Mittman, Stephanie (17 page)

"I'm
saying he always was, right from the start, and I suspect he always will
be." Kathryn fingered the rim of her teacup and leaned closer to
Charlotte. "What else do you suppose is causing this bad humor of his?
He's as petulant as he was as a child when Ashford was receiving what Cabot
thought was an unfair share of the attention."

"Cabot
was petulant?" Charlotte tried to imagine Cabot's bottom lip protruding,
his foot stomping in aggravation. She tried to imagine him as subject to the
same feelings and emotions that ordinary people had. The exercise proved
futile.

"Cabot
is a competitor. It's what makes him such a good lawyer, don't you know. But it
made him a difficult brother, and it left him very little room for other
emotions. He was too busy always trying to win...."

"Win
what?"

"His
father's affection, at first. Then, when it became clear to him that Ashford
had all the love that Charles had to give—which was never very much, to be
frank—he shifted to his father's respect. And there he cornered the market, so
to speak. Charles admired Cabot's intelligence, and so that was where the boy's
energies became focused."

"I
suppose that was a lucky thing, considering," Charlotte said. What if his
father had admired his physical abilities?

"Respect
is not enough, though," Kathryn said. "I suppose it never is."

Arthur
knocked courteously by the open doorway before entering the breakfast room.
"If you'll excuse me, madam, Mr. Whittier has requested that particular
glass this morning." He pointed to the tall water glass still at Cabot's
place.

"Oh,
dear," Charlotte said, placing her napkin on the table and rising.
"Has he taken his bitters, then?" He always liked to follow the
medicine with the largest glass of water possible. She reached for the goblet
just as Cabot's manservant did.

"Let
him take it in, Charlotte," Kathryn said, her hand on Charlotte's arm.

"But
he needs me," Charlotte said, pulling away and reaching for the pitcher of
water to refill the glass.

"Arthur
can bring him his water, dear. Finish your tea."

It
was rare that Kathryn ordered Charlotte to do anything, rare enough so that
Charlotte retook her seat and waited while Arthur filled the glass. "If he
needs me—" she began, but Kathryn waved Arthur away.

"How's
that dog with the missing leg?" Kathryn asked her out of the blue.
"You ever see him anymore?"

"Occasionally,"
Charlotte said. She'd convinced Dr. Mollenoff to take in the dog once she'd
gotten him fattened up and cured of the infection the fox trap had caused when
it had severed the poor animal's leg. Her mother had hated living in an
apartment above Dr. Welles's veterinary office, but the barking of dogs and the
odor of animals had made the rent cheap enough for even Mina to afford. At
first Charlotte had simply made a nuisance of herself, but eventually Dr.
Welles had come to rely on her, exchanging a room for her help once Mina had
died.

"And
the squirrel?" Her mother-in-law asked.

"What
is it you're trying to say, Kathryn?" Charlotte finally demanded.
"There's no need for a bone in your throat with me."

Kathryn
patted her hand gently, leaning in so closely that the stray silver hairs from
her head tickled Charlotte's cheek. "You're a good girl, Charlotte, good
and kind to all God's poor unfortunate creatures. But sometimes I worry that
you've mistaken my son for one of those helpless animals you keep taking under
your wing."

Cabot
a wounded animal? Charlotte had never heard of anything so ridiculous.
"That's insulting to both of us," she told her mother-in-law through
tightly clenched lips.

"I
know you admire him greatly as a lawyer, Charlotte. But don't pity him as a
man."

"I
never would," she said, rising. She tried to keep the surprise from her
face. If the truth were told, in all the years she'd known Cabot as a lawyer,
it hadn't, until that very moment, even occurred to her that, aside from being
a lawyer, Cabot Whittier was also a man.

"Excuse
me," Ashford said, appearing at the door so suddenly, she nearly walked
right into him. "Oh, the party breaking up? Just in time. There's
something I think you're going to want to see."

There
was nothing she wanted to see, she was sure. Most especially not if it meant
letting Ashford Whittier take her arm and lead her to the window where he stood
so close that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back.

"Look!"
he said, pointing out the window at a small man dressed in white overalls who
was carefully, diligently, painting new lettering on the sign that had been on
the front lawn so long, it seemed to have grown there.

"I
think you'll want to come out and see this," he said, grasping her elbow
and gently guiding her away from the window and toward the front parlor.

"What's
he doing?" she asked, sure that it couldn't be what she suspected, what
she'd waited for all her life, it seemed.

"Come
on," he said, his excitement almost as palpable as her own. He helped her
down the stairs and kept her hand in his as he led her down the path to the far
side of the old sign.

WHITTIER
& WHITTIER, ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
it now read, clear as crystal for the
world to see. Ash squeezed her shoulders as he stood behind her.
"Congratulations," he said warmly. "I didn't think he had it in
him."

She
turned and threw her arms about his neck, squeezing tightly and letting loose a
shout of pure triumph. She was so comfortable within his arms that she nearly
forgot herself and kissed the poor man before letting go of the stranglehold
she had on him and spinning around.

She
searched the front window for Cabot's face and, finding it, waved to him and
pointed at the sign. Then she hugged herself and waved again just as Argus
began squawking at her, trying to eat her elbow right through her freshly
pressed shirtwaist.

From
within the house Cabot nodded, waved back, and let the curtain fall.

His
silhouette was still there as she darted around the peacock and raced up the
ramp toward the house to thank him.

***

Ash
had pulled out the champagne as soon as they were back in the house, but his
old grouch of a brother had insisted it was a workday for—as he put it—people
who actually worked for a living. Charlotte had looked at the bottle longingly,
clearly wishing they could celebrate, but agreed with Cabot that lawyers—she'd
pointedly added "especially law partners"—had their reputations to
uphold, and had joined Cabot in his office, the smile on her face so wide that
Ash feared her lips might split in several places.

And
damned if he hadn't thought about touching his own lips to those places. A
stupid foolish thought.

Jeez,
but it was nice to see her happy. She was entitled to it. There was no need for
her to know about his talk with Cabot and the fact that it had probably forced
his brother's hand. As stingy with his emotions as he was with his purse, Cabot
had kept a lid on the morning's excitement and was actually meeting with some
investigator instead of taking part in the evening's celebration. Ash supposed
he should be grateful, but wished Cabot could have just put it off until the
morning and let Charlotte have her moment of glory.

"It
would be a nice night for that frilly thing I brought her from the Orient,"
he told his mother, placing a rose on Charlotte's plate while they waited for
her to come down to dinner.

"She
won't wear it," Kathryn answered, frowning as they both turned at the
sound of Charlotte's voice at the top of the stairs.

"Oh,
you'd be surprised what she'd wear," she said, coming down two steps and
pausing, then coming down a few more until Kathryn actually gasped and it was
all Ash could do to keep his jaw above the celluloid collar of his new blue
shirt.

There
was no mistaking it. After all, her legs were at his eye level. And legs they
were, covered not by one of her many tailored dark skirts, but by a pair of
trousers!

"Charlotte!"
Kathryn leaned heavily on her cane and sank slowly into the nearest chair,
apparently horrified. Squinting to watch Charlotte descend the rest of the way
into the dark hallway, she blinked several times as if she hoped she were
simply seeing things, and fanned herself with her free hand.

As
for Ash, he was now acutely aware of why it was that women did not wear trousers
in polite society. Seeing the light slice a path between Charlotte's legs to
just beneath where legs and womanhood came together, like some sunbeam pointing
to where the treasure was buried, well... try as he could, there was just
nowhere else to look!

"Every
inch his partner, don't you think?" she asked, pulling a cigar from her
breast pocket and clenching it between her teeth, barely cringing at its foul
taste.

He
stared once again at the point where trouser leg met lap.
Not every inch,
he
thought.

"Dear
Lord, Charlotte!" his mother said. "You didn't actually go down to
Capwell's and buy that suit, did you?"

"Doesn't
fit too badly, does it?" Charlotte asked, sashaying this way and that as
she came the rest of the way down the stairs.

Ash
was familiar enough with a woman's underclothes to know that there wasn't room
for them within the confines of those trouser legs. His tongue was thick inside
his mouth as he thought of a tailor fitting the fabric to her legs, reaching
for the inner seam...

This
was Cabot's wife, damn it! He had no right to these thoughts. Her eyes were
sparkling in the lamplight as she shimmied her shoulders, fairly dancing around
his mother and himself. He had no right to these desires.

"Isn't
it perfectly wonderful?" she asked, trying to unobtrusively scratch at her
leg through rough wool that he suddenly recalled all too well.

"You
find that in the attic?" he asked as she rubbed at her left calf with her
right foot.

Nodding,
she said, "Just look at the condition it's in! I don't think it's ever
been worn."

"The
attic?" Kathryn asked, fingering the edge of the jacket suspiciously.
"I don't recall..."

It
had been his first suit with long pants and his mother, as indulgent as always,
had allowed him to pick it out. It wasn't until Sunday in church that it became
clear why the suit had been the least expensive one at Pennoyer's.

"Anything
wrong?" he asked Charlotte as she squirmed slightly and ran her hands down
her thighs.

"Wrong?"
she asked, leading the way into the dining room and sitting down quickly, then
wriggling in like some bird in a nest. Ash hid his smile, trying hard to think
only of the poor woman's discomfort and not the fact that it certainly served
the little hussy right for going around in men's trousers with very likely nothing
at all underneath.

She
wriggled again and he coughed to keep his laugh at bay. What did she expect
from woolen trousers that cost seventy-five cents? They weren't her lace
underthings, that was for damn sure.

"Problem?"
he asked when he noticed her tearing at the back of her neck like some angry
mama scrubbing at tar.

Her
hand returned quickly to her lap, where, under the cover of the tablecloth, he
imagined it was offering her some slight relief from the cheap cloth's effects.

However,
thinking about those soft,
delicate
womanly
parts being savagely
assaulted by the coarse masculine fabric set his own parts to itching. And the
more she squirmed and wiggled and rubbed, the harder it became for him to sit
still and think of anything beyond what his wicked imagination had begun to
conjure up.

"You
haven't taken in a dog, Charlotte, have you?" Kathryn asked when Maria
brought in the mullagatawny soup.

"No,
ma'am," she answered, inching forward in her seat to offer still more
relief to some beleaguered spot Ash's depraved mind was at that very moment
longing to comfort for her.

"A
cat, then?" Kathryn asked, reaching for the silver dish of chutney.
"Anything that might be carrying fleas?"

As
he watched, uncomfortable enough himself, she sidled still farther forward in
her chair, so far that Ash was forced to consider the possibility of her
sliding right off and onto the floor.

Tears
glistening in her eyes, she politely tasted the curried soup as she rocked
gently from one side to the other, her shoulders dipping as her hips shifted
back and forth, back and forth. Ash's body, traitorous as always, was beginning
to respond to her rocking as if it were meant for him—as if it were an
invitation to a party he was forbidden to attend.

"For
heaven's sake, Charlotte," he shouted, coming to his feet and shaking out
his legs as if his mother had been absolutely right about the possibility of
fleas. "Go upstairs and change out of that ridiculous suit before we all
begin scratching our skin off in sympathy!"

"I
can wear a suit if I please," she shot back, now openly attacking her
elbows with enough vengeance to tear them right off her arms.