Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  And there was the matter of the money. He had given her lavish gifts, trinkets and ribbons and bonbons; no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make him understand that her joy—those last few days in Paris—had been because of his lightheartedness, not because of the things he bought her. And when she asked where the money came from, he was evasive. “My father’s helping out,” he’d mutter, then change the subject. But she remembered what he’d said in the past, that his father had made conditions he couldn’t possibly accept. So why had Brian Bradford sent them money? And why were they going up to Saratoga tomorrow to see him?

  “What about your painting?” she’d ask him. “What happened to your paint box?”

  He’d shrug. “I’ll do a bit when we’ve settled in. Don’t worry.” Either New York City or Saratoga, he’d said. He hadn’t yet decided which would be more convenient.

  And each time she tried to talk to him, to get clearer answers, he’d brush her aside with a laugh, a joke, a kiss. There was to be no talk of business, of painting, of money. Anything. In the end, there was nothing to do but listen to him and ignore her own misgivings.

  There was a tap on the rooming-house door. Marcy threw her wrapper around her shoulders; a fresh-faced young maid entered at her bidding. “Mrs. Bradford, ma’am. There’s a gentleman downstairs to see you.”

  Marcy frowned. “A gentleman? Oh. Perhaps he’s come to see Mr. Bradford. But my husband isn’t here just now.”

  “No, ma’am. He specially asked for you.”

  Who could it be? she thought. She didn’t know anyone in this city. Perhaps Drew was teasing her again. She slipped out of her wrapper and reached for her gray bodice and skirt, murmuring her thanks as the maid helped her hook the waistband and fluff out the silk flounces. She was wearing her red-brown hair in the French style: a fringe of curls across her forehead, a simple ribbon that tied the two temple pieces up and back, the rest hanging loose. Far less complicated than the twisted and artificial styles she’d seen on the women of New York City. It took only a minute’s brushing to smooth her coiffure. She followed the maid downstairs, crossed the rooming-house foyer to the small parlor.

  “Marcy!” An elegantly dressed man walked toward her, holding out his hand in greeting. He certainly was the most nattily attired man she’d seen since they came to the city. He looked like a Parisian swell, with his spats and gloves and walking stick. Much older than Drew. About forty, she guessed. Clearly the “gentleman” the maid had said he was. And he had called her by name. Her Christian name! She eyed him with suspicion. After nearly a year in Paris, she’d learned how to take care of herself, but still…

  He laughed and stroked his small brown mustache. “Forgive me. I’ve just realized how strange all this must seem to you! I’m Arthur Gray.”

  Arthur Gray. Was that supposed to mean anything to her? It sounded vaguely familiar. A friend of Drew’s, perhaps?

  “I’m Willough’s husband. I’m your brother-in-law!”

  “Oh my!” She felt herself blushing. “Of course! I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Gray, I…”

  “Please. Arthur. We are family. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. Drew’s having supper with his mother tonight, and they asked me to look after you.”

  “With his mother? Just the two of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m glad! It means that they’re friends again.”

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “That’s a very understanding attitude for a wife.”

  She smiled. “We’re very much in love. But then, you must know what I mean. You and Willough haven’t been married as long as we have.” She looked around the parlor. “Where is Willough? Shall I get to meet her tonight?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Willough is…hardly in a proper condition to meet anyone in the next few weeks.”

  She frowned; then her eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Oh! Enceinte?” She blushed. “That’s what my concierge would say.”

  He laughed. “Damned if Drewry hasn’t found himself a rare jewel. Yes. Enceinte.” His eyes were warm with approval. It made her feel terribly attractive and mature.

  She thought, How fortunate Willough is to have such a nice husband!

  “Well,” he said, “I’m to treat you to supper while Drew and Isobel become acquainted again. And since you’ll be taking the train to Saratoga tonight…”

  “No. Drew said we’re going in the morning.”

  He shook his head. “The plans have been changed. It seems that Brian sent down his private car to take you up to his place. I thought that, rather than going to a restaurant, you and I could have supper in the car and wait for Drew to join us later. Keller—that’s Brian’s man—makes a wonderful clam chowder. You must be tired of fancy French food.”

  “That sounds very nice…Arthur.”

  “Come along, then,” he said. “My barouche is waiting outside. Are you still packed?”

  “Nearly. Drew and I didn’t want to bother unpacking just for the one night.”

  “Good. Then go and get your bonnet while I pay your bill and have the maid pack up your traps. We’ll bring them over to the railroad car with us.”

  “Oh, no, I can pack…”

  “My dear Marcy, if you’re going to be a Bradford in this city, you’ll have to get used to allowing people to serve you.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “You do like being waited on, don’t you? Like a French countess?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had…” She felt flustered. She’d never thought about it until now. But it had been nice, having the maid help her to dress.

  “Come now. All young girls have dreams. In honor of your first night in New York, why don’t we pretend that you are a countess?”

  She giggled (it might be fun, at that!), and allowed him to commandeer the servants in the rooming house to wait on her. Her baggage was repacked for her, her hair was brushed and her bonnet tied on, her gown swept free of the dust of travel. She sailed out of the rooming house into the fanciest carriage she had ever ridden in, complete with two coachmen in bright green uniforms and silk top hats.

  If the coach had been elegant, the railroad car was dazzling. It sat off on a siding at the Grand Central Terminal, with two large lanterns on either end illuminating the tracks and glinting off the bright blue-and-gold exterior. As they alighted from Arthur’s coach and mounted the steps to the railroad car, Marcy wanted to pinch herself. She truly did feel like a great lady. All the years she’d gazed with awe at these wonderful cars—and here she was, an honored guest, being ushered aboard to take supper in style!

  The interior of the car was a wonder. The parlor was paneled in rich, dark wood, carved in high relief with garlands of flowers and fruit. There were glittering mirrors, silver coat hooks, brass spittoons. Kerosene lanterns, backed by shiny reflectors, were fastened to the walls or hung from the curved ceiling. At one end of the parlor, a desk had been built into the wall; at the other end was a bar, complete with cut-crystal decanters and rows of glasses behind a carved wooden railing. The carpeting was patterned in a lush floral design of cream and blue and red. The red of the carpeting was repeated in the plush of the comfortable parlor chairs, the gold-braided, red velvet draperies at the windows, the large dining chairs that surrounded a paisley-covered table. At one end of the car, half hidden by a red velvet drapery, Marcy could see a galley kitchen, and beyond that a small door.

  Arthur had followed her glance. “That’s where you and Drew will sleep tonight. I’ll show you the rooms later.”

  It was too wonderful for words! “Sleep?” she asked. “In a bed?”

  “Of course! Did you imagine you were to sit up all night?” He laughed. “This car will be hooked onto the locomotive that’s making its regular run. You’ll leave here at about eleven thirty. And you’ll be in Saratoga in time for an early breakfast.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t think people lived like this.”

  He smiled, took off his hat and gloves. “Unless you want to look
around a bit more, sister-in-law, I’d as soon eat.” He chuckled softly and bowed. “That is, if the countess permits!”

  She felt wonderfully elegant and sophisticated. “Madame la comtesse est agréable.”

  “Very good! Very good indeed.” Arthur summoned Keller, who took Marcy’s hat and gloves and handbag, and directed the porter with the luggage into the back rooms. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” Arthur asked as Keller covered the paisley with a white damask cloth and began to lay out china and silver.

  “No. Wine makes me sleepy when I haven’t eaten.”

  “A bit of champagne with supper, then.”

  She giggled. “Only a bit. I’m afraid that champagne goes to my head. I wouldn’t want to be tipsy by the time Drew gets here!”

  Supper was the most extraordinary meal that Marcy had ever eaten. Keller’s clam chowder was creamy and rich, awash with bits of potato and chopped clams. It was followed by cold pheasant with mushrooms, rare roast beef and potatoes, spinach and carrots. Then came plum pudding, ice cream, fruit, and nuts. Marcy ate sparingly, eager to leave room for whatever delicacies might follow. She drank even less, though it was a joy to sip the champagne from delicately carved flute glasses; she certainly didn’t want to embarrass Drew or herself with a repetition of her wedding day!

  In spite of her restraint, however, the champagne seemed to be going to her head. She found herself laughing and giggling a great deal. And when she thought back on it, she could hardly remember what the pudding had tasted like, though she had a mental picture of Keller serving it flaming with brandy.

  She put down her empty coffee cup and smiled at Arthur. “Oh, I’m so tired. Perhaps I should take a nap before Drew gets here.”

  “Nonsense. You just need to stretch your legs. Why don’t I show you the rest of the car?”

  She sat in her chair, too lethargic even to move, until Arthur came around to her side of the table and helped her up. Her legs wobbled for a moment. “Goodness! I think I drank more than I intended.”

  “You’ll feel better if you don’t give in to it. Come and see the bedrooms.”

  Meekly, she allowed him to lead her to the back corridor off of which the bedrooms were located. A small space for Keller—barely more than a closet with a settee that converted to a bed—a handsome guest room done up in olive green velvet, and Mr. Bradford’s quarters.

  “You’ll be staying here,” said Arthur, indicating the guest room. “I’ve had your luggage put in, but perhaps you’d like to see Brian’s room. It has the very latest in modern conveniences.”

  Marcy nodded. Tarnation! She shouldn’t have done that. It made her feel terribly light-headed. She found herself clinging to Arthur for support as he led her into Brian’s quarters.

  But the sight of the room revived her momentarily. It was positively splendid! It scarcely looked like a room in a railroad car. The bed, covered in deep blue velvet edged with silver braid, was twice the size of her and Drew’s Paris bed. It looked good enough to lie down on. She blinked sleepily. “Arthur, I…”

  “Look,” he said, pointing to a small room off to one side. “But perhaps you’ve seen indoor plumbing before…”

  She chuckled. Her voice sounded strange in her ears. “Yes. Once I sneaked into a water closet in one of the fancy hotels in Paris.”

  “But I’m sure you haven’t seen this. It’s Brian’s pride and joy.”

  Marcy stared in curiosity. It seemed to be a little box-shaped room—no wider across than two or three hand-spans—with a frosted glass door. When Arthur opened the door, she peered inside. The other three walls were of marble, unadorned except for brass pipes that ran down each side and were joined by crosswise piping studded with small holes. Marcy laughed. “It looks like a prison, with the bars on the wrong side! What in thunderation is it?”

  “It’s a rain bath. You stand in there and warm water sprays over you. It’s connected to its own boiler in a closet next door.”

  Marcy’s jaw dropped. “It sprays you? All over your whole body?”

  “You don’t even have to sit down. And unless you duck your head, it doesn’t get your face and hair wet.”

  “Oh-h-h!” It was surely the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen! “Do you suppose…in the morning…” She looked at him with hopeful eyes. “Do you suppose I’d be allowed to try it?”

  “The Countess Bradford doesn’t need permission, my dear. You can try it whenever you want. Tonight, if you wish. As a matter of fact, it being such a warm night, I thought you or Drew would like the refreshment of a rain bath. I had Keller turn on a very low flame under the boiler.”

  “Tonight? Now?” She really was beginning to feel very strange. “I’m not quite myself at the moment…” She rubbed her hand across her eyes and took a deep breath. “And the air has become so close.”

  “All the more reason to take a rain bath now. It will perk you up before Drew gets here.”

  “Yes.” It was lovely to have him think for her. Her brain didn’t want to function.

  He smiled. “Then it’s settled. Here’s how you turn it on and off. You can disrobe in this room. I’ll be in the parlor, waiting for you. Perhaps we’ll even have time for a game of whist later.”

  He left her alone in the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

  Marcy unhooked the bodice of her gown and dropped it onto a chair. She blinked. Why was the light so dim? There was a small lamp on a bureau. She crossed to it, nearly stumbling on the way. Tarnation! What was the matter with her? She turned up the wick, then stared at herself in the mirror above the bureau. How odd her face looked. And her eyes, all blue-green and shining. Scarcely a dot of black showing in the middle! She dabbed at her forehead. It was so hot, so hard to breathe. Foolish gown! She pulled off her clothes and left them in a careless pile in the middle of the floor.

  She blinked again. She couldn’t think. Thunderation. What was she doing standing here with her clothes off? The rain bath. That was it. Arthur had showed her how to turn it on. She stepped into the little room and turned the faucet; the jets of water squirted her breasts and back and legs. She closed her eyes. The water was soothing on her bare flesh. It was like bathing in Buttermilk Falls. She could feel the warmth of the sun. It was so nice. So nice. She could stay here forever. So nice…

  “Turn off the water, Marcy.” The voice was soft, coming from somewhere beyond the mists.

  “No,” she said dreamily. It was an effort to open her eyes.

  “Marcy. The water.”

  What could she do but obey the voice? She had no strength left. No will. She turned the faucet, stood there—in the little box—dripping. Why wasn’t there a place to lie down here? The door opened. She saw a thick towel. Hands. She allowed the hands to pull her out of the little box. Her eyes seemed filmed with gauze; nothing was clear. But the hands were tender, drying her like a baby. Gently they pushed her down onto the bed. She sighed and closed her eyes again, feeling the soft velvet beneath her back and hips.

  Now the hands were touching her bosom. “Drew. My love,” she whispered. Drew was kissing her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. How funny! She didn’t know that Drew had a mustache. She put her arms around his neck. How could he make love to her if he still had his clothes on? “Love me,” she said. And then he was kissing her again.

  But someone was at the door behind him. Through the gauze she could see another Drew. The Drew with the mustache stopped kissing her and stood up. The other Drew was shouting at the Drew with the mustache, “You bastard! If it weren’t for Willough, I’d kill you!”

  He was so loud. And her head hurt. It was too confusing. Sh-h.-h-h! I can’t sleep with all that noise! She put her hands over her ears. The Drew with the mustache was going away. Now the other Drew was shouting at her. Words. Noise! Her brain was fuzzy. She tried to speak; her tongue was thick, choking the words before she could say them. She thought she said, Drew, help me. Something’s wrong with my head, my eyes. But there didn’t seem
to be any sound in the room. And when she looked again at the doorway, it was empty.

  She ought to follow Drew. Talk to him. Find out why he was angry. But she was tired…cold. She rolled up in the coverlet. “Why are you angry, Drew?” she mumbled. “Don’t be.” She should talk to him. But her limbs were like lead, and her head was buzzing.

  She thought, I’ll speak to him in a little while. Whatever he’s angry about…I know it will be fine when I talk to him. But sleep first, Marcy…just for a few minutes…close my eyes…a few minutes…

  She woke with her head pounding. She opened her eyes. A red-hot poker pierced her brain. She groaned, squeezed her eyes shut again. Had it been a dream? She’d been lying in bed and Arthur had been kissing her. Arthur! Willough’s husband! She laughed shakily. It must have been a dream! And then Drew in the doorway, saying all those things. Dreams were funny. While they were going on, you couldn’t always understand them, but later, thinking it over, the dream became clear.

  What had Drew been saying in the dream? “You wanted a rich man. You always wanted a rich man. But you couldn’t even wait. Another day, and I would have sold my soul to give you what you wanted!”

  What a funny thing to say! But the whole dream had been ridiculous. She—naked on the bed while Arthur kissed her! She gasped, her hand going to her breast. Oh my God! But she was naked now! She was afraid to open her eyes. If she should be in the railroad car…

  She sat up in horror, seeing the blue velvet draperies of Brian’s room. What have I done? she thought in a panic. Think! Think! What had Drew said? “It wasn’t enough for me to give up my painting! You couldn’t wait to have all your pretty things! For Willough’s sake, you might have chosen another rich man to seduce besides Arthur!”

  She was trembling violently now, remembering every angry word. Had she tried to seduce Arthur? Oh, God! Why was it she could remember what Drew had said, but she couldn’t remember what she’d done? The last thing she remembered before the kissing was leaving the dining table. She didn’t know how she’d gotten into bed with Arthur. Or why she was naked. She didn’t think he’d actually made love to her; Drew had come in before anything had happened beyond kisses.