Though Tasmin had sought the priest out—where else was she going to get an informed opinion about matters of the heart but from this smart celibate? But now she found that she hated everything he was telling her. Why would Pomp Charbonneau, the man she meant to have, possibly prefer calm to passion? He hadn’t really even known passion yet.
“If he’s as innocent as he looks, you might consider giving him a little time to reflect,” Geoff advised.
Tasmin put her face in her hands—in a moment warm tears were dripping through her fingers, tears mainly of self-reproach. She was beginning to fear that she must, after all, be a bad woman to want this young man when she already had an excellent husband. It must be sinful to want two at once—and yet that was the fact: she did want two at once. Whatever he might have observed the German chambermaids doing, Pomp Charbonneau was as innocent as he looked; yet now she was determined to besmirch that innocence, and as soon as possible. She did want to entangle him in her lusts. She was bad—she knew it—and yet she couldn’t change. She meant to have her way—the greedy, sensual way of the Berrybenders. Were her appetites, after all, as selfish and unrestrained as her father’s? What had he done, for the last forty years, except seduce every comely woman who caught his eye, in the process betraying his marriage vows as casually as if he were eating a peach? She was younger, but was she any better? She knew she wasn’t. Even in England she had scorned ladylike behavior—now, far out on the American prairies, it could only be a nuisance. There were social customs—and then there was one’s real nature. What was her real nature?
“Cry, you’ll feel better,” said Father Geoffrin, putting an arm around her shoulders rather tentatively. ‘Although personally it’s the one criticism I have of women—they will cry—and then men feel so bad.”
“Well, you needn’t feel bad,” Tasmin told him, flinging off the arm. “I wasn’t crying about you.”
“But you might, mightn’t you? After all, I’m a needful person too,” the priest told her. “I cry about myself every time I remember how far I am from Paris.”
“That’s not important,” Tasmin said bluntly—she needed to take out her irritation on somebody. Why not Geoff, her understanding friend?
“There you sit, day after day” she went on, “reading about love in your ill-bred books, and yet you never do love with anyone at all. At least I try to grapple with the thing itself, although I always seem to fail.”
“You don’t always fail—no self-pity now,” Geoff reprimanded. “Sometimes you appear to be very happy, as you were this morning when you emerged from your first little rendezvous with Pomp.”
“How did you know that I was happy?” she asked, for it was true: she had been very happy that morning.
“By your blushing—you reddened like a rose,”
Geoff told her. “It’s mainly happy women who blush to the roots of their hair.”
“You spy!—sometimes I hate you—no one else saw me blushing,” Tasmin retorted.
“Not so—your sister Mary noticed even before I did.”
“The sinister brat, what did she say?”
“She said, ‘The fat’s in the fire, Tasmin has had her way with Pomp,’” the priest quoted.
“But I haven’t had my way with him—why are you all so convinced that I’m bad?” she asked, feeling very discouraged.
“/ don’t think you’re bad,” Geoff assured her. “You’re merely very impetuous, and rather forward at times.”
“I confess I did kiss Pomp—just kissing, no more,” Tasmin admitted. ‘And you were right—I was happy, and I did blush. But it was only kissing.”
“Fine—though kissing has been known to lead to even more intimate behavior,” Father Geoff reminded her. ‘And then you went back in the woods with him after he butchered our deer. That was for more kissing, I assume.”
Tasmin put her face in her hands again, too upset to voice her disappointment.
“It was like kissing a brother,” she confided, when she felt able to speak.
“Now I understand your tears,” Father Geoffrin said, putting his arm around her again; this time she let it be, and even rested her throbbing head against his shoulder.
“The kisses of a brother are not always what one wants,” he said.
“It was so sweet this morning,” Tasmin told him. “But this afternoon it just didn’t work ... he wouldn’t even allow me to hug him as I wished to.”
“My, my . . . it’s so complicated,” Father Geoffrin said. “Do you suppose you’d ever want to kiss me? You needn’t worry that I’d feel brotherly about you.”
Tasmin fairly jumped away—she could not have moved more quickly if she had discovered that she was standing on a snake.
“But Geoff, you’re a priest—you can’t kiss anybody, much less me,” she told him.
“I’m not much of a priest—you yourself frequently remind me of that sad fact,” Geoff said. “Besides, there’s a whole school of literature based on the unchaste and disorderly behavior of priests and nuns.”
“I’m not literature, I’m a woman,” Tasmin said, indignantly. “You of all people—trying to catch me when I’m discouraged.”
’� catch is a catch,” Father Geoffrin said.
Tasmin looked him in the face. His was a thin face, intelligence popping off it like sparks. In his eyes she saw unmistakable desire, the one thing she had not been able to arouse in her sweet, handsome Pomp. A shiver ran through her—she was about to tell Geoff quite firmly that he had better mind his manners when Monty came waddling in their direction. The confusion inside Tasmin was so great that she merely jumped up and hurried toward the river, passing her son without even giving him a pat, a lapse that startled Monty so that he opened his mouth to protest but then forgot to wail.
Father Geoffrin sighed; he thought there might yet be at least a glimmer of opportunity, though opportunity was not likely to present itself anytime soon. As a second best he helped himself to another bloody slice of the excellent, tender venison.
17
In her confusion she first blamed Jim . . .
WHEN dusk fell, Tasmin hurried down to the river and walked along it until she found some concealing bushes; then she sat down and sobbed until she was empty of tears. In her confusion she first blamed Jim— why would he just go riding off and leave his wife the opportunity to develop so many unfaithful feelings? There were several competent scouts in the company— why couldn’t two of them have conducted this scout, if it was so important? Wasn’t the real reason Jim left that he simply got tired of dealing with her? Of course, their matings were still lively and satisfying—it was her talk, the incessant flow of opinions that poured out of her, which seemed to tire Jim. Indeed, her talk seemed to tire everyone, except perhaps the smart little French priest, whose sudden declaration of interest had just shocked her so. If only Jimmy wouldn’t indulge in such lengthy absences she would have much less opportunity to daydream of love with Pomp.
But once she was cried out, which left her calm if tired, content merely to listen to the river rush over its rocks, Tasmin knew that blaming Jim Snow wasn’t really fair. She had had just as many daydreams of romance with Pomp Charbonneau while Jimmy was still in camp. Nor could Pomp be blamed, particularly—he had told her months before that he wasn’t lustful, a confession she had felt free to ignore, confident that she could make any man lust a little if she applied herself to the task. Young virgins often became old lechers, in her opinion. Pomp Charbonneau simply didn’t know what he was missing—once she was able to show him, surely he wouldn’t want to miss it anymore.
Sitting concealed behind her bush, Tasmin felt exhausted—a whole day of the surge and ebb of feeling had worn her out—and for what? Here they were, hundreds of miles from Santa Fe, with summer ending, the temperament of the Indians uncertain, the way hazardous, Jimmy gone, herself with a young child to care for, a task that would have usurped all her energies had she not been able to count on the loyalty of Little Onion, a youn
g woman who had nothing in particular to be happy about, that Tasmin could see, but who was unfailing in her devotion to the various little boys while still managing to accomplish a myriad of chores.
Tasmin knew she should have been grateful enough just to be alive and healthy, with a healthy baby. She should be capable of concentrating on just the task of survival, and not go around kissing one minute and sobbing the next, allowing herself to be prey to the sort of hothouse emotions that might better have flourished among the bored nobility of London or Paris, Venice or Vienna, rather than in a remote and rugged valley by a mountain river. Why bother loving, kissing, seducing, desiring, failing, or succeeding in the rare sublimities and frequent disappointments attendant on the attempt to love any man, much less the two intractable specimens she had fixed her feelings on? Why didn’t she just stop it, pack up her kit, yell at the trappers until they sprang into action, get the whole company on the road—any road?
She knew she didn’t lack character—it must be that her character was just bad, selfish, even brutal. She couldn’t stop wanting the pleasure of being loved by a man—even the sneaky little priest had looked at her in such away as to make her shiver. The first soft kisses she had exchanged with Pomp that morning had made her blush to the roots of her hair. She was reckless and she couldn’t help it—she was going to make trouble for men. Those who didn’t welcome trouble would do better to stay out of her way.
Just as Tasmin was reaching this uncomfortable conclusion, she happened to notice a small, squat figure watching her through the bushes. Kate Berrybender, unobserved, had found her out.
’Are you crying because you miss Mr. James Snow?” Kate asked, with her customary bluntness.
“I would be glad to see Jimmy—I mostly am always glad to see Jimmy,” Tasmin admitted, wondering why, of all times, she now had to be interrogated by a four-year-old.
“So is that why you’re crying, then?” Kate asked, in a tone that was surprisingly sympathetic.
“It’s not always easy to say why one cries, my dear,” Tasmin said. “I cry because I’d burst if I don’t.”
“I think it’s because you miss Mr. James Snow,” Kate concluded. “I often feel like crying myself when Mr. James Snow is absent. When he’s here I don’t feel that the Indians are as likely to scalp me.”
’An accurate surmise, I’d say.”
“Pomp Charbonneau is rather worried—I believe he’s looking for you,” Kate informed her.
“You found me easily enough,” Tasmin pointed out. “Surely a skilled scout such as Pomp could locate me if he really wanted to.”
“I don’t know whether to call him ‘mister’ or ‘monsieur,’” Kate confessed. ‘At times he seems rather French.”
Tasmin chuckled.
“Personally, I don’t find him French enough,” she confessed. “Nor do I find him American enough. It may be that he’s stuck in between, which is why he vexes me so.”
“That priest is a wily fellow,” Kate remarked.
“Wily indeed—but at least he’s French enough,” Tasmin told her.
’All the same, I do feel better when Mr. James Snow is with us,” Kate said.
“I suppose I do too,” Tasmin allowed. “If you see Monsieur Pomp, tell him that I can be found sitting squarely behind this bush.”
“I don’t like it that you cry, Tassie,” Kate admitted, in a quavering voice. “Perhaps you could hug me. I’m sure I’d feel somewhat better after my hug.”
Tasmin hugged her warmly—despite the child’s bossy airs, she was a baby sister.
“I think I’ll just call Pomp ‘mister,’” Kate said, as she was leaving. “Perhaps it will help him be more American.”
It was full dark when Pomp came—Tasmin had been sitting, rather numbly, wondering if he would come. He moved so quietly that when he put his hand on her shoulder Tasmin jumped, thinking it might be Geoff.
“Kate said you were crying—I expect it’s my fault,” he said.
“Not at all,” Tasmin assured him. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s men who assume blame when no blame has been assigned them.
“I have my moods, Pomp,” she added. “Many of them are just my moods—most of them have nothing to do with you.”
“But you were vexed with me this afternoon,” he reminded her, easing down to sit beside her.
“It would be more accurate to say I was frustrated,” she said. “I didn’t see why I shouldn’t kiss you, and yet when I tried I felt embarrassed. Nothing is more sobering than trying to kiss a man who doesn’t really want you to.”
“It’s just that this is new,” Pomp said. “I was afraid someone might spot us.”
Tasmin didn’t believe him, but she found his hand and twined her fingers in it.
“Pleasure has its risks,” she told him. “I don’t shy from them, but you big strong men certainly seem to.”
“I was only trying to explain.”
“No use, no use,” she said sharply. “Explaining won’t get us where I want us to be.”
She forced him back until he lay full length on the grass—then she bent over and pressed a kiss on him that lasted and lasted, as their kisses had that morning. She was gentle at first but not girlish. Soon she kissed his eyelids, his throat and chest, nipped more than once at his lower lip and his neck. Pomp quivered but he didn’t draw away. Tasmin, who had daydreamed about many delicious preliminaries that might be drawn out for days or weeks, as Pomp decreed, suddenly felt such a rush of desire that she felt herself go damp and dewy; she at once abandoned the notion of exquisite preliminaries. Keeping him pinned beneath her, her avid mouth on his, she undid his trousers and grasped his shaft. Pomp seemed to shiver, but didn’t protest.
“Just let me do what I want,” she whispered. “Just let me.”
She put her mouth back on his, so as not to let him spoil things by some clumsy word. Dewy as she was, she had only to flex a few times to settle Pomp just where she had been wanting to settle him. Pomp lay very still; he didn’t move but Tasmin moved. Her breath grew hoarse and hot against his cheeks—in only a minute, it seemed, his seed surged, and then seeped and seeped and seeped as, for as long as possible, Tasmin held him inside her, calming, her warm cheek against his. They lay thus for several minutes, neither of them speaking, Tasmin stroking his brow, touching his hair, now and then dipping her mouth for a quick kiss. Little by little the worm of his manhood grew smaller, until it finally slipped out.
“Now then, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked. Pleasure was still in her voice, just a little hoarseness.
“It’s only happened to me in dreams,” Pomp admitted, speaking softly. He seemed to be sinking into an even deeper quiet.
“Well, I hope you liked it as much as you liked the dreams,” she said. “I assume you did like them.”
“I liked this more, because I like you,” Pomp said. “Only I feel I lost something, somehow.”
He didn’t say it critically—from the gentle way he held her it was clear enough that he was pleased—and he had spoken honestly, rather than romantically. He felt he had lost something; he admitted it.
“You did lose something, but it can easily be replenished,” Tasmin assured him. “In fact it’s replenishing, even now. But you’re mine now—I suppose you could justly say you’d lost your freedom.”
She leaned close but could not really see his eyes.
“If you’re just going to accuse me of stripping away your innocence, then I’m likely to box your ears,” she threatened.
“I wasn’t innocent,” Pomp insisted. “I saw too much to be innocent, even before my mother died.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tasmin said, wondering why they were talking at all. Very likely, with the right kiss or caress, they could be making love again.
“Ma said I was born by sorrow’s river,” he said. “I seem to carry a weight. It keeps me from being quite like other men.”
“Stop it! Don’t talk so!�
� she demanded. “What we just did made me quite as happy as I’ve ever been. I don’t want my happiness to slip away, and it will if you continue to talk so sadly.”
Pomp said no more. He accepted Tasmin’s kisses and kissed back, gently. Tasmin expected that he would begin to touch her—her breasts, perhaps, or the seeping place below, but he didn’t. She told herself she had better not rush him. Once he learned more about passion he would surely be more active. She must be patient with him, a hard resolve, because she was by nature impatient. Now that she had had a little of what she wanted, she saw no reason not to have more—yet she knew it might be best to accept his shyness, for a time. She tried to brush away the shadow that dappled her happiness. What if Geoff was right? What if Pomp valued calm more than passion? What if in his depths he just wasn’t sensual? His body had responded to her, but even then, his soul he seemed to keep for himself. He was a man without strategies. Even Jim Snow, no very refined seducer, had more guile and much more temperament. She continued to hold Pomp and kiss him but she couldn’t quite get his sad words out of her mind. He had been born by sorrow’s river—he seemed to carry a weight other men needn’t carry. What could these words mean? She hated all such reflections.
They lay together in the darkness for almost an hour, until finally the evening chill drove them back to the campfire. The mountain men, playing cards and drinking, took no notice. In order to stoke her resolution, Tasmin flew at once into a frenzy of packing—she charged into the mountain men and demanded that they put down their cards and see to the wagons and animals. She wanted a dawn departure.
Tasmin had finally had enough of the Valley of the Chickens. She was up most of the night, packing and hectoring, and might have actually had the party on the move not long after dawn had not Vicky Kennet insisted that her nuptials with Lord Berrybender be performed before they left.
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