Paxton Pride (10 page)

Karen's image floated in unbidden during the sixth mug. Karen Hampton.… no. He had drunk away that haunting memory, that image of sensuality. A party to announce her wedding? What did he care? Hell, tonight there would be Angie … another man's wife, to be sure, but if Earnest wasn't man enough to hold her … but he had no right, even so. What had his Washington sojourn done to him? Filled him with anger, irritation and frustration, that's what. The anger, if nothing else, had been useful. It had fueled his speech before the House the day before, firing an arrogant, devil-may-care, audacious delivery that had left the conservatives foaming at the mouth and brought cheers from the progressives. Now the matter went into debate and committee meetings. There was nothing he could do about the final vote, so these could well be his last few days in Washington. Only one more meeting, one more brief lecture on Texas' need for federal money and his task would be complete. He'd be on the boat and on his way back. Galveston, the stage to San Antonio and his own horse from there to the ranch. Marcelina would be waiting. Marcelina could make a man forget a lot of things.

So why not a party tonight? He'd saved her pretty neck, hadn't he? He hadn't asked for favors or rewards. A Paxton never asked for any favors. Nor were they beholden to any man. They had worked and fought for and built what was theirs. Alfred Randol Whitaker II? What the hell kind of moniker was that for a man? Sounded like a damned Bloody Newton gambler, someone who'd take an honest cowboy for his last piece of silver, maybe his saddle and pony to boot Now,
Paxton
. Short and to the point. Clean sounding. A name you could say without twisting your tongue through a damned cactus patch.

Damn. What was he saying now? Nothing. It was the beer talking in his head.
Karen Hampton
.…
Here's to your wedding, Miss Hampton. My very best wishes
.…

Back in Texas, that's where a man needs to be, with real work to do, not just talk and smile and shake hands. Uncrowded and free, a man can live a lot of things out of his system. The prairie swallows his past. The wind and rain and sun and snow leach it out of him, if a bullet doesn't steal it first. A man can forget parks and girls with hair gold as a conquistador's treasure and eyes that promise … promised.… “Dammit!”

He drained the mug and slammed it down on the table top.

Iantha had spent ten feverish days in preparation. Now all was impeccably ready, nothing left to do but dress and wait for the guests. She sat in her tub, soaking and relaxing, anticipating her triumph even as she ran through all the details for the thousandth time and mentally inspected the house.

The drive was adorned with candles stuck on metal poles, each flame protected by glass globes. A man had been hired to light them a half hour before dusk and the planned arrival of the guests, then tend each candle, replacing them as need be. The two hundred pinpoints of light would glitter dramatically as they lit the way to the columned entrance.

The front porch was manned by two huge blacks dressed in formal livery, coached to swing open the great oak doors with the stained glass windows as the guests walked toward them. The foyer was done simply but elegantly. Two extra chandeliers had been hung and three maids had spent the week waxing and shining every piece of wood and leather in sight. Visitors entering would be treated to a thousand reflections of candles sparkling on glass and glowing in the soft, warm sheen of wood and leather. To complete the quiet statement of aristocratic taste, the great white stairs at the end of the hall swept up and out of sight in the upper reaches of the house.

The front parlor to the right was set aside as a cloak room to be managed by a reliable little English servant girl borrowed from the Edwardses. The one to the left was done in lilacs—white and pink only—and reserved as a sitting room for the ladies. A small table with sterling tea service and delicate, light blue Spode china cups and saucers given to Iantha by her mother graced one corner of the room. Another corner held a table laden with tiny cakes, delicately iced in white and pink. The room was impeccably staffed by two more of the Edwardses' maids.

Down the hall on the right the library was open. More somber, there were no flowers or other decorations, only an extra long table set with bottles of whiskey, rum, brandy, liqueurs and boxes of cigars. Harold, their New York butler, would handle this room. He had the quiet good sense and dependability needed for a man's room. Nothing would go wrong there.

The dining room opened off from the hall across the library. The great doors had been removed, leaving ample access from the hall and, from many places in the room, even a partial view of the stairs. Here was the heart of Iantha's party, where the quiet good taste of the hall and front rooms exploded in gaiety. The ten-piece orchestra, without a cellist stills—there was never a cellist in this dismal country when one needed one—was set in the northwest corner near the French doors. A huge board at the south side of the room near the entrance to the kitchen would soon be groaning under the weight of countless dishes and platters. Hams, beeves, legs of lamb, venison, ears of steaming corn—when the time was right—and salads would lie ready throughout the evening. In the center of this table and outside on the lawn on another table sat the twin-cut crystal punch bowls surrounded by cup after cup arranged in neat lines. Hundreds of daintily iced cinnamon and sugar cakes lay on silver platters flanking the punch bowls. Iantha frowned. The room was too small—only thirty feet by sixty feet—and there wouldn't be as much room as she would like for dancing. But the time would soon come for rectification of that particular drawback. Their next house would have a ballroom as befitted their place.

But there was nothing of which Iantha needed to be ashamed. The room would be sumptuously decorated with countless candles shining brightly amid the yards of white streamers. Cherry, peach and apple blossoms already filled the corners, lay in great, flowing arrangements around the meats and other foods, festooned the orchestra's platform and piled in a bower over the French doors leading to the side lawn. The lawn itself would twinkle and shine almost like daytime. Lanterns hung from trees and shrubs and a special chandelier brought down from New York hung suspended between the matching, age-old oaks which formed the basis of the garden arrangement. Iantha had yet to see such an outside chandelier in Washington and was well pleased with the sensation she knew it would create.

All in all, Iantha was pleased. The evening would be perfect, a heady step nearer to the goals she had sought for years. She smiled secretly. There was no doubt the wedding was a coup. Next year the Edwardses would borrow some of her people for their annual party. At that point no one would question the Hamptons' arrival.

Down the hall, Retta fluttered about in animated nervousness. Karen had already fitted herself into a full formal gown of sheerest sky blue silk and deeper-hued taffeta. White satin slippers were lost beneath the voluminous folds of her skirt. Retta had bound her hair back and then fashioned it in thick long curls draping down across her left shoulder. The gown left her shoulders and a generous expanse of back and front quite bare. Her breasts, bound by a bodice stiffened with whale bone, swelled with breathtaking beauty above their tight restraint.

Karen looked up from her cloth-bound diary and saw Retta's beaming face framed in the gilt-edged mirror. She wished she felt the same way, wished she could generate the same enthusiasm for the night ahead, indeed for the days and months and years that so frightened her.
A tool, a slave, a bauble and no more. Meant to be pretty, meant to be gracious, meant to be charming. I do not want this. I do not want to marry Alfred
.

She had searched, these past two weeks, for a way out. Surely Alfred had not been serious. But alas, he had never been more so. In fact, he had become unbearably cocky now their nuptial ceremony was to be announced at last. So sure of himself and smug to the extreme. Karen shuddered at the thought of Alfred assuming the role of domineering husband, of lord and master, as he surely would. Of Alfred herding her about to all the right social functions, using her as that most necessary of all the successful politician's necessary accoutrements—the dazzling, pliable, forgotten wife. Of Alfred planting his seed in her, using her to breed further specimens of the line that so sickened her. Of Alfred and his world eventually wearing her down, convincing her, changing her into the social creature her mother already was. Of Alfred.… Karen Olivia Hampton would not be dominated nor used by Alfred or any other man. Not even a Texan.

How were women treated in Texas? The same as in Washington and New York? She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and shutting out the final pre-party sounds, daydreaming of a strange land a thousand miles away. The land was flat, sere, bounded by a sky as lonely and empty as the miles falling away from her on all sides. A single man loomed on the horizon and strode toward her. It was Vance Paxton.
If all the men in the world were like him, I'm sure I'd … I'd … just hate it

The clatter of rapid footsteps accompanied by Iantha's admonishing voice broke her uncomfortable reverie. She opened her eyes to see Retta fashioning a tiny bouquet of flowers, twining an assortment of dainty ribbons among the blossoms. Retta fitted them into Karen's already elegant coiffure, her nimble fingers darting among Karen's yellow gold ringlets to adjust a pale blue ribbon here, fasten a stray blossom there. When she finished, Karen was transformed from a ravishingly pretty young woman to a goddess of myth, a Helen whose beauty had caused the toppling of distant Troy, a siren luring men from their course, dashing their hearts upon the cruel whims of her caprice. Aphrodite herself.

Retta stood back and admired her handiwork. Karen stared, more than a little bewildered by her own reflection. She had always known she was pretty. She accepted the fact as natural, seldom giving the matter much thought. But now.… Every part complimented every other part. Lustrous hair touched by Midas himself. The green of eyes set off by the gold of the hair. The nose, not pert and cute any more, but regal and bold without being outlandish. Perfect lips sculpted of ruby, gentle against ivory skin.
It's not me. It's not me
. She leaned forward slightly, hand covering her mouth in surprise. “Oh, Retta. Don't you think it's a little too much?”

“Honey, yore beauty done come from de Lawd,” Retta answered firmly. “Dey's no shame in showin' it off. Dem flowers is from de garden an' dey's de Lawd's too, and he doan mind you wearin' them 'cause it's obvious to him, an' me too, dat dem flowers and you was made for each other.”

Karen gazed back into the mirror. Suddenly she felt very powerful. The feeling surged through her.
Something important is going to happen tonight. I don't know what it is yet, but something important is going to happen
. And suddenly, too, she was glad for the party. Her whole being tingled with anticipation and she felt more alive than ever before. She settled back in the chair and dipped her pen into the ink well and sat poised with the tip against the page. Unmoving and lost in a confused welter of thoughts and excited expectations, Karen dreamed again while the deep blue stain on the page spread and spread.…

The carriage let him off at the customary iron grill gate. Vance walked only a trifle unsteadily up to the Leighton house, there to be admitted by their Castilian butler and guided into the drawing room. The butler gave Vance a knowing smirk and excused himself after the Texan declined an offer of anything stronger than coffee. A moment later Earnest Leighton made a hurried entrance, stepping back in surprise when he saw his visitor.

“Why, Paxton! I'm … well … I didn't even hear you come in. I swear that goddam butler never tells me anything. That's the trouble with help these days, you know. You take them in, give 'em a job and they think they own the place. Have you got a drink?”

“I told your man just coffee, thank you.”

“That's all? I thought you Texans were drinking men.” He paused, staring curiously at Vance, then turning abruptly to the window behind him. “There was an influx of foreign servants and the like after Richmond fell. Virginia gentry always were fond of Europeans. Gave them a feeling of class. But a lot of them were put out of work by the war. Left to wander, as it were. Washington got more than its fair share, and we're burdened with them even if we have managed to keep their salaries within reason. That's how we came across Modero. Not a bad boy as these people go. Angie so dearly loved Spain when we were there. A lovely country. Lovely country.…”

Vance stood unmoving as the congressman paced nervously back and forth in front of the window, his hands jerking spasmodically, his words spilling rapidly.
A man who doesn't dare or can't stop talking. Something wrong with that man. Something bad wrong
.

Modero entered the room bearing a small silver tray on which rested a white china cup and saucer. Vance gratefully accepted the proffered cup and sipped the steaming, deep brown liquid, savoring its taste and waiting for the man he had cuckolded to continue.

“Angie isn't even dressed yet,” Earnest went on, his pace finally slowing. “You know women. They spend hours on their hair and face and a minute to dress. All that preparation.…” He sucked in a deep breath, imposing control on himself with an effort. The tension was gone when he turned back to Vance. His delivery was easily normal, businesslike and sincere. “I'm awfully sorry I won't be able to join you tonight, but this damned meeting just can't be postponed. Still, I hope to get away and possibly arrive late. It shouldn't matter to a party of that sort. People seldom notice who's come and gone.”

“We'll keep an eye out for you, Earnest.”

“Do that. I appreciate you escorting Angela. She'd be heartbroken if she had to miss Alfred and Karen's party. And you certainly ought to attract attention in that outfit. Angie dearly loves attention. Thrives on it. Couldn't wear such a getup myself, of course. Wouldn't fit my personality.” A strand of graying hair fell away from his head and hung over his ear, revealing a chalky streak of scalp. He combed the lick of hair back into place with fingers in a slow, old man's gesture. Another hole in the conversation stretched out lamely and Earnest Leighton fumbled awkwardly for his pocket watch, hauling it out and glancing at it too rapidly to read what time it said. “Damn it. Rude of me, but I've got to get going.”