“No, like you, I was a virgin. Jake and I have only been married a couple months.”
“How did you ever explain . . . ?”
Hattie blushed scarlet. Good Lord, how could she put this? “We . . . uh . . . sort of anticipated our wedding night by a couple weeks, and when he asked . . .”
“You mean you wanted to do . . . that with Mr. Murdock?”
“Oh yes. That’s what I meant when I said he’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Hattie gently disengaged their joined hands and stood up. She paced in front of the bed for a moment, then sat again. “Opal, this may be difficult to believe, but . . . um . . . sexual congress with a man can be glorious. I want you to know that. Most men are not like Roger Lord. Well,” she added honestly, “I only have Jake to compare him to, but I’m sure they’re not. Roger used—well, you know—his man part as a weapon, to inflict pain. He wanted it to be ugly and painful and shameful. Did he rant about showing you your rightful place?”
“Yes! You too?”
“Yes.” Hattie stuck out her bottom lip and exhaled forcefully, sending loosened curls floating. “It was as if he were punishing me for being female and having a mind of my own, and he delighted in my fear. But a real man, a normal man, is careful, and he can use his man part to make you feel good, to . . .” Her words trailed away at the look of blank disbelief on Opal’s face. She ground her teeth in frustration. She wanted Opal to know there was something besides pain to be found in the union of a man and a woman, but she didn’t know the right words. It was like trying to explain color to a blind person. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
About as much as I’d believe the ravings of a lunatic, Opal thought but didn’t say, since above all, she knew when to hold her tongue. In her world, maids did not disagree with mistresses. She and Hattie Murdock might share a common trauma, but Opal had been a member of the serving class too long to put much faith in this momentary sisterhood. The vibrant redhead was surprisingly friendly and she talked to her as if Opal were her equal. But Mrs. Murdock was still a wealthy woman whose path ordinarily never would have crossed Opal’s. Oh, they might have been present one day in the same dining room. But Mrs. Murdock would’ve been a guest at the table. Opal would have been serving.
Hattie suddenly shot her the biggest, most genuine smile Opal had ever seen and reached over to squeeze Opal’s hand. “You think I’m crazy,” she said and actually laughed. The expression on Opal’s face told her she certainly did, even if class distinctions were too firmly ingrained for her to express her reservations out loud. “Of course you do,” Hattie said comfortingly. “It’s much too soon not to. I would have thought it crazy too, had someone said the same to me so soon after Lord assaulted me. But, please, Opal, do me a favor. Remember my words, a year or two or ten from now, whenever you’re ready. Please keep it in mind that lovemaking between a man and a woman isn’t always the horror Roger Lord made it. Please?”
Opal gave her a shy smile, grateful she didn’t have to disagree and amazed Hattie Murdock would laugh about a maid thinking her crazy. In Opal’s experience, she’d have been offended. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she agreed. But don’t hold your breath I’ll ever believe it.
“That’s all I ask. Now, what can I do to help?”
“Help?” Opal was confused. She didn’t understand this family at all. They took her into their home, put her in a beautiful room, and didn’t even assign her any chores. They were beyond her experience with the socially elite.
“I know Jake will have a number of questions for you while he prepares your case. They’ll be personal and embarrassing. Would it help if I sat with you? I know it’s not much, but I could hold your hand.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Certainly. Perhaps we should discuss moving you out to our ranch—I’ll talk that over with Jake and Aunt Augusta. And of course, I’ll be in court every day to lend whatever moral support I can.” Hattie paused, her eyes serious. “It’s so little, Opal, when you are sacrificing so much. I wish I could do more.”
Opal simply shook her head in utter bafflement.
42
Roger turned from the barred window in his cell. There was nothing to see except a bleak alley, a view he had studied too many times already. It looked particularly dismal with the summer rain dumping a fine, steady downpour. Shooting his cuffs, he straightened his waistcoat, hitched the legs of his elegant trousers just so, and sat on the edge of his cot. He smoothed back his hair and frowned at the smudge marring his otherwise impeccable shirtsleeve.
His arrest was an outrage. They couldn’t keep him here—he was Roger Lord! Yet, against all reason, kept him here they had. Over-goddamn-night.
This imprisonment was unthinkable. Gentlemen weren’t arrested on the word of a servant; whoever heard of such a thing? He was a man of consequence—yet, not only had the sheriff taken the word of a domestic over his; the fool had taken the word of a female domestic. And though Roger had said it before, it bore repeating: the incarceration of Roger Thaddeus Lord was outrageous. Men dallied with servant girls all the time. It was of no significance.
His lawyer informed him the court papers labeled it rape, as if that wasn’t patently absurd. There was no such thing. Women were a negligible commodity whose duty was to unquestioningly obey their betters. That meant any male, even the ripe-smelling old sot sleeping in the next cell. If women had worth in the world, they would’ve been given the same rights as men. Clearly, man was the superior, duly dominant species. Roger merely exercised his duty to teach women their rightful place. Rape, indeed.
It was preposterous this nonsense was going to trial. Hell, the sheriff was a man. Not a well-bred one, but still a man. One would’ve thought he’d be smart enough to know a man of Roger’s stature had no business being in jail and have immediately set him free.
There was no doubt in Roger’s mind the sheriff was Murdock’s minion. What else explained this monumental miscarriage of justice? Hell, Roger suspected this entire inconvenient dilemma was Murdock’s doing. Well, once Roger addressed the twelve jurors, they’d recognize his incarceration for the momentous error it was and acquit him posthaste. His release, quite naturally, would be accompanied by suitable apologies he might or might not accept. Perhaps he would sue for damages. He’d definitely have Jacobson’s job. Then he would destroy Jake Murdock, his bitch wife, and his snooty, interfering mother once and for all.
Meanwhile, he had to decide on his lunch. Squab, perhaps. His cook made a quite delectable squab. But, no. He wasn’t in the mood. “Sheriff,” he said peremptorily.
“What is it?” Jacobson asked without looking up from the papers on his desk.
“Tell my housekeeper to bring me rare roast beef for lunch. With roast potatoes, greens, bread, a flagon of wine, and perhaps”—he nodded—“yes, a caramel pudding for dessert. Oh, and I need a fresh shirt.”
“Sorry, Lord,” Jacobson replied, his voice lacking contrition. “You’ll be eating hotel fare today, same as me.”
The man in the cell adjoining Roger’s sat up on his bunk. He hitched up a sagging red suspender and scratched at the gray stubble on his chin.
Roger had learned more about the old drunk than he cared to know. Apparently, Bradley—whether the old fool’s first or last name, Roger neither knew nor cared—possessed an uncontrollable fondness for alcohol and therefore spent a good deal of time in the jailhouse. Particularly when the weather was foul, which was an egregious waste of taxpayers’ money. If he didn’t contribute to the town coffers, let him find his own accommodations when the weather turned inclement. But the evening before, when it started to rain, Jacobson went out and scooped the drunk off the street, where he’d been sleeping off a bender. Now, for the first time since being carried into his cell, Bradley showed a spark of interest in his surroundings.
“This stew day?” he asked.
“It’s Friday, ain’
t it?” Jacobson retorted. “You’ve had the Buchannan’s menu memorized for a good two years now.” Tossing his pencil on the desk, Jacobson leaned back in his battered chair to the tune of protesting, creaking springs, and propped one foot on his desk.
“Mebbe I have,” Bradley replied. “Then again, mebbe I ain’t. In any event, sonny, I’ll take a flagon of wine with my lunch, too.”
Jacobson snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, old-timer. The taxpayers’ dollars don’t run to wine. You’ll get the usual glass of milk the hotel sends over.”
Bradley jerked his chin in Roger’s direction. “How come Mr. Gotrocks here gets wine with his lunch, then?”
Roger crossed to wrap his hands around the bars and regarded his neighbor with distaste. “Because I pay for it myself, you old sot,” he replied impatiently.
“Did pay for it,” Jacobson amended.
Roger slowly turned his head to peer down his nose at the sheriff. “What do you mean?”
Jacobson’s feet hit the floor. “I mean your staff is deserting you like rats from a sinking garbage scow. They know a losing proposition when they smell one.” Seeing Lord’s supercilious expression, he shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? Your case stinks. I know it; your staff knows it; even your lawyer knows it from the little I’ve heard in there.” He nodded to Lord’s cell. “He doesn’t want you to take the stand. Why is that, Rog?” Despite shortening Lord’s name, Jacobson took care no other disrespect colored his expression. But, damn, he’d love to get the bastard to reveal something. Jacobson would really like to know how the man got away with what Jacobson was sure was a long history of abusing his female help.
“My lawyer lacks the killer instinct,” Roger replied scornfully to Jacobson’s question. With unshakable confidence, he added, “Once I take the stand, my case will become clear to the men of the jury.”
“Oh, I agree,” Jacobson murmured, not adding what the men of the jury were likely to see was an entitled, self-important snob who considered himself above the laws applying to the rest of them. “But meanwhile,” he added, “you no longer have a cook to give your order to. So, unless you’re willing to go hungry, I guess you’ll just have to eat hotel stew with Bradley here and me.”
43
TUESDAY, JULY 6, 1909
The trial was scheduled to start tomorrow. Hattie controlled her jumpiness around family and friends, but the effort rubbed her raw. Hiding her feelings was never her strong suit.
At bedtime, she tried to avoid looking at Jake, propped against the headboard, watching her brush her hair. She didn’t allow her gaze to rise above the gleam of his bare chest in the lamplight as she slid under the blankets.
He reached for her, and Hattie rolled over, curling into him. He stroked the length of her hair and she felt warm, comforted, the restlessness soothed. But when he touched her breast, she found it irritating, then painful when his hand bumped over her nipple. Reacting blindly, Hattie knocked his hand away. “Don’t!” Even his lips, finding pulse points against her neck, aggravated her, and she strained away.
Jake stilled. Slowly, he opened his arms, and Hattie moved away. She felt bereft the instant his warmth no longer encased her yet knew she would testily resist any attempt he made to keep her there. Miserably confused, she turned her back. Tension strummed the darkness.
Then Jake rolled to the side of the bed and turned on the lamp. As soon as a soft pool of light illuminated the room, he turned back to Hattie and lightly stroked her shoulder. Asked gently, “What’s the matter, baby?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled.
Jake, too, had been on edge all day, and his temper snapped. “Bullshit,” he said through gritted teeth and summarily whipped her onto her back, looming over her on stiffly locked arms. He glared down at her. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
She glared right back at him. “My bosoms hurt, all right?”
“And?”
“And what? That’s it.”
“If that were all it was, you would have simply said so instead of trying to knock my hand to kingdom come and giving me your back.” He risked soothing her tumbled hair off her face, relaxing slightly when she accepted the comfort of his touch. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he added softly. “But, Big-eyes, something more than sore tits bothers you and I wanna know what it is.”
Sidetracked, she protested primly, “You shouldn’t call them that.”
“Why? No one’s here but you and me—and you like it when I talk dirty.”
“Jacob,” she remonstrated, but while she blushed and lowered her eyes, he noticed she didn’t dispute his claim.
After a moment’s silence, Hattie’s turbulent whiskey-colored eyes met his. “I should be on the witness stand along with Opal,” she whispered fiercely.
He whistled softly through his teeth. “So that’s what this is all about.” He eased over onto his back, stuffed a pillow beneath his head and shoulders, and gathered her to him.
She came willingly, her temporary umbrage apparently forgotten as she rolled onto her side and propped her chin on the hand she spread against the swell of his chest. Her nightgown’s skirt hitched up as she draped her nearest thigh over Jake’s. “I feel so useless and cowardly,” she confessed miserably. “Opal is risking everything with this trial. And I’m contributing nothing.”
“That’s not true.” He rubbed a rough-skinned thumb over the grooves in his wife’s forehead, willing them to smooth out. “I’ve heard Opal say a dozen times she couldn’t get through this ordeal without your support. That’s a fundamental fact, Hattie. You called it the night we arrested Lord: you are the only one who fully understands what Opal’s been through. The rest of us grasp the trauma she’s suffered, but you understand it at a gut level, because you’ve experienced it. It means a lot more to her than you appreciate. You have sat with her through questioning; you’ve held her hand. You tell me when Opal’s at her breaking point and I need to back off. And just the fact you’re willing to discuss your own experience with her and listen to her work through her own has helped her immensely.”
“It’s not enough,” Hattie replied. She searched for words to make him understand but couldn’t find them. After a moment’s hesitation, she finally said in frustration, “Darn it, Jake, I don’t know how to make you understand it is just not enough . . .”
His hands tightened on her. “You think I don’t understand?” he asked, his voice suddenly gritty with suppressed savagery.
Startled, Hattie raised her head to meet his gaze. It held a febrile glitter and his tension was palpable in the muscles now solid as the house around them.
“I know about not enough!” he growled. “This trial is a prime example. Hell yes, it’s bound to get dirty, but ultimately it will be a civilized process.” His fingers gripped her painfully. “Well, you know what, Hattie? When I allow myself to think of what that sonovabitch did to you, I don’t feel civilized! I’ll prosecute the bastard with all the calm professionalism I can muster, and, baby, I promise I will put him away. But it sure as hell won’t be enough! What I’d really like is to geld him like one of my horses and give you his testicles for a change purse. Maybe then I’d feel satisfied justice was finally served.”
Hattie felt his body strain with the fury of his emotions, and ignoring his tightening fingers, she pressed against him, offering silent comfort.
His hands abruptly released their death grip on her flesh and he wrapped his arms around her, clasping her against his hard torso with bruising force. Jake exuded such easy self-confidence Hattie sometimes forgot he didn’t display all his emotions for the world to see the way she generally did. He’d been so busy, so professionally calm and competent, overseeing the running of the ranch and preparing for the trial, that she had envied his sense of purpose. She’d failed to peek below the surface.
Now she realized there must have been a corner of his mind all
along holding himself responsible for her debasement at Lord’s hands. Hattie couldn’t bear that he was in pain. God, she loved this man. So much. Hoping to diffuse the tension, the rage, making him so stone-hard stiff, she pressed a kiss against the warm skin of his chest. Whispered hesitantly, “Jacob?”
“Yeah?” His voice was gruff.
“Um . . . what are testicles?” She thought she knew, given the context of what he’d been saying, but she wasn’t positive.
He stilled; then the awful tension keeping his body so rigid broke and he laughed loud and long. He slid a hand down her arm to wrap around her wrist, then guided her hand beneath the covers. An instant later she was cupping soft, weighty sacs in her palm. “These.”
“What do you know,” she marveled softly, “that’s what I thought they were.” She caressed him absentmindedly for a moment while she marshaled her thoughts.
“I won’t allow you to blame yourself for what happened to me,” she finally whispered with fierce emphasis. “No sane person could foresee the sheer wickedness in that man. We both know you were trying to keep me pure that night. And, Jake, there is every indication he would have found a way to get to me anyway. He was very determined to relieve me of my virginity.”
Jake lifted her hand from his balls, brought it up to his abdomen, and pressed it there with his own. Dipping his chin, he stared at her for several moments. Her honest eyes returned his look levelly, and a knot he’d carried deep in his gut finally began to unravel.
She rubbed her cheek against his chest for an instant, then once again met his eyes. “You have done more than anyone to see some sort of justice prevails. I don’t need a change purse, Jacob, and I don’t want you to do eternal penance for a single bad judgment. A nice, long jail sentence will suit me just fine.”
“Sweetheart, do you really want the entire town to know what happened to you?” If she needed that, if that was what it would take to put this behind them once and for all, then against his better judgment, he would agree to use her testimony.
The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Page 34