Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

  I hobbled the chair closer, inch by painful inch. It seemed to take me forever to move across the bare wooden floor. I was nearly there when I got anxious, hurried, and the chair tipped over with a resounding thud. I lay there prostrate, like a trussed lamb, unable to move.

  I closed my eyes as a feeling of utter futility washed over me. Why struggle? Why go on trying the impossible? It seemed so pointless.

  But something within me as rigid as iron shouted, No! You can’t! You can’t give up. He’ll win if you do. Are you going to let that evil brute triumph? I couldn’t allow it! I couldn’t just lay there with my eyes closed, thinking further effort was impossible, pointless. Not while there was a breath of life in me. I started to drag myself and the chair across the floor.

  Suddenly the trap door opened and Marigold’s frightened face appeared “Oh, my God! Is that yo’, Miz Sabrina?”

  A muffled sob answered her. Quickly she removed the gag, and the moment the damp cloth left my mouth I began to weep with relief.

  “Hush,” she soothed. “Aunt Hazel’d scald me alive if she knew. But I heard a bump and ’spected something’.”

  She got me loose. I wiped my nose on the edge of my cape, recovered. No time for tears.

  Marigold said, “They tole me yo’ went away.”

  “No, Marigold. Where are they now?”

  “Mr. Roger went out. Aunt and George is gone down fo’ their noon nap.”

  Hazel and George, when they could, rested for an hour or two every afternoon in their quarters above the stable. “You’ve got to help me get dressed, Marigold. Quickly!” From the wardrobe I pulled out the first gown that came to hand. “Never mind about the bustle and stays. I’m not going to make a social call.” Stockings, shoes, a warm cape with a hood, and I was ready. “Come along.”

  I hurried down the stairs and into old Mr. Prescott’s study. Riffling through the drawers of the big desk I found what I was looking for, his Confederate revolver, one very much like the gun Papa had kept as a souvenir from the war.

  I had only handled a gun once before—I’ve forgotten under what circumstances—but Papa had shown me how it was loaded. Strange, the way such memories come back when needed. I breached Prescott’s revolver and saw that the bullets were in place.

  “We’re going to wake Uncle George,” I said to Marigold.

  He answered the door, pushing his shirt into his trousers, shocked when he saw me and Marigold hovering behind. “Miz Sabrina!”

  “You are taking me to Wildoak,” I said.

  “Now, lookie here ...”

  I brought out the gun. “Hurry up; we haven’t got time.”

  “Now, Miz Sabrina, give that here.’’ He held out his hand. I pointed the revolver to the floor an inch from his feet and fired.

  He got into his coat without another word, and five minutes later we were in the carriage and on our way to Wildoak.

  Chapter 34

  The only words I spoke to George on that long, cold ride to Wildoak were those urging him to go faster.

  “Hurry! Can’t you give the horses a taste of the whip? Do hurry!”

  I sat stiffly upright, the revolver resting on my lap under the folds of my cloak. Every now and again as I recalled Roger Prescott’s cruel, smug smile, my fingers would curl convulsively around the handle and the blood would rush to my head in a wild upsurge of passion. Nurtured in gentleness, reared to submissive sweetness, and taught always to be a “lady,” I hardly recognized this creature who could turn so quickly to a woman of will and strength, bent on justice without mercy. Perhaps she’d been there all the time. Perhaps it was the age-old instinct of maternal protectiveness asserting itself. I could bear anything but to have Page killed. I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to commit murder if it would prevent harm coming to the man I loved.

  It was late afternoon when the house came into view, its white pillars standing out in sharp outline against the red brick walls. Turning at the drive, we rode down under bare-limbed oaks, autumn’s browned leaves still clinging here and there to a twigged branch. I held to the sides of the carriage as it rocked over an exposed, gnarled root, peering ahead. There were no saddle horses, no conveyances of any kind tied to the hitching posts at the bottom of the verandah stairs. I took it us a good sign.

  But as we neared the house, several shots rang out, an explosive sound that sent the still air rocketing and my heart leaping in my breast.

  Not waiting for George to help me, I jumped down in a tangle of skirts. Rushing up the stairs I pulled the door open, the revolver in my hand. Inside, an awesome silence hung over the hall and stairwell. Ominous, full of portent. No sound but my own heavy breathing. The parlor door was open and I tiptoed fearfully toward it, the revolver poised, every nerve taut with listening. I heard a slight rustle from within and I steadied the gun.

  Page was lying on the floor in a pool of blood between the sofa and the window. Papa knelt beside him.

  For one awful moment my mind refused to function.

  I thought I was having a nightmare, that I had fallen asleep on the way and that the carriage was still on the road. Papa’s figure was like a ghost’s. It shouldn’t be here but miles away at White Sulphur Springs. The gun fell from my hand with a clatter.

  “Sabrina!”

  Papa’s face was as white and startled as mine must have been.

  My lips moved stiffly. “Is he—is he dead?”

  “No. Stunned, unconscious. But he’s bleeding. There’s a linen closet under the stairs.”

  I ran out, found the closet, and grabbed an armful of towels. Papa, gently wound one of them around Page’s head. Page looked ghastly. Every bit of color had fled from his face, and his lips had a bluish tinge.

  “I’m not going to move him,” Papa said. “Get a pillow and a cover of some kind.”

  I snatched a sofa pillow and a throw from the back of the loveseat.

  “The dastard,” Papa said, “to pull a trigger on an unarmed man and then turn tail and run.”

  “Did you see who. . .?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to say, Sabrina, it was your husband. I was upstairs when I heard the shots. I looked out the back window and saw Roger running for his horse. I would have winged him, but I had no gun.”

  “I didn’t meet him on the drive.”

  “He must have gone by way of the creek and taken a back road. I’ll deal with him later,” he added grimly, getting to his feet.

  “But Page ...”

  “He’ll be all right. I’ll send Billy for the doctor.”

  He went out into the hall and called Page’s servant, instructing him to ride to Old Church and have Dr. Potter come as quickly as possible.

  When Papa came back into the parlor he said, “I could use a drink, and I’m sure you could do the same.”

  “I’ll stay here with Page, Papa.”

  “There’s nothing you can do for him now. Come along.”

  I followed Papa into the dining room. He took the whiskey decanter from the sideboard and filled two glasses, handing me one. “You look exhausted.”

  “It’s the shock. Papa. Page—and seeing you at Wildoak.”

  “It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that your mother and I changed our minds about Baden-Baden and decided that if we wanted hot springs we could do just as well in West Virginia. A little out of season, but the owner of one of the hotels is a friend of mine and has agreed to take us. Your mother has gone on ahead. Before I went to join her I thought I’d come and talk to Page about transferring Wildoak to him.”

  “Oh, Papa, how happy that must have made Page! And how kind of you.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I don’t like Page any more now than I did before. But it was a promise I made to his mother years ago. And Page—according to what I have been able to find out in Richmond—seems settled and in earnest about building up a respectable breeding farm here.”

  “He is in earnest. And Papa—”

  “Drink your whiskey, Sabrina.
”

  Neat, the strong whiskey burned its way down.

  “Now, my dear, may I ask what you are doing at Wildoak and with a gun? Did you know of Roger’s intent?”

  “Yes, Papa, I knew and I wanted to stop him.”

  “But he told me you were in Petersburg.”

  “It was a lie, Papa. While he was telling you that I was upstairs in the attic, bound hand and foot, a prisoner—”

  “A prisoner! This is unbelievable! Why? Why?”

  In a rush of words I told him about Roger, about his vile temper, his insane jealousy, how he’d had me followed (I couldn’t reveal his sexual aberrations, I just couldn’t), how he had withheld my letters, and finally how in a fit of insane rage he had threatened to kill me and Page.

  As I spoke. Papa’s face darkened. “You say he exhibited a base temper from the start? Why, for God’s sake, didn’t you tell me sooner?’’

  “I was ashamed, Papa. Then, you see, he had days when he seemed all right, even kind. But I know now he’s mad, has always been mad.’’

  “And deserves to be shot like any mad dog!”

  “I don’t want you to shoot him, Papa. I want a divorce.” It had all become so simple. No one would blame me for leaving a man who had attempted murder. I might have been excused for my loyalty to Roger when he was accused of cheating at cards, but few would pardon my support of a villain who had tried to kill a man in cold blood. The situation had been taken out of my hands. Papa knew the worst. There was no way to hide it from my mother. A divorce would hardly be a scandal now.

  “Of course you can’t be expected to go on living with such an animal,” Papa said. “A separation at the least.”

  “No, Papa. A divorce. I want to marry Page.”

  “My dear Sabrina, you’re upset now. With Page wounded, naturally your feelings are sympathetic. But you know a marriage with him is ill-advised.”

  “I’m carrying Page’s child, Papa.”

  He stared at me for a brief instant as if he hadn’t quite heard; then his brows came together. “You can’t mean . . . ?”

  “Yes, Papa, it’s true.”

  “God! You—you . . . !” Speechless, his eyes clouding with black rage, he raised his hand and struck me. I staggered back, clinging to the table.

  “How could you? How could you?”

  He frightened me. Never in all the years, even when I had been naughty as a little girl, could I remember him in such a state. It was a towering fury, as if God Himself had raised a thunderbolt aimed to strike in righteous anger.

  “And what am I to say to your mother? That her daughter is no better than a—a whore, a cheap tart?”

  “Papa, please ...”

  “Hadn’t you enough self-control? And he—he is everything I feared. His escapades, his women. He will lift any skirt, given half the chance.”

  “Papa, please,” I begged. “You are mistaken. I love Page; he loves me.”

  “Love? What do you know about love?”

  “As much as any woman who has lived in hell with the other kind of so-called love.”

  He started to say something, changed his mind, and turned to the sideboard. His hand trembled as he refilled his glass.

  “Papa, look at me.”

  He stood for a moment with his back to me. “It’s hard. ...”

  “Please, Papa.”

  Slowly he turned. His anger had vanished. He looked tired, with a haggard weariness that twisted my heart. But I refused to feel ashamed, wicked, a whore.

  “Papa, I am not the same little girl who has obeyed you so obligingly all my life.”

  “I wish to God you were.”

  “Well, I’m not, Papa. I am a woman, and I love this man. I want to marry—”

  “I won’t hear of it! Do you understand? I won’t hear of it! Not another word. Go outside and wait for me.”

  “But Page ...”

  “I’ll stay until the doctor arrives. Wait for me in the buggy. Do as I say, Sabrina.”

  I went out and crossed the hall, looking in through the parlor door at Page. He was still lying in the same position, his head on the pillow, the throw covering him to the shoulders. The towel was stained a deep crimson. As I stared, his eyes flew open and met mine in stunned incomprehension.

  Papa came out of the dining room. “Sabrina!” his voice thundered. “Outside with you!”

  I obeyed him, not so much out of habit but because at the moment it seemed the wisest thing to do. I did not want a scene in front of Page, with him so weak and unable to defend himself.

  The doctor arrived a half hour later. I tagged after him into the house, but Papa would not let me enter the parlor.

  “I thought I told you to remain outside,” he said sternly. “I have to know,” I said.

  “You will only complicate matters,” he said. “Don’t argue with me, Sabrina.”

  I didn’t go, but lingered in the hallway, listening.

  The doctor said, “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll be right as rain in no time. Give me a hand and we’ll carry him to the sofa.”

  When Papa finally emerged I was sitting in the carriage. “Page was merely nicked,” he said. “Nothing serious.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s getting dark and it looks like rain. We’ll put up at Butler’s Inn; it’s only a few miles up the road.”

  “Why not stay here?”

  “I’d rather not,” he said shortly. “I don’t trust myself with Page.”

  Papa had his hired horse saddled and rode alongside the carriage. He did not speak, and George, tending to his reins, remained stonily silent. Night had descended, and as we approached the inn a cold stinging rain began to fall.

  Once inside, Papa requested rooms and ordered our supper. George was put up in the stable.

  A fire burned brightly on the hearth as we sat down to fried ham, greens, and crusty bread with real country butter. I was so hungry and ate with such appetite I did not notice that Papa scarcely touched his food until I’d cleaned my plate.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t find Butler’s food particularly appealing this evening,” he answered with sarcasm. “But then I’m not eating for two.”

  I blushed and lowered my eyes.

  “Ah! I’m glad to see you are still modest enough to be embarrassed.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. Papa,” I said, lifting my head. “But not for anything else.”

  He crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers. “We have to decide what to do,” he said.

  “Papa . . .”

  “No. I will decide.”

  “I can’t go back to Roger. I—I’ll do away with myself first.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish!” he said fiercely. “You’ll do no such thing. Do away with yourself, indeed! I’m not an ogre. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting you return to Roger. A separation—”

  “Papa ...”

  “A separation,” he went on implacably. “I’ll make a bargain with Roger, though it galls me to do so. If he will acknowledge the child and promise never to communicate with you, we’ll overlook his unprincipled behavior.”

  “Papa, you can’t! He’s a murderer!’’ I told him how I suspected Roger had killed his father and Florrie Stokes. “Have you no regard for justice?’’

  “I’ve a very high regard for justice, but I’m practical as well. We’ve only your suspicion that he was responsible for the deaths of these two people, the word, I might add, of an unfaithful wife. Furthermore, do you realize how many men would say Roger was justified in taking a gun to Page?”

  “I don’t care!”

  “But I do. I’m thinking of you. And your mother. I don’t want her exposed to the sordid details of this ugly affair.”

  “So my child and I have become sordid.”

  “Don’t dramatize, Sabrina.”

  “I’m not dramatizing, Papa. But your attitude baffles me. I’m sure you have forgiven Grandmama.” I paused, but he did not seem shocked or d
ismayed to realize I knew about my grandmother’s past. “But if I am swept away by love, if I give in, perhaps unjudiciously, to the passion of the moment, then it’s as though I had truly gone to the devil. No, Papa, let me finish. You have tried to mold me into an ideal daughter, half saint, an image that no human could aspire to.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Papa said. “I’ve done the best I could without thought of ‘molding,’ as you put it. Nevertheless, the present is what we must deal with. I should like your mother to know only that Roger has proved a disappointment—he drinks, cheats at cards, whatever—that though you find yourself with child by him, you wish to return to San Francisco with us. The separation will become permanent. People will soon forget.”

  “That means I can never marry again.”

  “Perhaps later—in a few years—but not to Page.”

  “But why are you punishing me?”

  “It isn’t punishment, it’s for the best.”

  I pushed my plate aside. “Can’t I even see Page to find out how he is?”

  “I would prefer not. The doctor will let me know if there is a change for the worse in his condition. His wound, you know, was far from serious.”

  “And marriage . . . ?”

  “Out of the question.”

  Nothing I said swayed him. Obdurate, stubborn, he turned a deaf ear to my pleas. I could defy him, of course, and live with Page without his parental consent. But if I did, Papa would refuse to sign Wildoak’s deed over to him. We would have to leave and Page would never realize his life’s dream. I was back to where I had been a month ago.

  Suddenly I felt tired, drained, depressed. Tied to the chair through the previous night, I had slept only in snatches, and the long day, too, had taken its toll. I couldn’t think clearly. My brain felt numb, my heavy-lidded eyes had trouble focusing. I yearned to lie down in some dark, comfortable place, to blot out any anxieties, to sleep for the rest of my life.

  “When we get to Richmond,’’ Papa was saying, “I’ll put you up at the Jefferson Hotel.’’