He paused, searching his pockets, I supposed for a match. I could feel again his animal closeness, smell the faint odor of tobacco and tanned leather. And suddenly I wanted to be kissed. I wanted his mouth on mine, wanted to feel the hard brutality of his arms, his compact body strained against me. . . .
“It will only be a moment.” He disappeared into the dimness. I heard the match strike and a rosy Tiffany bloomed with light.
“Colonel. . . .” I paused, trying to control the flutter in my voice. “I’m really very tired. I think I’ll forego the coffee.”
He did not argue or make the slightest attempt to persuade. “Very well. As you wish. I’ll have Nevins bring the buggy round. Won’t you sit down?”
“My bonnet—my shawl—I believe I left them in the library.”
“Of course. I’ll fetch them.”
There was that politeness, that stiff, formal courtesy reminiscent of Ian in his gentlemanly moments. But Ian’s manner was often tinged with irony or self-mockery. Not Lieutenant Colonel Ward Gamble. The hard man never bent, never cracked. It made the interior male, the one that sent signals of a caged sensuality, so much more dangerous.
I sat on an upholstered wing chair, angry at myself for having stayed, angry at my violent reaction, my shaking knees. A gilt-framed clock surmounted by a gilt lion ticked steadily, matter-of-factly, away on the mantel. It was a quarter past eleven, later than I had thought. I listened to it, watching the minute hand as it jerked inexorably toward midnight, feeling like Cinderella. It was a poor analogy, for I had no glass slipper, no grand ball gown, no coach that would turn back into a pumpkin. And the colonel was hardly Prince Charming.
“Mrs. Harrison . . . ?”
He had entered so quietly I hadn’t noticed.
“Yes.” I got to my feet. He had my bonnet and shawl in his hands.
“Nevins is outside.”
“Thank you.”
He gave me the bonnet, unfolded the shawl, and held it out. I turned to let him place it about my shoulders. I couldn’t help it—I tried to control myself—but at his touch a tremor went through my body. His hands lingered on my shoulders.
“Colonel ...”
He bent his head and pressed his lips to the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes for an infinitesimal second, then jerked away.
“Please,” I said with my back to him, “I don’t think that is necessary.”
“Isn’t it?”
He took hold of my shoulders and turned me around. His face in the roseate lamplight was stern, imperturbable, but the eyes pierced through me with a look of such intense desire my stomach quaked. He said nothing; he didn’t have to. As instinctively as a cougar senses the weakness of his prey he knew that I was ready.
His hands slipped from my shoulders and his arms encircled my waist, pulling me to him. Mesmerized, I swayed in his arms as his mouth touched mine, softly at first, almost tentatively. A latent sense of guilt struggled within me, and I made as if to draw away.
“Don’t,” I whispered when he lifted his mouth.
“Why not? You want it, you wanted it the moment you stepped through the front door tonight.”
Was I that transparent? God help me, but I hated him for coming so close to the truth.
“How dare you!” I twisted out of his arms. “How dare you speak to me in that fashion?”
“True to form,” he said scornfully. “You hypocrite!”
He pulled me roughly back into his arms, and now his mouth, claiming mine, was not soft, not tender, but strong, commanding, his to obey.
Crushed to his hard, taut body, I knew why I wanted him to kiss me, to hold me, why I craved his strong arms about me. I wanted more than the lovemaking, the raw sex; I yearned to feel safe and secure, to have the hostile world held at bay. I longed for someone who was stronger than I to make decisions, to tell me what to do, how to think, how to feel. And I found myself clinging to him, returning his kisses, all the pent-up uncertainty and fear bottled inside, channeled, released in a passion to match his own violent emotion.
I did not stop him when he undid the jet buttons at my throat, when he pushed the basque down over my arms and began to undo the ribbons of my camisole. I stood like a captive, my heart thumping, my mouth dry. He turned me around to undo my corset, releasing the confined white breasts. His hands cupped their silky roundness and I heard him draw in his breath. He whirled me around and kissed one, then the other, each globe tender and aching, his mouth grasping a nipple, sucking it, lapping it with his tongue until it blossomed between his drawn lips.
His touch, his hands and his mouth, moved over my bare torso with an eloquence that seemed to waken me from a long, long sleep. He lifted his head and we were kissing again, wildly, passionately, the hard metallic buttons of his uniform bruising my skin. He lifted me in his arms and carried me to a sofa, lowering me onto the pillows. Then he began to undress. I closed my eyes. I heard the thump of his boots, the rustle of clothing. Suddenly, lancing hot shame cut through my trance. I couldn’t. I was no better than a whore, naked in the house of a man I scarcely knew.
I was up and off the sofa in one liquid movement.
“What on earth . . . !”
He had gone to turn the key in the lock. And now he stood across the room, staring at me in amazement.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.”
I scooped up my gown, hiding my breasts.
He strode toward me, his nude body no less commanding than when clothed, his face set in cold fury. I dodged his outflung hand, but he caught me. Tearing the dress from my hands he pushed me back until I could feel the edge of a table at my back.
“I don’t like teases,” he said. “I told you that once before, if you remember.”
I was frightened and for one wild moment thought of screaming. But his mouth was on mine again and then on my throat, my breasts, my cheeks, my eyes, his hand caressing my inner thighs, his fingers invading the soft moistness within the mound of Venus, sending little shock waves through my body.
He bent me backward on the table until I was lying on it, my legs over the edge and not quite touching the floor. He shoved my thighs apart and then with one violent thrust his hardness was inside me. He began to drive, a steady, pulsating, unrelenting pounding that had me gasping and pleading, “Don’t—don’t!”
It was indecent, wicked, but, oh, God, it did a thousand and one thrilling things to my senses; it made me forget— forget the ruined city outside, Judah’s death, the loss of Ian, my own vulnerability. I did not struggle but let him ride me, a willing mount, rising to meet the penetration of his pulsing shaft. And at the last, as the final shuddering climax came, I pulled him roughly down into my arms, scraping his bare back with my nails.
Afterward he carried me to a chair. I sat on his lap and sobbed openly, something I had thought myself incapable of. I told him about Judah, about Ian, about Agnes and why I hadn’t gone back to Virginia. Oh, the relief of at last being able to talk honestly! To finally have someone who listened without judging gave me the comfort I needed so badly.
Chapter 9
I became his mistress.
It was not a relationship I entered into blindly or impulsively. When Ward Gamble suggested the idea I resisted it, not with false maidenly modesty—he would have scoffed at that—but because I felt such a role was beneath me. He said he understood, he respected me, that if he were free he would not hesitate to ask me to marry him. His wife was mentally ill. The law in such cases would not allow divorce. But her condition had been deteriorating for some time, and the doctors felt she could not live more than another year or two.
He loved me, he said. The words sounded strange coming from such a man, almost stilted, but I do believe he meant them. He loved me as much as he could love anyone. Certainly he desired me. He offered me a home, security, even the means to hire lawyers to fight Judah’s will, if I wished.
“You can pass as my wife,’’ he assured me. “The servants and my friends will accept
you as such without causing you embarrassment. And strangers won’t know the difference.’’
I liked Ward Gamble. Aside from his physical attractiveness, he was scrupuloulsy honest, a man of integrity and pride. Perhaps part of his appeal had to do with the fact that in some ways he reminded me of Ian—the inner man rarely revealed (a similarity I preferred not to dwell on, since thoughts of Ian still angered me). That Ward Gamble was a Yankee, an enemy soldier who had not only fought against us, but had also been an instrument of the humiliating Reconstruction Act bothered me, but not deeply. Like Judah, I was a pragmatist, believing wholeheartedly in Robert E. Lee’s theory that only by putting our animosities aside could we get on with the business of living.
Yet I resisted Gamble’s offer at first. I thought about it, debating for weeks, until three incidents forced me to a decision. First, I heard nothing from Uncle Miles, no wire, no letter. His silence hurt, then angered me. It was as if he were saying, You made your bed, now lie in it. Second, I received a long communication from Alfred Gan. He had heard about Judah’s will and, shocked by its contents, had made inquiries. Its legality, in his opinion, would be most difficult to dispute. “You would have to go through a great deal of public embarrassment with very little chance of winning your suit,” he advised. He enclosed four $20 bills. Bless his heart, it must have been a sacrifice. Alfred had practically no money of his own to spare.
“Wildoak is your home,” he wrote. “You are always welcome here.”
I thought of it, was tempted. But then I got another letter, this one from Page’s school, billing me for the next term’s tuition. I suppose I could have “borrowed” it from Colonel Gamble, but that would have put me under a more demeaning obligation: outright cash for the pleasure of my body. Moreover, neither the ‘loan” nor my return to Wildoak would take care of Page’s future schooling, the fees, the books, and the clothing. It was this concern over Page that finally made up my mind.
I moved into the Bay Front Road house on a cold rainy day. Ward was formal, faultlessly polite. He treated me like an honored guest, showing me over the house and, having given me a gold wedding band, introduced me to the servants as Mrs. Gamble. Neither the old butler nor the cook, Mrs. Sprockett, both of whom must have known Ward’s wife, blinked an eye as we shook hands.
Ward and I had separate bedrooms, which did not adjoin. Mine was large and simply furnished, the only concession to femininity being a triple-mirrored dressing table with a white satin flounce. As Ward dispassionately pointed out that I would have a view of the lake, I wondered if his ardor had cooled. All through our candlelit dinner he addressed me as “my dear” giving no sign of love or desire.
But that night as I prepared for bed, he opened my door abruptly, without knocking. He had removed his tunic, and his unbuttoned white shirt exposed a portion of his dark matted chest. He said nothing, but his look told me all. It was as if he had left the calm, self-assured host downstairs and replaced him with a narrow-lidded predator.
I rose slowly from the dressing table. “Ward . .
His yellow eyes, the black pupils catching reflected lamplight, went over me. “I want to see you as you are, naked, without the gown, without anything.”
I had been married twice, had had two lovers, and had already stood nude before this man, but still, inexplicably, I blushed. “I thought perhaps ...”
Impatient, he closed the distance between us in two strides and grabbed hold of my nightdress at the collar, ripping it down the front with his strong hands.
He did not give me time to exclaim, but crushed me in his arms. His mouth was hot, bruising, and I turned my face away at his violence. He held me, breathing hard.
“You can’t know what it meant, waiting all these weeks for you to make up your mind.”
“Did you want me that much?”
“You know I did. As much as you wanted me.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes.” His fingers tightened on my arms. “Are you still thinking of that Englishman?”
“No.” A half-truth. Ian was always there, would always be in the back of my mind, a treacherous ghost that appeared and disappeared but was never forgotten.
“I can make you forget him, Deirdre,” he said, as if reading my mind. He grasped my chin in viselike fingers, bringing my face around so he could look down into my eyes. “I know I can.”
He was a militarist in love as well as war, and he set out to conquer me with consummate skill.
Shrugging out of his shirt, he took me into his arms with deceptive gentleness, kissing me softly, his lips drawing mine into his mouth, his tongue tasting, savoring. He pulled me closer, one hand sliding down my back in a silken caress, the other exploring my breasts, the tips growing larger, erect, under his fingers. Sinking to one knee, he kissed my belly, the inside of my thighs, his mouth seeking and finding the soft warm moistness between.
I gasped. “You mustn’t!”
“Are you afraid?”
“It’s wicked.”
“Very wicked.” But he resumed coaxing with his tongue, leading me gradually, surely, into hot, trembling excitement. He rose, and I flung my arms about his neck, my hips rocking hungrily against his hard manhood. With a groan he lifted me up and carried me to the bed, throwing me across it. Falling on top, he turned me over and pinned me to the mattress so that I lay face down under him. He slipped his hands beneath my body and raised my hips, entering me from behind.
“Ward! You can’t . . . ?”
“But I can,” he mumbled between gritted teeth as he pumped over my writhing body, sending shock wave after shock wave to the roots of my hair.
When it was over he did not speak but lay next to me, his arm about my shoulders, his hand cupping my breast. As I felt my wild heartbeats gradually subside, I willed myself not to think, not to regret. On my back, staring at the ceiling, I listened to the waves break against the lake shore until I fell into a deep sleep.
I had to come up with some sort of explanation for Jane Bainbridge as well as Alfred Gan. They each had written several letters, wanting to know what I was doing, what had become of me, did I need money? (I had sent Alfred’s back.) I was too much the coward to tell them the truth. Jane would forgive anything but an alliance with a Union Army officer. Kind, sympathetic, and tolerant, her one prejudice was directed against the hated bluecoats, an aversion that had not diminished with the passage of time.
In the end, after several drafts and much knuckle biting, I wrote and explained that I had been quietly married to a Mr. W. F. Gamble, hoping neither Jane nor Alfred would associate him with the Yankee major who at one time had occupied Wildoak and later, as a lieutenant colonel, commanded a troop of cavalry in Richmond. Since both Jane and Alfred paid little attention to Yankee names I felt my subterfuge had a chance of succeeding. To Page I gave the same story, adding that I wanted him to spend his Christmas holidays with us so that he could meet his new stepfather.
I tried not to think that I might be closing a door on my return to Virginia. Someday, in the future, I might go back— alone, never with Gamble. Perhaps by then, Ward would be able to make me his legal wife and I could truthfully say I was married.
In the meantime, we stayed on in Chicago, where Ward’s new superior, General Phillip Sheridan, had his headquarters. A former cavalryman himself, Sheridan had chalked up an impressive record during the War between the States with his ruthless campaign in the Shenandoah Valley and his crushing defeat of our Confederates at Winchester. Short, sandy-haired, aggressive, given to smoking cigars, he took an instant dislike to me. The feeling was mutual. He was a bachelor when I first met him (he married a general’s daughter some years later), and the few times we invited him to dinner, Ward had to ferret out an appropriate female partner for him. Nothing less than a colonel’s daughter would do. Yet Ward admired Sheridan, thought him brilliant, the very epitome of a heroic military man.
Fortunately, we did very little entertaining, so I was spared from playing hostess t
o Ward’s army friends and listening to their incessant crowing about how they had “sent the Johnny Rebs on the run.” Tactless, rude, loud, and ill-mannered as they were, I bore with them and their submissive shadowy wives, because it was part of the bargain I had struck—the contract, if you will. I must admit that Ward, as a true gentleman, tried to mitigate or blunt the sharpness of his fellow Unionists in my presence, but they rarely took his hints.
I was always introduced as his wife. If eyebrows were raised, I never saw them. No one asked when we had married or where I had come from, though my southern accent must have told them. In turn I never questioned any of the wives or their husbands about the real Mrs. Gamble. Nor did I find any trace of her in that house. My own bedroom, as I have stated, was simply furnished, and except for the dressing table gave no hint as to its former occupant. I wondered if that mirrored table had been hers. If so, she had left no impression upon it—no faded photographs, no stray ribbon, powder puff, or tortoise comb, not a single hairpin. I could not even detect the sort of fragrance that will linger in a woman’s room long after she has gone.
Though Gamble was not as affluent as his house would suggest, he was a man of more than limited means. I had clothes now, a carriage at my disposal, and a generous allowance. The servants, accustomed to running the house on their own, continued to do so with very little interference from me. I had no desire to cross swords with Ward’s old family retainers, though Mrs. Sprockett did tempt me a time or two. A dumpy, dough-faced woman in her late middle age, a little deaf now, she had come to the Gambles when Ward was still a boy. “I raised him,” she once said to me in an unusual burst of confidence. “His mother died when he was just a tad.”
Ward’s own mother could not have been fonder of him, nor any more protective. Mrs. Sprockett did not resent me, but was watchful, waiting to see how Ward felt about me. It was as if he had brought home a stray dog, which she would tolerate as long as Ward showed signs of attachment. I was more amused than irritated by her occasional forays from the kitchen when she would remind Ward of inclement weather and urge him to take an umbrella or wear an overcoat. He, of course, after long years of such warnings, had ceased to listen. She was a fixture to him, one, unfortunately, we would have to take with us when the time came to move on to another post.
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