Louisa Rawlings (38 page)

“No, wait!” She felt the beginnings of panic. “Put out the light.”

He smiled thinly. “Of course. Get into bed first, so you don’t trip in the dark.”

She did as she was told, crawling under the covers and pulling the sheet up to her chin. He turned out the gas lamp next to her bed. In the darkness she could hear the soft sounds of his hands fumbling with the silk tie of his dressing gown, then another sound. Oh God! Had he taken off his nightshirt? She felt the bed shake as he sat down; then he was under the covers with her.

“Take off your nightgown, Willough,” he said.

She closed her eyes. It made the dark even blacker. “No.”

“You’re very dear to me, Willough. I promise you I’ll be as gentle as I can. Take off your gown.”

“No.”

His voice held the edge of impatience. “Very well. You don’t have to take it off until you’re ready.”

She felt his hand in the dark, groping under the covers. She stiffened as he touched her breast, then forced herself to relax. She had let Nat touch her that way. Why not Arthur?

“Dearest Willough. How I’ve wanted you.” He murmured soft words, loving words. And all the while his hand caressed her breasts, stroked her shoulders through the thin lawn of her nightgown.

She sank more deeply into her pillows, allowing the tension to leave her. He
was
gentle. He leaned over and began to kiss her more passionately, his mouth hard and insistent on hers. Still, she wasn’t afraid. She started to touch him once, then withdrew her hands when she felt his bare shoulders.
That
was frightening, to think he was naked. His lips closed on hers. At the same time he rolled on top of her. She felt a strange hardness poking at her belly. She tried to cry out, but his mouth on hers prevented her; her parted lips seemed to fire his ardor. His tongue sought her mouth, plunging deep until she thought she’d choke. Oh, God! What was he doing now? His hands were tugging at her nightdress, pushing it up, above her hips, her waist. She pounded at his shoulders with her fists, struggling to free her mouth, her trapped body, from his possession. Pressed down by his hard chest, she thrashed beneath him, legs spread wide; too late she realized her folly.
That
was what he had wanted all along, the vulnerable core of her that her frightened struggles had exposed. She started to draw her knees together; at that moment something tore her apart, forcing its way into her with such savagery that her fists became claws, scraping against the flesh of his shoulders. With a desperate toss of her head, she freed her mouth from his. “Arthur!
Stop
! You’re hurting me!”

“In a moment, Willough,” he panted. “Sweet, sweet Willough!”

She bit her lip, fighting back the tears. Not content with ripping her open, he was determined to rub her raw. Again and again he thrust into her, until she thought she couldn’t bear another second. He gave a sudden gasp, twitched violently. And then it was over.

He rolled away from her and sighed. “Dear Willough,” he murmured. “How I needed you!”

Damn him! she thought. He sounded
contented
! He had shamed her. Hurt her. Used her! And he was content?

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said gently. “It’s always that way the first time.”

In the darkness, she stumbled out of bed toward her dressing room with its galvanized tub and its modern plumbing. Closing the door, she lit the gaslight with shaking hands, staring at herself in horror. Her nightgown, her white thighs. Spotted with blood. She wanted to vomit. She peeled the gown from her body, ran a little warm water into the basin, and sponged herself as best she could. There was no washing away her shame.

“Willough.”

She extinguished the light and opened the door.

“Willough,” he said again. “Come back to bed.”

She could hardly keep from crying. “I want to get a fresh nightgown.”

“Not yet. Come back to bed.”

Reluctantly, she moved toward him. “Not again, Arthur. Please!”

In the dimness, she could see that he had made room for her. “Get in. You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.”

“But it hurt!”

He reached out and pulled her down beside him. “It won’t hurt as much this time. I promise you.” He moved on top of her, spreading her legs with strong hands when she resisted.

He was right. It didn’t hurt as much. But it was just as terrible. When he had gone back to his own room, she found a fresh nightgown in the dark and crept back to bed, curling up on a corner of the mattress that was as far away as she could manage it from the spot where they had lain together.

In the morning she sent word to him by Brigid that she was not well and intended to spend the day in her room. She soaked for a long time in her tub, trying not to think of the pain, the disgust she had felt for him. For what he had done to her. It was just as Isobel had warned her. She picked at the food Brigid brought. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a stranger who would never be the same again.

Late in the afternoon, Arthur appeared at her door carrying a tea tray. He smiled and set it down on a small table. “I thought we’d have tea together. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I don’t want tea.”

He shrugged and helped himself to a cup, watching her as she stood at the window and stared at the carriages that moved up and down Fifth Avenue. “Come here,” he said at last, putting down his cup. When she obeyed, he pulled a diamond and ruby bracelet from his pocket and fastened it about her wrist. “I thought this might cheer you up, my sweet.”

“It’s very handsome,” she said dully.

“Look, Willough, I know you’re still feeling a bit embarrassed. It’s natural. All young brides feel that way. It’s your upbringing. Your natural reticence. But now that you’re married, you can allow yourself to change, to welcome feelings that you’ve kept in check until now. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Of course.” Why didn’t he just go away and leave her alone?

“Oh for God’s sake, Willough, don’t sulk!” he burst out. “It’ll be better the next time. You’ll see. It just takes getting used to. It’ll be better the next time.”

She felt anger in her heart—for him, for herself, for the whole sorry business. “There’s not going to be a next time!” she said defiantly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled.

Why don’t you please yourself for a change?
Nat had said. Well, perhaps she was Brian’s daughter after all. “Never again, Arthur,” she said firmly.

His eyes glowed with fury, a frustrated passion that bubbled to the surface. “Damn you! I’ll show you who’s in charge here!” He swung at her with his open palm, striking her so hard that she fell to the floor. Dazed, she struggled to her knees, clinging to the leg of her chaise. He knelt before her, his hand like steel about her wrist. “You’re my wife, dammit!
In every respect
! You’ll remember your wifely duty if I have to tie you to the bed! One frigid Bradford woman is all I’ll put up with!” He rose to his feet, calmed himself, straightened the cuffs of his frock coat. “And may I remind you we have a reception at the Goelets this evening,” he added, his voice as cold as ice. “You’d better be dressed and ready. I don’t intend to be made a fool of by my wife.” Turning on his heel, he strode from her room.

You made your bed. Now lie in it.
She could almost hear Grandma Carruth’s voice. She was Arthur’s wife. It was her duty to obey him. Even if it meant she must let him…

She shivered. Nat had said all men were the same in bed. It might have been just as awful if Nat had done that terrible thing to her. But she had never felt alone or empty when Nat was with her. She couldn’t imagine he could be so thoughtless—in or out of the bedroom.

She got shakily to her feet, rubbing her hand against her still-stinging cheek. The Arthur she had married was a stranger A cruel, lustful stranger with no warmth or compassion. She saw the scene in the boathouse with new eyes. He had manipulated her feelings, played on her childish sense of romance, to get what he wanted. And would have, if Nat hadn’t been there.

Nat. She saw his dear face before her. He had been gentle, sensitive, denying his passion in deference to her feelings. She had let her foolish fears destroy their love. And now it was too late.

You made your bed. Now lie in it.
“Oh, Nat,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

Chapter Nine

Marcy shivered under the coverlet and reached sleepily for Drew to warm her. Drat! He was gone already. She yawned and blinked, pulling the covers more tightly about her. She’d really slept longer than she’d intended, but it was so cold and the bed so cozy. She laughed softly. It had become a game between them. Concerned with the cost of wood, they had begun the winter by letting the stove die out each night before they went to bed; now, with winter half over, it was a game, the toss of a die deciding who would warm the bed each night. She laughed again. Drew had lost last night—she wondered if the loser was obligated to keep the bed warm until the other got up in the morning. She’d discuss it with him tonight. But only if
he
lost the toss!

She frowned suddenly. And only if he wasn’t worried about money. They were still getting on, of course, but it was a little tight. Drew had finally managed to persuade Père Martin to hang two of his canvases, but the dealer had made no promises. He’d been buying from the Realists for a few years now, for forty or fifty francs a painting, and they hadn’t sold well. Drew was a newcomer, a foreigner on the scene.

Of course, Père Martin had said, if Drew could get a painting accepted by the official Salon, it would be a different story. If an artist attracted the public’s attention and favor by exhibiting in the yearly Salon each spring, he could command higher prices. But
Monsieur Bradford
would have a difficult time getting accepted by the jury,
malheureusement
. He had not found his style; his paintings were too formal, too self-conscious; his palette alternated between the somber tones of the Renaissance and the bright colors of the new Realists. And with the worldwide banking panic last fall, the market had gone down. At the last minute, Père Martin had taken—on speculation—a few pen and ink drawings of Marcy.

Marcy sat up and stared unhappily at Drew’s worktable. He must have gotten up again last night to paint. There was a painting of a tree that seemed to have been smeared deliberately, a broken crayon, several torn sketches. And an empty wine bottle.

She wanted to cry. She was failing him. There were too many nights like that—where all her love was not enough to bring him comfort. She wondered how soon it would be before he remembered that he hadn’t wanted to marry.

Well, at least she could be of practical help. She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly in the cold room, then wrapped her pink corset and best gray silk petticoat in a piece of muslin, which she tucked in her market basket. It was too cold to have breakfast in the studio; she’d get a small brioche and some coffee at the snug café around the corner. That way, she wouldn’t waste precious coal lighting a fire.

It had snowed last night. She made her way down the slippery pavement, struck—as always—by the ugliness of a city after a snowfall. In the mountains it would be shiny clean, the snowbanks dazzling to the eye, the dark evergreens capped with white puffs. Here, the carriages had already churned up the roads, leaving snuff-colored ruts dotted with refuse thrown from an occasional window. Along the sides of the road, the soot from thousands of chimneys had turned even the untrampled stretches of snow to a dull gray. Ugly, she thought again, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her thin cloak.

Just as she was crossing the street at the rue de Londres, a fiacre came bearing down on her; the coachman, his bright red scarf flapping in the crisp air, shouted her out of the way. She leaped back to the sidewalk, slipped on a patch of ice, and landed on her back, managing to hang on to her shawl and basket as she fell. She took a moment to catch her breath, then struggled to her feet, waving off the concerned passersby who had gathered around. She smiled weakly and went on her way. That danged coachman! she thought, rubbing the small of her back. She’d ache for a week.

She turned into the rue St. Lazare. Number Ten. She nodded to Mr. Stewart’s housekeeper—busy sweeping the snow from the walk—and mounted the steps to his
hôtel particulier
, his private house. It must be nice, she thought, to be a successful enough painter to afford a house like this. Stewart greeted her at the door.

“Good morning, m’dear. You’re late.”

“Sorry. I took a tumble on the ice and had to walk slowly.”

Stewart grimaced in concern. He looked more like a rabbit than ever. “Oh, but it’s not serious, I trust.”

“No. I’ll get into my things right away.” She followed him into his well-appointed studio. It was always a pleasure to pose for him, and never more so than on such a chilly day. The large stove near the model’s platform radiated warmth. He rang for some tea, “just to take the chill off, don’t you know,” while she stepped behind a large screen and climbed out of her green gown, pulled off her plain petticoat. Over her lace chemise she hooked on her pink silk corset, tying it as tightly as she could, then followed it with her good gray petticoat. She threw her shawl about her shoulders for a temporary cover and crossed the room to the platform.

While he fussed with the shades of the skylight, adjusting them for the proper light, she took off her shawl and drank her tea, sitting on the pale green sofa. She was always amused by what came next, as he checked her pose against the painting. He really
did
look like a plump little rabbit, scurrying back and forth from his large canvas to where she sat; fluffing out a bow on her petticoat; moving the position of an arm; patting a wayward curl on her head. “Lift your right shoulder a bit.” “No. That’s too high.” “Pull down your chemise. You showed a little more bosom yesterday.” At last, declaring himself satisfied, he picked up his palette and brushes and began to paint. He frowned, his eyes on her waist. “How long have I been working on this picture?”