Mother Lode (13 page)

Catherine let out a long sigh. “Thomas,
might we give a holiday dinner party?”

“Splendid, if you’re up to all the
work.”

On the night of the gathering, while the men
lingered over their cigars and port, Catherine, with the help of
Sarah Beckler, cleared the table and wrapped up the
perishables.

“What a tremendous pile of dishes,” Sarah
said.

“Not to worry. My housekeeper will see to
them in the morning. All we have to do is get this food put
away.”

As Catherine wrapped the meats for the
larder, Sarah said, “Thomas is certainly the lucky man to have
captured a trophy like you. You’re certainly younger and
prettier.”

“Prettier than who ?”

“Letty, of course.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sarah stopped pouring the cream back into
the crock. “Has Thomas said nothing?”

Catherine shook her head.

“He was engaged to Letitia Redson.”

Engaged?
“I didn’t know.”

“She’s a widow—has a son about the age of
Thomas’ boy.”

“What happened?”

“Well,” Sarah hesitated. “It’s not for me to
say,” she added softly.

“Tell me.”

“Letty says he jilted her.”

“Why would he do that?”

“For you, I imagine.”

Catherine blanched, and
felt herself color as the heat climbed her neck and throbbed in her
cheeks.
Letitia Redson!
That would explain why the woman had been rude to
her on every possible occasion!

“In any case they were seeing each other for
almost a year. Letitia had every right to expect marriage, I
suppose,” added Sarah.

Catherine felt betrayed. Why had he never
told her? Why had he made her the subject of unsavory gossip?

She went to the parlor to summon the others
for Christmas carols. Her eyes sought out Thomas. He was laughing,
engaged in conversation with the men, telling some off-color story,
she surmised, from the raucous laughter.

She seated herself at the rosewood piano,
and the women gathered around. Soon the men joined them, and
everyone was caroling the old favorites. Catherine tried to focus
on the music, but when she’d look up, there was Thomas, happy,
almost handsome, giving full voice to old carols.

“
Round yon virgin, mother and
child,”

How could he look so innocent?

“
God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you
dismay.”

Could anything dismay Thomas tonight? Now he
was singing in a lusty voice, abetted by the liquor he’d
consumed.

When they’d had their fill of singing,
Thomas offered more drinks, and people sat together sipping tea or
brandy. Catherine watched him in a new light. No longer the poor
widower, left with a young child—he was a highly sought-after
bachelor, a lady-killer. Staring at him, she found it took all of
her effort to focus on her guests. She couldn’t wait for them to
leave. Now Thomas was smiling at something amusing the surface
captain’s wife had said.

Why had he never seemed more charming, more
desirable?

At last the guests were gone.

“How could you?”

“What are you talking about? Are you going
to spoil this lovely evening?”

“Me! You spoiled it. You,
you
jilted
Letitia Redson!” Catherine pounded Thomas’ chest. “And I had
to find out from someone else!”

It was Thomas’ turn to pale. He took her by
the wrists. “I didn’t jilt her, Catherine. We were never formally
engaged.”

Catherine pulled away.
“
She
thought so,
and tells everyone you spurned her. She’s been dreadful to me. You
knew, and you never told me why!” she screamed at him.

“I didn’t see what good it would do to talk
about her. I haven’t asked you about your former sweethearts.”

“I didn’t have any!”

“Catherine, I never meant to hide it. It
didn’t seem important.”

“Not important! Everyone knew but me! I’ve
been the laughing stock—”

“You are not the laughing stock. If anything
you are the envy—”

“How arrogant you are!”

Thomas took a deep breath, and said quietly,
“I promised Letty Redson nothing. We saw each other for awhile.
That's all.”

“A year!”

“It wasn’t that long. I suppose she hoped
we’d marry. But I never asked her. I didn’t love her.” He turned to
his wife. “Catherine, I first saw you in your father’s house, when
you were only fourteen, and I was married to Walter’s mother. I had
business with your father, and when I went to Red Jacket I looked
forward to seeing you. But you were a mere child and I was
married.”

“You noticed me— at
fourteen
?”

“Yes. When my wife died I started seeing
Letty. But I didn’t love her. Our boys knew each other at school.
That’s how it got started.” Thomas tried to take her in his arms,
but Catherine pulled away.

“Would you have married her if I hadn’t
agreed to marry you?”

Thomas sighed. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t
matter now. You did agree.”

He pulled her toward him, and this time she
allowed him.

“Still, you should have told me. I shouldn’t
have had to learn something like that from strangers.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

As he began loosening her corset, Catherine
sighed. “I feel as though my breasts are being released from
prison.”

“But they are still captive,” Thomas
murmured as he cupped one in his hand.

Catherine’s fervor was
heightened by knowing that another woman had sought her husband.
And the thought of Thomas watching her when she was but a
girlchild,
wanting
her, allowed her in this moment to once again
become
fourteen, to
imagine being taken completely, in all her youth and
innocence.

There was something familiar about that
dream.

Chapter 11

Often Jorie would take drawing paper
outdoors, sometimes quite far up in the hills. Observing with
infinite care, he would draw tiny insects, flowers, butterflies and
spiders, but never hurt them.

Now that he was almost eight, Catherine
bought him a book on wild plants and another with blank pages, in
which he could draw pictures.

“This is a beech tree, Mummy. Like the one
up on the hill. Did you notice all its eyes and toes?”

Catherine laughed. “They do look like that,
don’t they?”

“I always feel it’s
looking
at
me.”

Catherine watched with pride. “Why don’t you
color your pictures, Jorie? They’d be ever so much prettier.”

“I don’t want to. I like them this way.”

“Would you like to write little poems about
them?”

It started as a concession to his mother,
but he found he quite enjoyed writing verses to accompany the
pictures.

His mother was proud of his artistic
ability. His father grunted, thinking the lad should take an
interest in sports and other activities more befitting his gender.
Watching with dismay the development of his son, Thomas attempted
to teach Jorie to play ball. The child’s lack of co-ordination
irritated him, but he tried to keep his patience and encourage his
son. Several times he noticed Jorie start for the ball, then halt
in his tracks.

“Why did you stop?”

Jorie was quite sure his papa would not like
the real reason, so he said, “Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to
get it.”

“Well, at least try.”

But it became apparent to Thomas that there
must be some other excuse, as often, with a couple of steps the
ball would have been well within reach.

“Run!” Thomas would yell. “Why did you let
it go?”

“I couldn’t catch it.”

“Yes, you could.”

The old familiar uneasiness came over Jorie
as he tried to find the line between truth and avoiding his
father’s wrath. At times like these he felt he was walking barefoot
on broken glass.

“I — I don’t like to kill things,” he owned
up finally.

“Spiders?” his father asked
incredulously.

“It seems everything has a right to live,
even if it’s small.”

“I see. And if a horde of ants invades our
house, you would welcome them? Or a wasps’ nest in your bedroom?
You’d like that?”

Jorie squirmed. “I don’t know, sir.”

Later Thomas turned on Catherine. “Why do
you encourage all this nonsense? He’s more squeamish than a girl
about bugs!”

“Oh, he’s not squeamish, Thomas. Quite the
contrary. He likes insects. He studies them.” Instantly she knew it
was a mistake.

“
Likes
? What are you doing to him?”
He started to go, then turned back. “You’ve made a milk-sop out of
him. Disabuse him of this nonsense, Catherine, or I
will!”

A week later there was an anthill on the
veranda. As he left for work, Thomas instructed Catherine to see
that Jorie got rid of it. She closed her eyes, implored the heavens
for strength.

“Jorie!” she called.

He came flying down the stairs.

She took his arm and led him out on the
verandah, showing him her discovery.

“Get rid of these ants. You must.”

Jorie looked up at his mother, blinked,
bewildered. He couldn’t see what possible harm the small dark mound
could do. He did not wish to upset this industrious family.

“But Mummy — “

“Kill them.”

“No!”

“Each and every one.”

He threw his arms around a post and started
bawling.

“Stop that!” she shouted, and pulled him
back to the scene. “You will do this!”

He jerked away from her, ran down the steps,
and up into the hills. He didn’t come home until suppertime. At
dinner, his mother said nothing, but Jorie couldn’t look at
her.

He got ready for bed wondering why
butterflies were appreciated and ants were something to be killed.
He’d thought perhaps it was because butterflies could fly.

But last week when a white moth danced
around the lamp, he’d discovered they were no more welcome than the
ants.

“Is it because butterflies are prettier?”
he’d asked.

“They don’t come in the house,” she’d
said.

Neither had the ants, but he’d dare to say
no more.

He could hear her climbing the stairs.

She entered his room. He sat frozen on the
edge of the bed.

“You disobeyed me today.”

Jorie nodded.

“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t
want to do. You must learn to do exactly as you’re told.”

He said nothing.

“Come here, Jorie,” she said softly.

He didn’t move.

“Perhaps you need encouragement.”

Still he said nothing. Suddenly her voice
changed. “Come lie across my lap.”

He did as he was told; the throbbing of his
heart was so loud he felt certain she could hear it.

“Now tell me what’s going to happen to
you.”

“You’re going to spank me.”

“Yes. You will learn to obey me
perfectly.”

A strange mix of fear and excitement washed
through him. He felt her undo the buttons on the flap. A prickly
heat ran down his legs.

“You are not to tense up. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

She caressed his bottom softly, preparing it
for punishment. Gently, she slapped him several times. Then she
pushed him off her lap and buttoned his flap.

“Now, are you ready to mind me?”

“Yes. I stayed relaxed, I didn’t tense
up.”

“That’s because I didn’t hurt you. Don’t
count on that every time. But if your mind accepts it, your body
will open easily to it. Pain doesn’t need to cause suffering.”

Jorie tried to take this in.

“You must not resist me as you did when your
father was so hard on you. We will go slowly. I will never ask more
of you than you can accept.”

As he stood before her, she clasped his
hands in hers. “Your father and I have different views on
discipline. I don’t believe it improves a child unless he
understands and fully accepts his punishment. Do you follow my
meaning, Jorie?”

He wasn’t sure; his mind was already too
crowded to take in more. “I think so.”

She brushed a strand of hair out of his
eyes. “You know I love you very much, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I love you.”

“Of course you do.” She gave him a big hug.
“For those who are not loved are not truly disciplined. Their
punishment is only abuse.”

”Were you punished when you were little?” he
asked.

Catherine sighed and looked away.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you
that.”

“My mother whipped me. But she had little
affection for me.”

“That’s sad, Mummy.”

“I don’t recall her ever telling me that she
loved me.”

“Did your Papa ever punish you?”

At first Jorie thought she didn’t hear; she
had such a faraway look in her eyes.

Finally she said, “Yes, but I knew he loved
me.”

As she lay beside her young son Catherine
let her mind return to the strength of her father’s arms as he held
her across his lap, to the warmth of his hand as he’d caressed her
bare bottom. She could still feel her spine tingle as it once did.
The slaps would come, first gently, then hard enough to make her
cry. Until, holding her close, he’d explained that in order for her
to benefit from her punishment, she must surrender to it willingly
in mind and body. He had taught her this, as she was teaching her
child.

It had all seemed quite fitting. It was
time, Catherine decided, time to start her son’s training in
earnest.

The next time he was punished, she said, “I
have something for you.” She showed him a new notebook like the
ones he used at school.