I was still thinking about the locked drawer, lying in my bed, awake, when I heard Roger’s unsteady tread upon the stair. Drunk, or at least tipsy. I waited, holding my breath as I had done so many times before, praying he wouldn’t choose to honor me with his husbandly attentions. He paused before my door for the one, two, three seconds I counted as I lay tense and coiled like a spring; then I heard him move on and open his own door across the hall. I closed my eyes, giving silent thanks.
At two in the morning I was still awake, my thoughts flitting from Roger to Page to the slowness with which our new house seemed to be going up, then back to Roger and the locked drawer.
Finally, on impulse I rose and, throwing a wrapper about my shoulders, tiptoed across the hall. Easing Roger’s door open, I paused, listening to his rasping snores, which were punctuated at intervals by a staccato snort.
I nearly fell over his boots and jacket where he had discarded them earlier. In the dark I found his coattail pocket, my hand closing around a ring of keys. Casting a furtive glance at Roger’s sleeping figure, I moved silently toward his desk. It took a matter of seconds to find the right key and open the drawer. I felt around, exploring what must have been a watch fob, a diary, and at the very,bottom a small bottle. I brought it out and carried it to the moonlit window. It was Mr. Prescott’s pills, a whole vial of them, the pills I had so desperately searched for the evening he died.
Chapter 30
I had not been afraid of Roger for a long while; angry, disgusted, repulsed, but not afraid. I had put fear behind me, I thought. But now I was frightened.
He had murdered his father just as surely as if he had placed a Colt to his forehead and shot him between the eyes. Murder—and the evidence was in my hands. Why hadn’t Roger destroyed the pills? Why put them in a locked drawer? Guilt? Perhaps safely disposing of them had presented a problem, or he could have tucked the vial away and forgotten it. The workings of Roger’s mind had never seemed more alarmingly twisted.
I replaced the bottle, locked the drawer, and silently shoved the keys back into Roger’s pocket.
Once in my own room, I found that I was trembling. Hugging my robe tightly about me I climbed between the sheets, pulling the cover up to my chin. But the cold continued to cling to me as shudder after shudder clicked at my teeth.
What should I do—go to the police? But even if I showed them the vial, how could I prove that Roger had deliberately hidden it? He could easily make my story sound ludicrous; it would be my word against his. If I spoke to Dr. Blodgett, the same would be true. And to confront Roger himself would be folly. God only knew what violence he might resort to.
And yet something had to be done. What? Where to go? Who to ask? I did not know. Though my mind went around and around trying to find a solution, none came.
The next morning, sitting with Roger at breakfast, the one meal he insisted we share, was torture.
“What will you do with yourself today, Sabrina?” he asked, buttering a muffin, handling his knife with flat, sure strokes. Ever since his father’s death he had become self-confident at home, almost haughty. Out from under his father’s thumb, he had sprung into his own, king of the Prescott domain. The new king, now that the old one was dead, saw no reason to have an heir. He did not visit my bed anymore. That was a relief to me, one that I cherished as the only good to come from the old man’s demise.
But now I found myself recoiling from Roger’s mere, presence. As the days went on, my revulsion increased. His closeness as he leaned over to push in my chair at the dining table or the touch of his fingers under my elbow as he guided me from a room gave me a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sensing my reaction, Roger seemed to enjoy it, and sometimes would purposely press against me, like a sly lecher, just to watch the color drain from my face.
I hated him. And I began to loathe the house on Charles Street, too—its dark-paneled narrow rooms, the shadowed staircase with peeling wallpaper, the clocks that somberly chimed the hour. The sight of the study door, closed, locked, never opened, disturbed and haunted me.
I would go out every afternoon to see how the building of the new house was getting on, hoping the diversion would take my mind from Roger and his foul deed. But the old man’s ghost seemed to follow me even to the Heights, reminding me that I had made no move to bring his murderer to justice.
The days became endlessly long. I would fidget or read, embroider or sew, to fill the hours, listening to the ticking clocks and the slow, heavy beat of my heart. Jane Bainbridge, dropping in to see me, noticed my pallor and the look of strain in my eyes. She insisted I needed a change.
“Charity work,” she said. “And I have just the thing for you. A group of ladies, myself included, is running a home for orphans and foundlings. We call it the House of Hope. Mrs. Binns, who usually teaches the children their letters, is in the family way and has given us notice. As yet we haven’t been able to find a replacement. I think you would do well as her successor.”
‘But I’ve read somewhere that Richmond is embarking on a public school system.”
“Yes, but these particular children are too battered, too deprived, to join the other, more fortunate ones at public school.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You can’t refuse. You shouldn’t. You must get out, Sabrina, my dear, keep busy. Helping those less fortunate is an admirable vocation. And it will put the pink back in your cheeks.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I agreed with a heavy sigh.
The women had leased an old two-story house with a flat roof and a widow’s walk. There, in the various bedrooms upstairs and down, they had installed about two dozen waifs ranging in age from an infant of five months to a lad of nine.
I was given ten pupils, seven boys and three girls. Dressed in cast-offs, a little pale and puffy from an excess of starch in their diets, they nevertheless looked neat, washed and combed, their eyes examining me with shy and wary anticipation. I thought them rather subdued for children so young, but that may have had something to do with their circumstances, death of a parent or parents, the crushing bewilderment of those abandoned. When I spoke to Jane of their lack of spirit, she told me that the House of Hope did not keep what she termed “troublemakers” but sent them to the county home.
Out of the group there was only one bright child, a lad of nine who had only recently come to the house. He had been living on a small farm outside Mechanicsville with his father and mother and three sisters. One night a smoldering ember had ignited a hearth rug and set the house aflame, burning it to the ground and leaving him through some fluke as the sole survivor.
A neighbor who happened to know of the House of Hope had brought him to Richmond. Surprised that he’d had no schooling, I was informed that rural folk often did not choose to send their offspring to a local school even when it was free.
He learned quickly, going through McGuffey’s and mastering Noah Webster’s Elementary Spelling before the others had absorbed the alphabet. Having discovered the key to literacy, he was avid to continue reading. In the storeroom he found dusty, yellow-paged volumes of histories and geographies, spine-cracked novels, and tattered biblical tracts.
These he perused, stumbling over the words he could not understand, reserving them for me to explain. It was a joy to teach him, and I felt rather proud of his accomplishments.
“Paul must continue,” I said to the chairman of the house committee, a Mrs. Parker. “Perhaps we can get up a subscription to send him to a good secondary school.”
Behind thick-lensed, gold-rimmed spectacles her pale blue eyes stared at me in shock. “My dear Mrs. Prescott, you have a kind heart, but you must realize that such money would be a pure waste.”
“I don’t believe so. The boy is precocious. He has a mind that it would be shameful to neglect.”
Mrs. Parker removed her spectacles and rubbed the two red spots that pinched her nose. “I am sure you mean for the best, my dear. But Paul comes of a class of people wh
o do not appreciate higher education. To read and write is more than sufficient for someone like him. Believe me, he would only be a misfit.”
“Then what is to become of the boy?”
“Why, when he reaches the age of ten he will go to work in the mills or the tobacco sheds.”
“At ten? But he will still be a child!”
Again she studied me, this time with a look of marked impatience. “My dear Mrs. Prescott, work is good for children. It keeps them out of mischief. ’ ’
The next morning at the breakfast table I asked Roger if he employed children of ten at the mills.
“I suppose I do,” he said, unfolding the Richmond Times.
‘‘How could you? How could you deprive them of their childhood?”
He looked at me over the top of the banner headline: PRESIDENT CLEVELAND AGAINST HIGH TARIFFS.
I am depriving them of nothing. If those children did not work for me they would work for others. Their families need the money. I feel I am doing them a great service.”
“Service!”
He jerked the newspaper, creasing it to a fold. “Now listen to me, Miss Do-Gooder. I, at least, have an age limit of ten. There are some who employ children younger and treat them miserably. I don’t. In my place they work not more than a ten-hour day and at tasks within their strength.”
‘You make their employment sound like an act of charity.”
He set the newspaper down and, drumming his fingers on the cloth, observed me with cold distaste. “Charity, is it?” His voice had a tight, hard edge.
“No, not charity,” I countered. “I would say you hire boys—and girls, too. I’m sure—because they come cheaper than adults.”
“Now, you pay attention to me!” He reached across and grabbed my wrist, upsetting his coffee cup. “My God, what hypocrisy! Where do you think the money comes from, the money to build the new house, the money to pay for what you have on your back? The mills! And how I run them is none of your infernal business!”
“You’re hurting me.”
“I’ll do more than that, if I hear you talking that way again. I want no preaching in my house. Do you understand?”
I said nothing.
“Well, answer me!” Heedless of the servants, he was shouting now, his eyes starting from his head. “Do you understand?”
“I fail to see—”
“You fail because you are an idiot. I have a good idea where you get such notions. The foundling home! I don’t want you going there anymore.”
“What’s the harm in it? They are only children, and the ladies, respectable ladies, are doing good works.”
“They are meddling fools. Let the county poorhouse take the brats.” He released me and sank back in his chair. “You will write a note today, this morning, of polite regret, saying you are unable to continue at the House of Hope. Give any excuse you like.”
“What would you have me do, then?” My voice was dangerously close to breaking. “Sit at home all day, every day, without seeing a soul? I couldn’t bear it.”
“Madam, do you realize how many women would give their eyeteeth to, as you say, ‘bear it’? Mistress of an established household, waited upon, your slightest wish satisfied, free to go into any shop and order what you please. ‘Bear it,’ indeed.”
“I would gladly change places—”
He shot up from his chair, rattling the dishes and cutlery. “Enough!” he ordered, grasping my arm. “Upstairs! Upstairs, or I’ll drag you there every inch of the way.”
Roger’s iron grip on my elbow propelled me up the narrow stairs. He pushed me into his room and locked the door behind.
“Take your clothes off!” When I did not move, he swung his hand across my face with a slap so strong it knocked my head back.
“I said undress!”
With trembling fingers I undid the row of little mother-of-pearl buttons down to my waist. Hooks and eyes slithered under my fumbling.
He made no move to help me. “Well, madam, are you going to take all day? Be quick about it!”
The last hook came free. I shrugged out of the sleeves, pushing the gown down past my hips. Stepping out of the heap at my feet, I picked the gown up and began to fold it. Roger tore it from my hands and threw it aside.
“I want you undressed. Everything! Naked to the skin!’’
I don’t know how I managed my stays. My mind a whirl of fear, anger, and loathing, I thought, How can I defend myself? A poker, a heavy candelabrum, a brass vase, all within reach. But he was stronger than I, and God knew what fury I’d unleash if I tried to attack him. Above all I must not weep, must not beg for mercy, nor show a single tear.
He was watching me, his eyes glued to my bosom. When my breasts sprang free from their confinement his eyes took on a hungry glitter.
“Such beautiful tits!’’ He leaned over and kneaded them, cupping and fondling the firm white flesh.
With an effort I suppressed a shudder. It will be over soon, I promised myself. Soon, pray heaven, soon.
He got out of his coat, his shirt, cravat, and undershirt, tossing them aside. I saw the bulge of his member straining at his tight trousers.
“Feel it!’’ he ordered, taking my hand, directing it to the swelling. “Squeeze. Squeeze, damn you! Ah . . . !”
He shoved me toward the bed, then threw me down on my back. Instinctively I tried to rise, and he hit me again, a ringing slap across my face.
“I warned you! You don’t know what a real beating is, Sabrina, my love. I can give you that if you insist.’’
I lay very still. He slipped out of his trousers and knelt over me. His hands went to my throat, his thumbs resting on the windpipe. I went rigid, closing my eyes to keep him from seeing the panic in them. Was he going to murder me too? He was mad, insane!
“You won’t scream,” he said, applying pressure, “because at the first sound I will cut you off.”
I did not move. Every muscle, every nerve remained taut, my breath stopped in my lungs, his form suspended above me like an executioner’s ax.
“Open your eyes, Sabrina. Open! Good. I want to see the fear in them. Are you afraid?” His fingers tightened on my bruised throat. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I whispered hoarsely.
“That’s what I want to hear. I don’t like you to defy me, Sabrina fair. I don’t want you to cross or criticize me. I had enough of that from the hateful old bastard, my father. A lifetime. Thank God, he’s dead. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Roger.”
“That’s better.” He removed his hands, then began to play with my breasts again, going over the contoured flesh, his palms rubbing the nipples until they rose in ruched, coral buds. They, my breasts, my body, did not seem to belong to me. I felt nothing, only that tenseness wound like a cold serpent inside.
He went on, pummeling, pinching, and kneading, his breath coming in short, excited gasps. After a torturous minute of this rough pawing, he let go with one hand, fumbled with the buttons of his drawers, and brought out his enlarged organ. Straddling one of my legs he began to rub it along my thigh, swinging his torso back and forth, the purple-veined rod slithering wetly against my shrinking skin. Gradually his movements increased until they reached a feverish intensity, his hair falling over his sweating brow, his tongue licking his underlip. Then with a sudden, jerking motion, he grasped my breasts. Bringing them tightly together he inserted his throbbing organ into the cleft. Grunting in an ecstasy of uncontrollable lust, he worked, pumping, squeezing my breasts together so that he might get more pleasure from the feel of my white, firm flesh against his member. Moments later he cried out as a series of shudders ran through his body.
I turned my face away in sick disgust.
He got up and I thought, Now he’ll go, he will surely leave now. I felt his shadow as he looked down at me.
“You’re a lump,” he said cruelly. “A lump of cold lard. I can do better down at Mrs. Bexcomb’s. There, at least, the girls show some life. Bah!”
I waited until he was dressed and I heard the door close before I rose. Gathering my clothes to my chest, I crept across to my own room, where I collapsed against the closed door, muffling the sounds of my sobbing in my petticoat.
When I was finally able to collect myself, I put on my wrapper and rang for a bath. Though I scrubbed myself three times over, no amount of hot water and soap could remove the sticky feel of his leavings. It was as if he had scarred me for life.
That afternoon I wrote two letters. One tendered my resignation at the House of Hope. (House of Hope! I remember how bitterly I laughed at that.) The other I composed more carefully, addressing it to both my parents. The animosity I had felt toward my mother seemed petty now, Page’s concealed letter a minor misdeed. Memories of all that she had given me in the past—the maternal warmth, the caring, the enveloping arms, the soft bosom to cry on—erased the last vestiges of anger.
In my letter I said I was ashamed to admit it, but my marriage had been a mistake.
... I have tried to be a good wife, dear Mama and
Papa, but this man is cruel. No decent woman could
live with him. ... I beg of you to let me come home.
People will talk, . . . but ... I cannot stay here. . . .
I gave both letters to George, the butler, instructing him to see that they left with the morning post. Then I locked myself in my room and went to bed, where I remained for two days.
I no longer came down to have breakfast with Roger but had coffee and a roll brought to my room. After I was sure Roger had left for the day I would get dressed and go out. I avoided people I knew, did not answer calls or letters, pleaded a headache through George if I happened to be in when visitors rang the doorbell. I stopped going out to the Heights to watch the progress of our house. It would never be mine; I didn’t care. Soon, any day now, Papa would send me the money for a ticket (I would take nothing from Roger) and I would be on the train, crossing the miles to the welcome protection of the house on Nob Hill.
Pride's Folly Page 37