Callie twisted, turned, pushing against his chest, knowing only. the searing heat from inside her, trying to escape his further invasion of her, expecting a repeat of the pain. Rossiter lay quiet, grinding his hips against hers to still her movements. He soothed her by stroking her hair back from her fevered brow, his lips continuing to demand and evoke an answer from hers. The weight of him pressed her into the thin mattress, forcing her to accept his presence inside her. After what seemed an eternity, he felt her struggles cease; his satisfaction and reward was so close now, just over the edge, and he would not be denied. He continued kissing her, moving his lips over her throat and down to her breasts, his hand sliding over her hips and between their bodies in an effort to revive the passions that had fled in the face of her pain. When he moved against her again, he felt her stiffen, but she didn’t struggle; it was when his own fever inflamed his loins that her nails dug into his shoulders and she uttered a choked sound of pain at this deeper penetration that seemed to be carving an opening within her, sculpting her tender flesh to accommodate his rigid maleness.
He shuddered with the force of his passion as he spent himself within her, holding her fast, burying his face into the hollow of her neck. His breath came in mournful little gasps, and she wondered if he shared her pain. Her love for him prompted her soothing fingers in his hair and tender little kisses to his ear.
“Oh, Callie,” she heard him whisper, still trembling with the force of his passion, “you’re just what I need. You’re all that I need.”
And because she loved him, and because he needed her, she forgave.
Rossiter lay beside her, holding her close, his breathing returning from the shallow, heaving intake of air to deeper, longer breaths. Without a word, he rose from the bed, pulling the blanket up over her nakedness. Silently he dressed, carefully fastening each and every button. She watched him in the yellow glow of the lamp, adoring the lines of his body, thrilling to the knowledge that this beautiful, passionate man had taken her for his own. Bending over her, he planted a fond kiss on her brow and quietly closed the door behind him.
Callie lay for what seemed an eternity before rising from the bed. Seeing a tiny red stain on the sheet, her fingers dipped downward, feeling the warm stickiness of blood. Quickly she washed away all traces of her lost virginity and donned a clean nightdress. As she was about to gutter the lamp, her eyes fell on the packet of letters from Ireland. Her mother’s letters. Tentatively her fingers touched the crisp sheaf of papers. Tears glistened in her eyes as she cried in a hoarse whisper, “Mum, what have I done?” Callie was suddenly afraid. Afraid her deed would be discovered, and she would be sent away. Afraid of the woman within her. But most of all, she was afraid she would never have the strength to refuse Rossiter if he ever came to her again.
Rossiter threw himself across his bed, still fully clothed, his arm thrown over his eyes as if to hide from himself. Emotions welled within him, regret that could not be solaced by the comfort in his loins. Turning his face into the pillow, he sobbed his grief for Callie’s lost innocence, for what he’d done. But through his torrent of self-indulgent tears there was a rainbow. He had seen himself reflected in Callie’s eyes, and he was good—as good and pure as Callie James.
Callie stood over the wash tub on the back service porch, watching Mary follow Mr. MacDuff across the yard to the chicken coop. The pail of feed the child insisted on carrying was far too cumbersome, making her list to the opposite side as she walked. Callie smiled. If Mary realized that the chickens that graced the dining table once a week came from the flock out in back, she’d never eat again.
She was soaking the laundry in a solution of hot water and Kirkman’s soap powder. Afterward, she would hang it on the line in the backyard where it would dry before she ironed it. Was it only last week that she’d stood over this same tub, scrubbing at the blood stain on her bed sheet, worrying that it would be a permanent sign revealing that she was no longer a girl but a woman? A woman in love with Rossiter Powers.
The various household duties she had always gladly accomplished now seemed too numerous, requiring so much of her time— time that she would have liked to spend with Rossiter. He was in the habit of taking paints and canvas to the other side of the hill where he could look down upon a wide expanse of fields dotted with trees and shrubs and the river beyond. Yesterday he’d gone into the city to purchase a particular shade of paint he wanted, and he’d brought her back a shell comb for her hair from the Four and Nine Cent’s store on lower Broadway. He’d presented her gift late last night when everyone was asleep, and he’d crept up to her room as he had done every night since the first.
Callie’s every waking moment was filled with awareness of Rossiter. Even when he was away from the house, gone across the hill, she followed him in her thoughts, imagining what he was doing, what he was thinking. Although she knew that sharing Rossiter’s love outside of marriage contradicted every morality she’d ever been taught, she could not help herself. What they were doing might be wrong in the eyes of the world, but there were no eyes in the dark of her room when her golden god came to her, loving her, making her his own. At times, Callie was so filled with love for him she hardly believed she could draw breath. Nothing existed for her except the touch of his mouth on hers and the feel of his hands on her flesh. He had encouraged her to become familiar with his body, and she had done so, worshipping it with her hands, adoring it with her lips, and always, always loving him. There was no past, no future, only the here and now, and Rossiter—beautiful, golden Rossiter.
Using the pale green stationery Byrch had given her, she wrote to Peggy, unable to keep herself from mentioning Rossiter, but careful not to confide the full extent of their relationship. Rossiter had become a part of her life, and she wanted the world to know it. He loved her, there was no doubt about it, but until the day she became his wife, she must keep her secret. So she must content herself with telling Peggy simple, ordinary things about him: how he loved to paint, how sweet he was to Mary, how he was the object of his mother’s adoration. In her last letter she had written about the gift of the shell comb; she was so happy with his attention and thoughtfulness that she could not keep it to herself. Now, after dropping the letter in the mail box, knowing that the postman had already taken it, Callie regretted her hastiness. Peggy was too wise, too knowledgeable about her oldest daughter, and the risk was too great that she might read between the lines. The thought of anyone, even Peggy, dashing cold water on her love affair was not to be borne.
Lena popped her head in the door. “Lands, child! Are you still at that laundry? The day’ll be over before you hang it out, and it’ll never dry! You know how Mrs. Powers deplores wash hanging out so late in the day. You’d better get on with it.” The cook’s sharp glance took in Callie’s wistful expression. “What have we here? Looks to me like you’ve got a case of spring fever. Suppose I should get out the molasses and vinegar tonic and give you a dose?” Lena smiled, but Callie’s lack of energy annoyed her. Usually the girl was so good about lending a hand, and she’d come to depend on her. “I’m taking the last of the pickled cabbage today, and I’ll need help scrubbing the crocks. And there’s potatoes to be peeled for dinner . . .”
Callie heard, but she kept her gaze out the window, watching Mary return with Mr. MacDuff, her thoughts on Rossiter and how she’d like to be with him on the other side of the hill, all alone, feeling his lips against her own.
Lena’s glance narrowed as she observed Callie; having raised two daughters, she recognized that lovesick expression when she saw it. Peering over the girl’s shoulder and out the window, she saw MacDuff and little Mary coming around the carriage house. When she looked back at Callie, the friendliness was gone from her eyes. Something inside her seemed to go dead. What had MacDuff and this girl been up to? She herself had seen the way his eyes followed after Callie. He never looked at her that way, the way she wanted him to see her.
MacDuff went in to the carriage house, and Mary came
through the back door, slamming the screen behind her. Lena went back to the kitchen, leaving Callie over the washboard. “I fed the chickens, Callie, and one of the brood hens had a new clutch of eggs. Will you come out and see them?”
“Not now, darling,” Callie said. “There’s too much to do today.”
“Not even for a minute?” Mary watched Callie’s face, waiting for her answer. She was unused to having Callie ignore her, and she was bewildered by it.
“Not today.” Callie kept her eyes averted to the washtub, wringing out a petticoat. She knew how cutting her lack of interest was, how hurt Mary must be, yet she couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for anything or anyone save Rossiter. Every waking moment, it seemed, was spent devising ways to be with him, to see him, to hear his voice. She spent hours dreaming about him, far more time than she actually spent with him. She disliked and resented the secretiveness, the hurried loving, how quickly he always left her afterward when she wished that he would hold her in his arms and share her deepest thoughts.
When he would leave her room at night, she would curl into her blankets, seeking the sleep that would not come. At these times she always felt on the brink of something wonderful that was just out of her reach, a dissatisfaction she could not name. She wondered why, after the loving, Rossiter seemed so content and sleepy while she herself felt she could climb the walls. Was there something she didn’t know, something she was doing wrong? She loved being with him, feeling his nakedness against her own. She delighted in the way he touched her, the way he would whisper, telling her how she pleased him, how pretty she was. It didn’t hurt when he entered her the way it had the first time, and her body seemed to relish his presence inside her, driving toward some mysterious end. But just as she could feel she was about to topple over the edge, to float out of herself, Rossiter would suddenly stiffen, becoming very still, squeezing his eyes shut in an exquisite agony. Then he would lie beside her, very quietly, and soon after would leave her.
“Callie, you’re not even hearing me!” Mary interrupted her thoughts. “Why can’t you come out to see the eggs? Mr. MacDuff said that in about a month’s time we’ll have new little chicks and he’s hoping for a rooster. He says the one we have now is getting too old.”
“I can’t today, that’s all. There’s this laundry and potatoes to peel and cabbage crocks to scrub . . .” When Callie turned about, Mary was gone.
Late that afternoon, Callie went out into the yard to take down the laundry. Lena had scolded that it was nearly evening, and everything would get damp again from the night air. And it didn’t look like it was going to get ironed today, after all, and Mrs. Powers better not be the wiser. Callie let the door close on Lena’s parting statements. It seemed she couldn’t do anything right these days.
The fresh evening wind billowed the ruffled petticoats, and Callie struggled to fold them and place them in the wicker basket. Suddenly two arms came around from behind, lifting her off her feet. A warm kiss was planted on the nape of her neck. “Rossiter!” she squealed.
“Shhh! Don’t let anyone hear you! Come here,” he commanded, pulling her by the hand across the yard, taking a quick, nervous glance back at the house. He took her through the wide doors of the carriage house into the deeper shadows behind the buggy. The air was pungent with the smell of horseflesh and earth, and he took her into his arms, kissing her deeply. His hands were on her back, holding her close, pressing her length against him, feeling the fullness of her breasts against his chest.
Callie clung to him, smelling the sunshine in his hair and tasting the salty perspiration on his lips. Her heart beat a wild rhythm, and she knew she had just pretended to be alive all day while she waited for this moment in his arms.
His fingers began playing with the buttons on the front of her black bombazine dress, hurriedly opening them, following their path with hot, searing kisses. Callie leaned back, affording him access to her body, her hips tilted forward pressing upon the swelling of his desire. He rucked up her skirts, groping between her legs, searching for the moist warmth he knew he would find there. Just as he was about to press her down to the ground, they heard the clatter of metal against metal and Hugh MacDuff’s heavy footsteps.
Rossiter uttered an oath, quickly placing Callie away from him, adjusting his trousers. Callie gasped her disappointment, fussing with her hair and the opening of her dress front.
“Miss Callie?” Hugh called. “Callie, lass, are you in here?”
She struggled for her voice. “Yes, I’m here, Mr. MacDuff.”
“I thought so. You left your laundry basket here by the door . . .” Stepping further into the carriage house, Hugh came upon them, immediately sensing their embarrassment, conscious of the fact that Master Rossiter avoided his eyes.
“Yes, well, I’d better take it into the house. Thank you, Mr. MacDuff.” Gathering her skirts, Callie moved quickly to escape the questioning look on MacDuff’s face.
“I . . . I was just showing Callie . . .” Rossiter began when she was gone.
MacDuff tilted his head back, arms crossed in front of him, drawing on his cold pipe. “What did you say you were showing Callie?” he challenged.
Rossiter laughed uneasily. “It doesn’t matter.” Then, assuming his authority over an employee, he said dryly, “Don’t you have something to do, MacDuff? Why aren’t you down to the ferry to carry Papá home?”
Your father is staying in the city tonight, lad.” Insolently he maintained his position, staring Rossiter down.
“Yes. Well, I’ll be getting back to the house. Get on with what you were doing.” Quickly Rossiter made his exit, escaping MacDuff’s all-too-knowing eyes.
“Stick out your tongue, Rossiter,” Anne Powers said sharply.
“Mamán, there’s nothing wrong with me. Seeing my tongue isn’t going to cure my headache. Stop fussing.”
“Don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong with you. I’m your mother, and I know my children. You should see yourself, Rossiter. Your eyes are glassy, you’re flushed, and your lips are a queer color. Now I want you upstairs and into bed this minute. I’ll have Lena boil up some peppermint tea. A plaster on your chest and back won’t do any harm either.” She clucked like a mother hen, keeping up a running monologue as she walked Rossiter to his room.
God, did he feel rotten. He hadn’t felt this terrible since he’d had pneumonia as a child. He wondered when his mother would discover how high his fever was.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to know you’ve a fever, and it will only be worse come nightfall,” she scolded, as though reading his mind. “It was all that slopping around in the rain, going barefoot in puddles.”
He knew his mother well enough to know what she was not saying—that she suspected there was something between himself and Callie. He had not failed to notice her curious eyes as she watched Callie serve him at the dining table, and he was all too aware of her reasons for refusing to allow him to take Mary and her companion to the other side of the hill while he spent the afternoon painting. If he wasn’t feeling so ill, he would have taken his mother to task for what she was thinking and would have charmed her right out of her suspicions.
“Mamán, my slopping around in the rain, as you call it, was two weeks ago. I hardly think it is the reason for the way I feel today.”
“Nonsense! Regardless of when it was done, you did it, and I’m afraid you’re going to pay for it!” She glared at him, clearly communicating to Rossiter that his illness was going to be a severe imposition on her, since she must nurse him back to health. “I intend to isolate you, Rossiter. We cannot have the rest of the family suffering because of your foolishness. You concentrate on getting well. When you’ve recovered, we can all go to Boston. I was going to surprise you with my plans, but they must be postponed until you’re better.”
Anne Powers bustled around the room, turning down Rossiter’s bed and fluffing the pillows. “Here,” she said, tossing him a clean nightshirt, “put this on and get under the covers immediate
ly!”
Rossiter stepped into the tiny dressing room off his bedroom to comply with his mother’s orders. Anne’s taffeta skirt rustled as she moved about her son’s room, straightening and fussing, moving his hairbrushes and shaving equipment into order on his dresser, picking up discarded shirts and adjusting the window shades. Her eyes fell upon his paints and canvases, and a sour expression lined her face. She liked to call it Rossiter’s little hobby, but she was well aware of her son’s ambitions to become an artist. Thankfully she was also well aware that Rossiter was without any driving motivation. He was still pliant and malleable to her notion that he follow his uncle and father into the world of finance. The boy simply needed a bit more maturing under her careful eye, and she believed he would not disappoint her.
Pushing aside the canvases and paint box, she noticed his sketch pad and his interpretation of the valley on the other side of the hill. It was quite good, really, she thought with a measure of pride, but then Rossiter could be successful at almost anything—with the right direction, of course. Direction she herself intended to bestow. Flipping over to the next page, Anne Powers’s eyes narrowed, and she felt as though her air was being choked off. There was a drawing of Callie, done in pen and ink, the clear, level eyes staring out at her. But it was the style in which the drawing was done that alarmed her. Callie was reclining on a bed of flowers, one arm thrown over her head in a languishing pose that revealed the rounded contours of her body, one knee bent and lifted beneath the thin fabric of her skirt. Rossiter’s sketch portrayed the image of a seductress, of a woman whose lover had just left her side. Sexuality was evident in the pouting mouth, the arch of the back, the swell of the breasts straining against an indecently low neckline. Anne Powers was stunned with revelation. Her mind’s eyes still saw Callie as a skinny little girl with short, cropped hair and a child’s pug nose. Where had she been looking when Callie grew into womanhood? And was this the way Rossiter saw her? Half-clothed, erotic, reeking with sensuality?
Cinders to Satin Page 25