Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “You’ll find you’ve got yourself a she-wolf!” She squealed as he lunged for her, just managing to elude his grasp. He cursed good-naturedly. Like a child would, to taunt its friends, she waggled her arms derisively in his direction. Drat! A tactical error. His long arms reached out, clutched at her fingers, pulled her in close. While she wriggled and struggled against him, he pinned her arms behind her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She melted for a moment, then, remembering their game, strained against his imprisoning arms.

  “She-wolf be damned,” he said. He swept her up in his embrace and carried her to the bed, flinging her across the coverlet. Before she had time to plan her next strategy, he was upon her, his hard shaft finding the soft entrance, plunging deep.

  She gasped and clung to him, moving with every wild thrust, arching to meet him in hungry joy. They rode out their storm together, cresting in a rush of feeling, of dazzling sensation, that left her breathless.

  He laughed softly. “That’s the best trophy I ever came home with!” He sat up and looked at her. “Come to think of it…that scene at the waterfall. Which one of us is really the hunter after all?”

  They crawled under the covers together, falling asleep in each other’s arms, as they always did.

  It was hours later when Marcy awoke. She could still hear the sound of the rain pattering against the windows. Drew was not beside her. Beyond the folding screen, she saw the light of a candle flickering on the ceiling. Quietly she slipped out of bed. Drew, his trousers and smock pulled on carelessly, was at his easel, painting by the light from the candle stand. His forehead was creased in a frown, but the tenseness of his body, the way he slashed at his canvas with short strokes, spoke more of desperation than of anger.

  Marcy sighed and crept quietly back to bed. It was not her place to intrude, though she ached with helpless misery. The more works Drew saw, the more painters he spoke to, the more he seemed to lose his confidence. Lying in bed, she felt the hot tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Oh God, she thought. She loved him so much. And there wasn’t a danged thing she could do to help him.

  “Oh, Miss Willough, you made a beautiful bride.”

  Willough glanced in the mirror, seeing the smile of pleasure on Brigid’s face. And well she might be pleased! Hadn’t Arthur hired her away from Isobel—at double the salary, twenty-four dollars a month—to be Willough’s personal maid? She stared at her reflection. A beautiful bride. Around her the room hummed with activity as the two young chambermaids lovingly folded the lace of her bridal veil, hung up the white tulle and satin gown, turned down the sheets of the large bed. A beautiful bride. It was astonishing that her seamstress had managed to finish the gown in time, each silk orange blossom painstakingly tucked into a tulle flounce.

  But Arthur had been impatient, setting an early date for the wedding. It was still only October. She stared at her pale face, paler against the white of her dressing gown. In less than a month she should have been Nat’s bride. On his birthday.

  Brigid began to brush out her black hair. What have I done? she thought. It was as if, from the night of Arthur’s party and the announcement of their engagement, she had climbed aboard a speeding locomotive. Powerless to get off, to stop its headlong flight, she had watched—as though from a great distance—her life hurtle toward a future she neither wanted nor welcomed. But the round of parties had begun, the social world of New York finally taking Arthur to its bosom. There had never been a moment when she was able to tell him that somehow she had made a ghastly mistake.

  And, after all, how would it have looked? Grandma Carruth would have cursed her from the grave, and the family would have died of shame.

  Arthur had been a perfect gentleman, of course. That’s what had made it all the more difficult. He had kissed her a few times. Very respectfully. Not at all frightening. But she had felt none of the thrill that being in Nat’s arms had given her.

  Nat. She gulped, fighting back her tears. She had hoped, until the last minute, that she’d hear from him. Then, pride in hand, she’d written to Mrs. Walker at MacCurdyville. Would she ask around for him? The letter had come only this afternoon, half an hour before the ceremony. Nat seemed to have vanished.

  Daddy had been furious, of course, the night of Arthur’s party. “Quit?” he’d roared. “What do you mean the son of a bitch has quit? What the hell am I supposed to do for a manager with Clegg retiring?” In the end, Bill had been named manager, and Daddy had pulled one of the founders from the ranks to be the new clerk. There had never been a question of offering it to Willough. Wasn’t she getting married? She sighed unhappily, fingering the perfume bottles on her vanity. Perhaps he had never wanted her as a partner. And how could she fight Daddy? She didn’t want him to hate her.

  But Isobel certainly hated her. In the past, though Willough had felt her mother’s animosity, Isobel had treated her with a certain amount of restraint. Now Willough had stolen her Arthur, and Isobel was not about to let her forget it. They had clashed over everything. The flowers, the guest list, the attendants—until Willough felt herself reeling with the waves of hatred.

  Strangely, though Isobel made it clear that Arthur had hurt her by his actions, the two of them still spoke to each other. Indeed, Willough had overheard a mystifying conversation between them only the other day.

  “You owe me a favor, Arthur,” her mother had said. “I did what you wanted me to do, though you lied about your intentions.”

  “Isobel, my dear. You don’t understand.”

  “I think I understand more than you know.” Her mother’s voice had been sharp with bitterness. “You owe me a favor. I’ll expect payment in return some day.”

  Willough sighed, shook her head impatiently. “That’s enough, Brigid.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Putting down the brush, Brigid began to plait the black tresses into a long braid. She cocked her head to the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping down the circular drive of Arthur’s house. “It sounds like Mr. Bradford is finally going home.”

  “Yes.” The wedding party had broken up more than an hour ago. Isobel, in her element among the cream of society, had received them in her flower-banked parlor at Gramercy Park after the service at Grace Church. Daddy had had Delmonico’s cater the banquet for two hundred and fifty guests. When the bride and groom had finally left the Bradford home, Daddy had followed in his carriage. He had closeted himself with Arthur in the downstairs study while they discussed the terms of the marriage.

  It was a formality, of course. The terms had long since been agreed upon. A bankbook of ten thousand dollars, stock in the MacCurdy enterprises to go to Willough when she turned twenty-five. Held in trust by Arthur until then. It was the best that Daddy could do. He’d lost a great deal of money when the stock market had closed on the nineteenth of September. “Black Friday,” they were already calling it. There’d been too much building and speculation in the spring, particularly in railroad stock. The railroad panic had triggered a panic in the general financial markets, and dozens of banks had been ruined. Rutherford and Seneca had called in their loan—money that was already committed to the building of Daddy’s new finery. But Daddy had been lucky. Two out of three iron mills were now idled. He might be cash poor at the moment, but at least the MacCurdy Ironworks was still running.

  “’Tis a pity you can’t have a proper honeymoon, ma’am.” Brigid nodded her head solemnly. “My friend Kathleen’s mistress went to Hot Springs for a whole month, she did.”

  “After Saratoga, Hot Springs would have little charm, Brigid.”

  “Well, Europe, then.”

  “No. Mr. Gray doesn’t think it’s worthwhile at this time. The Season is just beginning. He doesn’t want to miss any of it.”

  Brigid sniffed. “Especially as how the Carruth name seems to have opened up a slather of doors to him!”

  “Brigid! Don’t you like Mr. Arthur?”

  “Well, he’s not Mr. Nat, if you’ll pardon me saying so. And that’s a fa
ct!”

  Willough felt a pang at her heart. “Leave me now.” She waved an impatient hand at the two chambermaids. “And take those chattering magpies with you.”

  She was alone. In this big, empty room. She looked around at the bed hangings, the fine carpets, the lace curtains at the windows. Arthur had spared no expense, redoing it just to suit her. He certainly treated her well. She sighed. She’d be a good wife to him. No matter how her heart was aching. Hadn’t she trained for this all her life? The social graces, the proper behavior. Grandma Carruth’s pride and joy. Isobel’s dutiful pupil. And Daddy’s obedient daughter. She supposed it would be that way with Arthur. An independent woman is a disgrace to her sex, Grandma always said. Only Nat had encouraged her to talk back to Daddy.

  She extinguished all but the lamp near the large bed. It looked comfortable, with its clean white linens, and she was tired. The Goelets were giving a reception tomorrow. She wanted to look rested. She frowned. She wondered if she ought to say good night to Arthur first. He must be in his own room by now.

  There was a knock at the door that connected their two rooms. Arthur came in, dressed in a red silk dressing gown. “I thought your father would never leave,” he said.

  She smiled. “I was about to come and say good night to you.”

  He smoothed his mustache. “Not yet. Not on our wedding night.”

  She felt herself beginning to tremble. “But Arthur…I thought… You said you’d treat me with respect.”

  One eyebrow shot up in surprise. “My dear Willough, you didn’t think that meant I intended to be a celibate bridegroom!”

  She didn’t know what she had thought. Only that she hadn’t expected this. “Arthur, I’d really prefer…”

  “Now, now, my dear. There’s no sense in postponing it. It won’t make it any easier if we wait.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His mustache tickled her nose.

  She thought, Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all.

  He unfastened her wrapper and slipped it off her shoulders. He kissed her again, a little less gently this time, and began to unbutton her nightgown.

  “No, wait!” She felt the beginnings of panic. “Put out the light.”

  He smiled thinly. “Of course. Get into bed first, so you don’t trip in the dark.”

  She did as she was told, crawling under the covers and pulling the sheet up to her chin. He turned out the gas lamp next to her bed. In the darkness she could hear the soft sounds of his hands fumbling with the silk tie of his dressing gown, then another sound. Oh God! Had he taken off his nightshirt? She felt the bed shake as he sat down; then he was under the covers with her.

  “Take off your nightgown, Willough,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. It made the dark even blacker. “No.”

  “You’re very dear to me, Willough. I promise you I’ll be as gentle as I can. Take off your gown.”

  “No.”

  His voice held the edge of impatience. “Very well. You don’t have to take it off until you’re ready.”

  She felt his hand in the dark, groping under the covers. She stiffened as he touched her breast, then forced herself to relax. She had let Nat touch her that way. Why not Arthur?

  “Dearest Willough. How I’ve wanted you.” He murmured soft words, loving words. And all the while his hand caressed her breasts, stroked her shoulders through the thin lawn of her nightgown.

  She sank more deeply into her pillows, allowing the tension to leave her. He was gentle. He leaned over and began to kiss her more passionately, his mouth hard and insistent on hers. Still, she wasn’t afraid. She started to touch him once, then withdrew her hands when she felt his bare shoulders. That was frightening, to think he was naked. His lips closed on hers. At the same time he rolled on top of her. She felt a strange hardness poking at her belly. She tried to cry out, but his mouth on hers prevented her; her parted lips seemed to fire his ardor. His tongue sought her mouth, plunging deep until she thought she’d choke. Oh, God! What was he doing now? His hands were tugging at her nightdress, pushing it up, above her hips, her waist. She pounded at his shoulders with her fists, struggling to free her mouth, her trapped body, from his possession. Pressed down by his hard chest, she thrashed beneath him, legs spread wide; too late she realized her folly. That was what he had wanted all along, the vulnerable core of her that her frightened struggles had exposed. She started to draw her knees together; at that moment something tore her apart, forcing its way into her with such savagery that her fists became claws, scraping against the flesh of his shoulders. With a desperate toss of her head, she freed her mouth from his. “Arthur! Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “In a moment, Willough,” he panted. “Sweet, sweet Willough!”

  She bit her lip, fighting back the tears. Not content with ripping her open, he was determined to rub her raw. Again and again he thrust into her, until she thought she couldn’t bear another second. He gave a sudden gasp, twitched violently. And then it was over.

  He rolled away from her and sighed. “Dear Willough,” he murmured. “How I needed you!”

  Damn him! she thought. He sounded contented! He had shamed her. Hurt her. Used her! And he was content?

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said gently. “It’s always that way the first time.”

  In the darkness, she stumbled out of bed toward her dressing room with its galvanized tub and its modern plumbing. Closing the door, she lit the gaslight with shaking hands, staring at herself in horror. Her nightgown, her white thighs. Spotted with blood. She wanted to vomit. She peeled the gown from her body, ran a little warm water into the basin, and sponged herself as best she could. There was no washing away her shame.

  “Willough.”

  She extinguished the light and opened the door.

  “Willough,” he said again. “Come back to bed.”

  She could hardly keep from crying. “I want to get a fresh nightgown.”

  “Not yet. Come back to bed.”

  Reluctantly, she moved toward him. “Not again, Arthur. Please!”

  In the dimness, she could see that he had made room for her. “Get in. You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.”

  “But it hurt!”

  He reached out and pulled her down beside him. “It won’t hurt as much this time. I promise you.” He moved on top of her, spreading her legs with strong hands when she resisted.

  He was right. It didn’t hurt as much. But it was just as terrible. When he had gone back to his own room, she found a fresh nightgown in the dark and crept back to bed, curling up on a corner of the mattress that was as far away as she could manage it from the spot where they had lain together.

  In the morning she sent word to him by Brigid that she was not well and intended to spend the day in her room. She soaked for a long time in her tub, trying not to think of the pain, the disgust she had felt for him. For what he had done to her. It was just as Isobel had warned her. She picked at the food Brigid brought. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a stranger who would never be the same again.

  Late in the afternoon, Arthur appeared at her door carrying a tea tray. He smiled and set it down on a small table. “I thought we’d have tea together. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I don’t want tea.”

  He shrugged and helped himself to a cup, watching her as she stood at the window and stared at the carriages that moved up and down Fifth Avenue. “Come here,” he said at last, putting down his cup. When she obeyed, he pulled a diamond and ruby bracelet from his pocket and fastened it about her wrist. “I thought this might cheer you up, my sweet.”

  “It’s very handsome,” she said dully.

  “Look, Willough, I know you’re still feeling a bit embarrassed. It’s natural. All young brides feel that way. It’s your upbringing. Your natural reticence. But now that you’re married, you can allow yourself to change, to welcome feelings that you’ve kept in check until now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Why didn
’t he just go away and leave her alone?

  “Oh for God’s sake, Willough, don’t sulk!” he burst out. “It’ll be better the next time. You’ll see. It just takes getting used to. It’ll be better the next time.”

  She felt anger in her heart—for him, for herself, for the whole sorry business. “There’s not going to be a next time!” she said defiantly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled.

  Why don’t you please yourself for a change? Nat had said. Well, perhaps she was Brian’s daughter after all. “Never again, Arthur,” she said firmly.

  His eyes glowed with fury, a frustrated passion that bubbled to the surface. “Damn you! I’ll show you who’s in charge here!” He swung at her with his open palm, striking her so hard that she fell to the floor. Dazed, she struggled to her knees, clinging to the leg of her chaise. He knelt before her, his hand like steel about her wrist. “You’re my wife, dammit! In every respect! You’ll remember your wifely duty if I have to tie you to the bed! One frigid Bradford woman is all I’ll put up with!” He rose to his feet, calmed himself, straightened the cuffs of his frock coat. “And may I remind you we have a reception at the Goelets this evening,” he added, his voice as cold as ice. “You’d better be dressed and ready. I don’t intend to be made a fool of by my wife.” Turning on his heel, he strode from her room.

  You made your bed. Now lie in it. She could almost hear Grandma Carruth’s voice. She was Arthur’s wife. It was her duty to obey him. Even if it meant she must let him…

  She shivered. Nat had said all men were the same in bed. It might have been just as awful if Nat had done that terrible thing to her. But she had never felt alone or empty when Nat was with her. She couldn’t imagine he could be so thoughtless—in or out of the bedroom.

  She got shakily to her feet, rubbing her hand against her still-stinging cheek. The Arthur she had married was a stranger A cruel, lustful stranger with no warmth or compassion. She saw the scene in the boathouse with new eyes. He had manipulated her feelings, played on her childish sense of romance, to get what he wanted. And would have, if Nat hadn’t been there.