Mother Lode

  They started meeting at the lake. He broached the subject of swimming again.

  “It’s not that hard, truly. I’ll teach you to float first. Mostly, it’s a matter of trust, of just giving yourself to the water.”

  He demonstrated. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll support your back at first, just enough to keep you afloat, while you build your confidence.”

  She was wary of this new turn, but she agreed.

  He led the way to where the water was quite shallow. “See here you can put your feet safely on the bottom.” He stretched his arms out. “Now if you’ll just lean back. Remember, just surrender yourself to the water.”

  Just surrender to you, you mean.

  Awkwardly, she leaned back against his outstretched arms, and tried to raise her legs. With a few more tries, she was able to stay on her back without doubling up and going down.

  “There, now don’t you feel more relaxed?”

  “Yes.” But she felt naked too, exposed, lying before him, gazing down at her. She didn’t know where to rest her eyes. And she could feel his hands under her, supporting her. She began to have other feelings, too, which caused her concern. She ended the lesson rather abruptly.

  At home Helena said, “You’ve certainly taken to the swimming, haven’t you, mum?”

  Of course Helena would have noticed the sudden change in her habits, the frequency with which she was away.

  “It’s a healthy sport.”

  “Do you meet interesting people there?”

  “Sometimes. Did you clean the lamp chimneys?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and changed the wicks, too.”

  More to please Chester than herself, Catherine learned to swim.

  The next afternoon Chester was waiting for her at the hitch where they tied up their horses.

  “Let’s ride,” he said. He did not wait for her to answer nor give her time to dismount. He swung up on his own horse, leading the way, never turning to make certain that she was with him. She followed blindly, outraged at his assumptions, amazed at her own obedience to his will.

  He did not take her through town, but cut back through the woods behind the library and up the hill, which overlooked a shallow valley. From there they turned west and rode in silence side by side through fields of timothy and oats. It was unusually warm, and Catherine could feel droplets of perspiration on her brow even before he started running his horse. It took her only a second to catch the change, and in a moment she had Falstaff running too, but as hard as she tried, she could not catch up. Finally, in the hollow, she saw him dismount. As she came upon him, he grabbed the reins, brought her horse to a standstill and helped her dismount.

  He took her hand and for a time they walked in silence. Then he turned to her, cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. She offered no resistance. It was as though it had been planned, as if she’d always known it would come to this. She felt his hand slide down her back.

  In one easy movement, he pulled her to the ground. Suddenly horizontal, she found herself looking up into his face. He had her pinned to the ground, but was studying her face, giving her a chance to catch her breath.

  “If you want me to let you go, say it now,” he was smiling. “Otherwise, I’ll not be responsible for what happens.”

  She was still breathing heavily, not sure how much to attribute to the hard ride and how much to the man. Her nostrils filled with the sweet smell of alfalfa. She stared at him briefly for a moment, said nothing.

  “Then give me your mouth.”

  She lifted her face to his. His kisses so soft and gentle for such a long time, Catherine became impatient for something stronger.

  “You make me feel like a child — the way I was kissed when I was sixteen,” she goaded him.

  As she anticipated, her words fired in him a strong response. He sunk his hands into her hair and pulled her back to him. He kissed her hard and long, engulfing her in a passion she hadn’t felt since the first year of her marriage.

  He tongued her neck and the inside of her wrists, bringing to her awareness sensitivity to parts of her body she’d never experienced.

  “Still feel like sixteen?”

  “No,” she murmured.

  Then to her disappointment, he stopped, sat up, picked a long stem of grass.

  “Were you just teasing me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Your passions wane quickly.”

  “They haven’t waned at all.” He sat still, chewing the grass. “I think we should walk for a spell.”

  Catherine did not want to, but she pulled herself together, smoothed her hair, as he offered a hand to help her up.

  “You’re covered with grass.”

  “Well, you dumped me in a field.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Are you angry with me?”

  “For the hay, or the way you treated me?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “I should be. On both counts. What made you think I would . . .”

  She didn’t need to finish. “You followed me out of town, didn’t you?”

  She blushed. “Are you looking for a wanton woman?”

  “No.” He pulled her to him. “If I thought of you that way, do you think I’d have stopped just now?”

  They walked through the field, hand in hand. Finally, they returned to the horses.

  “I’d best leave you here. Can you make it back all right?”

  “Of course,” she answered with all the dignity she could summon.

  He turned her around, and she felt his hand brush her shoulders, slide down her back and buttocks as he brushed off the bits of grass. She had all she could do not to turn and throw herself back into his arms.

  “Think about what we’re doing. I don’t need to recite the risks for you.”

  He helped her mount. “If it pleases you, meet me here tomorrow at three. If you don’t come, I’ll understand.”

  She nodded, could barely look at him, raced toward home as fast as she could — away from her shame, her ecstasy. She wished he’d just taken her there in the field before she had to think about it.

  That night she tossed in bed; at times overcome with guilt she decided she would not meet him. The risks of scandal, of losing Jorie—she couldn’t bear to think of that.

  Then she tried to justify it. It seemed any kind of romantic life with Thomas was over. And then, out of nowhere Chester Bigelow had appeared. What a fool she’d be to refuse him!

  In the morning, she thought, “I’ve only been playing games with myself. How could I not meet him?”

  The decision had been made—at least for now. She would not think beyond today.

  Three o’clock would never come, it seemed. She busied herself with chores to make the day go faster. She left a bit early to stop and pick up some sweets at the General Store at the bottom of the hill. That would be a way of breaking the ice and put them both at ease.

  As she was leaving the shop, Earl Foster entered. Standing in the doorway, he prevented her making a graceful exit.

  “Oh, Catherine,” he said, “You’re just the person I want to see. I hope you’re well—better than my wife.”

  Catherine was impatient. Why now? It would be rude to push past him.

  “Is Mrs. Foster ill?” she managed.

  “It started with a summer cold. But she’s been running a fever now for three days.”

  “You should call the doctor.”

  “Well, that’s just it. To tell you the truth, the doctor’s medicine isn’t helping her.”

  “I’m sorry, but I—”

  “I recall Jorie had something similar and you cured him with herbs you got from an Indian woman.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Why, you did. Or maybe it was the boy. I don’t mean any offense. I was just wondering if I could buy some of those herbs from you; they might help Cora.”

  “Yes, I could give you some, but—”

  “I’d be most grateful. I’ll just follow yo
u up the hill, and get them now, if that’s all right.”

  What was she to do? If she told him to come in the evening, and he chatted with Thomas, it might come out that she’d had other business in the afternoon, and Thomas would wonder what was so urgent she couldn’t take time to help a friend in need.

  “Of course. Yes.”

  Inside she was seething that this most inconvenient complication had arisen. By the time she’d given him the herbs and explained how to steep them and so on, she’d lost twenty minutes. And she dare not follow him down the hill; she had to wait another ten before leaving the house.

  When she was finally free to leave, and had shown some decorum as she rode through town, Catherine raced across the fields as fast as Falstaff would carry her.

  As she crested the hill, Chester was nowhere to be seen. She rode to the next field and back again. In the hollow where they’d lain, she could still see the impressions of their bodies, the flattened grass, laughing back at her.

  She waited, not wanting to give up. But finally she decided she’d been too late and he had not waited for her. Hot tears stung her cheeks as she started home.

  She hadn’t realized she was venting her anger out loud as she galloped away from the scene. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  She didn’t hear hooves catching up to her.

  “The damned is here to claim his prize.”

  She slowed her horse. He hadn’t given up after all! He was grinning as he gazed on her tear-streaked face.

  “When you weren’t here, I waited. Then I thought I might have gotten the time wrong, I went back to clean the place up a bit.”

  He drew his horse close to hers, reached over for her hand.

  “Come, I’ve something to show you.”

  She was following him again, and Lord knows where he was leading her this time.

  Suddenly he stopped, and pointed to a cabin on a knoll. “That’s where I live.”

  They continued up the hill. As he helped her dismount he said, “It’s not much, not what you’re used to, but better than the field, I hope. More private, anyway.”

  He took her hand and led her inside. “I tried to make it as presentable as possible for my lady.”

  She pulled her hand away. “I’m not your lady!”

  “My mistake.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  She turned away from him, looked around the simple dwelling. A bachelor’s one-room cabin in the woods. Well, what did she expect? He was a surveyor, used to roughing it. Even in broad day-light it took some adjusting before Catherine could see into the dark recesses of the room. One tiny window covered with a yellowed waxed paper admitted only a modicum of light. He had made a fire in the wood stove in the corner. There was a cot barely wide enough for one in another corner, and a simple table in the middle. A makeshift bookcase had been assembled from rough-hewn planks, the shelves separated by chunks of firewood. To Catherine, only the books made it homey.

  She felt like a character in a D.H. Lawrence novel. Upset and out of sorts, she said, “Did you build it?”

  “No, it was here — some prospector abandoned it.”

  “It has a dirt floor,” was all she could think to say.

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  Why was it suddenly so unseemly, so awkward and embarrassing? Why did it feel wrong today where it had not yesterday? And why couldn’t she say the right things to put them both at ease?

  She stood uncomfortably not knowing whether to run or stay. Her lip started to quiver, and he took her hands in his.

  “It’s not the cabin,” she blurted. “That’s not it.”

  “I know.”

  “What am I doing here?”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “No!”

  “Let me make you some tea. I don’t have any milk — hope you can drink it plain.”

  She nodded, watched him as he put an old kettle on the fire.

  To put her at ease he started telling her stories of his youth, as a boy on a farm in Pennsylvania, how his pa had died when he was nine, and his mother a year later.

  “What did you do?”

  “An uncle came to fetch my sister and me and take us back to Boston. I haven’t always lived like this,” he motioned to the surroundings. “We had an old Victorian house by the sea.”

  He told her how he loved watching the tall ships come in, being on the docks to help unload the treasures from around the world. How he’d hired on to a lobster boat at thirteen, learned to peg the creatures without being hurt.

  Catherine was fascinated with the tales of a life she’d known nothing of. When the tea was finished, she looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m feeling better now.”

  She meant it as an invitation, but he said, “I want you to go home now, Katie. Come back whenever you like.”

  Embarrassed at being dismissed again, she nevertheless drank up the kindness in his eyes. Well, that would have to do. Perhaps he was right.

  She had forgotten all about the sweets.

  For two days she forced herself not to go. Let him wonder if she’d ever come. She had been too easy for him. Offered herself to him as a gift and he’d sent her home, unopened!

  By the third day she could resist no longer. She crossed the fields at a gallop, but as she neared his cabin, her uncertainty made her slow down. Again doubts filled her mind.

  She approached quietly. Nevertheless, he heard, came out to meet her. He helped her from her horse, led her inside. She could smell something good cooking in his pot.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  He smiled, waiting for her to join him. “The sheets are clean, and the rats only come out at night.”

  Tentatively, she walked the few paces to join him. He took her hand and led her to the bed. She stood stiffly while he lit a candle.

  He raised her head, kissed her forehead, her chin and both cheeks. Then gently, he started unbuttoning her dress — awkwardly, as the buttons were too tiny for his large hands.

  “Perhaps you’d better do it,” he apologized.

  Could anything else happen to discomfit her?

  She finished undoing the buttons. He slowly slipped it off her shoulders, and lifted it over her head.

  As if he had something precious in his arms, he brought the gown to his face, breathed deeply of its scent. Then carefully, he folded it, and laid it on the chair, making certain it would not touch the floor. At first embarrassed as he gazed at her, she soon came to realize how much pleasure the sight of her brought him, and allowed herself to enjoy the moment too.

  After drinking her in with his eyes, he undid the laces of her undergarment. She was pleased he was in no hurry.

  Slowly his eyes shifted from her face to her breasts. He looked at them a long time before touching them. Then with one finger he spiraled from the outer edge of each mound to the nipple.

  “Like porcelain,” he whispered. “No. Alabaster, with little veins running through.”

  “I am not made of stone, Chester Bigelow, as you will discover.”

  As he slowly finished undressing her he treated each garment as though it were a sacred vestment. She had worn her prettiest pantaloons. He touched the violet ribbons laced through the ruffles.

  “You’re much too fine for these backwoods. How do you abide it here?”

  She shook her head, not wanting to talk. Catherine felt his urgency grow and matched it with her own. She must have all of him, feel him envelop her.

  “Give me your mouth,” he was saying.

  Without hesitation she complied, her body once again responding to domination, which wanted only to melt into the folds of this man’s body. Their fugue built to a crescendo of fire and fury, taking Catherine to places she’d never been. She rode the arc of this magical world until at last they reached a satisfying resolution and finale.

  Neither was in a hurry to speak. At last he said, “You are a volcano of p
assion. I knew you’d be responsive, but. . .”

  “I’ve waited for a long time.”

  “I hope you are not spent.”

  She glanced at him sideways. “There’s no fear of that.”