Broken Vows (24 page)

      
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...

      
“Will you be wantin' a hot bath, ma'am?”

      
Forcing her thoughts away from the pain of Rory's betrayal, Rebekah smiled at Patsy. “No, I believe the pitcher and basin will do.” Best to get this over with as quickly as possible. She began to slip off her jacket.

      
Patsy came forward, and her deft fingers set to work on the buttons at the back of Rebekah’s blouse. “I've never had a maid before, Patsy. I suspect it will take some getting used to,” she said as the girl assisted her in sliding off the blouse, then set to work on her heavy skirts.

      
When she was down to her camisole and pantalets, the maid seemed to sense her modesty and turned toward the luggage the butler had deposited beside the armoire. The two battered old valises looked frayed and pathetic sitting amid such opulence.

      
“My nightgown is in the smaller one,” Rebekah said. While Patsy unpacked her things and laid out one of her two simple white cotton sleeping gowns, Rebekah quickly performed her ablutions behind the dressing screen. “How long have you been employed by Mr. Wells, Patsy?”

      
“Nigh onto two years. Since me da passed on 'n me brothers went to Gold Hill to work in the mines.”

      
“You must've been very young,” Rebekah said sympathetically. The girl looked no more than sixteen now.

      
“I was fifteen. Old enough, I expect.” Her voice was brittle and guarded. She would not meet her mistress' eyes as Rebekah stepped from behind the screen with her nightgown on. “Here, ma'am, let me brush yer hair.”

      
Rebekah took a seat in front of the big mahogany dressing table and gazed into the oval mirror at her pale, haunted face. If eyes were windows to the soul, then hers were cursed for all eternity, their hazel-green brightness turned into night-dark pools. She let her lids close, shutting out everything but the gentle, even strokes of the hairbrush.

      
“Yer hair's beautiful, ma'am,” Patsy whispered. “Like old Spanish coins I seen once, when me family was travelin' west.”

      
Used to invidious comparisons between her own dark blond hair and her sister's silvery beauty, Rebekah was surprised and almost blurted out that her hair was far too dark a shade for true beauty, but stopped suddenly. “Thank you, Patsy. You're very kind.”

      
“So are you, ma'am, if I might be so bold as to be sayin' so. If you ever need anything...”

      
Muffled footfalls echoed down the hall. A sharp rap was immediately followed by the opening of the door. “You are dismissed, Patsy.”

      
With a look of alarm in her warm brown eyes, the maid put down the hairbrush, giving Rebekah's shoulder a squeeze before she curtsied to Amos and left the room. The silence between husband and wife thickened as he drew nearer, inspecting her. She sat very still, waiting, her fingers clamped to the edges of the satin-covered chair.

      
Amos' cold gray eyes swept over her sheer, voluminous nightgown, noting the dainty stitches that mended it in several places. “Your wardrobe is sadly deficient, but I'll quickly remedy that once we get to Carson City.” His hand glided over her hair, which hung like a cloud of burnished gold to her waist. “I have a well-trained maid at my city house. She'll know how to fix your hair more becomingly.”

      
Rebekah could think of nothing to say. She wanted to draw away in revulsion but stifled the impulse, forcing herself to appear calm. Finally, she found her voice. “I'm afraid I'm not used to maids.”

      
“You'll become accustomed to them,” he replied dryly with an air of superior amusement. The chit was terrified. He debated the wisdom of bedding her. She did have a certain innocent allure that stirred his blood. He could see her potential for great beauty, the sort that made men's heads turn with envy; but cultivating those sophisticated qualities would take time. Still...her body was fresh, her face unmarred by paints. He felt himself growing hard.

      
“Get in bed,” he rasped harshly and turned to his room. Inside, he ripped off his clothes, throwing them in a pile on the floor. When he reentered her room, she lay beneath the covers like a sacrificial lamb going to slaughter. A sense of power pervaded his body, radiating pleasure and promise.