Fletcher's Woman (34 page)

“It would be the beginning,” he argued, implacably. “I can't stand this anymore, Fawn. I can't keep hiding what I really feel. I'm not ashamed, even if you are.”

Fawn crawled over him, awkward in her haste, and lit the lamp standing on the bedside table. Staring down at his face, she saw desolation, and she wept because his desolation was her own. “Oh, Field, you can't marry an Indian!”

“Why not? I
love
an Indian.”

“You'll lose your church!”

“For what—getting married? I'm a minister, not a priest.”

“For marrying
me
!” she screamed.

Field turned away from her, his back taut in the soft glow of the lamplight. “This is wrong, Fawn. Our meeting like this, your ‘visits' with Jonas, all of it. Marry me, so I can face God again.”

Shattered, Fawn slipped to her knees, tangled the fingers of one hand in the glossy chestnut hair at the back of his head. “They will call you Squaw Man,” she breathed.

He rolled back again, to face her. “I wouldn't care what they called me, Fawn.”

“But our children—”

“Our children will be ‘half-breeds'—is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes!”

“Fawn, don't you see that it will be their own opinion of themselves that matters, and not the opinion of some nebulous ‘they'? We'll love them so much that they'll feel safe and strong and wanted, no matter what anyone else has to say.”

Fawn was silent for a long time, considering. To marry Field Hollister was the dream of her life, and had been since the first time she'd laid eyes on him years before, when his mother and father had found her wandering in a Seattle street, hungry and alone, and brought her to live with them.

Field had hardly noticed her, for he was ten years older and ready to sail off to a place called Scotland, with Griffin Fletcher. When he did, Fawn had been devastated. Night after night, week after week, year after year, she had lain in her small bed, in the attic of the house that was gone now, weeping for him.

Even when he returned, an ordained minister, Fawn had still been a child in his eyes. He had suffered her endless adoration with characteristic good humor, allowed her to arrange and rearrange his multitude of lofty, theological texts, and eaten the abominable things she baked for him in Mrs. Hollister's oven.

He had even taken her along on calls sometimes; she would sit and listen to him offering counsel and compassion and she would wish that he would notice her, really notice her.

For a time, Field had shown an offhanded interest in Ruby Sheridan, the judge's daughter, taking her to the occasional social, enduring Griffin's ruthless, constant baiting with a shake of his head and a grin.

And Fawn had promised the spirits that she would never do another bad thing if only they would make Field Hollister love her as a man loves a woman.

As so often happened, the answer came in tragedy, with Griffin Fletcher's near collapse. Field's empathy for his friend had been so great that he had suffered Griffin's grief as his own.

Soon after that, the Hollisters' house burned, and both Field's parents were gone. Field and the little Indian orphan his
mother and father had grimly cherished turned to each other for comfort. Gradually, a tempestuous, on-and-off love had grown between them.

Now the reckoning had come. Fawn was faced with two choices, both of which, she knew, had the power to destroy Field forever. If she married him, he would be scorned, maybe even dismissed from his church. If she did not, the results might be equally disastrous.

“I'll marry you, Field Hollister,” she whispered.

Field drew her into his arms, his eyes gentle as they searched her face. “It will be good, Fawn—you'll see.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to sound certain that it would. “I-I'd better leave now, Field, before the light comes.”

But his arms tightened around her. “No. We'll be married tomorrow, in Seattle.”

Fawn smiled and silently petitioned his God to show mercy.

•   •   •

Rachel was desperate, that hot and glaring Wednesday morning, so desperate that she sneaked out of the O‘Riley house before anyone was awake and began the long walk downtown.

She would buy clothes of her own, even though it meant dipping into the cherished cash reserves stored at the Commerce Bank. Wearing Athena's clothes was unbearable.

Rachel was nearing the business district when she realized that her bankbook was in her handbag—which she hadn't seen since the night Jonas had taken her to stay in his hotel room.

She was frightened—wildly frightened. Suppose the bank wouldn't give back her money, since she couldn't produce proof that the account was really hers? She would be penniless!

Rachel broke into an undignified run and was breathless by the time she reached the bank's doors—which were soundly locked. The establishment would not open for business for more than an hour.

Fitful, Rachel paced the board sidewalk for some minutes, wondering what to do. If she pounded on the shaded glass windows in the bank's doors with her fists, would someone come and let her in?

Her heart scrambled into her throat and turned there, hurting. That money was the only security she had.

There were produce wagons lumbering over the plank streets of Seattle now, carrying early crops of lettuce and peas and rhubarb to market. Rachel raised her eyes to the pearlescent blue of the sky and felt a peculiar uneasiness—one that had nothing to do with her lost bankbook, her fear of Athena, or her love for Griffin Fletcher.
Please God
, she prayed silently, unaccountably.
Let it rain.

But the still warmth of the air precluded rain. Rachel moved toward the waterfront, stood staring, for a long time, at the soft brightness of Elliott Bay.

Even though it was early, the harbor was busy. The salmon were striking further out; boat after boat arrived, burdened with the catch. Merchants waited on the wharfs, scrambling to pay cash money for their share.

Rachel watched for a while, still feeling unsettled, and then walked on, rounding the edge of the bay. The tideflat squished beneath her kid leather shoes as she walked, kicking an occasional stone out of her way. Tiny hermit crabs scurried in every direction, panicked at her passing.

She watched as a gull garnered a clam from the mud, swooped into the sky and hovered. The bird dropped the shell onto a pile of rocks, breaking it open, and then wafted down to eat the soft gray meat inside.

Rachel walked on, feeling as helpless and vulnerable as that denuded clam. Of its own accord, her mind shifted to the coming party.

In spite of Joanna's protests, Athena had gone ahead and invited dozens of people. Half of Seattle would probably
converge on the O'Riley house, and much of the outlying regions, too.

Rachel froze suddenly, the low tide pooling around her shoes. Griffin. Had Athena, in her cool grace, had the nerve to invite him?

Rachel trembled at the prospect. While part of her yearned for Griffin's presence, another part truly feared it. He could hardly venture into the O'Riley house without coming face to face with Athena.

Knees trembling beneath her, Rachel found a huge, brown rock and sat down on it, staring sightlessly at the calm waters of the bay. She wondered about the mysterious André, who had had the temerity to divorce such a woman. If he could resist her considerable charms to such an extent, perhaps, by some miracle, Griffin could prevail against her, too.

Provided he wished to prevail.

The bank was open for business by the time Rachel gathered her thoughts and wandered back to the center of town.

Without going into the outlandish details, Rachel explained the loss of her bankbook to a sympathetic clerk. After a conference with another clerk, he issued Rachel a new account number and counted out the amount of her withdrawal.

With one hundred dollars crumpled in her hand, Rachel ventured up the street and into a dress and millinery shop. There was no time to have a gown cut and fitted, not with the party scheduled for that very night, but perhaps something readymade could be had.

The inside of the shop was small and cluttered, and Rachel was overwhelmed for a moment. What did she know about buying gowns for fancy parties? Panic nipped at the edges of her mind.

But as the proprietor approached, Rachel raised her chin. She need not,
would
not appear at that party looking like the country girl she was.

Quietly, and with dignity, Rachel explained her need for a special gown, befitting such an occasion.

The dressmaker was helpful, and she was patient. She produced garment after garment, smiling as Rachel rejected one after another. One, made of black silk and boasting a high, ruffled collar, was too dramatic and somber. Another, made of dove gray velvet, made Rachel look like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes.

But, at last, the right dress appeared. A simple, flowing
garment of the softest apricot lawn, it revealed the swell of Rachel's fine breasts and accentuated the trim lines of her waist.

After minor alterations had been made, and measurements taken for the dresses, skirts, and shirtwaists she wanted, Rachel paid for everything and watched in wonder as the magnificent gown was folded into a box and extended to her.

In another store, she purchased soft velvet slippers and a lacy, ivory shawl. Then, her tour complete, Rachel walked back up the hill, toward the O'Riley house.

Joanna met her at the front door, looking distraught. “Oh, Rachel—where have you been? I've been so worried!”

Rachel blushed with shame. She might have known this kind woman would miss her almost immediately, and be upset. “I'm sorry—I had some errands. . . .”

Joanna drew a deep breath and ushered Rachel through the dining room, where preparations were already being made for the party, and into the kitchen. There, Cook was grumbling over an enormous bowl of white batter.

Rachel sank into a chair and sipped the tea Joanna offered in grateful silence.

“I'm sorry, Rachel,” the woman said, after a few moments, “About the party, I mean.”

Rachel set her teacup down in its translucent china saucer and smiled. “Please, don't be. It is Athena's birthday and—”

At that moment, Athena swept in, resplendent in an ivory silk dressing gown embroidered with delicate pink flowers, her soft, platinum hair still rumpled, her indigo eyes bright. “It is indeed my birthday,” she chimed, plunging an index finger mischievously into Cook's bowl of batter. “And I feel more like a hundred than twenty-five.”

“You are twenty-seven,” said Joanna, mischief sparkling in her own eyes as she smiled at Rachel.

Athena shrugged, her glance falling on the dressmaker's box leaning against the side of Rachel's chair. “Why—you've bought something of your
own
!” she cried, as though the idea was inconceivable. “What did you buy, Rachel? Let me see!”

Suddenly, Rachel was not so certain that the apricot gown was right after all. Perhaps, to this woman, it would seem unsophisticated, even childish. She blushed. “Well—”

“Oh, don't be such a little ninny!” Athena scolded good-naturedly, snatching another taste of the batter and wincing when Cook slapped her hand. “I'm not going to laugh at your little dress, Rachel.”

Rachel looked to Joanna and saw a smile shining in her gentle blue eyes. Slowly, she lifted the red- and white-striped box to her lap and opened it. Then, with cautious fingers, she drew the soft, sunrise-colored creation out.

“Stand up,” Joanna urged softly, “And let us see how it looks with that magnificent hair of yours.”

Rachel obeyed, her throat working painfully.

“Oh,” breathed Joanna, “Oh, Rachel, it is lovely!”

Athena's response rang with a petulant, fretful note. “Don't you think it's a little—well—girlish?”

Joanna was beaming at Rachel, allaying her fears of looking foolish. “Devastatingly so,” she said.

“Lawn,” Athena muttered, touching the fabric with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. “Yes—I think lawn is suitable for a girl your age.”

Joanna's teacup rattled against its saucer with refined fury. “Do be quiet, Athena. Anyone can see that Rachel is a woman, not a girl.”

Athena was frowning at the neckline of the splendid dress now, brow knitted prettily. “Are you sure you should reveal so much—bosom?”

Rachel smiled wickedly, remembering. If there was one aspect of her appearance that she could be certain Griffin approved of, it was the full roundness of her breasts. “I'm sure,” she said.

The indigo eyes searched her face, and Athena's frown deepened. An instinctive knowing passed between the two women, and Rachel was glad to see some of the fetching pink color drain from Athena's complexion.

•   •   •

At midafternoon, the gifts began to arrive. Athena did not bother to open them, though many were gaily wrapped and ribboned. Until a parcel arrived with Griffin's name on the card, she would have no interest in birthday presents.

In the cool, dim sanction of the parlor, Athena sank into a chair. Griffin had not responded to her telegram—was he too busy with those pathetic patients of his? She had known him to miss more than one social event because some millworker had broken an arm, leg, or neck. She closed her eyes. Griffin had to come. He had to.

Through the open windows, Athena heard the rattling squeak of carriage wheels. Crossing the room swiftly, she lifted
the edge of a curtain and peered out, her heart hammering in her throat.

Griffin Fletcher was striding up the walk, coatless, glowering in a way that gave Athena pause—until her eyes fell on the flat, narrow package clasped in his right hand.

She smiled to herself, scrambled into the entry hall, and wrenched open the door just as he raised one ominous fist to knock. “Griffin,” she said, in a small, strangled voice.