Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (71 page)
“
No.” She shook her head. “But he is Jay Gould's man.
And Tilden has had trouble with both of them
although he
never speaks of it. John Flood told me. What if Williams
should see Tilden and me together at the yacht club or in a restaurant? What if he begins wondering who I am?”
“
What if, what if, what if.” Laura Hemmings flitted her
fingers. “‘Charlotte, are you turning into one of those tire
some women who cannot bear to be happy because they
are convinced that the world is and should be a vale of tears?”
“
We have a great deal to lose, Laura,” she said evenly.
”I am not just being silly.”
We're going to lose nothing.” Laura reached for her
friend's hat. “Come. I won't let you become a recluse. Dr.
Palmer has asked me to a picnic lunch, and you and little
Jonathan are joining us.”
It had been two full years, back to the spring of 1889,
since Margaret had serious cause to feel that her happiness
was threatened. Her life for the most part was one of great
contentment. She dearly wished, of course, that she could see more of Tilden than just on weekends, but in that re
spect their relationship was not unlike that of many Green
wich families. A good number of husbands spent their weekdays in the city. Her fondest wish was that she and Tilden could fall asleep in each other's arms and wake up together in the morning without having to slip away to the Claremont Inn for that purpose. But in spite of the lack of
that sweet convenience, or perhaps because of it, their love-
making retained all its early excitement and more. They
enjoyed each other when and wherever they could, on long
Saturday afternoons in Margaret's bedchamber, on starlit
beaches, even in carriages. A dash of mischief and intrigue,
Margaret found, made their intimate moments all the more
delicious.
short duration, but so unexpected that the shock of it almost stopped her heart. It involved the Greenwich chapter of the
Women's Christian Temperance Union. Several of the la
dies of that organization had come to visit Margaret within the very week that she moved into her new electric home. They were fully aware of the tragedy that had befallen the
Total Abstinence Union of Wilkes-Barre and had heard that
the Mud Run calamity had also claimed the life of Margaret's husband. The good women offered their most pro
found sympathy and their fullest support, reminding her
that the Greenwich chapter of the WCTU would not permit
a distressed member of a sister organization to want for
anything. They'd heard and they could see that she was
large with child. Once the baby is born, they told Margaret,
and when she felt up to it, they would be honored to see
her at one of their Wednesday afternoon teas, especially
those on the first Wednesday of every month, because that
is when new members are officially received. Margaret was
quite moved by their kindness and more than a little sad
dened at the need to deceive them, one of her deceptions
being that she was something less than a total abstainer.
Perhaps, she decided, she had better abstain after all. She
could not very well accept the ladies' invitation and then be seen in the village spirits shop, or have them call and
see a decanter of sherry on her sideboard. She would ab
stain. Mostly. She could keep the sherry out of sight in the
kitchen cabinet, along with Tilden's Scotch whisky, and
Tilden could replenish the cellar wine supply from New
York each weekend. As for dining out with him, well, she could always sneak a sip from his glass when no one was
looking. Perhaps a bit of intrigue could do for a glass of
wine what it did for making love. She would soon find out.
She would also soon learn that she was by no means the
only lady of the WCTU who practiced this small artifice.
It was almost the beginning of May and several recruitment visits later when Margaret agreed to attend the tea for new members on the first Wednesday of that month. There was one other candidate, a dark fortress of a woman named
Phoebe Peterkin, whose husband had lately bought a pig
farm upwind of town. It was the custom for the new candidates to pour for the other members and, while doing so,
give a brief oral biography of themselves and perhaps a
word or two of their convictions on the matter of temper
ance. The presence of another candidate cut Margaret's
pouring duties by half, and that was good, because she was
becoming quite anxious about giving a speech, that require
ment having come as a revelation to her when it was too
late to withdraw gracefully. Mendacity did not come easily
to her. It was bad enough that she had to mislead these
ladies about her origins, but to do so about her principles
was more than she would permit of herself.
Phoebe Peterkin was the first to pour for the dozen or so
members who fell as her share as Margaret waited ner
vously, her eyes on her fidgeting hands. The Peterkin
woman began her discourse by announcing that she spoke
to them through lips that had never touched alcohol in any
form and she held aloft a hand which she said had dashed
the cup from many a man who had so far forgotten himself that he was about to pour a thief into his mouth to steal his
brain. Margaret heard a moan. She wasn't sure whether it
came from one of the ladies who sat facing her or from
within herself. Mrs. Peterkin went on to say that although
it had not pleased the Almighty to bless her with children,
she did have a good upstanding husband although, truth be told, he had not always been so. As a young man he was
seduced into an evil fellowship with rum by none other than
the Union army, whose custom it was to give each man a
daily ration of that horrid stew. He was drunk when we met
and drunker still when we married, so much so that I had
to hold him straight with one arm around his waist or he
would have bolted from the salvation that was to become
his once I took him in hand.
sound of stifled laughter. Margaret lifted her eyes toward
its source. Several women were smiling, others squirming. She saw one woman, very tiny, blond, whose hands were
covering her face and whose shoulders were shaking con
vulsively. Something about her seemed familiar. Margaret
dropped her eyes once more and wished desperately that she could be almost anyplace else on earth.
Thank you, Mrs. Peterkin,” she heard the voice of the
chapter's secretary, Mrs. Gannon, saying. ”I am sure we
are all the stronger for having shared your story. Perhaps
we might hear from Mrs. Corbin now.”
heavy service, getting as much in the saucers and on the
tea table, she feared, as she managed to get into the blue
china cups.
”
I think most of you know of my background,” she told
them, her voice near breaking. “It is painful to repeat...
for several reasons... and if you will allow it, I would
prefer to speak no more of what is past.” She took a long
breath, relieved to see that several heads were nodding their understanding.
“
On the matter of temperance”—she threw back her
head—”I fear, from what has just been said, that I do not
belong in this company. The truth is that I do enjoy a glass
of wine or a sherry from time to time.”
Phoebe Peterkin gasped audibly, then folded her arms
and glowered at Margaret.
I believe as you do.” Margaret continued, “that alcohol
when taken to excess is one of the greatest evils of our
time, and I would gladly support any effort you might make
to prevent its ravages and to ease the suffering of those
afflicted. But I also believe, with Voltaire, that neither abstinence nor excess ever renders one happy. I do take wine
in strict moderation and I expect that I will continue to do
so. I am sorry to have misled you.” Margaret sat down,
her cheeks burning, and wished with all her might that the
floor would open under her.
ing. “We have somehow left Mrs. Corbin with the impres
sion that we have achieved perfection in our ideals.
Conversely, we seem to have persuaded the good Mrs. Pe
terkin that we are a group of fanatics whose idea of a pleas
ant outing is to smash a saloon.”
terkin, also rose and quickly turned her back to Margaret.
”I for one,” she said, “applaud Mrs. Corbin's candor and
would very much like to see more of her.”
That voice. Margaret narrowed her eyes. Something
about that voice. And that slender little form.
”
I stand with Laura on that score,” Mrs. Gannon added.
Laura?
“
And as for Mrs. Peterkin”—Laura Hemmings turned
toward the pig farmer's formidable wife—“since we have
confessed to being less perfect than she, perhaps she should
consider whether her excellent qualities would blossom more fully in some other sodality.”
My God!
Margaret's mouth fell open. She barely heard the applause that followed Laura Hemmings's remarks or
the ensuing fury of Phoebe Peterkin as she railed against slackers, backsliders, and compromisers.
My God, it's Little Annie.
Margaret
Barrie,
she said with just her lips. Then the two women
stepped toward each other and touched their cheeks in a
polite manner that was not nearly the unrestrained hug
which Margaret had given her two years earlier when Little
Annie left Georgiana Hastings house for the last time in her life.
She could still pass for fifteen, Margaret thought admir
ingly. Given the right clothing, a young girl's clothing. At
Georgiana’s house she favored middy blouses and straw
sailor hats and she wore her hair long and straight and
brushed down so that it hid much of her face. The hair did
not conceal the wide, full mouth for which Little Annie
was famous most of all, for Annie's specialty was making love in the French manner, a prospect made all the more
erotic to some by her apparent youth and innocence. She
was also possessed of a legendary talent for muscular con
trol by which she could constrict and release her inner parts
in such a way that her maidenhead seemed to be rupturing
under the thrusts of each first-time customer who was will
ing to pay double to deflower a tender virgin. For added
effect, Little Annie often kept a tiny bladder of beef blood
concealed in her palm.
Annie, Margaret recalled, was almost equally adept at saving and investing her money. She did so with Beckwith
& Company through the agency of Georgiana Hastings.
And she was at least as well educated as Margaret. She had told Margaret what was apparently the true story of her
upbringing and downfall. Her father, still living, was a min
ister who had taught in mission schools all around the
world. In her eighteenth year he was given a parish in Prov
idence, Rhode Island, so that he might finish his ministry
in his native country. It was in Annie's nineteenth year that she fell into disgrace and was forced by public and family
pressure to remove that stain from the community. Her ex
perience in other cultures had left Annie a worldlier girl
than most, and she knew at the outset that a term of pros
titution in the right sort of house and with the right sort of
act offered her the greatest promise of early recovery from this personal disaster. She no sooner entered “the life” than
she began planning her retirement from it. Annie's little-
girl role and its attendant disguises was intended as much
to assure future anonymity as it was to maximize her in
come. Her ultimate ambition, she told Margaret, was to
open a school for refined young ladies. She had often taught
in her father's mission schools and was well acquainted
with the essential domestic and social arts. She was fluent
in French, of course, that being the nearest thing to an in
ternational language and, also like Margaret, she played the
piano with sufficient facility to be able to teach it.