Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

  I hated her with a vehemence only matched by my hatred of Ian. I wasn’t going to let her have him. I didn’t know how I’d manage, but she wasn’t going to be his lady. He could marry some other girl, but not Agnes.

  I want to state now that what I did was not as calculated as it sounds. I was too full of suppressed fury, of pain, to methodically plot a scheme that would bring my rival down. I did realize, however, despite my agitated state, that anything I could say against Ian to Agnes would fall on deaf ears. I could claim he was a thief, a murderer, that he gambled, drank, womanized, and Agnes would remain unmoved. She was too infatuated to believe Ian capable of wickedness; in fact, to her repressed soul such wickedness might even make him more desirable. No, it was Ian who must be convinced that Agnes was a woman he could not possibly marry.

  As I stood there, hot-cheeked and miserable, a sudden impulsive idea flashed through my head.

  “I really don’t mind, Agnes,” I lied with a shrug. “There are other fish in the barrel.”

  She eyed me suspiciously.

  “No, really, I mean it. Incidentally, I like your dress. But did you know you have several loose buttons at the back?”

  “Where? Where?” she demanded, craning her neck to see.

  Reaching behind her, I twisted two perfectly good buttons off in my hand. “They were hanging by a thread. Let me send Amy’s maid up to sew them back on for you.” I put the buttons down in front of her. She gave me another dubious look, which I returned with a false smile.

  Downstairs I found Ian talking to Dr. Caldwell.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, giving both men the same smile I had bestowed on Agnes a minute earlier.

  “Not at all,” the doctor said. “We’ve just been discussing General Schofield, who’s been put in charge of our district.” He made a wry face. “But that’s politics and has no place at our party. You young folks are here to enjoy yourselves. Ah, there’s a reel. I must collect Amy—she loves reels.”

  We were left alone. Ian said, “I’m glad to see you aren’t still angry with me.” His eyes held that same admiring look that had so thrilled and flattered me when he’d taken my hand in Aunt Jane’s parlor, and for a moment I weakened.

  But then I heard myself saying, “Of course not. Why should I be angry? All’s fair in love and war.” A small pause. “I see you have taken up with Agnes Harrison.”

  “I find she has a commendable reticence.”

  Which to me could only mean that Agnes kept her mouth shut in Ian’s presence and when she did speak it was only to echo his ideas.

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “She’ll make a fine wife for any man. A pity . . .”

  “A pity—what?”

  “You haven’t heard?” I asked innocently.

  “Heard what?”

  “About her mother. I thought surely, if your intentions were serious, Agnes or her father—”

  *“What about her mother?”

  “She died some years ago. Quite mad.”

  The look of shock on his face lasted only a moment before it was replaced by the gentleman’s mask. “No, I hadn’t heard.” A pause. “You aren’t making this up?”

  “It would be a dreadful thing to do, wouldn’t it? But then I’m sure Judah Harrison himself will eventually tell you about it. Although—” I broke off, biting my lip.

  “I wish you would finish your sentences, Mrs. Morse.”

  “Very well,” I agreed with a show of reluctance. “The circumstances of Mrs. Harrison’s death were hushed up.” They weren’t. She had died after a short illness, a fatal attack of typhus, and half the city had come to her funeral.

  “Of course people don’t discuss Mrs. Harrison’s last days,” I went on. “The story given out is that she succumbed to a fever. However, you needn’t take my word for it. There’s Judah. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Ian looked over to where Judah stood talking with Morton Bainbridge, then back to me. He stared at me for a long moment with narrowed, speculative eyes. “And just why do you think Mrs. Harrison’s sorry affliction would be of any importance to me?”

  “Why, I thought perhaps you were seriously interested in her daughter. And knowing,”—and here I could not help but infuse a nuance of irony—“how nobility demands a certain standard of purity, to say nothing of a substantial dot, from their prospective spouses, I thought it only fair to tell you.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Morse,” he said with biting mock-courtesy. Grasping my hand, he held it at my side within the folds of my skirt, crushing my fingers in a bone-breaking grip. I knew he was furious. There were people all around. We were standing against the wall of the dining room and many had come in for the supper laid out on a long, damask-covered table. I could have made some sound, said something, but I did not speak. I simply stood there, silently, with his large, iron-strong hand sending shooting pains up my arm.

  He lowered his voice. “You’re lying.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Don’t swear, Deirdre. I’m not to be taken in by such a cheap trick. Do you think I am one of those fools at whom you’ve been batting your lovely lashes all evening?”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “I can say such a thing because I know you. Know you in a way most men would envy.”

  I felt the hot blood rush to my cheeks. “Why, you . . .! A gentleman would never . . .! You cad!”

  I jerked my hand away with such violence that Amy Caldwell, holding a plate of chicken aspic, paused and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” I said, steeling my voice to casual moderation.

  “Mr. Montgomery and I were simply having a difference of opinion about the quality of Shelley’s poems.”

  Amy, whose literary pursuits never went beyond Godey's book of fashion, raised her brows. “Really! Well, I do declare! Incidentally, have you seen Agnes?”

  I had forgotten. “She’s upstairs. She’s had some difficulty with buttons and I promised to send your maid to her.”

  “I’ll go at once.”

  Ian’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “So Miss Harrison is having trouble with her buttons.”

  “Oh, shut up!” I hissed vehemently under my breath. “I hate you. I never want to see you again!”

  “That suits me fine. Then perhaps I won’t have to hear another one of your kindly ‘warnings.’ Heaven knows what tale . . .”

  But I didn’t stay to hear the rest. Turning, I left him, lifting a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray as I swished my amber silk skirts through the arched doorway.

  Standing on the perimeter of the dancers, Judah Harrison saw me and smiled. “There you are, Miss Deirdre! I’ve been waiting all evening to have a waltz with you. May I?”

  “Certainly.” I finished off the champagne with a very unladylike gulp and handed him my empty glass. He deposited it in a potted acanthus, took my arm, and whirled me off.

  He was an excellent dancer, and if one overlooked his baldness and ruddy complexion, not a bad figure of a man. As always he was dressed fashionably, this evening in an oyster-gray frock coat, spotless linen, and dark silk cravat. Much sought after by the widows of Richmond, either for themselves or their daughters, he nevertheless seemed quite content to remain single. I had never considered him as a possibility because of his age—forty-five, I guessed. I had already been married to an older man and I had wanted one nearer my own age. But now, dancing with Judah, I wondered.

  I certainly could do worse. He was presentable, did not take snuff (one of Beasley’s disgusting habits), appeared healthy and robust enough, came of good family—and possessed a considerable fortune.

  “We don’t see much of you,” I said, smiling up into his face. “Only the other day I said to Aunt Jane, ‘I wonder why Judah stops by so rarely’.”

  “You said that?” he queried, surprised but pleased. “I hadn’t thought you noticed.”

  “Of course I do.” The music had stopped and I linked my ar
m through his. “They tell me you’ve constructed some new buildings on Broad Street. One, I understand, is to be an emporium.”

  “That’s so. How kind of you to take note. I never imagined you’d be interested.”

  “But I am.” He seemed to expand visibly, and I went on. “I shall be the first to buy a new hat there.”

  He laughed. “I won’t run it myself, you understand. I have a very able manager.”

  “What are you going to call your shop?”

  “Gadfly’s Emporium. Does that sound like a catchy name?”

  “Very. So clever! Did you think of it yourself?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” His florid cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. “It will be quite a store, I can’t help saying so myself. We plan to have plate-glass windows with attractive displays all along one side. None of this hit-or-miss dumping of articles, but an artistic arrangement. It’s something new in merchandising.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Perhaps I can show you around in person.”

  “How kind of you, Mr. Harrison!” I exclaimed, tapping his chest with my fan.

  “Judah, please. Judah.”

  “Then you must call me Deirdre—without the Miss.”

  That Agnes was his daughter added a perverse but definite fillip to my coquetry. It would serve her right to have me as a stepmother!

  In the following weeks I saw a good deal of Judah. He had financial interests other than the future Gadfly on Broad Street. In addition to owning a cotton mill and tobacco-drying shed, rumor had it that he was buying up old plantations for speculative purposes. Still he found time to take me buggy riding, to parties, and to the theater. I smiled a lot, laughed, flattered him, pretended I was not particularly bright, just the sort of woman a man like Judah Harrison would find enchanting. There were one or two bad moments when I suffered an acute attack of conscience, wondering how I could stoop to such a charade. But then I would think of Ian’s callous rejection, I would think of Wildoak and how it belonged to Uncle Miles instead of Page, and I would think of all the sleepless nights I’d tossed and turned worrying about my child’s future.

  I knew Judah was smitten. He never would have called so frequently otherwise. But his manner was always proper and courteous. There were no outbursts, no passionate declarations. He never went any further than kissing my hand. After that first conversation when he told me about the Gadfly Emporium, he did not discuss business again, and I asked him nothing.

  Page was brought up from Wildoak, and he and Judah seemed to get along quite well. If they had not, if Judah had shown the least hostility toward my son or conversely if Page had voiced any dislike of Judah, I would have stopped seeing him at once. But their congeniality encouraged me to go on accepting Judah’s invitations, acting the fondly interested girl who had discovered an old friend to admire.

  It was a whirlwind courtship. Brows were raised, but Aunt Jane said, “Let them talk. I think it would be a fine match. He’s a steady man, Deirdre. And he can provide for you.’’

  That was exactly what I thought.

  But Agnes, predictably, was furious. Ian Montgomery had left shortly after the Caldwell ball, his destination vague. Agnes had received only a short, courteous note from him, postmarked Raleigh, North Carolina, thanking her for the Harrison hospitality. And then nothing. She blamed Ian’s departure—his desertion, as she termed it—on me.

  “I had nothing to do with Mr. Montgomery’s plans,” I said, replying to her accusation. But I did wonder if the seed I had planted had raised doubts. Or perhaps Ian had merely found Agnes too unpalatable even with her wealth.

  “I can’t prove it,” Agnes said, “but I know you must have said something.”

  I ignored Agnes as much as I could under the circumstances. I’m sure she tried hard to turn Judah against me, telling him of my perfidy, pointing out my obvious flirtatiousness, my pauperism. But it is my guess that she talked too much. He got tired of it. Her chatter must have finally goaded him to action, for one evening he came to the house and asked to speak to Uncle Morton.

  They were closeted in the library for less than an hour, and when Judah came out he was as solemn as a deacon. Aunt Jane discreetly retired from the parlor- and left the two of us alone.

  He began by saying he knew he was too old for me. I answered by assuring him he was nothing of the kind.

  “Then you won’t think it presumptuous on my part to have asked for your hand, to want you as my wife?”

  “Oh, Judah ...”

  “Then you accept?’’

  “With all my heart!’’

  He kissed me then. My knees did not tremble and no thunder clapped overhead, nor did reality slip from my grasp. But I was not looking for an exciting lover; I had already had that—twice. I wanted a husband who would take care of me and my child, and one who would love me enough to secure Wildoak for Page.

  Chapter 5

  Judah insisted on a lavish wedding, and I did not object. My first marriage, performed in haste at Wildoak under pinched circumstances, had—in my opinion—hardly been a wedding at all. I had missed out on the white satin gown, the orange blossoms, the music and champagne, the feasting and dancing. And now I wanted to have them all.

  Perhaps the affair smacked of the vulgar or, at the least, bad taste. But after years of being forced to make do or suffer outright hardship, I think our friends enjoyed being part of such an extravaganza. I did have my white satin gown (never mind that I was a widow and not a virgin), with overlapping tiered skirts banded in seed pearls that shimmered as I walked slowly down the aisle of a packed St. Grace’s Church.

  From under my grandmother’s veil of antique lace I viewed my future husband’s face through a fleur-de-lis haze that made him look almost handsome. Impressive was what Aunt Jane called him. Certainly the engagement ring he had placed on my finger was singularly grand. A four-carat diamond surrounded by an oval of lesser ones. I took this expensive token to be a hopeful sign of Judah’s future generosity.

  The reception was held in Judah’s house, on Clay Street. A two-story structure covered with stucco to resemble stone, it had a huge rear garden adorned with statuary, a pond, blossoming flower beds, and a large green lawn set out for the occasion with white linen-draped tables and gilt chairs. The guests helped themselves to champagne and spirits, platters of oysters and lobster, pheasants stuffed with chestnuts, beef royale, and an assortment of delectable pastries, cakes, and ices. If Mrs. Stanard or any of the ladies who served as Richmond’s social arbiters thought the banquet, like the ceremony, a bit much, they gave no indication. Everyone ate and drank heartily and seemed to be having a good time.

  Except Agnes. She had been one of the bridesmaids, paired with Oscar Hayes, a callow youth of seventeen. Throughout the ceremony she had worn a set, stony expression. She reminded me of the Grimm brothers’ tale in which an uninvited and vindictive fairy came to a little princess’s baptism only to pronounce a curse. But I forgave Agnes, excused her dour looks and silent condemnation. Flushed with excitement, magnanimity, and not a little guilt, I managed to whisper into her ear, “I’ll throw my bouquet to you.”

  She twisted her head, her eyes flashing with loathing. I expected her—again like the evil fairy in the story—to hurl a malediction at me, but with a yehemence that matched the hatred in her eyes, she said, “Keep it!”

  On our way to honeymoon at White Sulphur Springs, Judah and I stopped overnight in Columbia, where we put up at a quaint, ivy-covered inn. According to the innkeeper’s wife, George Washington and, later, Thomas Jefferson had slept in an upstairs bedroom, the universal claim of all self-respecting old inns in Virginia. Our room (the same illustriously slept in) was rather small and low-ceilinged, with a gray stone fireplace, turkey carpet, gilt-knobbed tester bed, lacquered Chinese screen, and floor-to-ceiling wardrobe.

  Much to my surprise, Judah seemed nervous. Once I had agreed to be his wife, he had taken over the ordering of my life, including the we
dding arrangements, in an officious, authoratative way, giving the illusion that he was a man completely in charge. But not tonight.

  “Would you like to have a spot of brandy before retiring, my dear?” he asked as we lingered over the remains of our evening meal downstairs in the common room.

  “No, thank you, Judah. But you go ahead.”

  His question and my anticipated reply, I suspect, were ploys to give him one last chance to bolster his courage and me an opportunity to get into my nightdress without immodestly revealing myself. Since both of us had been married before, I considered such playacting unnecessary; but if Judah wished to indulge in a “first night” pretense, I would gladly oblige him. I was determined to make him a good wife. In that I would not deceive him.

  A cousin of Aunt Jane’s had done up my nightdress in tiny, nigh invisible seams. The filmy creation was of finest lawn, embroidered with forget-me-nots and periwinkles placed in such a way as to half conceal my milky-white breasts. After putting it on, I undid my hair and brushed its rippling length until it shone. Then I got into bed and waited.

  He came through the door a few minutes later and smiled at me before disappearing behind the screen. I could hear him undressing.

  “Are you tired?” he called over the lacquered top.

  “Not at all.”

  Judah’s touch had never stirred me. Even when we danced, with his arm about my waist, I had not felt the slightest twinge of desire. I hoped our physical union would change that. It would make being a good wife easier but would not be essential.

  He emerged from behind the screen wearing a nightshirt thrust out in front by his erection and revealing below its short hem a pair of hairy, bowed legs. The contrast between the smoothly tailored, frock-coated Judah I knew and this ludicrous creature was startling, and I had to fight a sudden impulse to laugh. Instead, I closed my eyes.

  “Deirdre, are you frightened of me?”