by Shirl Henke
“I'm sorry, Papa, but...I love him so much. We took vows, pledged ourselves to each other before we...” Her voice choked off and she lowered her head, unable to bear the pain of Rory's betrayal as it lashed at her again.
“Think, Rebekah. What kind of vows would a man like that consider binding? Only those made before his own priest in his Romish Church. No others hold any fear of retribution for people like them.” Ephraim hesitated as Rebekah stared out the window in mute misery. “There is something I have never told you or anyone else. It happened a long time ago, in Boston. Before I ever met your mother.”
A cold sense of dread seized Rebekah's heart. “Does it have something to do with why you seem to hate the Irish so?”
His mouth softened a bit and he said softly, “You have always been such a bright, perceptive child, Rebekah. Yes. You see, I fell in love with an Irish girl. She was a servant in my friend's home—a parlor maid. The first time I saw her, I was bewitched by her blue eyes and raven hair. They're the devil's own handsome race, the Irish.”
Rebekah's mind at once conjured up Rory's startlingly blue eyes and inky locks. Yes, they were indeed. Her father continued his tale.
“I was a young college student, just started in divinity school on a scholarship. As you know, our family was socially prominent; but the money, even back then, was almost gone. I disregarded the pleas of my parents and my peers and courted Kathleen.” He stood up and began to pace restlessly as his tale unfolded. “We—we became lovers, and like you and your Irishman, we pledged undying devotion. But she would not abandon her Romish faith and asked that I give up mine—convert for her. God forgive me, I almost succumbed. But your Uncle Manasseh found out about my trysts with her and told our father. When I was forced to examine my feelings under his more mature guidance, I realized that I could not give up the vocation that I had worked a lifetime to enter.
“Neither did I wish to give up Kathleen. Her lack of social station, her being an Irish immigrant—meant nothing to me, even though my family would have ostracized me. I went to her and explained that I had a calling and that I had to answer to the Lord. I asked her to come away with me and marry in my church. We would weather the bigotry of the social elite of Boston. I would even risk being disowned by my family. I still had my scholarship and could finish divinity school at Yale. She cried and she pleaded. She tried to seduce me again—anything to keep me from my resolve. When I said no—and it was not easy—she refused to wed me, saying our vows were not blessed by a priest and were therefore not valid.
“She entered a convent. When I tried to intercede, to prevent her from locking herself away for the rest of her life, the sisters there turned me away. Then, her brothers came after me, waylaying me one night on my way home from classes. They beat me within an inch of my life and threatened me if I ever went to the convent again. She took her final vows. I've never seen her since.”
Emotionally and physically drained, Ephraim sank onto the big chair behind his desk, shoulders stooped, head resting in his hands. Rebekah looked at him as the silence thickened around them. He's still in love with her after all these years, and he doesn't even realize it. That was why he hated the Irish when he was the soul of tolerance for all others. She rose, walked behind the desk, and placed her arms around his shoulders.
“Oh, Papa, I never understood. Now I do.” You never loved Mama. You couldn't. This also explained Dorcas's bitterness. Her parents had always had a loveless, mismatched marriage. And she was doomed to repeat the same tragic cycle all over again. More broken vows. More heartache.
Finally, Ephraim raised his head, and his eyes were filled with tears. “It will all work out for the best—you'll see, Rebekah. It did for me. I'd like to think I've made a difference with my work, serving the Lord. I've had a good and loyal helpmate in your dear mother, and I've been blessed with you and Leah. You can make a good life for yourself, too.”
The pleading look in his eyes broke her heart. Never in all her life, not at the funeral of his best friend, not even when her grandmother had died, had she ever seen her father cry. I'll settle for a life of giving love, never receiving it, just as you have, Papa. “You have made a difference in so very many lives—too many to count. I'd be proud to be half the Christian and the person you are, Papa. I'll marry Amos.”
He reached out and patted her shoulder, then pulled her into his arms for a fierce hug. “You'll see, Rebekah. It will be for the best.”
* * * *
The Howling Wilderness Saloon was busy that night. Virginia City was a town that never slept. The deep mine shafts employed heavy equipment to extract ore from rock hundreds of feet beneath the earth where temperatures soared up to one hundred and forty degrees. Miners worked in shifts, coming up at frequent intervals lest they pass out or even expire from the heat. The mining operations never stopped, going on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, when a new bonanza was discovered.
Breweries and distilleries were almost as lucrative as the mines. Saloons and their upstairs fancy houses never closed down either. All manner of men crowded into them to drink and disport themselves. The Howling Wilderness was an anonymous place where everyone pursued his own pleasures, and few were so foolish as to question other men about their reasons for being there.
He had grown to like it that way, like the smell of whiskey and sawdust downstairs and like the heady musk of cheap perfume and sex upstairs. As he approached the bedroom door for his prearranged assignation, he could feel himself getting excited. The thrill of the forbidden sent chills up and down his spine. English Annie would be waiting for him. He opened the door and stepped inside, then froze.
“You're not Annie.”
A slender brunette with slitted eyes as old and hard as the ore dredged up from the mines, stared unsmiling at him. “Annie got herself booted out. Too much 'o the pipe, ole Sauerkraut sez. She wuz doped out 'o her haid all the time. Couldn't keep up with traffic.” She sized up his expensive clothes. He was attractive and even clean. A small smile softened the harsh planes of her mouth but did not reach her cold, dark eyes. “I kin make yew happy, sugar. They call me Magnolia. I'm from Alabama.”
Her drawl was heavy but sounded more like East Texas than Alabama. He did not argue but closed the door, stripped, and sprawled on the bed. Her body was thin and angular, nothing like the soft pillowy flesh he was used to, but she was a whore—she had better know what to do.
Magnolia took off her robe without a flourish. Beneath it she wore only a lacy camisole. When she looked down at him, he was watching her expectantly. And his shaft lay shriveled and limp.
”Soo, yew one o' them boys whut's got the guilties over bein' here? Cheatin' on yer wife?” A mirthless laugh bubbled up in her throat, but after one look at his face, she swallowed it. She climbed on the bed beside him and went to work.
It was no good. She was no good. He cursed angrily and flung her aside, ripping out several greasy strands of dark hair in the process.
“Yew sonofabitch! I ain't no doped-up English Annie,” she spat furiously, rubbing her scalp as she scooted off the bed. “Cain't get it up so yew take it out on me. I don't take no crap from no man—man, hah! Maybe yew ain't a man at all, sugar. Some woman geld yew—yer wife maybe?”
He struck her with his fist, slamming her against the rickety chair beside the bed, overturning it. She stumbled back, a scream welling up in her throat, her eyes enormous with fear as she saw the killing rage etched on his face. He was on her before she could get out the cry for help, the fingers of one hand tightening around her throat while he slapped her with the other. She kicked and tried to claw his eyes, but he threw her to the floor as his fury boiled over.
“You invoke my wife's name—you, a dirty whore! Call me gelded! I'll see you in hell!” He fell on top of her, knocking her arms aside, but not before her nails scratched the side of his face. His fingers tightened on her windpipe, and he squeezed and squeezed until she was still.
Chapter Eleven
> The wedding was a small, private affair, for which Rebekah was grateful. Her father married them in front of the altar just a week after Amos proposed to her. Only her mother, Leah, and Henry were present.
She had debated about asking Celia, but decided it was unwise. Her friend knew how she felt about Rory and would be upset that Rebekah was marrying Amos. There would have been too many difficult questions about the hurried wedding. In a jealous snit, Celia might even have blurted out something perfectly dreadful to Amos. Rebekah decided that once they were safely settled in Carson City, she would write to her old friend and make up some excuse for what had happened.
No one in Wellsville could have any knowledge that she was expecting a child until well after its birth. This perfectly suited Amos' plans to travel from the capital to Washington once his election to the Senate by the Nevada Legislature took place. Their departure also provided the perfect reason for the hasty marriage. Amos wanted to take his new bride with him to meet his influential friends.
Of course Dorcas had been beside herself over the speedy wedding, altering Leah's wedding dress, and preparing a nuptial feast worthy of the exalted Amos Wells. Indeed, if it had been anyone other than Amos, Rebekah knew her mother would have balked at the simple, quiet exchange of vows. But the disgrace of her daughter's condition and the fact that Amos Wells wanted to wed her quickly before leaving for Carson City greatly mitigated her displeasure. In private, she spoke to her younger daughter only in curt commands, so shocked and disgusted with Rebekah's conduct that she could not even muster one of her famous diatribes.
Rebekah feared her mother would have disowned her if not for Amos's timely proposal. Ironically, now that Dorcas had achieved her cherished goal of having Wellsville's leading citizen in the family, she was so alienated from her daughter that she could find no joy in it.
The wedding meal had been sumptuous by Dorcas Sinclair's frugal standards, a crown roast of pork with sage dressing, green beans and creamed onions fresh from the garden, hot rolls, and rhubarb pie with ice cream for dessert. Leah and her mother had worked since daybreak preparing it. Everyone complimented them lavishly.
Rebekah was scarcely able to swallow a bite. She kept stealing covert glances at her new husband. He was an imposing-looking man, slightly above middle height and well built—trim for his age, she supposed. His clothing was expensive and expertly tailored, with a sapphire stickpin winking in his cravat. The immaculately barbered Vandyke beard added to his look of middle-aged elegance, as did the silver-streaked dark hair framing his well-molded features. Only the unsightly set of scratches on his left cheek marred the effect of perfect grooming. She wondered what accident might have caused them, then dismissed the thought. Probably, he'd received them from some low-lying tree branch while riding.
Shortly after seven, Amos indicated that it was time for them to leave. While he, Ephraim, and Henry chatted amiably, Dorcas cleared the table. Rebekah, accompanied by her sister, went upstairs to change into a simple suit for their ride out to the Flying W.
“I would feel it my obligation to explain marital duties to you, but that obviously won't be necessary,” Leah said nastily as she finished unfastening the buttons to her sister's wedding dress.
Stepping out of the layers of white satin, Rebekah felt like an utter hypocrite. White for purity. What a cruel joke. She had given up purity, innocence, honor—everything for a man who did not love her. The hostile silence between the sisters thickened while Rebekah donned the sensible tan twill suit she would wear on the long ride.
“I'm sorry for the worry I've caused the family, Leah.” Rebekah did not want them to remain enemies. Soon, she would be miles away from everyone she knew, living in a strange new city, then traveling all the way to Washington.
“You'd best be grateful for Henry's timely intervention, else this whole ghastly affair wouldn't have ended so well,” Leah replied as she smoothed her white satin dress, irritated that it had been ruined by the alterations and was altogether too small for her ever to fit into again. Not that she wished to, but it was her wedding dress, after all.
“Leah...” Rebekah paused as her sister's words turned in her mind. Surely it could not be! “Did Henry tell Amos about Rory—about the baby?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
Leah's eyes were cold with contempt. “I hardly think so. Why on earth would a man like Amos Wells want some dirty Irishman's castoff? He must've told him some malarkey about your regretting your earlier coolness and pining away for him. When Amos takes you tonight, just act like it hurts the way it did the first time you rutted with that prizefighter. Amos probably won't realize the difference.” She shuddered with distaste.
Rebekah blanched and sank onto the dressing stool in front of her small vanity. She would have to sham virginity. Because of her revulsion over bedding Amos, she had blocked the whole thing from her mind. “What if he knows?”
Leah gave her a scathing look. “That, my dear harlot of a sister, is your problem to deal with, isn't it? You're married now, so I'd advise you to become a very good actress. Now, if you don't mind,” she said sarcastically, “I'm not feeling at all well myself. My ankles are horribly swollen from working all day in the kitchen. I need to put my feet up and rest.” Her hand went to her belly, now rounding noticeably enough to force her to abandon her corset. Leah was only in her fourth month.
Amos will know! All the fear and repugnance Rebekah felt came roaring down on her. It would be horrid enough just to endure another man's touch after Rory, but now she must also contend with her husband's deadly wrath once he realized he had been deceived. Even if she somehow managed to get through the sham of her “deflowering” tonight, her pregnancy would all too soon become apparent if she progressed as her sister had.
But Leah has always been more voluptuous. She watched as her sister walked out the door and closed it with a firm click, leaving the bride alone with her terror and guilt. She looked down at her own still flat belly and slender body. Perhaps, she would not grow heavy so quickly. But that was several months ahead. Right now, she had to face letting Amos Wells strip her clothes off and do intimate things to her that she could imagine no one but Rory ever doing.
“Stop it!” She pressed her fingers to her aching temples. Somehow, she would get through tonight. She had to for the sake of her unborn child. The baby was innocent and deserved a chance to be part of a real family, to have a loving father. Yet she could not imagine Amos as a doting parent. The cold flashes of controlled fury she had sensed in his eyes still made her stomach clench. But he had been smiling and genial on their various outings, always the chivalrous gentleman. It would all work out. “It must, for your sake, little one,” she whispered, holding her palm to her belly.
The Sneads were staying with the Sinclairs overnight so Leah could rest up. Good-byes between Rebekah and her family were constrained and mercifully brief. As Amos was bidding farewell to Dorcas, Ephraim quickly gave Rebekah a fatherly squeeze around the shoulders and whispered, “Everything will be fine—just do your duty and love your husband.”
How can I, when you never could love your wife? She nodded, unable to meet his eyes as Amos took her arm and assisted her into the large carriage that contained her few worldly belongings. Then, they were off, two polite strangers, now man and wife. Conversation was stilted and desultory, as it had always been between them. He explained about his grandiose political aspirations, and she listened, nodding in the appropriate places.
The drive to the ranch took longer than usual because an early autumn storm came pouring down on them with deluging force, turning the dusty road to a quagmire in minutes. To Rebekah, it seemed an evil omen, but she forced the thought aside. When they arrived at the Flying W, Amos helped her from the elegant covered carriage and guided her toward the front porch of the white frame mansion. A servant scurried down the steps carrying an umbrella with which he quickly sheltered her.
If she had possessed any romantic notion that her husband would sweep her into
his arms and carry her across the threshold, it was quickly dashed. Amos strode up the steps with her on his arm. A tall, thin old man held the door open as the bridal couple walked into the foyer.
Amos made no attempt to introduce her, increasing her sense of isolation and foreboding. As he instructed the butler to take her bags to her quarters, a young girl with light brown hair and freckles came scurrying down the front staircase and bobbed a curtsy.
“This is your personal maid, Rebekah. She will see you to your room and assist you in changing. I shall be up within an hour.”
“This way, ma'am,” the girl said with a nervous glance at her employer as she gestured to the stairs.
Rebekah smiled at the pale, homely young girl and preceded her. “What's your name?”
“Patsy, ma'am. Patsy Mulcahey.”
Irish. She should have recognized the accent. Indeed, it was quite common across the state, especially in the Comstock where the Irish comprised the largest group of miners, whose wives and daughters worked as domestics in wealthy households from the Truckee River all the way south to Eagle Valley.
Rebekah turned her attention to the ornate hallway at the top of the stairs. Their footfalls were swallowed up in a thick Aubusson carpet with an intricate pattern. The walls were covered with an equally dark blue wallpaper with narrow maroon stripes. When Patsy opened the door to her room, Rebekah stepped inside her large quarters. A delicate settee and piecrust table were placed near the door. Beyond, a tambour desk sat near the window, which was hung with maroon velvet draperies. The dark blues and maroons were repeated in the satin bedspread and pillows. Every piece of furniture in the room was expensive and exquisitely designed, but as cold and soulless as Amos Wells himself.
Refusing to look at the bed, she swept her gaze to the door to the adjoining room. At least she would have some privacy and be allowed to sleep alone. But first I have to let him touch me the way Rory...