Rose (19 page)

She took her purchases to the front of the store.

Mrs. Dobie’s frown grew even more pronounced when Rose laid her choices on the counter. Her lips became so pursed she looked as if she’d just sucked on a lemon.

“Spending the man’s money before he’s even married you, I see,” she remarked. “Suppose he backs out?”

“This is my money,” Rose said with quiet dignity. “If he backs out, I’ve only bought things I need.”

“You won’t be needing all these nightclothes,” Mrs. Dobie said, malice shining in her eyes. “Nice girls don’t go parading about dressed like this, not even after they’re married.”

“I don’t intend to
parade about.
”

“Think you’ll keep him faithful that way?”

Rose had tried to keep a civil tongue in her head. She had tried to remember she had been raised a lady. She’d tried to remember her father’s warning not to let other people pull her down to their level. But now she wanted to get down on their level. She
wanted
to give them a taste of what they had done to her all those years.

“The ladies of Austin have proved to me it isn’t necessary to keep a husband faithful to keep him,” Rose answered.

Mrs. Dobie swelled up so much Rose could hardly keep from laughing. She knew she shouldn’t feel such pleasure at being able to return a dig, but she did, and she wasn’t sorry.

“If women like you didn’t go about enticing decent men—”

“I never enticed a man in my whole life, married or not,” Rose declared, too angry to care whether people in the store heard her. “I only wanted to be left alone. But all of you made it plain you wanted me to leave. Well, I left. You said I ought to get married. Well, I’m getting married. You ought to be happy.”

“Every decent woman will sleep better for knowing you’re married and gone,” Hetty LeBlanc announced, coming up behind Rose.

“You’ll sleep alone regardless of how well you sleep,” Rose snapped. “Horace will simply find a new skirt to chase.”

Oblivious of Hetty’s crimson face or Mrs. Dobie’s furious displeasure, Rose continued with her purchases. “I want some of your rose water…no, the large bottle…and three cakes of your violet-scented soap. And I want that dress off your model up front.”

The women had been incensed by Rose’s profligate purchases of what they considered luxury items, but her mention of the dress stunned them.

“Do you mean the white dress?” Mrs. Dobie asked.

“It costs fifteen dollars,” Hetty LeBlanc exclaimed.

“I know.”

“What could you possibly want with such a dress on a cow ranch?” Hetty demanded. “You’d ruin it the first time you put it on.”

Rose slapped her money down on the table as if she spent fifty-four dollars every day. “It won’t matter if I do. George has promised to buy me new clothes every year
and
give me money to spend as I like.”

Neither Mrs. Dobie nor Hetty had a response for that. Texas men weren’t in the habit of giving their wives money to spend on themselves. As for buying clothes, well, they were more likely to tell them to make their own.

Rose didn’t bother to tell them this was part of her contract. George had made no promises to her as his wife.

“Wrap everything up very securely,” Rose instructed Mrs. Dobie. “It will have to stand a long trip.”

“What about the white dress?” It still remained on the model.

“I’ll take it with me. Put it in some wrapping paper.”

While Mrs. Dobie busied herself wrapping up her purchases, Rose continued to look around, acting as though she might buy something more. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Mrs. Dobie take the white dress off the model.

“Fold it very carefully. I don’t want it wrinkled.”

Mrs. Dobie scowled more than ever, but she exercised care with the dress.

“Have someone send the package around to Bullock’s Hotel,” Rose said when she accepted her change. “I’m in room seven.”

“Hussy!” Hetty exclaimed even before the door closed behind Rose.

Rose could hardly suppress a smile of happiness as she walked back to the hotel. And it had nothing to do with her momentary pleasure at being able to return a fraction of the unkindness that had been heaped on her for so long. She had just decided the white dress would be the first shot in her campaign to get her husband to unbend toward her. George Washington Randolph might not realize it, but Rose intended to invade every corner of his heart and mind. And that included the dark secrets he still held hidden somewhere within himself.

George hadn’t given any thought to who might attend the wedding, but if he had, he never would have expected so many people to attempt to pack themselves into the hotel lobby. Not even Bullock’s could hold everybody who came. It seemed the whole town was trying to crowd inside. And the women weren’t shy about jostling with the men for position. Several forced their way to the front even though they arrived after all the spaces were filled. Dottie sat in the front row.

Dottie
was
the front row.

“I’m going to see she’s married right and proper,” Dottie announced to everyone. “He asked for her, and I’m going to see he gets her.”

The other women exhibited the same grim determination, but George couldn’t decide to what end. It didn’t seem to be anything that pleased them very much. Like an avenging angel, Peaches McCloud stood in the middle of the entire group. George couldn’t figure out why she had decided to come—the Widow Hanks and Berthilda Huber were also there—unless she intended to be present in the unlikely event George changed his mind at the last minute.

The emotional temperature of the room was so highly charged that George started to wonder if the seventy miles that lay between Austin and his ranch would be enough.

“Here she comes,” someone called out. The spectators began shoving to make room for Rose to pass. George hadn’t seen Rose since she returned from her shopping.

The transformation took his breath away.

Nothing remained of the crushed, tired, worn-down woman of yesterday. The white dress had become her wedding dress, the dainty slippers her wedding shoes. The yellow ribbon had been braided into a net which supported her long hair, pulling it back from her face and causing it to cascade down her back. She wore the bunches of artificial flowers in her hair. But the smile that transformed her face made the greatest difference of all. That and her enormous brown eyes.

She looked like a bride.

Like a bride he was seeing for the first time.

He had expected to marry the woman who made his home comfortable, who was kind and thoughtful to his family, who did her share of work without complaint, who was strong and dependable, the kind of woman a man needed but so rarely found.

The Rose descending the stairs was the kind of woman every man dreams of marrying.

Her radiance was beyond his meager words to describe. It had that timeless quality he had previously associated only with the Southern beauties before the war. The elegance he had noticed from the first was given full play by the simplicity of her clothes, the starkness of the white. Her smile was the smile of a woman who knows more than she’s willing to tell.

Seeing Rose descend the stairs with angelic grace made George feel like a true bridegroom, fearful he wasn’t worthy of this extraordinary creature, nervous he would do something to mess up the ceremony, and anxious for the whole thing to be over.

Rose’s effect on the spectators was nearly as great. The rumble of whispered remarks, too-loud asides, and hissed observations continued even after the preacher began the words of the service. But George didn’t hear them any longer. He only heard the words of the preacher.

Why had he never read the marriage vows? Why had he thought he could get married and nothing would change? He had just promised to love and cherish and protect this woman. To honor her with his body as well as his mind and spirit.

George wrenched his mind away from his inner thoughts. The preacher was speaking to him.

“Do you have a ring?” the preacher repeated.

It had never occurred to George he would need a ring, not for himself or for Rose. He hadn’t thought of wedding clothes either. He had on the same clothes he’d worn all day. He felt thoroughly ashamed.

George wrenched a family ring off his finger. “Use this,” he said as he handed it to the preacher.

Somehow the act of giving the preacher his ring brought home the finality of the wedding more than the words.

He had married Rose.

He had just taken a vow he had no intention of honoring.

“To your bride,” a stranger said, holding out a drink to George. “May she live long and give you many children.”

“To my bride,” George repeated, accepting the drink with only a slight hesitation. There was no point in trying to decline. He must have drunk a toast with every man in Austin in the last two hours. He had retreated to a corner hoping he’d be unnoticed, but each man seemed to find his way over to his table within ten minutes of entering the saloon, a smile of congratulations on his lips and a drink in his hand.

George had come to the saloon to try to figure out how he was going to handle his desire for Rose without taking advantage of her love, her vulnerability, or her generosity. But by now his alcohol-fogged brain was having trouble remembering anything except that his body was on fire with desire.

“You can’t stay here all night,” Salty said. “This is your wedding night.”

“Goddammit, I know what night it is,” George replied, his words slurred.

They were in the Golden Nugget, one of the dingy saloons along Waller Creek near the army corrals. It was a long room with a low ceiling and dark walls. The mirror behind the bar reflected the meager light of two coal oil lanterns suspended overhead. Customers playing cards in the far corners needed to squint in the poor light.

George didn’t drink. Period. And the alcohol had gone straight to his head. It was too late to tell himself he’d allowed the people of Austin to cause him to make still another mistake. It was too late to try to explain to Rose that he had never intended to get drunk, that he’d only been trying to find a way to be fair to her and to himself at the same time.

Any ordinary bride would be hurt to learn her groom had gotten drunk within an hour of getting married. After the way he had proposed, Rose would be devastated.

“Can you imagine how Rose must feel, waiting in that room, not knowing what’s happened to you, not knowing when you mean to come back?”

Go back to what? He couldn’t go to her and not make love to her. He wasn’t that strong.

Several times this evening he’d been on the verge of forgetting all his scruples and running straight into her arms. If he could lose himself in her love, maybe he could forget the conscience which nagged him so unmercifully. If he could satisfy this physical need which tore at him until his control had been picked raw, maybe he could look for answers with a clear mind.

But he couldn’t do that. He owed it to Rose to stay away until he could make a full and honest commitment to her and to their marriage. It would be cruel of him to take her body and reject the rest of her. After all she’d done for him and his family, he damned well owed her that much.

“I told her I might not be back until late. I told her she might want to go to bed.”

What was he to tell her? To wait up for a husband who didn’t know if he could come back, and didn’t know what he would do if he did? For a husband who knew he must not touch her, but who knew he couldn’t resist?

He thought of the many nights he had spent dreaming of Rose, the countless hours spent thinking of her, imagining her in his arms, imagining himself making love to every part of her body.

A few kisses had just as much power to overset his calm now as they had that afternoon. But now there was no barrier, no fear of ruining her reputation. In the eyes of God and man, she was his.

“You did what?”

“You heard me. I’m not repeating it.”

“Why?”

“None of your goddamned business.”

“You’re right, it is none of my business, but it sure as hell is Rose’s business, and I think she deserves to know what you’re doing and why.”

George tried to force his brain to think. He had to decide what to do before his mind ceased to work altogether.

“Rose is none of your damned business either. She’s my wife.”

“Nobody could tell it.”

George started up from his chair, but he stumbled. Salty had to help him back to his seat.

“I don’t know what’s eating you,” Salty said, “but no matter what it is, I wouldn’t let it cause me to shame my wife.”

“I’m not shaming Rose.”

“What do you think all these men are thinking with you drunk as an Indian on white lightning? They think there’s either something wrong with you or something wrong with Rose. Can’t be any other reason for a man spending his wedding night getting drunk, not when he’s got a bride like Rose waiting in his room.”

“I don’t care what they think about me.”

“Didn’t think you would, but I thought you might care what they thought about Rose.”

George sat up and turned to look at the other men in the saloon. They were gathered in assorted groups about the room, some drinking, some gambling, others just talking. Many of them watched George out of the corners of their eyes.

“Every woman in town will know of it first thing in the morning. If they’re all like that McCloud wench, it’ll mean a dog’s life for Rose.”

George pulled himself up straight in his chair.

“Rose won’t have to run from any more dragons,” George said, almost as if he were making a declaration. “I’ll see to that.”

Rose had put on the prettiest of her new nightgowns, but she hadn’t been near the bed. How could any bride sleep on her
wedding night when the bridegroom wasn’t by her side? When she had no idea where he might be. And she had no idea when, or if, he would return.

As a surprise, George had instructed the hotel management to move their things during the wedding ceremony from their separate rooms to the nicest corner room in the hotel. They had a view of Pecan Street from two windows and Congress Avenue from a third, tables with whale oil lamps, upholstered chairs, two washstands, and a large brass bed. The staff had even put their clothes away in the enormous mahogany wardrobes.

But Rose hardly noticed the luxurious room. Her thoughts were completely absorbed by George. It wasn’t likely anything could have happened to him, not with Salty along. No, he was staying away intentionally. But why?

You have no idea, and you aren’t likely to figure it out by sitting up all night. The sensible thing to do is go to bed, get a good night’s sleep, and be ready to deal with it in the morning.

Suppose he didn’t come back?

She didn’t have to worry about that. George would be back. He took his responsibilities seriously.

But suppose he didn’t want to tell her what was wrong. How could she convince him to confide in her? He had to. No marriage could prosper when such secrets existed between husband and wife.

Her husband! She still couldn’t get used to it. She was married. To George. She was his wife. Their marriage had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly, it was hard to believe. Maybe George felt the same.

Maybe he had mistaken his feelings and was now drowning his sorrows in strong drink. Maybe he had married her for convenience and didn’t care about his wedding night. It was possible he was fond of her but that his feelings were very tepid.

Hers were powerful. More powerful than she had realized.

Rose had had no idea how much she loved George until he
had escorted her upstairs after all the congratulations were over and told her he would be back after a while.

Only then did she realize how much she had looked forward to being alone with him. Only then did she fully realize how keenly it could hurt to know he didn’t return her love, that living with George might be far more painful than living without him.

Had she made a mistake in marrying a man who didn’t love her? Had she fixed her gaze too firmly on her dream and failed to see the man? Had she been too absorbed with her hopes for the future, the sounds of happy children filling every corner of the house, George’s love and devotion filling every corner of her heart?

Wake up, princess!
Rose said harshly to herself.
The dragon is dead and the knight has gone home. It’s time to get on with the rest of your life.

But without George’s love, there was no reason to bother.

Rose was startled awake by a knock at the door. She had been dozing. The lamp burned low. It must be long after midnight. She turned up the wick and reached for her wrap. “Who is it?” she said, her lips close to the door.

“It’s George.” It was Salty’s voice.

The fear she had pushed aside all night gripped her. Something had happened to George. In her haste to get the door open, she fumbled the key in the lock, then dropped it. She was almost frantic by the time she flung the door open.

Salty and George stood before her, Salty holding George up.

George had been drinking. She didn’t know how much, but it didn’t look as if he could stand by himself. Her fear changed to despair. It was useless to be angry.

“Bring him in,” she said, stepping back. “Where did you find him?”

She didn’t really want to know. She didn’t want to hear that George had gone through every saloon in town trying to forget
he’d gotten married, that not even the lure of his wedding night could make him face his bride before he was practically insensible.

“You shouldn’t have waited up,” George said. His words came out slowly, with great effort.

“I was worried about you,” Rose said.

“Everybody in town had to drink his health,” Salty explained. “He’s got to have a head of steel just to be conscious after all that.”

Rose added another item to her list of barbaric customs men seemed to enjoy.

Salty started to help George enter the room, but George waved him away. “Would you see if you could find me some coffee?” he asked Salty.

“You hate coffee,” Rose said.

“I hate feeling drunk even more,” George said, sounding a little more like himself. “Besides, I only kept drinking to avoid having to face the truth. Any man foolish enough to do that deserves a worse punishment than coffee.”

“I’ll get some if I have to get the cook out of bed,” Salty promised. Then he disappeared.

George carefully closed the door behind Salty. He wasn’t entirely steady on his feet, but he could walk. He crossed the room and carefully lowered himself into a chair. Rose didn’t dare offer to help him. She sat down on the edge of the bed and waited, her hands in her lap.

Waited for the ax to fall. For George to tell her he didn’t love her, that their marriage had been a mistake, that he was going back to the ranch and leaving her in Austin.

Waited for him to say her life was over.

Yet despite her own heartache, she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for him. He looked as miserable and unhappy as she felt. She had never seen him drunk. She hadn’t even seen him take a drink. He must feel truly desperate to go to such an extreme.

“My head isn’t working too well, so this may not make any
sense,” George said. “It was stupid of me to drink all those toasts, especially when I don’t drink. I knew I’d have to explain everything to you in the end.” George fell silent. He seemed to be looking at something only he could see. “My father never got drunk. He just got mean. And reckless.”

George looked at Rose. “I didn’t come here to talk about Pa. Wanted to say something else.”

He looked so miserably unhappy, she wanted to go to him, cradle his head against her breast, promise him it couldn’t be as bad as he thought.

“I don’t know how to say this. I can’t find the words I want. They keep slipping away. They’re like Zac. Never where you want him.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here he was, about to tell her everything was over, and he was making her laugh.

“I always knew I shouldn’t marry,” George began. He spoke slowly and deliberately, almost as though each word had to be hunted down and captured before he could use it. “You ought to have good stock for marrying. I’m not good stock. Got rot at the heart. Just like a big black oak we used to have at home. People used to say how pretty and green it was. Ma had parties under it in the summertime. One day a wind came up and blew it down. The inside was all rotten. That’s me. Inside all rotten.”

Rose didn’t have any idea what George was talking about. True, he was pretty on the outside. But she had no idea what kind of rot he could possibly be referring to. It obviously wasn’t a liking for drink. He wasn’t enjoying this evening any more than she was.

“That’s why I tried to stay away from you,” George continued. “Do you know how hard it is to keep yourself from doing the one thing you want to do more than anything else?” He transfixed her with his gaze, its intensity heightened because of the struggle to fight his way through the cloud of alcohol. “It’s the worst kind of hell.”

Rose felt an upsurge of hope. He was telling her he
wanted
her. He was saying he had to
force
himself to stay away from her. Still, she warned herself not to build up false hopes. The whiskey had muddled him. He could still utter those fateful words.

“Pa was prettier than any oak tree,” George said, going off on a tangent Rose couldn’t immediately follow. “But he was rotten. Mean and rotten. Ma tried to hide it, but I could see it. All of us could.”

Rose felt she was living with two people she couldn’t see, people she couldn’t talk to, argue with, drive away. Two people who stood between her and George. Between all the Randolph boys and happiness. They were like ghosts haunting the living out of anger at their own ruined lives.

“It’s in all of us. It’s what makes Jeff so bitter, Monty ready to defy the world, Hen enjoy killing, Tyler dislike people. It’s what caused Madison to turn his back and walk away.”

“What’s in you?” Rose asked. If she didn’t understand something soon, she was going to lose the thread of his conversation altogether.

“The rot,” George told her. “It’s there, eating away, just waiting for a storm. Then it’ll break through and destroy us.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you or your brothers,” Rose hastened to assure him. “Even Jeff.”

“I’m the worst of all,” he said, ignoring her. “I’m just like Pa.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rose said. She would have been furious if anyone else had made that statement.

“I won’t be a good husband. Pa tried, but he made us all hate him. The worst thing I can think of is having you hate me.”