Virgin Fire

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  And now for Jessie's present. He'd get her something delightful, something to bring that smile of surprised pleasure to her solemn mouth. He'd never realized how much fun it was to give pleasure to another human being, but then Jessie was special. He imagined that giving a present to someone like Penelope would be about as much fun as tossing it into a deep well. Surprisingly, Jessie didn't seem to recognize her mother's true nature, but then Penelope was obviously on her best behavior, just the way Travis wanted to keep her for his wife's sake.

  Later that night, when he told Jessica of his talk with her father, omitting, of course, that wild story about Penelope, Jessica was beside herself with happiness and sat down immediately to write to Anne.

  Chapter Eight

  As Travis and Jessica walked home from the Labor Day festivities, the streets were still thronged with people, many of them wearing the badges of their trades. That morning there had been a huge parade led by uniformed police and firemen, followed by city officials waving from carriages. Then came the body of the parade, a noisy union band and various trade delegations on floats and in marching units—tinkers wearing tin hats and carrying tin canes, mill workers in white, brewers round-bellied from sampling their own product, cigar makers, railroad men, printers, carpenters—all marching, often with the businessmen who employed them. Their destination was the park north of the river bridge and a day of contests and picnicking.

  After Travis won the lean man's race, he and Jessica were made honorary firemen, there being no contingent of oil-field workers for them to associate with, and they ate their midday meal in the shade of the aerial hook and ladder truck while the men and their wives told stories of fires and firemen. Jessica described the funeral procession of Long-Haired Jim Courtright, who had been a famous marshal of Fort Worth, a friend of her mother's, and a member of the M. T. Johnson Hook and Ladder Company before the department became professional. She recalled, as one of her most vivid childhood memories, the fire bells tolling in the afternoon and the black-draped horses and wagons that escorted Courtright to his grave.

  "Why, I was there,” exclaimed one of the men. “I remember it as if it was yesterday, though ‘twas twelve years or more since he died. Jim was gunned down by Luke Short in the door of a shooting gallery.” The fireman knuckled away a sentimental tear with a large, freckled fist. “How did your mother happen to know Long-Haired Jim, child?"

  Jessica grinned. “Marshal Courtright once stopped her from shooting a driver who'd left her on a runaway streetcar. Mother did shoot the mule before it could drag the car, with her in it, into the Trinity.” The firemen were so tickled with her story that they invited her to visit the new stone fire station on Throckmorton and Monroe.

  Then she and Travis moved on to share cake and lemonade with the police in their navy blue uniforms and blue helmets and listen to reminiscences about Old Charlie who had pulled the first patrol wagon. Travis seemed quite friendly with one of the officers, a handsome lieutenant wearing the slouch hat of his rank. As Jessica cuddled the infant who had won the baby contest, she could hear them talking about a man named Jim Lowe and a woman called Fannie Porter. She felt a twinge of unease. Who was Fannie Porter? She'd have to find out, for she remembered Travis saying that a man who was unsatisfied at home went elsewhere. Was he unsatisfied? Or disappointed because she still felt wary of responding too ardently in bed?

  She returned the prize-winning baby, and they moved on to a gathering of men who ran the electric cars. During this stop, they listened to the complaints of the night driver on the Arlington Heights Line who kept a rifle by his side for protection. He hated the sound of howling wolves as he made the trip across the prairie to the Lake Como Pavilion. The drivers for the electric car company had to hear Jessica's story about Anne and the streetcar mule too.

  "I recall that,” exclaimed one of the men. “Tad Boynton it was that she pulled a gun on, followed him into a saloon. Red-headed woman. Like to scared him to death, took his day's pay, and then he got a lecture from the marshal besides.” The driver thought Tad Boynton had drunk himself to death long since, leaving a widow and children.

  Jessica, thinking over the day and the reminiscing, felt blue as they walked home. How she missed her mother—no, stepmother. Penelope would never hold a gun on an errant mule-car driver. Penelope would never ride the cars at all. “Penelope mentioned that my grandfather will be at dinner tonight,” she said to Travis.

  Jessica had never met Oliver Duplessis, who had not attended the wedding, having been out of town on business. She was nervous at the prospect because he was reputed to be a formidable man, a wealthy and powerful merchant with widespread lumber and hardware interests. Had he ever seen her? When she was a baby, for instance? Would he be prepared to like her? Perhaps he already disliked her because her father had divorced Penelope to marry Anne.

  "Stop worrying,” Travis advised. “You're his only grandchild; he's bound to be predisposed in your favor.” Travis hoped so. It had occurred to him that he could damage Penelope by promoting a close relationship between Oliver Duplessis and his granddaughter. The man was old and rich. He had to leave his money to someone. Undoubtedly Penelope had already managed to get more than her share. She'd not be happy to see her daughter inherit the rest. Then it occurred to Travis that Jessie would not want to profit at her mother's expense and would be horrified if she thought her husband had any such plans.

  "Just be yourself, Jess. He'll be enchanted.” Actually, he didn't have to do anything; Duplessis was bound to find his granddaughter preferable to his daughter. He glanced at Jessica and noted her glow of happiness. Just because he'd said she was enchanting? Didn't she know that? He'd have to tell her more often.

  In the meantime, he had picked up interesting rumors about Hugh Gresham, who was scrambling for money to buy out Justin Harte. A man with money troubles was a vulnerable man, one who might be tempted to go outside the law. Why else would Hugh be making contacts down in Hell's Half Acre? as Travis's friend on the police force had said.

  Jessica lay back in the warm water and closed her eyes as the rigors of the day floated away from her, taking along her niggling worries about meeting her grandfather. The one problem she couldn't forget was how much she missed her Weatherford family, from whom she had had no word. Could Travis have been mistaken? Were they actually angry with her?

  She lifted a toe from the water and stared at it gloomily, estimating that she had somewhere between fifteen and thirty minutes before she had to get out of the huge nickel-plated tub. Penelope and Hugh were paying late-afternoon holiday calls on friends and wouldn't be back before time to dress for dinner, but when that time came, her mother would blow through the house like a cyclone, finding fault everywhere. She would harass the cook about dinner, although she had probably left the woman without instructions; she would scream at the maids for minor or imagined housekeeping infractions—dust discovered on the ornate handle of a prized Minton vase, chandelier prisms without the requisite sparkle, or Jessica taking an inordinate amount of time in the tub. Penelope considered the tub her private preserve, only and reluctantly lent to others, a privilege not to be overused. Lazily Jessica rubbed some of her mother's scented soap on one shoulder.

  "Ha! Usurping the bathing facilities again."

  Her head swiveled as she slid protectively into the water. It was not her mother; it was Travis. “I didn't know you—if you'll just leave, I'll..."

  "Have I asked you to hurry?” he demanded, laughing. “I came to join you."

  "Travis!” she protested.

  "What? There's no one in the house."

  "The—the servants."

  "They're supposed to mind their own business.” He had stripped out of his paisley wedding robe and was lifting a hairy, muscular leg to get in with her.

  Jessica cowered at the far end of the tub, knees drawn up, arms hugging them. “You can't—"

  He splashed down opposite her, proving that he could. “Now, shall I soap you, or will you s
oap me?” He picked up the perfumed oval of Penelope's French soap and sniffed it. “H-m-m. Your mother's, I presume. I'm going to smell like pansies."

  "Violets,” quavered Jessica. “I'll get out, so you can bathe in private."

  "No, you won't, sweetheart.” He leaned forward, taking her wrists in his hands, and pulled her steadily forward until she fell on top of him in a wave of warm water that rolled over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.

  "Penelope will be terribly upset about the puddles,” Jessica gasped.

  "She'll get over it,” he murmured, more interested in the soft pressure of Jessica's body against his in the scented water. He inserted his knees between hers. “I've been thinking about doing this all afternoon,” he murmured.

  She could feel the roll of his hips as he pressed up.

  "You wouldn't think a man drinking lemonade and eating chicken legs with a crowd of police and firemen would be having lascivious thoughts,” he muttered against the wet skin of her neck. He ran both hands up into her hair and moved his hips seekingly again between her thighs.

  Remembering the overheard name Fannie Porter, Jessica wondered just whom his lascivious thoughts had been about. Then she forgot about Fannie Porter and the water being splashed on the floor and even the possibility of being caught in the tub with her husband by a disapproving mother. When he moved against her again, she closed her eyes and thrust her hips forward. Travis groaned with satisfaction and, catching her buttocks in his hands, rolled her hard against his penetration until she forgot everything but the swelling, tightening, wonderful feeling that exploded inside her. In seconds she had collapsed against his chest, her long hair trailing into the water, clinging in wet tendrils to both of them.

  "My hair's all wet,” she murmured against his chest.

  Travis's head rested against the high curve of the tub. “I'll wash it for you,” he offered, although he made no move to do so for some time. Then he reached one long arm toward a table beside the tub and scooped up a bottle embellished with the picture of a woman whose curly hair flowed to her ankles. “'Hall's Vegetable Sicilian Hair Renewer,'” he read, holding it up over Jessica's head. “'Thickens growth, prevents baldness, cures dandruff, restores gray to original color and beauty.’ This yours, love? Do you have trouble with baldness? Gray? Dandruff?"

  Jessica, smiling into the wet curls on his chest, shook her head.

  "Must be Penelope's. I'll have to ask her about it."

  Jessica laughed helplessly as Travis returned the bottle to the table.

  "How about Glosteria? It says here it will leave your hair glossy and easy to manage after shampooing."

  "I always used soap and rainwater at home,” Jessica murmured, feeling drowsy and content in the warm water.

  "Penelope doesn't seem to have those."

  Jessica knew it was going to be a bad evening as soon as she entered the parlor—late. Her mother began to complain immediately about puddles of water found beside the tub. When Jessica, guiltily flushed, opened her mouth to apologize, Travis entered the room and, laughing cheerfully, asked Penelope if her maids were so poorly trained as to be incapable of mopping up a bit of water. Penelope backed off as she always did when Travis could hear.

  This exchange occurred before Jessica and Travis had been introduced to the old man sitting stiffly by the hearth. The introduction earned Jessica a hooded glance and a curt grunt of acknowledgment from Oliver Duplessis. She felt saddened and disappointed. If only her mother hadn't launched into that tirade, Grandfather Duplessis might have had a better initial impression.

  The introduction was followed by Penelope's advice to Jessica on her hair. “You're going to have to do something about it, dear,” said Penelope sweetly. “The style is—well, not very fashionable, and the color—” She shook her head.

  Jessica bit her lip. What could she do about the color? Not dye it, surely. Was that what her mother meant? And as for the style, well, she didn't have Fannie here to play hairdresser, and Penelope never offered to share her maid, who was the expert in hair style.

  Travis didn't help matters by assuring his mother-in-law that Jessica's hair felt just like silk. Penelope gave him a look of amused tolerance, but when he turned to speak to Hugh, she cast Jessica a disapproving glance as if she knew Travis had been running his fingers through Jessica's hair as they lay entwined under the canopy of their bed. As they went in to dinner, Jessica considered pleading illness in order to escape upstairs.

  "Jessica,” said Penelope over soup, “I found a book in my sitting room.” Her voice was gentle but disapproving. “I seem to find them everywhere since you moved in. You must stop reading all the time, dear. It's bad for your eyes, and it's so unfeminine."

  "But, Penelope,” said Jessica helplessly, “you're a member of the Fort Worth Library Association. You told me yourself that you've raised hundreds of dollars and that the city is to have a Carnegie Library by next year."

  "Certainly, but I don't read. The library association is a social activity—teas, dances, dinners, cakewalks. We entertain in order to raise money to buy books; we don't read them. Why, I'm sure Mrs. Teagarten was horrified the other day to hear you talking about some author named Hearty."

  "Hardy,” said Jessica. “Thomas Hardy."

  "If you must read, you really should try to find more suitable books. Mrs. Teagarten told me that the man's novels were not proper for a young woman, that they contain very unpleasant subject matter."

  The woman's an idiot, thought Travis. He couldn't imagine how Jessica could stand being around her so much, but he supposed there must be some mother-daughter bond there that a man wouldn't understand.

  "I really must insist, Jessica, that you take care not to discuss books of an unsuitable nature with my friends. I'm sure Travis will agree with me that he doesn't want his wife—"

  "Betty, get Mrs. Gresham her medicine,” interrupted Oliver Duplessis.

  Penelope gave her father an astonished look.

  "Leave the girl alone, Penelope,” he commanded testily, “and let me eat my dinner in peace."

  "Really, Papa, I think at my own table I can talk to my own daughter just as I—"

  "Now, now, Penelope,” soothed Hugh, glancing anxiously at his father-in-law.

  Travis watched this interplay with interest. Rumor had it that Oliver Duplessis had spoiled his daughter shamelessly when she was a girl, that he had thought she could do no wrong. If so, he no longer seemed prone to put up with her silly conversation. Also, Duplessis evidently realized that she was addicted to that medicine but didn't much care as long as it kept her quiet.

  Travis suspected the stuff of being mostly alcohol or liberally laced with an opiate, possibly both. If he wanted to cause Penelope anguish, all he had to do was throw out the medicine. Again he felt guilty when he thought of how shocked Jess would be if she could read his mind. He watched his mother-in-law daintily sipping from the small glass brought to her by Betty and wondered how soon the stuff would take effect. Not yet, obviously, for she was glaring at her father.

  "Papa,” she said sharply, “I do hope you've done something about your commode. With all your money, you can surely afford to have it put inside the house instead of outside on the back veranda."

  "Commodes are just a passing tad,” snapped Oliver. “When they fall out of fashion, I'll be able to get rid of mine without being inconvenienced. You, on the other hand, will have your house at sixes and sevens while they take yours out."

  "Really, Papa—"

  "That's enough, Penelope,” said Hugh sharply.

  Penelope gave him a murderous look that promised later retaliation. Why would Hugh suddenly risk his wife's easily aroused anger? Travis wondered. Was he afraid she might alienate her father or, more important, her father's money? Interesting. Did Hugh need help from his father-in-law?

  "Where were you and Travis all day, Jessica?” Penelope asked. “We expected you to visit the Caldwells with us."

  "As I told you, we went to
the Labor Day parade,” Jessica replied.

  "Of course. I guess I was hoping you'd change your mind about spending the day among a noisy, uncultured mob of workingmen."

  Travis grinned. “Jessica's been a union sympathizer for years,” he remarked. “Her brother told me a story about her joining a crowd of strikers’ wives and children here in Fort Worth when she was just nine. They all stood on the T & P tracks and kept the engines from leaving the railroad yards and breaking the strike. Isn't that right, Jess?"

  Jessica flushed and mumbled, “They were going to run over the women and babies."

  "Jim Courtright, who was working for the railroad as head of the guard force, had to rescue Jessie from danger."

  "Really, Jessica!” cried Penelope with exaggerated surprise. “I'm surprised Anne Harte would allow such behavior."

  "Unions are ruining the country,” muttered Oliver.

  "True,” Gresham agreed hastily. “I hope you won't give any further encouragement to the union movement, Jessica."

  "I'd have thought a sympathetic interest in the welfare of hungry mothers and babies was a virtue to be expected of the feminine sex,” said Travis dryly.

  "I would have thought my daughter could restrain such unladylike impulses to associate with the lower classes. You and I have a lot to discuss, dear, about the proper conduct for a lady here in Fort Worth."

  "Leave the girl alone, Penelope,” ordered Oliver Duplessis. “Maybe you need another dose of that elixir."

  "I don't know what you mean, Papa. It's my duty to instruct my daughter in proper social conduct, since no one has seen fit to do so while she was growing up.” She reached across the table and patted Jessica's hand.