Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  John Harper quickly placed a chair at the side of the sofa and the doctor, flicking coattails, sat down heavily and opened his bag. “Got a head wound, have you?”

  “Bullet,” Garvin grunted.

  The doctor unwound the bandage, pulling roughly where the dried blood had stuck. Garvin groaned.

  “Well, you will go about shouting slogans and defying the law,” the doctor said grumpily.

  No one corrected him. Hot water was supplied and for a few moments nothing could be heard in the room except the doctor’s labored wheezing and Garvin’s gasp as the wound was probed.

  “A crease,” the doctor said. “Grazed the skull, but nothing serious.”

  Amélie breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Put him to bed. He should be able to get about by day after tomorrow.”

  Damon and John between them helped Garvin upstairs. By the time they returned to the parlor the doctor had already gone. John Harper offered Damon some brandy, which he declined.

  Babette said, “Oh, but Mr. Fowler, you’ve bloodied your shirt cuffs.”

  “So I have,” he said, shooting them out from his coat sleeves, a mock rueful look on his face.

  “Please,” she insisted, “you must let us launder it. We could do no less. Perhaps Cousin John can lend you a shirt in the meantime.”

  A strained silence followed. The Harpers, well aware of Damon’s Yankee sentiments, were loathe to go beyond the bounds of chill courtesy. To offer a drink was one thing, but to do a man’s laundry! Still Mr. Fowler had dirtied his shirt assisting a family member, and John’s innate sense of propriety insisted even as Damon demurred.

  “We won’t hear of you refusing, Mr. Fowler. Just tell us where you are staying and we shall have it delivered early tomorrow.”

  “I'm at Barnum’s City Hotel on Calvert Street. But it’s really not necessary.”

  “Of course it is. If you’ll come upstairs we’ll make the exchange.”

  Later at suppertime Amélie brought her father a bowl of snapper soup and a plate of toast on a tray. She was glad to see he had recovered his appetite along with his memory.

  “Was that Damon Fowler in the parlor?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “He wasn’t in uniform as I recall. So I take it he’s not joined up with the Union.”

  Amélie, feeling it would only distress him to know the truth, neither denied nor affirmed his supposition.

  “Bootblacks!” he exclaimed, cursing the Yankees. “And that doctor. Sullen fellow. I suppose he’s in sympathy with them.”

  “I hardly think so if John Harper called him in.” She plumped up his pillows and set the tray on his lap. “Shall I help you?”

  “My head feels terrible, but I can still feed myself. I could have been killed, you know.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He took several spoons of soup, then bit into his toast. Wiping the crumbs from his moustache with one of Ella’s linen napkins, he said, “What’s Babette up to?”

  “She’s downstairs.”

  “I want you to keep an eye on her, Amélie. The way she simpers around Willie turns my stomach. Frisking about like one of those loose women on Thames Street. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I’ve already spoken to her, Papa, and she’s promised to behave more decorously.”

  But at the supper table Babette cozied up to Willie in a way that would have made Garvin’s wounded head ache all the more.

  “Oh, Will, you handsome beast, how you do go on!” she teased, fluttering her lashes.

  It annoyed Amélie, amused John, and infuriated Ella, who sat clenching and unclenching her jaw as she toyed with her food.

  When the meal was finished and they rose to adjourn to the parlor Amélie took the opportunity to plead an early good night. “It’s been a very long day. Perhaps you’ll excuse both Babette and myself?” Babette was sharing a bedroom with Amélie now that Thaddeus was gone.

  “But I’m wide awake!” Babette cried. “And I promised Willie a game of bezique.”

  Amélie hesitated, feeling responsible, reluctant to leave her sister, yet finally deciding that as long as the Harpers were present Babette would have the proper chaperoning. Ella, standing stiffly at the parlor door, hands rigidly held at her sides, did not look like a woman who would abandon her son to the seduction of a country cousin.

  “Don’t be long, darlin’,” Amélie cautioned.

  It was past ten o’clock. John Harper had excused himself and gone up to bed. But Ella sat on, her ramrod back the prescribed inch from the sofa pillows, her eyes sharp as the knitting needles she plied, darting every now and then to Willie and Babette. They had finished their fourth game of bezique and were starting on their fifth, Willie shuffling, snapping, and crackling the decks with the ease of a habitual gambler.

  “Babette, my dear,” Ella said with acid sweetness. “I had no idea you were so fond of cards.”

  “Oh, yes, Cousin Ella. Very much.”

  The witch, Babette thought. Is she going to sit there all night? Isn’t she going to give me a moment alone with Willie?

  Under the table Willie’s foot had been nudging hers all evening. He had even managed to lift the hem of her skirt and softly run the tip of his leather boot up the side of her leg, making goose bumps pop out on her arms. Now he winked at her, pursing his lips in a kissable shape, as if he were studying his cards.

  Babette smiled at him and leaned over the table so that the fullness of her breasts pressed against her arms. He stared at them, his tongue flicking out, running over his lips. He dealt the cards, then turned to his mother. “Do you think I might have a cup of tea?’’

  “Bessie’s gone to her bed for the night, Willie.’’

  “I’ll get it then.’’ He half rose from his chair.

  “Stay put,’’ his mother ordered. “Fancy you making tea. If you must have it that badly. I’ll do it.’’ She threw Babette a hard look before she left for the kitchen.

  The moment she had gone, Wiilie whispered, “Can you meet me outside at the street corner? Half an hour?’’

  “Oh, Willie, yes!’’ Babette agreed, eyes shining. “How clever of you to think of it!’’

  Fifteen minutes later, yawning widely, she pretended a weariness she did not feel and went upstairs. Slipping into the bedroom she was relieved to find Amélie asleep. She paused at the mirror, quickly patting her hair and pinching her cheeks to give them color. Then lifting a shawl from a peg she tiptoed down the back stairs.

  Willie, illuminated by pale moonlight, was waiting at the curb, but when he saw Babette he came forward, drawing her into the shadows. He kissed her hungrily, teeth, tongue, and scratchy beard sending little shivers of delight through her body.

  “Let’s walk,’’ he said, putting his arm about her waist. “Where are we going?’’ she asked.

  “I thought it would be nice at the park. Do you mind?’’

  “No. Willie”—she paused, smiling beguilingly up at him—“are your intentions honorable?”

  “Of course.” He squeezed her. “I’ve been in love with you for donkey’s ages.”

  “So have I.”

  He didn’t believe her, but it didn’t matter.

  As for Babette, her mind was going round like a squirrel in a cage. He wants me, she thought, but I’m not going to let him have me unless we’re engaged. That’s a must. It won’t be the same as it was with that Yankee, Damon Fowler, to whom I gave myself without so much as a pretend, ladylike struggle. But God’s eyeballs, he was wonderful! Savage, but wonderful! The way his mouth took my nipple, his teeth nipping, his tongue licking, his lips clamping over it and sucking. And those hot kisses pouring over me! It gives me goose bumps all over just to think of it. He was drunk, of course, and kept calling me Amélie, but I didn’t care. Nothing like that had happened to me before. I won’t see him again now that the war’s here. Today was just happenstance. And even if we did meet what good would it do? He’s a Yankee. I couldn’t mar
ry him without Papa and Amélie coming down on me like hawks on a chicken. Besides I don’t think he’s the marrying kind. Now Willie—she pressed his hand—Willie is different, ripe for marriage. With a little coaxing I’m sure I can manage it.

  Matching his stride, she nestled closer.

  “My honey,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “You’re my own little honey.”

  They had come to the park, deserted at this hour, dark as pitch, the grass beneath their feet smelling of sweet clover and dew. Somewhere in the rustling tree above them a bird cheeped disconsolately.

  “Let’s sit,” Willie said. Removing his greatcoat, he spread it out on the ground. “Come.” Taking her hand he brought her down beside him.

  “Willie . . . ?”

  “Mmmmm?” His arms were around her, holding her tightly, his mouth claiming hers in a breathless kiss.

  “Oh, God!” he exclaimed, burying his face in her breasts, “but you’re sweet.” His hands moved to her buttons, quickly working them free.

  “Willie, you promised.”

  “I know,” he said thickly, pushing her bodice from her shoulders, releasing the ripe fullness that filled and overflowed his eager hands. He bent and kissed the white mounded flesh. Then catching his breath with a sound like a hiccup, he took a rosy nipple in his mouth.

  Babette’s limbs turned to water. As his tongue swirled around the sensitive nub, she could feel her breasts swelling, pressing against the rough beard, could feel the exciting tingles that radiated out from his teasing tongue and lips.

  His hands were hiking up her skirt, fingers tearing at her pantalettes.

  “You mustn’t, you can’t,” she protested, even as her legs went slack and opened up, her hips lifting to let him slide the confining garment over her ankles.

  He threw himself on her, his weight pinning her down, so that the buttons of his greatcoat cut into her back. But she hardly felt them, so strong was the craving in the warm, moist place between her legs where Willie’s titillating forefinger had begun to flutter and stroke.

  “Willie—you promised!” she managed to say as he raised himself on one hand, fumbling with his breeches, freeing his thick, swollen member.

  “You can’t!”

  Heedless of her protest he lowered himself, and nudging her legs apart with a knee, entered her in a stabbing plunge. Grasping her hair, panting, he worked in and out, his thrusts going deeper into velvety wetness. When Babette’s loins bobbed up to meet his, he groaned, burying his bearded chin in her neck, his movements frantic now that he was about to burst. The climactic convulsions came a moment later, leaving him sprawled over her soft, pillowy body.

  “Babs,” he whispered hoarsely, “will you marry me?”

  * * *

  Hours later Amélie awoke to find that Babette had not come to bed. She turned up the lamp and examined her lapel watch on the side table. Two thirty! Surely she and Willie were not still playing cards? Where was the girl?

  She got into her dressing gown and was heading for the door when she noticed the knob silently twisting. She froze as the door inched open.

  “Babette?” she whispered.

  Babette came into the room, shutting the door behind her. Her hair was rumpled and the shawl carelessly thrown about her shoulders did not hide a bodice whose buttons had slipped several loops.

  “Where have you been?” Amélie demanded, her voice tight.

  “Out walking with Willie.”

  “Until two thirty in the morning?”

  “Well—we did sit for a while in the park. Such a lovely evening.”

  Amélie said nothing but just stared at her sister. “We’re engaged,” Babette said.

  “Oh?” A wealth of scorn was packed into that one word. “Did this happen in the park?”

  “Yes. And for God’s sake I wish you’d stop looking at me as if I'd committed a murder.”

  “What have you committed?”

  Babette flung her shawl down on a chair and began to yank the pins from her hair.

  “Well,” Amélie said, impatiently, “aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “All right.” Babette faced Amélie, blue eyes blazing. “I let him have his way with me. There!”

  “Oh, my God.” Amélie sank down on the bed.

  “It’s not the end of the world. Willie and I are going to be married before he leaves with his regiment.”

  “Cousin Ella won’t be happy about it.”

  “You mean she won’t be happy about me. Well, she’ll come around. She dotes on Willie and if he wants to marry me, she’ll agree.” Babette picked up a brush and ran it through her hair, pulling at the tangled curls.

  Amélie, watching, exploded. “Oh, stop that! How can you take all this lightly? Have you forgotten Mama’s teachings? You are supposed to be a lady, not a tramp. Have you no sense of shame?”

  “No,” Babette said calmly, putting the brush down, turning to face her sister. “I might have had if this awful war hadn’t happened. Men fight wars, Amélie. They kill each other. You’ve got a husband, if he’s killed you’ll be a widow. Mrs. Thaddeus Warner. Not Miss Townsend like me. A spinster. I don’t want to be a spinster.” She leaned forward. “I don’t want to be poor Aunt Babette. I was brought up to be a wife and I’m very well going to be one.”

  “No one is insisting you stay single, Babette. We all want you to marry. But it isn’t right to go after a man simply because he’s available.”

  “And how many available ones are there? Didn’t you notice? They’re all marching off, slipping out to join this regiment, that troop, that corps, all agog to go, in a tizzy, scared the war will be over before they’ve become heroes. In just a few weeks all our neighbors’ sons have gone. At the last barbecue down home there were mostly women”

  “The war won’t last long,” Amélie pointed out. “And you’re only seventeen.”

  “Seventeen? I feel—oh, I feel old! As though I were at least twenty-five.”

  Someday Amélie would remember that statement and laugh, but now she gazed at her sister with sympathy. Babette should have been a boy, she thought, the boy Papa always wanted, full of vinegar, kicking over traces, sowing wild oats, gambling and running after women, the typical rich planter’s son, raised to idleness and roisterous living. But she was a girl and though Therese had tried to mold her into a sweet, gentle, and biddable image of Southern womanhood she had failed. And how successful has Mama been with me? Amélie asked herself. I’m not as wild as Babette but I do have thoughts and opinions that are not sweet and gentle, and a streak of contrariness I can’t always hide.

  “Of course, Willie’s not my notion of a romantic cavalier,” Babette said. “Not like that devil Damon Fowler.”

  At the mention of Damon Fowler Amélie dropped her eyes. No, she thought, I won’t think about him and Babette. I won’t think about that blackguard making love to me, then doing the same to my sister. I won’t think about his hand on her breast, his mouth—I won’t. The dastard, seducing a young girl like Babette, taking advantage of her susceptible nature.

  “Willie,” Babette said, mistaking Amélie’s sudden withdrawal, “didn’t notice I wasn’t a virgin.”

  “Well,” Amélie said, shaking her thoughts free of Damon Fowler, “that’s some consolation. When are you going to announce your engagement?”

  “Willie thought it best to break the news tactfully to his mother first. But I told him I couldn’t wait longer than two weeks. A short engagement, then marriage.”

  “But another wedding so soon after mine, the preparation—Mama will have a fit.”

  “You’re wrong. She’ll be relieved. She won’t have to fuss with a big to-do. A simple wedding, standing up before a minister, will save her a whole lot of trouble. She’ll thank me.” There was a note of bitterness in her voice.

  “Oh, Babette!” Amélie went over and hugged her sister. “You can borrow my dress. If we start tomorrow rounding up the bridesmaids and—”

  “No,” Babette interrupt
ed, “thank you, darlin’, but there isn’t time.”

  The next day, a Sunday, Amélie was sitting on the back porch having a late morning cup of cocoa when Bessie came to her with Damon Fowler’s laundered shirt neatly wrapped in butcher paper.

  “Can you deliver it?” Amélie asked. “Mr. Fowler's staying at the Barnum.”

  “Doan Cahlvet Street by mahself?” Bessie asked in horror. “No, ma’am. Theys still fightin’ and breakin’ inter shops. I ain’t gwine ter put my nose out the house even if ’tis Sunday.”

  “Is Beau around?”

  “No, ma’am. He and Mistah John and Mistah Wahnah went doan to der poss office. Miz Babette—”

  “No,” Amélie said quickly. She did not want to give Babette the excuse of seeing Damon Fowler again. “I’ll deliver it and you can accompany me. No arguments. Get your bonnet and come along.”

  When they emerged from the house they saw a small knot of men gathered at the corner of Washington Place, and for a moment Amélie wavered.

  Bessie had no such hesitation. “Less go back, Miz Melie,” she begged.

  “Nonsense.” The men seemed to be talking quietly. She wasn’t going to show the white feather after insisting that Bessie walk with her.

  They crossed the street and coming to Calvert made a right turn. Suddenly from behind they heard horse’s hooves and a rider on a lathered horse passed at a mad gallop. Bessie’s eyes widened and she clutched Amélie’s arm. The rider drew up in front of a red brick building and tying his reins to the post dashed inside.

  “It’s nothing,” Amélie assured a frightened Bessie. She had no sooner spoken when a man brandishing a rifle ran out of the building.

  This was too much for Bessie. She gave a short cry, turned, and bolted before Amélie could catch her. Racing up Calvert Street, her bonnet askew, her arms pumping and skirts flying, she disappeared around the corner. An exasperated Amélie had a mind to toss the shirt into the gutter and follow Bessie. But she was only a short distance from the Barnum and she went on.

  The lobby was crowded with men talking excitedly.