mr. Moore! He treated your disappearance as a military expedition! And he upset your parents so thoroughly that my own brother called Mr. Trap the most horrible names!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Winnie, truly I am.”
“Oh, we’ll survive.”
“If I could get my hands on Darius Moore this minute I’d —”
A deep voice interrupted her. “And I’d welcome any opportunity to get a safe hold on you.”
Olana whirled around. He was dressed like a railroad detective, all black and gray, starched and polished. He smelled like the
oiled iron of his weapon. It was time to get Darius Moore out of her life forever. “You sir, are an interfering, loathsome —”
oiled iron of his weapon. It was time to get Darius Moore out of her life forever. “You sir, are an interfering, loathsome —”
“And despite weeks of worry, I do not return your sentiment. Miss Whittaker, would you allow us to converse in private?”
Her aunt stiffened. “Not without Olana’s —”
“It’s all right, Aunt Winnie. There is no one with whom I’d rather converse at the moment.” She stared hard at his hip. “Though you might surrender your weapon to my aunt’s safekeeping. I might be tempted to empty it into your skull.”
His face reddened before she turned and rested her fingers lightly on the tea table. When her aunt closed the door she faced him again. Darius Moore had regained his composure.
“What business of yours is my whereabouts, sir?”
“The business of concern, of protection, of enduring regard.”
“Regard? Look what you’ve done!”
“I’ve invested time, energy, and expense seeking a treasure so recently returned from misadventure. Returned in delicate condition. I was not going to lose you again.”
“Since you never possessed me that was hardly a possibility.”
“I wish to.”
“Mr. Moore?”
“Possess you. Keep you safe from danger, want, disloyalty.” The words stung her. All the things Matthew Hart had failed to do. “I wish to marry you, Olana.”
She looked directly into the dark, steady eyes that were, at last, impatient. When he took her into his arms, she didn’t resist. This man had a different strength than what she’d known from Matthew Hart. Disciplined, taut, steely, where the ranger’s hold was fluid, giving, even pushing, pushing for her to float, to swim, to think, even to rise to pleasure.
“If you were mine —”
His kiss was intoxicating in its strength, as Matthew Hart’s first kiss had been. But it was different, too. Its passion invaded, requiring nothing of her. He brought her lower. He was not all flowers and smooth surfaces. Darius Moore had passion, after all. Olana felt swallowed whole as he pressed her deeper into the
cushions of her aunt’s Turkish sofa, as the steel of his gun bruised her hip, as his watchchain raked across her blouse.
cushions of her aunt’s Turkish sofa, as the steel of his gun bruised her hip, as his watchchain raked across her blouse.
He released her suddenly, stood, and paced.
“That was an inexcusable breech of conduct. I have the highest regard for your family, and belief in your own womanly integrity. Against all reports, I would defend you! Please. When you have recovered enough to see fit to forgive my churlish behavior, I will renew my efforts to win your hand. Until then I withdraw —”
“There is no need to withdraw, Mr. Moore.” Olana sat up. “I am quite recovered. And my answer is yes.”
“Will this be a case of Petruchio mastering his shrew?”
“If he ever gets her to the altar tomorrow!”
“What have you heard? Why, it would kill her dear mother!”
“Leave it to Olana Whittaker to turn every disaster to her own advantage. Faced with being excluded from the social season by her latest scandal, she becomes the social season!”
The gleeful voices disappeared down the corridor. Olana hugged her knees, leaned her face into the folds of her dressing gown, and inhaled the rosewater of her bath salts. Why had she chosen rosewater over her lilies? It reminded her of the two babies. It reminded her that the two weeks she’d spent at St. Pitias were real.
“Olana, there you are! Why look at you, your hair’s not even begun!” Her mother took her sleeve as she would a forgotten parcel containing yet another wedding present, and steered her up the stairs.
“I’m tired, Mother.”
“Tired? With the most grand party thus far about to begin? It’s I who should be resting, I’ve had the burden of so many details over the last weeks. All you have to do is dance, go to fittings and teas and parties, then dance again. Now, do get out of public sight, some guests have already arrived.”
“I know.”
“They didn’t see you?”
“No.”
“Thank heavens for that. Well, you mustn’t try their patience any more than is warranted just to make a late, head-turning entrance. Olana, your hands are so cold.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? You? Is it the trip? Seasickness? I’ll have my physicians make up a box of preparations —”
“Not of the trip, Mother.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. You’ll be serving as a sort of goodwill ambassadoress for your father’s new expansion to the Far Eastern marketplace, you know.”
“I know.”
“Well, if it’s not —”
“It’s the wedding, Mother.”
“The wedding! I can assure you, given the short notice you and your betrothed insisted upon I did my best —”
“Not the ceremony. What happens after. The marriage.”
“Oh. I see. I was rather hoping — perhaps Mrs. Cole would speak to you about … that.” Her mother’s face brightened. “You’ll find joy in the children, and your new social standing, I know you will. You’re such a resourceful girl. Well. We’re chatting here on the stairway like a couple of old fishwives! I think I can get your father to open up more than a thimbleful of his prized champagne tonight — shall I send up a glass? It will warm you, settle your nerves. Such a peculiar man, becoming parsimonious at this, the crowning moment of his daughter’s life!” Dora Whittaker saw Patsy. “Do bring some order to these tresses,” she handed her daughter over.
Olana looked at her maid’s gentle, honest face.
“Patsy — is it a burden, being married?”
“In my circumstances, the burden would have been far greater if I’d not taken Mr. Selby as my husband.” She glanced at the widening middle beneath her apron.
“Of course. How foolish of me.” Olana continued down the hallway with her maid at her heels. Patsy touched her arm shyly.
“If you mean to inquire of Christy Selby’s character, miss, it’s nothing less than sterling. He’s making good his promise to Mr. Hart.”
“Promise?”
“He courted me. I mean even after we tied the knot all legal. Courted me like I was some treasured dew-eyed girl, instead of what I am. I think I cannot help loving him forever for that, even if he should stop treating me so decent as he does now.”
“Do you … Patsy, do you think Mr. Moore will treat me decently?”
“I — I couldn’t say, miss.”
Olana closed her eyes. How stupid she was being.
She stood outside after Patsy opened her door, staring at the pale blue gown laid out on the bed, at the two giggling servants ready to truss her, put her into it. She’d given up even her love of deep colors. Why?
“Miss?”
“I can’t. Patsy, I can’t endure another night of this. It’s all wrong. A mistake.”
Patsy shooed away the other maids, closed the door, and took up her mistress’s hands. Olana saw sympathy, and a spark of mischief in the girl’s eyes.
“The three-way mirror, it’s still in the nursery rooms since Mr. Hart left us. It’s lovely and quiet up there, Miss Olana. I’ll do your hair there tonight — would you like that?”
“No!”
“I can bring up the gown, too, so that it’s just the two of us. We might talk. You’re wanting to talk, aye, miss?”
“I’m so confused, Patsy.”
“Sure you are. It’s a new path your life is taking. You need to talk. And have a little quiet, for once, to think.”
Olana climbed the stairs behind her maid. That was what all the parties were for, she realized. To keep brides from thinking.
“Go on, miss,” Patsy waved her in at the nursery door. “I’ll fetch your gown. And more pins for your hair.”
“Yes, all right.”
After the brightly lit hallway, the room appeared dark. There was no dressing table, nothing set up. How could Patsy do her hair? Olana turned back to the door to call her servant back when she saw Matthew Hart.
He entered from the bathroom, a towel slung over his shoulder, a basin of water between his hands. He looked like he’d been days in the saddle, despite his freshly scrubbed hands and face. He put the cloth and basin on the bedside table and faced her.“You can’t marry him,” he said.
“And what have you come to do about it? Hit me again?”
His feet shifted weight. “I’ll never do that again. I’m sorry.”
“Please go.”
He breathed deeply. “You won’t then? Marry him?”
How could she explain about the importance of the wedding trip, her father’s business, her mother’s pride and health, her own strange new attraction to Darius Moore and his hunger for her? She laughed. High, nervous. “Why not?”
He came closer. She smelled brandy and elderberries. They stared at each other in silence, close enough for Olana to feel the mounting anger rush into his breathing, to smell the leather of his saddle, the dirt of the road mixing with his intoxicant, his berries. “You love me, damn it!”
Olana threw back her head, but never got to make a sound. His mouth was over hers. His hands slipped inside her dressing
gown and pulled her camisole against the rich red weave of his shirt. She tore at his hair, then pounded his back, even where the scars from the bear’s claws were. But he only growled low, explored her mouth, drew her deeper into the spaces left between them. Then he stopped, released her. They were both breathing hard, staring at each other, still so close their clothing touched.
gown and pulled her camisole against the rich red weave of his shirt. She tore at his hair, then pounded his back, even where the scars from the bear’s claws were. But he only growled low, explored her mouth, drew her deeper into the spaces left between them. Then he stopped, released her. They were both breathing hard, staring at each other, still so close their clothing touched.
It was her fingers to blame, she thought, later. It was her fingers she couldn’t control. They had to touch, be sure it was a tear there, streaking down the left side of his rough, unshaven face. She struggled to speak, but her voice failed her next, and she uttered only soft, idiotic syllables. He lifted her with the grace she now knew was his mother’s gift, and placed her on the bed that had been his when he’d lived here in her father’s house. There he quenched, then heightened the ache in her mouth, breasts. He said nothing, but she felt him watching her even when she retreated into the deep reds and purples that painted themselves, then burst once, twice, behind her eyelids.
His hand slipped between her legs. Wet. From the first sight of him she’d been wet there. “Oh — she said. He nodded.”Good, darlin’, that’s right, open for me, sweet girl,” he purred into her ear. There. Slow. Yes. Deeper. Was there that much room inside her? Olana took his steaming face between her hands and laughed softly, trusting him, he would know. He began to move. Even more exquisitely than he danced.
She responded to his long strokes. Moving under him, squeezing his thigh. “’Lana, don’t —” he gasped, looked panicked, then gave out a cry of pleasure that delighted her in her own power. He came crashing down, suddenly gone, with a soft blasphemy at the pillows. Olana thought she would die from the yearning, when she felt his face against hers. “I’m here,” he whispered, turning her onto her side, kissing her. His hand reached up between her legs and sought, found the way to complete one more delight.
It came to her only slowly that she was lying on her brother’s bed with a man she’d convinced herself she despised on the eve of her wedding to his opposite. Matthew Hart nuzzled between her
breasts, draped his arm casually over her hip. He was falling asleep. She shook his shoulder. He nuzzled deeper.
breasts, draped his arm casually over her hip. He was falling asleep. She shook his shoulder. He nuzzled deeper.
“Come away,” he murmured.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere you’d like.”
“When?”
“Now. Tonight.”
She sat up, hoping that might keep her from weeping out in her embarrassed confusion. But a soft cry still escaped. It woke him. He looked at the blood on his hand, then at her, with what, surprise? But knowing, of course knowing she was supposed to bleed, the first time. He knew everything her mother had never told her. Her color heightened as he reached for the basin’s cloth, squeezed the warm water through, gently touched it to the inside of her thigh. A shiver of passion rode through her, despite her embarrassment.
“Don’t,” she said.
He relinquished the cloth and dressed quietly as she finished blotting up the blood from her leg. Then he sat beside her, made an awkward gesture for her hand. She pulled it away.
“Stop looking so d — so damned sorry!” her furious whisper came from nowhere.
“I’m not sorry,” was his even reply. “Are you?”
“I — I can’t think about it anymore. You’ll have to go now, Matthew. I have so much to do.”
“Do?”
His face reminded her of a stunned little boy’s. What boy? Leland? Her voice erupted again in that silly, nervous laugh.
“Matthew, please understand. This overpowering —”
He stood. “Overpowering?”
“It was not entirely unreciprocated. And I could never have, I mean what you, what we did was based on the genuine affection I feel for you since our unlikely paths crossed. But I’m getting married tomorrow.”
There. That was the one sentence she’d practiced. But in all of her dreams of him coming back, he’d now be on his knees begging
for another chance, pledging his undying love. Not lording over her, looking annoyed.
for another chance, pledging his undying love. Not lording over her, looking annoyed.
“Christ, ’Lana, I’ll marry you if your so blamed set on it.”
“You still don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t understand. Exchange grooms. You do it all the time with your damned hats.” Suddenly he was on the bed with her again, his hand pressing against her ribcage. “What happened between us, just now — what was that?” he demanded.
“You know better than I.” She tried lowering her eyes, but he lifted her chin with his hand.
“Don’t start your games, woman! I deserve better!”
“You deserve nothing! All you’ve done is take! You tell me how I feel, you offer me disgrace and the open road to nowhere!”
He looked stung. He released her, his eyes scanning the bloodied water in the basin. “Shit. Oh, shit,” he muttered.
There, at last. She had him. She went giddy with her power, that was the only way she could see it, after. Get him to his knees. Why was she so intent on that? “Matthew,” she summoned his eyes. The hope there almost made her lose her resolve. No, he’d made her suffer, hadn’t he? She would turn the screw just one more time. “I wouldn’t dream of troubling you to marry me because of this … assignation. But I was frightened of only one part of my wifely obligation. Now I can look forward with even greater expectation to the abilities of a devoted husband.”
His eyes went slate cold.
He grabbed his hat from the bed, kicked past the French doors of the balcony, and disappeared.
Matthew rode hard. Nothing made sense, no matter how many times he ran it through his mind. Why was Olana so maddeningly half herself, half that pompous facade? She’d made her choice, what did he go there for in the first place? Why did he let Farrell and the women convince him? He had only meant to kiss her, kiss her so she stayed kissed a good long time, yes, but not what happened, in her father’s house. And the blood. What had he offered
her when it was done — a cut from her folks, the way of life she cherished in her own way, as powerfully as he did his.
her when it was done — a cut from her folks, the way of life she cherished in her own way, as powerfully as he did his.
He slept on the beach in the rain, still so addlebrained from the drinking he didn’t have sense to take refuge in the caves. He woke to the gentle Angelis bells of St. Pitias, then to the impossible clarity of his women’s eyes.
“Did you tell her you love her, Matthew?”
“That’s what I went there for, ain’t it?”
“Well, did you?”
A moment’s hesitation. To think. And they were on him, like wolves on a downed elk. “Don’t you remember?” prodded one. “Were you drunk?” the other.
“No!” he called them off. “Not … not before. I had one shot of brandy at the boarding place. Then, when I got to the house, Mrs. Cole, the cook, she gave me a half glass of something tasted like your cough remedy, Gran. That was all. I — hated having to sneak around, just to see her.”
“But you got to see her, alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then you told her you loved her.”
“Yes, goddamn it, I told her —” The words he’d used finally came back to him. “I think I told her that she loved me.”
“That’s not the same thing, Matthew.” His mother breathed out her despair.
“I know that! But she was going to laugh, laugh at any notion of love between us. I couldn’t let her laugh, I couldn’t take that, not from her.”
Vita took his arm in her strong grip, and locked her eyes on his. “Matthew, you didn’t force yourself on her?”
“No. ’Course not.”
“She was already confused, pulled this way and that, then neglected by you —”
“Neglected?”
“Then you … you … overwhelmed on the eve of her wedding!”
He’d never heard his mother so angry. He responded with a
childhood tact, silence, for the rest of the day. At supper he sat sullen beside his daughter, and without his grandmother between his mother and himself.
childhood tact, silence, for the rest of the day. At supper he sat sullen beside his daughter, and without his grandmother between his mother and himself.
“You haven’t touched the pole beans, they’re your favorite.”
“Ain’t hungry.”
“Daddy’s sick.”
“I’m not sick, Possum.”
The child pointed to his sore abdominal muscles. “There.”
“Two of you got her spooked, you know that?” He meant it to sound light, but it came out through a growl of displeasure. He stabbed the plate at his mother. “I told her I’d marry her!”
“Told her you’d marry her, not asked her to marry you!”
“It was the best I could —”
“And it wasn’t good enough, was it?”
“You don’t have to ram that fact down my throat with your damned beans!”
He flung the plate. Not at her, past her. It broke into three pieces against the wall. The pieces shattered when they hit the tile floor. Possum ran to Vita’s arms. Escaping him. He felt Annie Smithers’ presence in the doorway, but couldn’t take his eyes off his mother as she shielded his child. The look on her face was too familiar.
“We’re not afraid of you!”
He struggled for a response, and finally managed “I am,” after they’d already gone up the stairs.
Matthew waited for his grandmother by the woodpile, drenched in his own sweat.
“I’m getting on, Matthew. Can’t be patching things up twixt you and your mama forever.”
“I don’t know how either of you find the strength to tolerate me at all.”
They were walking along the shore before Annie Smithers spoke again. “You bedded Olana, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not sure she wanted to.”
“I was sure. Then. I just wanted to kiss her. Something happened, to both of us I would of sworn.” He inhaled deeply. “Gran. There was blood. I didn’t hurt her, did I?”
She stopped. “Were your ways loving?”
“Uh … sure.”
“And she didn’t act hurt?”
“No.”
“She was a virgin, is all.”
All. “I knew that,” he insisted. Hadn’t he heard enough male boasting of burst cherries in the army and the goldfields? “It’s just … the women before her weren’t, and I need to know if it hurt. I don’t want her to remember me that way.”
“It didn’t hurt.”
“Well. That’s good.”
They stopped on the cliffs, their favorite place to watch the stars come out. She was waiting for him to speak. How did he know that? The silence between them was full, rich, a time to gather his thoughts, his strength.
“Mama’s right. ’Lana’s young and I went and confused her more — telling her what she feels, demanding she be what I want her to be.”
“Well, maybe.”
“But I ain’t what Mama fears. I’m not my father. Tell her, Gran.”
“You got to tell her yourself, Matthew.”
“I know when she’s thinking of it. I see him between us again, with his strap.”
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