Paxton Pride (3 page)

Retta poked her head in the door, startled Karen awake then bobbed out again. On her way for tea, no doubt. Karen sighed and rose from the tub, the water streaming down her naked body. She stepped to the towel on the floor and wrapped herself in another, tucking it between her breasts to keep it in place. Thus attired she made her way back to her bedroom.

Golden early morning light tinged with new green of budding trees streamed through the sheer curtains on the east window and left flowing patches on floor and wall as Karen stood in front of the full-length mirror and dropped the towel to the floor. The Queen of Sheba awaiting her lover, she thought, posing unconsciously, shoulders back, head held high. A slight frown crossed her face as she leaned forward to inspect the small mole on her right hip, then the larger dark one on her right breast. She tossed her head imperiously. Not moles! Such an ugly word. Beauty spots, rather, to set off flawless skin. A wisp of golden hair twined across her breast. She rearranged it so the mole, the beauty spot, peeked through. Much more alluring, she told herself, satisfied now with what she saw. “And how much, sirs, would you pay for this handsome wench?” she asked the mirror, demurely covering herself with crossed hands.

“Honey, you ain't gonna get no prettier starin' at yo'self lak dat, fillin' up yer own eyes wid what's meant for a man to stare at. C'mon, now. Here's yo' tea and biscuits.”

Karen padded from the mirror to the dressing table, quickly donning the chemise Retta handed her as she went, then sat to write in her diary and drink tea while Retta brushed out her hair. It was that nice time of day when all was right, all quiet. Thank God Papa didn't insist on a family breakfast, with everyone half awake and still listless and grumpy. She much preferred her hour alone, blissfully relaxed with her tea and biscuits, her diary and Retta brushing her hair.

“Honey, your hair is gonna be the light in Mistah Whitaker's eyes. You mark my word. Pretty hair and pretty eyes done trap more men than, well, I doan know what Der's nothin' to compare dem to, I reckin.”

The brush sank into the tresses, traveled their length without binding, repeated itself in unvarying rhythm as it would for over a hundred more strokes. Karen looked up at the black woman reflected in the mirror. “Love shouldn't be a game of trap and catch, should it, Retta? It sounds so cold. Like a fox hunt.”

“Tha's what it is, chile. You hunts for the man you wants and you grabs him and lets him know it's high time for settlin' down. If you don't do it, no one else will.” Retta laughed aloud at Karen's worried expression.

“You're horrid, Retta. Absolutely horrid. You have a soul of ice.”

“Honey, I'se got the hottes' soul nawth of Souf Carolina. But facts is facts. You wants you man, you hunts him down. Ain't no diffrint fo' whites or coloreds, rich or po'.”

“Perhaps so. But I'll marry for love, Retta. You mark my word.”

“Missy,” Retta answered sternly, “you been readin' too many of dem books your mama tellin' you to keep away from. Ain't no Hampton never married for no love.”

Karen's eyes flashed. She loved Retta dearly, but the black woman had gone a little too far. “I think that will be enough for my hair now, Retta. I should like to dress, please.”

Retta placed the brush on the dresser, paying no attention whatsoever to her mistress' implied admonition. She had known her too long to worry about Karen's moods. She turned and waddled across the room. “What you want to wear today, honey?”

“The light green, I believe.”

Retta paused, raised an eyebrow, then continued to the huge armoire in the corner of the room. As always, she ran her fingers over the shining surface where dull red inlaid cherry flowers lay entwined in wreaths and garlands of carved black walnut. She pulled the doors open and reached for the article indicated, a daring light green spring dress with form-fitting bodice and flaring skirt. “Ooo-weee, honey. Don' let you momma see you in dis. She already think you should dress up accordin' to her way of thinkin'.”

“I shall dress as I please, Retta. Anyway, that was a gift from Count Milano when he was here from Italy visiting Daddy. If it's good enough for the Count, it's good enough for Momma.”

“Noooo, missy. Tha's even worse. Your momma thinks dem Italians is worse dan anybody else. Now I
know
you better use the back door.”

“I live in this house and have as much right to use the front door as anyone. And I most certainly will use it today.” Karen stood as Retta carried the dress to her and helped the young woman into it. “Anyway,” she continued, giggling lightly as Retta pulled the bodice tight and fastened it, “I'll be leaving before Momma comes downstairs. So there.” Both of them laughed together at that, Retta shaking her head in mock despair as Karen smoothed the skirt over her hips and adjusted her breasts to better fit the bodice. Count Milano had excellent taste.

The carriage was ready and waiting with Hermann, the dour coachman, listlessly standing by. Hermann had been with the Hamptons for nineteen of Karen's twenty years. Tall, rawboned and lanky to the point of emaciation, he made a singular picture as he stood by the front wheel. He seemed to have four elbows, each jutting at a different angle from his body. His great, bulbous, pockmarked nose drew stares and wry comments. A huge, bobbing Adam's apple attracted its own attention. But ugly as he was, Karen would have no other driver, for the man was entirely devoted to her. And ugly or no, he could handle a team as no one else, became, indeed, a flowing, graceful extension of horses and carriage when perched on the driver's seat.

“Good morning, Miss.”

“Good morning, Hermann. The Capitol, please. But not too fast. I'm not due until nearly noon.”

“I'll go by the Washington Monument, Miss. It's another twenty feet higher since we last passed.”

“That would be nice.”

The door closed behind her, followed by a brief rocking motion as Hermann ascended to the driver's seat. The pleasant, musky odor of horse and oiled leather filled the carriage as it rolled off smoothly. Karen leaned back and closed her eyes. I'm not even going to look today, she thought, just smell and listen.

Mockingbirds paved her way. Mockingbirds and blue-jays. A cardinal whistled the same piercing note over and over, fading out behind as the coach made its way through the streets. Children laughed. One cried. Fresh bread here. A peddler there, his call of “Fresh fish, fresh fish caught this mo'nin'!” backed up by the reek of sea and salt.

She could always tell when drawing nigh the mall and the last part of the trip to the landmark structure housing both the Senate and the House of Representatives. The curses of carpenters, stonemasons, draymen and ironworkers, and the raucous clashing noise of construction on the new Washington Monument drowned out all other, more mellifluous noises. Soon after, the fetid stench from the canal running through the mall defeated the smell of the dust from the construction. Karen closed her eyes even tighter and wrinkled her nose in disgust until the carriage passed onto Pennsylvania Avenue and clattered up to the Capitol where the smell of wisteria once again became predominant. She opened her eyes to the sight of the awesome white-washed Capitol, its dome jutting dramatically into the sky and capped with the soul-stirring statue of Freedom. Completed only seven years ago, the magnificent building never failed to take the breath away from even the most callous visitor.

Karen alighted, told Hermann to wait and made her way up the broad, lengthy flight of stairs into the rotunda. As always it was alive with activity. Senators and representatives, lobbyists and aides blended together in indistinguishable patterns of bustling self-importance. The honorable Senator Duffy of New York recognized Karen, interrupted a conversation and approached her. “My dear Karen. Your lovely presence graces these all too hallowed halls.” The elder statesman bowed before her, his white-fringed sideburns and sunburned, balding pate provoking a stifled chuckle from Karen. Duffy took her hand and gave it the mandatory kiss of courtesy, lingering slightly longer than necessary.

“It's nice to see you, Senator Duffy. I'm sorry I missed you Saturday evening.”

“Business, business, my dear. And your father? How is Barrett enjoying Washington this time?”

“Well enough, Senator. Business agrees with him whether it be here or in New York.”

“He'll be heading back to the city soon enough, my dear. His work with the trade commission lobby has been invaluable.”

“My father has always been very efficient at whatever he does, Senator. Business is his life, and Washington is a city of business,
par excellence
. He finds it very stimulating.”

“I quite agree. There is no better calling for a man than to devote his life to business. Keeps the country growing. Expansion! That's the key. Yes, I've entertained the notion of dabbling in business myself. After my work here is finished, to be sure. Of course, men like your father keep telling me to consider the executive office, but I can't see me in the White House. No … too much trouble. I'd rather leave that kind of pressure to the generals.” He chuckled, pleased with his wit and condescension. “In any case, the Senate … now there's where the real work gets done. But listen to me, how I carry on. The presence of youth and beauty, my dear, sets my old tongue to wagging. You must be here to see young Alfred. Fine boy. Known the Whitakers a long time. Good family. Wish he'd get that silly notion about the House out of his head. Still, one has to start somewhere.”

Senator Duffy's voice trailed off as he realized Karen's attention had been diverted. He turned to follow her gaze. The man he saw was an enigma to the many frock-coated, wing-collared politicos making their way across the rotunda floor, hurrying from one meeting to another. He was a Texan, taller than most of the others present and clean shaven except for a smooth brown mustache curving down across the corners of his mouth. Unlike the stiff, almost funereal wear of those around him, this man wore an open-throated coarse linen shirt under a sackcoat of brushed buckskin which fell to hip level and soft, well-worn cream nankeen trousers fitting tight in the legs. A thick leather belt with a richly worked silver buckle circled his waist and a gaudy scarf was tied about his neck, adding dash to his already unusual appearance. Soft leather boots rode high on his calf, bulging in the rear where the muscles stood ou in relief. His flesh was almost copperish beside the pale Washingtonians, some of whom tagged along beside him in heated discussion. He carried a large, floppy-brimmed hat in his hand. A mane of light brown, almost shoulder-length hair surrounded a hard, high-caste face.

“Who is that?” Karen asked in a voice soft and thick with sudden emotion. Her breath quickened and she was acutely aware of a soft blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Oh, him,” Duffy scoffed. “He's an upstart Texan who's been stirring up the House. Just 'cause the southern rabble got their state back and the provisional reconstruction period is over with, they think they can come up here and make demands as if they were as equal as all the loyal Union states. As if the War never happened. Hrrumph! Equal, indeed!”

“He
is
different,” Karen remarked softly. The Texan's eyes met hers for a brief moment, then, as he was pulled away by an importuning hand, winked at her. It was over with before she knew what happened. The Texan was escorted past them and out the massive doors, the chattering voices dying out rapidly.

“Different. Hrrumph. A clown, a renegade and a barbarian if you ask me. No respect for the seat of government. He's evidently caught the fancy of some of the members of the House, though I dare say he'll be less successful in the Senate where older, wiser heads hold sway.”

Karen watched without listening as the cluster of politicians vanished down the stairs, Senator Duffy's remarks so much babble in her ears.

The peal of church bells rang over the city to announce the noon hour. The sound triggered a change in tempo in the rotunda. Quiet, purposeful activity disappeared in the suddenly charged atmosphere as the men around her moved rapidly on unseen random paths, hurriedly greeting each other, passing messages and rushing off to keep appointments. One of Alfred's aides appeared at her side. The congressman had an emergency meeting and would be held up for some time. If Miss Hampton would be so kind as to wait in her carriage.…

Karen fumed inwardly but smiled in acquiescence as the aide hurried off and Senator Duffy launched into a discussion of the reconstruction problem. Ten minutes turned to fifteen. Finally she could take no more, and excusing herself graciously, escaped just in time to avoid an elaborate dissection of the unmentionable behavior of the “treacherous” French.

Normally Karen would have been outraged at having been left waiting by a young man, but today she felt unashamedly free, released from an afternoon she dreaded. She bade Hermann follow a meandering course through the city, so beautiful in spring. She visited a favorite dressmaker, lunched with an artist friend and called at the British Embassy for tea with Emily Edwards, who was nowhere to be found. With little else left to do, she told Hermann to head back to Georgetown and stop just below the heights at the foot of Rock Creek Bridge. Once there, she instructed him to travel on to the house without her. Hermann, more disgruntled than ever, urged her to come on in the carriage, but Karen would have nothing to do with the idea. She was more than capable of walking back through the park and sent the man packing. That had been two hours ago and she had long since lost track of time.

Karen slid her bare feet along the smooth moist silt fringe along the burbling stream. She dug her toes into the mud, feeling ever so much the child. A child … no … not any longer. Her hands pressed against her cheeks, then traveled down her shoulders to cup each breast, full and rounded and unconfined beneath chemise and partially unlaced bodice. Her mind flashed on the stranger at the rotunda, how he towered above the others, the brief, conspiratorial wink, the tightness of his trousers leaving little to the imagination. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric and she pictured him standing over her, legs partially spread, his shirt undone, hands on hips. He would stare at her, his eyes flashing with lust, stare at her barely concealed breasts. His eyes would travel down her body, undressing her, then back to her face as he knelt at her side, his hands reaching for her.