by John Jakes
Somehow, though, Orry remained unpersuaded.
“Orry?”
He looked up from his reverie. “What?”
“You will say yes to both questions, won’t you? You’ll let Billy visit, and give him permission to court her?”
“I’ll give Brett this letter and think about it. That’s the best I can do for the time being.”
Disappointed, Charles stalked out.
“He forbade me to read the novel,” Madeline exclaimed. “He snatched it out of my hands and ordered it burned—as if I were a child!”
She walked toward the edge of the marsh. Orry remained seated on the tabby foundation, tapping the book he had brought to the rendezvous. The book contained a strange new kind of verse by a Northern newspaperman named Whitman. Cooper was lavish in his praise of the rambling poems, claiming they captured the rhythm of the machine age. Orry found them hard going, although the rhythm was certainly there. To him it was the hammer of a drum.
“I’ll ask George to ship me a copy,” Orry said. “Though why you want to read rabble-rousing trash is beyond me.”
She whirled to him. “Don’t start talking like Justin, for heaven’s sake. Mrs. Stowe’s novel is the success of the hour.”
She was right about that. George had written that his entire family had read the sentimental story of slaves and slaveholders, first in serial form and again in its regular two-volume edition, just recently published. Despite all the attention the novel was receiving, however, Orry was frankly not interested in Life Among the Lowly, as Mrs. Stowe’s book was subtitled. He witnessed life among the lowly every day and needed no enumeration of its severities. They nagged on his conscience a good deal of late.
So in reply to Madeline’s remark, he growled, “It isn’t the success of the hour in this part of the country. A more appropriate term would be scandal.”
She could easily have taken offense. She didn’t because she knew he’d been fretting over the content of Billy Hazard’s letter, which he had discussed with her at great length. She put her arm around his waist and kissed him just above the tangle of his beard.
“All you South Carolina men are such hotspurs. I keep forgetting—to my everlasting regret.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when Justin discovered my copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin last week, the consequences were extremely unpleasant.”
“He flew into a rage—”
“He was nearly incoherent for half an hour. But that’s not the worst. The discovery took place a little while before supper. Francis happened to be dining with us that night. The book prompted Justin and his brother to spend most of the meal shouting about the need for a free and independent South.”
“I’m sorry you have to put up with that sort of thing.”
She studied her hands. “I didn’t. I said it was fine sentiment for a stump speech but as a practical idea it was ridiculous. I knew speaking out was a mistake, but with those two I just can’t hold my tongue sometimes. Justin, however, is determined that I will come to understand my place—which does not include expressing an opinion about any subject more weighty than the latest—” A catch in her throat interrupted the sentence. The memory was placing her under an extraordinary strain, he realized. In a faint voice, she finished: “The latest decorative stitch.”
He laid the Whitman aside and clasped her hand. “When you spoke up, how did Justin take it?”
“Very badly. He locked me in my room for a day and a night. He had Nancy take away all my books and deliver my meals. Nancy was the only person I saw during the entire time. I even had to pass the chamber pot out to her—”
Madeline bowed her head and covered her eyes. “My God, it was humiliating.”
“That bastard. I ought to kill him.”
Quickly she rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t mean to cause trouble by telling you. It’s just that there’s no one else.”
“I’d be more angry if you didn’t tell me.” He went striding through the weeds, scattering clinging raindrops that had fallen earlier in the day. “I’d like to kidnap you out of that damned place. Resolute isn’t a home; it’s a prison.”
“That’s true. It’s becoming harder and harder to tolerate Justin or my position. Once I had fine notions about honor and the sanctity of the marriage vow.” Her mouth wrenched, a ghastly attempt at a smile. “Justin’s turned every one of them into a joke.”
“Leave him. I’ll go to him for you. I’ll tell him—”
“No, Orry. It’s too late. Too many people at Resolute depend on me now. I can’t do a great deal to make things better, but I know they would be infinitely worse if I were gone. The only reason I’m able to bear the whole dismal business is you.” She hurried to him, her skirts rustling in the wet weeds. “Just you.”
She held his waist and looked at him, a film of tears in her eyes. Then, out of a desperate need for affection and simple comfort, she hugged him ferociously. Kissed him again, again.
He buried his face in her hair, savoring its black sweetness. As always, his body betrayed him. She felt him wanting her and hugged him harder to show she wanted him too. The tension created by their self-denial was always excruciating. Today it approached the unbearable.
She unlaced her bodice. Pushed her undergarments down. Pulled his mouth tight against her while she threw her head back. She closed her eyes and reveled in the feel of him kissing her breasts.
They had never gone this far. They only refrained from the final act by desperate strength of will.
“Orry, we mustn’t.” Her voice was hoarse.
“No.”
But he didn’t know how much longer he could stand the strain of loving her, wanting her, and denying that want.
A couple of days later, after supper, Orry and Charles went to the piazza to sip whiskey. Haze hid the sinking sun, lending its light a pale rose cast. Orry sat watching pink reflections down on the river while Charles leafed through a Mercury. Lately he was spending a few minutes with the paper every day, another sign he was maturing, and in Orry’s estimation a good one.
Ever since the meeting with Madeline, Orry had felt a renewed physical frustration. He was ready for another overnight visit with a homely but ardent widow with whom he had an understanding. He still hadn’t decided how he would answer Billy. Nor could he decide now.
Charles closed the paper. “Have you read this yet?”
Orry shook his head.
“Huntoon gave another speech.”
“Where this time?”
“Atlanta. What is popular sov—? Here, you pronounce if for me.”
Orry leaned over to see the word Charles was indicating with his thumb. “Sovereignty. Senator Douglas coined the term. It means that once a new territory is organized, the people living there have the right to decide whether to allow or prohibit slavery.”
“Huntoon says that’s unacceptable, just like the free-soil doctrine. I don’t know what that is, either.”
“The free-soil doctrine states that Congress has a moral duty to prohibit slavery in new territories. The will of the people doesn’t matter. I can imagine the speech James made.” Orry spread his fingers and pressed the tips against his shirt, like an orator. He spoke pompously. “I stand with the great Calhoun. Slavery must follow the flag. It is the sacred responsibility of Congress to protect all property taken into a territory—”
At that point he stopped his mimicry. “Property means slaves. That’s the only territorial doctrine most of our neighbors find acceptable.”
“How do you feel?”
Orry pondered a moment. “I believe I side with Douglas. So does George, I think.”
“Well, I’ve been trying to learn about some of these things. I reckon I’d better—I’ll be meeting people from all over the country when I go to West Point.”
“The question of the territories may come to a boil sooner than that. Some say as soon as we elect a new President this fall. The country out West is
filling up fast. Loyalties are going to be severely tested. Family loyalties and others,” he finished with a pointed look at Charles.
The younger man stretched his legs and studied the river, where only a few wavery touches of pink remained. “You keep worrying about that. It’s the reason you haven’t written Billy, isn’t it?”
Orry frowned. “How do you know I haven’t?”
“If you had, Brett wouldn’t act so glum all the time. I reckon it isn’t respectful of me to go into this, but I get the idea you mean to turn Billy down strictly for one reason: he’s a Yankee. That’s just like—” He swallowed. He had reached the hard part. “Just like Huntoon. Or Virgilia Hazard. They sweep every person on the other side into the same bin.”
Orry was indeed irked by Charles’s presuming to judge him, but the reaction lasted no more than a few seconds. Reason prevailed. Reason and strong emotion—for if Billy courted his sister, that might strengthen the bonds between the two families. Virgilia had come close to destroying those bonds.
A smile showed in the thicket of Orry’s beard. “You’re turning into a shrewd young man, Charles. I’m glad to see that.” A deep breath. “I’ll compose a letter to Billy tonight. A letter he’ll be happy to receive. You might want to hunt up Brett and tell her.”
Charles whooped, pumped Orry’s hand, and ran into the house.
Orry did write the letter that night. He told Billy he’d be welcome at Mont Royal and invited him to bring all the Hazards with him. Except Virgilia, he thought, knowing he didn’t need to put that down. He promised that if the family came, he’d arrange a party or ball to compensate for the unhappy ending of the previous visit.
He felt good about the letter. It was a small step but a positive one. If Northern and Southern friends didn’t keep peace among themselves, how could the men they sent to Washington be expected to do it?
31
THE HAZARDS ACCEPTED ORRY’S invitation. They arrived on Wednesday of the third week in May. Maude was not with them. She had sprained an ankle working in her garden and couldn’t travel.
A ball was to be held at Mont Royal on Saturday. Invitations had gone to the entire neighborhood. “Although given the origins of your visitors, Justin would prefer to stay home,” Madeline had told Orry at their meeting the preceding week.
He kissed the curve of her throat. “Let him. You come, though.”
“Wouldn’t that be a heavenly arrangement? I’m afraid we won’t be so lucky. Justin will be present. He’s afraid of unfavorable comment if he refuses an invitation from the Mains. But don’t count on him being pleasant.”
On the first night of the visit, the men and women gathered separately after supper. Over whiskey and cigars, George said, “Coming through Virginia and North Carolina on the train, I heard only two topics discussed: Mrs. Stowe’s novel”—Tillet made a hacking noise to show his contempt—“and secession.”
“The idea is blowing through this state like a storm wind,” Orry said. “It happens every few years.”
“But it seems more intense now,” Cousin Charles put in.
Cooper swirled his whiskey in his glass. He and his wife and little Judah had arrived about five o’clock. “A storm wind indeed. It’ll be our house, none other, that blows down. Some Southerners understand. Alexander Stephens, for one. But most of the fools are entranced by the sound of their own rhetoric. They don’t realize that the Union can’t be broken up as casually as you draw a breath of air. Too much is at stake, economically and emotionally, for the Federal government to allow it. In Charleston I hear people speaking of peaceful secession. I just laugh. It’s a contradiction in terms.”
“You are certainly the expert on the whole matter,” Tillet said with thick sarcasm. Cooper chose to study the contents of his glass. His father went on, “Separation by peaceful means would be the ideal, but if it’s impossible—as you claim—the alternative is separation won by force of arms. Some verities endure, Cooper. Death is preferable to tyranny.”
Unblinking, Cooper again looked at his father and said in a mild voice, “Yes, sir. That’s what the nigras are telling you every time they run away.”
Tillet rose. “Excuse me. I thought this was a social occasion.” He left the room with a slow, halting step and slammed the door behind him.
George looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. I provoked that.”
Billy protested. So did Orry: “Are we now at the point where we can’t even disagree as reasonable men?”
Cooper laughed in a humorless way. “In this household we reached that point years ago. I keep deluding myself with the hope that things may change. They never do.”
He held out his glass to Orry, who saw the pain lurking behind his brother’s wry smile.
“Pour me another, please,” Cooper said. “Fill it up.”
Constance clapped her hands. “Judith, that’s splendid news.”
The others echoed the sentiment, except for Ashton, who sat eyeing the ceiling in a bored way. The ladies had gathered in the music room with sherry; Brett had been permitted only strong tea. As one of the house girls cleared away the empty glasses, Clarissa asked, “When do you expect your confinement, my dear?”
“As best we can calculate, in about six and a half months,” Judith said. “The doctor’s already banned extensive travel. Cooper sides with him. Your son’s really very conservative in some ways,” she added with a smile. “He’ll be going to Britain by himself this summer, I regret to say.”
“To Britain again?” Brett exclaimed. “The two of you just got back.”
“Very nearly,” Judith agreed. “But as you know, Cooper’s quite taken with the ideas of Mr. Brunel, the famous engineer. They got along splendidly the first time, and Brunel has invited him to return for an extended visit. Cooper has this wonderful dream of building—”
They heard someone grumbling and cursing outside. Clarissa hurried to the door and looked out. Tillet’s angry voice gradually faded away upstairs.
“Oh, my,” she said as she took her seat again. “It’s my husband. I’ll wager there was another political discussion.”
“Politics spoil everything these days,” Judith said with a sigh.
Clarissa’s mouth grew firm. “I do not intend for it to spoil your visit. And most particularly I don’t intend for it to spoil the ball. It’s going to be a happy occasion which all of us can remember as such. The men won’t see to it; therefore we must.”
The others agreed. Ashton was forced to join in to maintain appearances. But a ball in honor of Billy Hazard and his family, and, by extension, in honor of Brett—that kind of celebration filled her with rage. Out of the rage sprang a desire to strike back at all those who had done her injury.
“Oh, oh. Push it in.”
“Ashton, I”—he was gasping as hard as she was—“don’t want to hurt you.”
“Damn you, Forbes, push it in. All the way. Oh. Yes.”
The last word slurred into a groan. Faintly, above the roaring in her ears, Ashton heard carriages arriving and the orchestra tuning. Forbes and his family had been among the first guests. Lying in wait for him, Ashton had immediately whisked him to this dark and remote corner of the stable.
She had been wild with the urge to take a man. And not simply any man but the one Brett was intending to discard. Nor was that the only reason she had been ready to pounce the minute Forbes showed up. It had reached her ears that he was a magnificent male specimen. He didn’t disappoint her in that regard. She felt as if she had a cannon inside her.
They stood facing each other, she with her back against the side of an empty stall. How she had gotten her skirts hoisted and everything else out of the way she couldn’t remember. The frantic rhythm of the coupling repeatedly slammed her against the stall. Her left leg felt as if it would collapse at any moment. Her right one was crooked over Forbes’s hip, her heel against his backside.
They reached a climax in which she had to bite her lower lip to muffle her own cries. She scratched
the nape of his neck with both hands, drawing blood. Some moments later he displayed a redspeckled handkerchief. “How the devil am I going to explain this?”
His trousers still hung at his ankles, but Ashton was already busy putting her various garments back in place. “You’ll think of something, dear. Could it be the skeeters? They’re bad tonight. Two of them bit me a while ago.”
“Sure, that’s it, bad skeeter bites.” He dabbed his neck again, then chuckled, half admiringly, half in awe. “I tell you, Ashton, you’re something.”
“You mean you’re not sorry you came out here?”
“Not on your life. That was—well, I’ve got to be straight about it. Nearly the best ever.”
She pouted. “Is that all? Nearly?”
He laughed. “You’re a damn conceited wench, too.” He fondled her bosom affectionately. “All right. The best.”
“Thank you, Forbes. But keep your hands off my dress, please. You’ll get me all mussed again.”
Busily, she straightened petticoats and patted lace gone limp in the heat. She could have made the same statement he did. Never had she felt so aroused beforehand or so satisfied afterward. He was rough, he had hurt her, but she had relished every moment.
She didn’t dare tell him, though. It would swell his head. Better to keep him dangling. She hummed.
Finally he blurted: “Will you let me see you again? Like this, I mean?”
“Not tonight. I must be sweet for all those Yankees.”
“Of course not tonight. I meant from now on till you marry Jim Huntoon.”
She glided to him, her hoops swaying to and fro. “Forbes, you must understand something. My relationship with Mr. James Huntoon is what you might call business. This is pleasure. As long as people are discreet, there’s no reason pleasure can’t go on and on, indefinitely.”
“You mean even after you and Huntoon—?”
“Why not? ’Less, of course, you get to drinking like you do sometimes and blab and embarrass me. Let me hear of that happening just once, and you’ll never see me again.”