“Rossiter lets it drip down his chin and then tries to make his tongue stretch to lick it off,” Mary gurgled happily.
They sauntered down the tree-lined street, licking their ice cream. Callie thought she had never been so happy when Rossiter said he would walk between his “two girls.” Conversation wasn’t necessary as they made their way through the busy shoppers and sightseers.
The day ended on a glad note for both girls. Rossiter bought each of them a red balloon to tie on their wrists. Mary was ecstatic when Rossiter, seeing how tired she was, picked her up and carried her on his broad shoulders. Was it Callie’s imagination, or was Rossiter walking closer to her than necessary? When she felt him reach over to take her hand, she almost fainted with happiness and dread. Quickly she looked up at Mary on her high perch and was regarded with a roguish wink from the little girl.
The buggy ride back to the house was a blur for Callie. Mary dozed against Rossiter’s chest, while she sat nestled beside him as he drove. If she had died and gone to heaven, she couldn’t have been happier.
Callie was jolted to awareness when Rossiter looked at her and spoke quietly. “Do you have any free time to yourself? I don’t suppose the tadpole sleeps during the day or takes a nap.” At Callie’s negative nod, he pretended to think. “What do you do after she goes to sleep at night?”
“I go to sleep,” Callie said honestly.
Rossiter chuckled. “If you didn’t go to sleep, what would you do?”
“Read a book from your father’s library or make a lesson for Mary.”
“You’re a beautiful young lady. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“So are you. Beautiful, I mean,” Callie said in a flustered tone. “No, no, no one has ever told me that before.”
The buggy rode easily over the hard-packed road through the countryside. The only sound was the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves, which sent up little spirals of dust, and the croaking of the frogs in the rushes that stood tall along the ditches. The last vestiges of the sun burned the sky a radiant red and gold. The air had become cooler, and Callie pulled the rug up over the sleeping Mary, tucking it under the little girl’s chin. Her own cheeks were freshened by the evening air, but she felt warm sitting beside Rossiter. He had said she was beautiful, and she felt it was so each time he turned to look at her. His eyes seemed to linger on her face, touching it from brow to lips, but it was always to her eyes that his gaze returned, seeming to sear and penetrate her very soul.
“Have you looked at the book I gave you yesterday, Callie?” he asked, the timbre of his voice warming her. “No, I thought not, when would you have had the time? Do you know anything about the poet?”
Callie shook her head.
“Shall I tell you about him then? He really is my favorite. His own life was more flamboyant than his poetry. Lord Byron was just thirty-six years old when he died fighting for Greek independence against the Turks. He was born with a club foot, but his deformity went unnoticed by the loves in his life because of the beauty of his mind. He was quite a figure in the English and Italian courts and was so beloved by all that his . . . er . . . transgressions were overlooked. Indeed, they were forgiven. Byron was capable of deep love, and his poetry reflects his own life. His most famous affair was with Lady Caroline Lamb, who was a married woman, but the great love of his life was his own half-sister. His life was a scandal, I’m afraid, but he did live it to the fullest.”
Callie listened as Rossiter quoted lines from Byron’s poems; she blushed when he related some of the more scandalous and lusty achievements of the poet, embellishing where he might, watching the color suffuse her features. When he began to recount tales of Byron’s homosexual trysts, Callie threw her hands over her face and turned away.
Rossiter drew the buggy to the side of the road, reaching across Mary to put his arms around Callie. “Lovey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured. “I only supposed that a girl your age . . . that is . . . I never thought you’d be offended by adult conversation. I’m sorry, Callie, do you forgive me? I had no idea you were such a baby.”
“I’m not a baby, Rossiter,” Callie protested. “It’s just that no one ever told me about things like that . . .”
“I know, lovely, I know. Show me you forgive me, Callie.” He lifted her chin, looking deep into her eyes, moving closer. His lips touched hers in a caress so soft, so gentle. His hand was cupped against her throat, and he could feel her pulses beating there, stirring him to deepen the kiss. He inhaled the fresh scent of her cheek, felt her mouth yield beneath his, opening slightly, offering invitation. “Callie, you’re so beautiful!” he gasped before capturing her lips once again. His hand left her throat, following a downward path to brush against her breast. He felt her spine stiffen, but he was also keenly aware of the tautening of the soft flesh beneath his hand and of the nubbin tip aroused against his palm. He was amazed when she didn’t pull back. He supposed it was true that if a girl allowed you to talk about sex, she’d allow you to do it! He was almost instantly contrite for his roguish thoughts when Callie squirmed beneath his touch and pulled her mouth away to gasp for air. His hand that was cupping the ripe fullness of her breast fell innocently into his own lap.
Callie’s flesh tingled, as though having a life of its own, independent of her. She felt her breasts pushing against the thin fabric of her chemise, their coral-pink crests erect and hard, rubbing pleasantly against her garment. She was certain Rossiter’s hand upon her bosom was most accidental; otherwise, she would never be able to face him again. Her lips were warm, moist, full from his kiss, and she felt as though she’d stepped through a doorway, leaving childhood behind, embarking upon womanhood. She wondered at this odd sensation at her center, pulsing and rigid yet at the same time soft and yielding. A new awareness of herself pulsed through her veins, and she kept her eyes lowered as Rossiter picked up the reins and turned the buggy down the road toward home. She was certain if he looked into her eyes, he would see the naked enthrallment he had instilled in her.
Mary shifted in her seat, turning so that her head fell against Callie’s breast. She placed her arm around the little girl’s shoulders and rested her cheek on top of those fiery red curls. On the day of her eighteenth birthday Rossiter had come into her life. And on the next day, he had shown her what had been missing from that life.
Sleep was impossible. Callie tossed and turned in her narrow bed, tangling the sheets and blankets around her legs. One minute she felt warm, the next a chill. Her thoughts churned and churned, reliving that moment in the buggy when Rossiter had kissed her until it seemed she had had no past before that kiss and could not contemplate the future until the next one. There would be another kiss, she was certain of it. She remembered the way his lips had lingered upon hers, the way the tip of his tongue had barely penetrated the soft yielding she had offered.
Jumping from her bed, Callie lit the lamp on her washstand, peering at her face in the mirror hanging above. She stared at her image, trying to discern a difference there. Surely there must be a difference! Something had happened to her, something she had no name for. Her blood rushed faster, and the imprint of Rossiter’s lips on hers was so vivid—surely it must be seen. Slowly Callie opened the ties of her nightdress, pulling the fabric aside to bare her breasts. She had never looked at herself this way before, had merely accepted the changes in her body. But now, she gazed at her smooth, creamy breast, saw the pink nipples rising, felt the heaviness in her hips and a strange emptiness in that place between her legs, making her thighs grip together in an effort to relieve it. He had said she was beautiful and that was the way he made her feel. Was it possible to love someone in so short a time? Or had she really fallen in love with him the first time she’d studied his portrait in the downstairs parlor?
Callie lifted the little gold locket from between her breasts, opened it, and looked inside. Mary’s dear little face looked out at her, but it was the image of Rossiter that really held her gaze. He said she was bea
utiful. Did that mean he could love her, this golden young man whose laugh could lighten her heart? Peggy would know. Madge and her girls would know. Even Byrch Kenyon would know. Why then didn’t she?
She closed the locket and climbed into bed. The velvety lashes fell against her cheeks as Callie gave herself up to sleep, nuzzling her face against the pillow, pretending it was Rossiter’s shoulder.
The next morning after breakfast, Callie settled Mary down with her lessons and the promise of a walk when she was done. “We can take your balloon and perhaps Mr. MacDuff will tie a longer string on it for you. He’s also promised I can plant some seeds in the little patch of garden he’s tilled for me.” Mary diligently worked the sums and composition Mr. Reader had assigned her while Callie sat near the window, reading the latest copy of the Clarion-Observer. She was so engrossed in an account of the little theatre groups cropping up on lower Broadway that she almost missed seeing Rossiter walk down the hall: Her eyes widened, and her heart began to patter. Surely he would stop in to say good morning. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. He didn’t return. Perhaps he didn’t want to disturb Mary at her lessons.
It was impossible to concentrate on the newspaper now. The words were running together and held no meaning. Callie almost cried with relief when Mary finished her work and asked, “Can we go out now, Callie?”
Where had Rossiter been going? What did he do during the day? Callie had to know. The kitchen. She would take Mary through the kitchen and pick up a few cookies to take outside. Lena always knew everything. Surely she would know something, or Hugh would tell her if Rossiter had taken the buggy into town.
At the last moment her nerve failed her. She turned Mary to face her and mouthed the words silently. “Ask Lena if she knows where your brother is.”
Mary skipped ahead and pounced on the buxom cook. “Lena, do you know where Rossiter is? Did you see him this morning? Can I have some cookies? How do you like my balloon? Rossiter bought it for me? Isn’t it beautiful?”
Lena’s doughy features creased into a wide smile. Hands on her ample hips, she beamed down at the little girl. “One question at a time. Yes, you may have a sackful of cookies. I made them just for you yesterday. Raisin-filled. I saw your brother when I served him his breakfast. He was in here mooching my cookies just the way you are, a few minutes ago. Your Papá is looking for him too. He wants to take him to the office with him this afternoon. Best you tell him that when you see him. Your balloon is a beauty. Don’t go popping it and scaring me out of my wits now, you hear me?”
“I won’t, I promise.” Mary giggled. “Is Mr. MacDuff about? Callie wants to see him so he can help her plant some seeds.”
“MacDuff is out to the stable,” Lena answered. “He’s diddlin’ with those seedlings he started last February. I think it’s his intention to put out the sugar peas in that cold frame of his.”
When the screen door slammed behind the girls and the floating balloon, Lena frowned. Now, why would Callie be looking so relieved? She went back to paring her vegetables for lunch. She stopped, the knife poised in mid-air. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the back door. MacDuff was coming out of the carriage house, waving brightly to Callie. Then he was laughing, his weathered face lifting into a wreath of smiles. There was something different about MacDuff when Callie was around, Lena noticed. There seemed to be a softening of his rough edges, a softer burr to his voice, a merriness about the eyes. Lately he’d even taken to getting regular haircuts, and he kept his grizzled gray hair brushed and combed. And wasn’t that a new shirt he was wearing?
Lena’s eyes went to Callie. The girl’s face seemed to light up the countryside. The sight made Lena frown. It was none of her business, after all. She went back to paring her vegetables with a vengeance. Callie was hardly more than a child! Eighteen years old didn’t make a girl a woman, only life and experience did that. She would have to speak to MacDuff about this.
The winds that played about the crest of Todt Hill that day were gentle, bringing the tang from the harbor with them. Callie worked beside Hugh MacDuff in the garden, following his instruction, liking the way his large, calloused hands handled the young plants as he lovingly placed them into the hard, brown earth. She liked the aroma of pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which he did often that young spring day when he had Callie’s attentions all to himself.
Mary was running with her balloon in the front yard, watching the wind lift it, the bright red color dazzling against the sky. “We’ll have rain before the afternoon is out,” MacDuff said as he stood to stretch his back, looking off into the distance.
“How can you tell, Mr. MacDuff? It seems to me the sun will shine forever.”
MacDuff drew on his pipe. “C’mere, lass.” He brought her to her feet, placing her in front of him. “Look there, over the bay. See those clouds drifting this way? Rain for certain. Not a storm, mind you, but rain nonetheless.” Callie lifted her chin, looking out over the bay, unaware that MacDuff was looking down at her, grazing his eyes over the soft chestnut of her hair and the pink of her cheeks, lingering about the new softness that touched her lips. Something had happened to Callie, Hugh found himself thinking. She was almost a grown woman. Did a girl’s eighteenth birthday bring about such a subtle yet sudden change?
Callie was the focus of someone else’s attention also. Unseen, Rossiter was peering out the back attic window where he sat with pencils and pad, sketching the yard and the way it fell off steeply from the hill toward the patchwork green of the valley and the fall of land onto the beach. But he had tired of sketching the landscape, and now his artist’s eye was tempted by Callie’s slim form bending over her garden patch and the graceful arch her arms made when she reached to pat the earth over her tiny seeds. The wind played through her hair, lifting it from the purity of her neck and the width of her brow. How tiny she seemed standing beside MacDuff’s rangy height. How vulnerable she looked. He put his pencil to a clean sheet from the pad and began to sketch her, finding her much more challenging than the landscape, more tempting to the eye. He shouldn’t have kissed her the evening before—Rossiter frowned as he worked. She was obviously inexperienced with men, and worse, he knew that the first rule for a young man of his class and station was not to dally with the servants. Yet knowing Callie was forbidden to him heightened his sense of adventure and excitement. He remembered the way Byrch Kenyon had stared at Callie at the birthday celebration. He too had seen her blossoming beauty, the promise of the woman she was yet to become. Rossiter scowled, feeling the familiar pang of envy he held for the tall, lean Irishman. If Kenyon could entertain thoughts about a domestic, then so could he. In fact, Rossiter considered himself at a distinct advantage where Callie was concerned. He remembered with a thrill the excitement of touching her breast, feeling the softness tauten and harden against his palm. He would touch those breasts again, he knew without doubt, and he would feel those tempting crests pressed beneath his lips.
The rain began after lunch, a soft spring rain that splattered into shallow puddles. The house seemed too quiet to Mary—everyone seemed to have something to do except her. She wandered out onto the back sunporch. She tried to listen very hard but could only imagine the sound of the raindrops against the windows. For some reason, when she was alone, she felt her affliction more She knew the birds were hiding beneath the rhododendron bush, seeking shelter from the rain, chirping as they huddled together. If only she could hear them. Her world of near silence could be terrifying to her, but as long as she had Callie, she would feel safe and loved. When she grew up, like Anne, she wouldn’t be able to hear the music. Sooner or later, Mary knew with certainty, her secret would be out. She flinched at what she had imagined would happen, how Mamán would send her away. She imagined the loathing in her mother’s face and the tears in Papá’s eyes. Rossiter would love her anyway, just the way Callie did. But Rossiter would go away again. He never stayed long when he came home to v
isit.
Thin little fingers with nails chewed to the nub pulled at her earlobes. Feeling the wind was almost as good as hearing it. Seeing the sparks fly and the logs burst into flame in the fireplace was every bit as good as hearing the snap and crackle of the flames. It was. A single tear trickled from the corner of Mary’s sherry-colored eyes. So what if I can’t hear, she thought defiantly. I can see, I can smell, and best of all, I can feel.
“Tadpole, what’s the trouble?” Rossiter demanded. “Look at me, Mary—what’s wrong? I spoke to you twice. Don’t tell me instead of the cat getting your tongue he took your ears instead!” he said jokingly.
Feeling the touch to her shoulder, Mary turned quickly, startled from her thoughts. She wiped at the lone tear and faced her brother. “I guess I was thinking of something else. It always seems so lonely when everyone has something to do and I have nothing. Papá is busy in his study, Mamán is taking a nap, and Anne is at Miss Rose’s school.”
- “So that’s what’s bothering you? I wondered if something terrible had happened. I spoke twice before you heard me. Where’s Callie?” he asked casually.
“She’s in the kitchen ironing my dresses. I don’t know why Mamán insists that Callie do my laundry. Why can’t she send everything to the laundress in town? Why does she have to keep Callie so busy she hardly has time to play with me?”
“It’s far too nice a day to be ironing,” Rossiter said, making Mary look at him questioningly and then out at the rain. “Why don’t you go get her and that new umbrella she got for her birthday. We’ll all take a walk in the rain, and if we see any fat worms, we’ll stuff them in my pockets to put under Anne’s pillow. Won’t that be a surprise for Miss Goody-Two-Shoes?” He smiled devilishly.
“Oh, Rossiter!” Mary squealed with mischief. “Would you really do that? Truly?”
“No. On second thought, it would be most unfair to the worm, wouldn’t it? But it would be fun. You’d hear her screams all the way up to your nursery.” The slight stiffening of Mary’s shoulders puzzled him. “Go on, go get Callie and that bright red umbrella.”
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