by Holly Bush
“Is this a large event?” she asked.
“Very large. One of the fanciest socials there is around here, and I’ll need the support and the money of some key attendees.” He looked down at her. “They’ll be quite a bit of interest in you, I imagine.”
“Do you need me to arrange anything? A small dinner before the ball?”
“A dinner? I think it would be too much traveling from here to town with women in gowns and such,” he said.
“I think Emma Jean and Timothy McCastor would be thrilled to have a dinner party for twelve or fourteen guests prior to the ball. You did say they lived in the city?”
Maximillian stopped walking and looked at her. “They probably would. It couldn’t hurt Timothy’s business.”
“It will be helpful to Timothy. He’ll be seen in a different light as a confidant to the next Senator.”
“Should I ride in to see Timothy and ask him?”
Jolene shook her head. “I’ll send a note to Emma Jean and let her know I’ll be doing some shopping in town one day soon. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she asked me to her home for a lunch or a tea to meet some of the wives she’s social with. I’ll make a point of mentioning a dinner to her when we’re alone.”
They stepped into the soft glow of the gas lights under the portico of the Hacienda. Maximillian turned to her and took her hands in his.
“You sure are the right woman to help me run for office. I’m so glad I married you,” he said with a broad smile and a laugh. “You know just what to do.”
Jolene sobered. “I understand that you would expect value for your dollar. And this is well within the limits of our contract.”
“Jolene,” he said. “I was joking. I never meant to imply that that was the only reason I’m glad I married you because it’s not. Don’t be foolish.”
“Thank you for the walk, Maximillian. It was very pleasant. Good night.”
Jolene turned and forced herself to not hurry, although in truth, she wanted to run to her rooms and bar the door. How dare he? How dare he entice her with the walk and the stream and the darkening night? And his constant touching! The hand-holding, fondling her hair without warning, and wrapping her up in his embraces.
Jolene dismissed Alice with a wave of her hand as she came into her room but Alice stood fast.
“Leave. My head is aching.”
“Mrs. Shelby?” Alice asked. “There is . . .”
“Now, Alice. Leave now,” Jolene said loudly as she stared out the window and thought of Maximillian. What a fool I’ve been.
“Mrs. Shelby,” Alice whispered.
Jolene turned; ready to unleash her self-hatred and wrath on someone who could not fight back. She looked at Alice. The maid’s eyes were wide and fearful and Jolene could see that her hands shook. “What!” she shouted.
Alice did not speak. She raised her hand and pointed to Jolene’s bed. There sat Melinda, wide-eyed, with a tear-stained face. The girl rubbed at her cheeks.
“What is she doing in here?” Jolene asked sharply and watched all the color remaining on the child’s face drain away, leaving tear-filled eyes and trembling lips. She scrambled from Jolene’s bed and ran to the door.
“Stop,” Jolene shouted. She blocked Melinda’s exit. Jolene looked at her maid and at Melinda and knew she was at a crossroads. Would she become her mother? Could she bear to live with herself if she did? “I should not have shouted, Alice. I . . . I am sorry. Please go to bed.” Alice dropped a curtsy and hurried through the door to her rooms.
Jolene looked at Melinda. “I should not have shouted at Alice, and I should not have asked why you were here so crudely. But why are you here? What is the matter?”
Melinda shook her head and sniffled.
Jolene was ashamed. An emotion that she’d rarely dealt with. Little William’s death brought profound and lasting grief, leading to troubling, and yet unresolved, introspection. Turner’s death brought her fury and humiliation. But right now she was ashamed. Her feelings had been hurt by Maximillian, and she lashed out at Alice and indirectly at Melinda. What a unique and unsettling experience! Other than with her son for those short years, her feelings were rarely engaged, and therefore unable to be tender. But her feelings were engaged with Maximillian and with this girl. She’d best admit it to herself.
Jolene took Melinda’s hand and led her to the bed. She kicked off her shoes, sat down, and pulled Melinda up beside her. “Now tell me why you are here in my rooms. What has upset you so?”
Melinda’s head was bowed and her shoulders slumped. She sniffed.
Jolene unfolded her hands. She patted her fingers together, unsure how to proceed. But eventually, she did it. She touched Melinda’s hair and smoothed her hand down the child’s back. Melinda launched herself at Jolene, with both hands around her waist, and her head on Jolene’s breast. She had no choice but to hold her in a loose embrace.
“Shhhh. Tell me what has happened,” Jolene said.
“Miguel hates me.”
“Who is Miguel?” Jolene asked. “Is that Maria’s son?”
Melinda nodded.
“Why would he hate you?”
“Because I wear nice clothes now, and we have money for nice things and for the Hacienda,” she said softly.
“That is not hatred, Melinda. That is jealousy. People inevitably want what they do not have. It is a fact of life.”
“Maybe if I wore my dungarees again.”
“Will you wear dungarees the rest of your life so that Miguel does not get upset?”
Melinda shook her head.
“You must begin to think about the future, Melinda. Not just what you will do tomorrow or next week, but about your place at the Hacienda as the mistress someday. You will need skills to do this, and that is why I am insisting on your studies. You cannot allow others to make your decisions when the time comes. You will listen to experts, but you will have the final say. You must learn who is genuine and who only wants something from you.”
“And Miguel will not be a part of it, will he?”
“He may be a trusted employee. Or he may move away from here. It is his life to live. This will be yours.”
“But Daddy will be here to help me,” she said as she looked up at Jolene.
“Your father will live a long life, I’m sure.”
Melinda searched Jolene’s eyes. “But he won’t be here forever, will he?”
“He will not. Nothing is. It is the way of life and nature.”
Melinda’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want Daddy to die.”
“Of course you do not,” Jolene said. “We are being maudlin now.”
“But I would miss him so much,” Melinda said. She looked up at Jolene. “Would you miss him?”
“Yes. I would miss him, too.” she said.
Chapter Eleven
Emma Jean kissed both of her cheeks and held Jolene’s hands in the foyer of the McCastor home. “I am so glad you sent me a message that you were coming to town.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Jolene replied and removed her gloves.
“As I said in my note, this is my at home day anyway. I’d like you to be a regular visitor but I wasn’t sure if you were a rider or wanted to come by carriage and I know you’re also a newlywed who may not be willing to part with her husband quite yet,” Emma Jean said with a smile.
“I am a newlywed, but I’m also interested in meeting the wives and making friends with women of like interests,” Jolene said and slid her arm through Emma Jean’s.
“Well then, let me introduce you,” she said. “We have quite an eclectic group!”
Jolene spent the next half hour being introduced to the eight women in Emma Jean’s drawing room. It did not take her long to determine that this group of women was unlike anything she was used to. She was seated beside Bella Fabray, who introduced herself as a Suffragette.
“I understand your husband is considering running for the U.S. Senate. Does he have a position o
n suffrage?” Bella asked.
Jolene answered truthfully. “I have no idea.”
“I’ll be curious to hear what he thinks,” Bella said. “Our little group has diverse opinions about women voting, so he will make some of us happy and some of us sad regardless of what he says. What are your feelings on voting rights for women?”
Jolene shook her head. “I don’t know really. I’ve never thought about it.”
“That was refreshingly honest,” Martha Newmeyer said as she leaned forward to speak to Bella from Jolene’s left. “Let her be, Bella. For heaven’s sake. The poor woman just got here and you are looking for an argument.”
“Did you see the Dallas News today?” Cornelia Gregory asked. “They are force feeding those poor women that were arrested for trying to vote. There is a picture of the contraption they use to keep their mouths open. It made me quite ill.”
“I don’t agree with Suffrage, but that is just plain wrong,” Felicity Kenney said.
Jolene had never joined in the political discussions that she occasionally heard during dinner parties or while socializing in Boston society. No women did that she knew. But these women were talking about all sorts of issues and causes and had widely varying opinions. Jolene could tell by the cut and style of their clothing and their conversation that Elsie Hooverman, Felicity Kenney, and Martha Newmeyer were not in the same economic category as she, Corneila Gregory, and Anna Cummingsworth were, but it didn’t appear strange to anyone, nor was it noted. Emma Jean sat down beside her.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.
Jolene nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am. This is quite different from anything I’m accustomed to, but I’m enjoying it.”
Emma Jean cocked her head. “Quite different? What did you and your bosom bows talk about in Boston?”
“We talked about our husbands and their accomplishments. What schools are children were in. Which events we were invited to or attending. And servants. We talked about servants all the time,” Jolene said.
“Oh,” Emma Jean said. “I hope we haven’t offended you.”
Jolene was silent for some time and then turned to look at Emma Jean. “I am not offended. I am interested, though. These women seem quite determined to have their own opinions outside of what their husbands think.”
“Yes. We do.”
“In Boston, we were always content to talk about ourselves and our worlds. It appears that this group talks about everything but themselves,” Jolene said.
“Not always, though,” Emma Jean said with a laugh. “I know everyone here is dying to ask you about all the Boston styles. Every outfit I’ve seen you in is so new and different-looking. They’re beautiful!”
Jolene found herself at the middle of the conversation about clothing and her purchases at McCabe’s Apparel. Anna Cummingsworth, a beautiful and very young woman, sat down beside her.
“So Max finally decided to remarry,” she said. “Most of us thought it would never happen.”
Jolene glanced at Anna and smiled politely. What was there to say?
“There’ll be some Dallas belles crying in their pillow when they hear he’s up and married,” Anna said with a toss of her curls. “But everyone just wanted Max to happy.”
Jolene leaned forward conspiratorially. “Please tell them there is nothing to worry about. Mr. Shelby is very, very content. I see to that myself.”
The women said their goodbyes, and Jolene settled into the buggy for the ride home.
* * *
Max had all but a few boxes removed and a fresh coat of paint on the walls of the room that was to be Jolene’s office. He had a spare desk and some book shelves moved from one of the bedrooms and found a small desk that would suit Melinda as well. A young girl had dusted, swept, and cleaned the windows. He was getting ready to look at the last of the boxes when he heard someone at the door.
“Oh,” Jolene said as she looked around the room.
“If you want to order a different desk, feel free. I just wanted to get something in here for you to get started,” he said and wondered if Jolene was still angry at him. She’d been gone to Dallas by the time he came in the house mid-morning.
“This will be fine to start,” she said and looked up at him. “Thank you. It’s very nice.”
“You’re welcome.” He wasn’t sure how to proceed with Jolene when she was prickly. He’d never meant to hurt her when he said what he did about being glad he married her. But clearly she did not trust him and had a difficult time believing that anyone would have her best interest at heart with no expectations of a return.
“There will be ten of us for dinner at the McCastor’s on the night of the Cattlemen’s Ball. Emma Jean will send you the guest list for your final approval once she has discussed it with Timothy.”
“Thank you.”
Jolene walked to her desk and ran a finger down it. She was mulling a question or a comment he thought, but he had no intentions of prodding her along. Jolene was going to have to move through whatever she was going through at her own speed. He could neither hurry her nor slow her down.
“What is your position concerning women’s voting rights?”
Max shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure . . .”
“Suffrage. Women going to the polling booth and voting. What do you think of it all?”
“I haven’t really thought about it too much. Why?”
“Don’t you think you should think about it?” Jolene asked and looked up at him.
Max shrugged. “Most people in these parts are concerned about taxes and water rights.”
“Most men, you mean.”
“Yeah. That’s what men are concerned about when they go to the voting booth.”
“How would you know what women are concerned about then. They don’t get to go to the voting booth.”
Max laughed. “Point well taken. I’ll have to think about that and do some reading. I’d say women couldn’t do a poorer job voting than men do, that’s for certain.”
“You may be asked when you run for office. It’s always good to have some time to think through what you might say,” she said.
“True. Tell me about your afternoon at Emma Jean’s.”
Jolene pulled out the desk chair and sat down. “It was very interesting. Very different than soirees and afternoon visits in Boston but . . . it was enjoyable. They made me feel very welcome although there is little pretense in regards to social standing and wealth.”
“What was that like?”
She looked up at him. “Freeing,” she said. “I would have been free to speak my mind on a variety of subjects and not looked at oddly. They spend little time worrying about themselves and the particulars of their lives. They talk instead about all sorts of current subjects, and they are reading a book aloud. They are helping a minister’s wife, Felicity Kenney, who was with us today, with an orphanage attached to the parish. And not just raising money. Some of them actually do things for the orphans.”
“Will you be going back?”
“Yes. And I’d like to invite them here sometime, I think,” Jolene said and looked up. “This is all very new to me.”
Max smiled. “Having friends?”
“Having choices,” she said and stood.
“Nobody’s watching you and judging you, Jolene,” Max said. “You’re free to be whatever you are or wanted to be here.”
“Thank you, Maximillian.”
Max walked to her and picked up her hands from her lap. “Does this mean we aren’t fighting anymore?”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings last night, and I’m sorry if I did. It was meant to coax a smile from you. That’s all.”
Jolene locked gazes with him. “Have you had relations with Anna Cummingsworth?”
“Relations?”
“Sexual relations.”
“Anna Cummingsworth? No! She’s just a young girl. No. Why would you ask?”
Max could not believe what he was hearing. He walked towards her and she turned to face him. “You think I will climb into bed with some other woman? I’m a married man, Jolene. I’m your husband. It’s either you or no one.”
She looked up at him from under fringed lashes. “That sounds quite final.”
“It is,” Max said. And then, unbidden, a vision of Jolene baring those white shoulders of hers for some other man came into his mind. The thought made him grind his teeth and clench his fists. He walked closer to Jolene, and she stepped back until she was against the wall. “For both of us.”
“The bedroom was never meant to be part of our arrangement,” she said breathlessly.
“I know. But there’s heat between us, Jolene. You can feel it. So can I. I’m rock-hard half the day for wanting you,” he whispered and slowly pressed her against the wall till her breasts were tight against his chest, and his knee was between her legs. He moved her hair back and ran his tongue around the shell of her ear. She groaned. “You make me out of my mind for wanting you.”
* * *
Jolene’s eyes were barely open, and her lips rubbed against the rough bristles of his beard when she spoke. “I have no intentions of having sexual relations with anyone, Maximillian. There’s no reason to.”
Maximillian dropped his hand to her hip and drew it slowly up her side and up the underside of her arm, picking it up as he went and wrapping her hand around his neck. “No reason to, Jolene? How about pleasure? How about two adults giving each other pleasure and filling their desires?”
“Oh, Maximillian,” she said, her eyes closing and her lips parting.
He put a hand on her behind and pulled her tight against him. “God, Jolene, I want you.”