by Robyn Carr
The play bored her; she barely understood it. But she thoroughly enjoyed observing the people. It served well as instruction on how she would do as a rich and influential married woman. She spent her time watching the behavior around her and was relieved to see that even the best-dressed women there did not concentrate on the play any more than she, but rather flirted and chatted during the performance. How simple it was to be able to attend whatever one liked, whenever one liked.
During the intermission, she wanted to go into the foyer where drinks would be served and people would chat. Dale did not want to leave his seat, but she persuaded him. Several people in a group passed Dale and nodded, paused, said hello, but he didn’t introduce them to Patricia. He stood as if he were alone, shook hands with well-dressed young gentlemen and kissed the backs of ladies’ hands.
“Why didn’t you introduce me?” she whispered when they returned to their seats.
“Because they’re clods,” he said, looking straight ahead to the empty, curtained stage. “Just forget about them.”
She frowned her confusion. “You’re not paying very much attention to me,” she complained.
He dropped his arm around her shoulders, toying casually with the tulle strip. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m finding it’s harder than I thought to be a gentleman with you. You’re so damned desirable!”
“Oh, Dale, is that all you think about?”
“With you,” he said, nuzzling her ear.
“You would be a difficult husband to keep happy,” she said, testing, teasing.
“Not for you, love.”
Patricia thought of wedding gown patterns and fabric swatches.
The waiters at Tiffin’s knew him, bowed to him, and escorted them through a crowded room. She tried to observe without staring. There didn’t seem to be very many people here, either, and again, their dress was not nearly so ostentatious as hers.
But the room itself was magnificent. Waiters in starched white jackets carried trays to mahogany tables covered with linen cloths. China, crystal, and silver sparkled, and wine in ornate decanters decorated tables. Men wore jackets with ascots and women covered their shoulders with shawls. Patricia felt outrageously bare but held her head up high as she walked across the multicolored woolen carpet with Dale.
Their table was one of a few in the rear of the restaurant and there was a curtain drawn almost closed around them. It cut them off from the rest of the patrons and Patricia felt at once privileged and deprived. She had taken all these risks to win Dale, but also to see and be seen.
“Why don’t we dine in the open with the others?” she asked.
“I don’t like anyone to watch me eat,” Dale replied. “It’s something you should get used to, Patricia. When you’re well known people stare. It’s uncomfortable.”
“I don’t mind if people look at me.”
“I’m sure you don’t, dear, but quality people like to keep an element of mystery and secrecy that is more tasteful and better for their reputation,” he advised. “There isn’t anyone in the restaurant of consequence, in any case.”
“Who, then, is in the restaurant, Dale?”
“No one of importance. Businessmen and parlor girls. Working-class people who have saved for a year for a meal here. The like.”
“Don’t your friends come here?”
“Before nine?” he asked, laughing. “Don’t you like being alone with me?”
“Of course, darling,” she said, trying out the endearment on him for the first time. What a clever word, she discovered by the way his eyes lit.
“That’s a relief. I can hardly consider a lifetime with you if you’re reluctant to share my company.”
She lowered her gaze and looked up at him through her thick, dark lashes. “All this talk,” she said. “When are you going to come right out and ask me?”
His fingers caressed her neck. “At just the right moment, darling.” And for that she rewarded him with a kiss that was interrupted by the opening of the curtain and the appearance of a waiter.
Dale discussed the champagnes with the waiter and made their dinner selection. It was all brought too quickly after that. There was cream soup and watercress with almonds and tomato wedges. Then came oysters and snails, though she simply could not touch them, which amused Dale to a great degree. She would have thought he was laughing at her had he not leaned over and affectionately stroked the inside of her upper arm. Next came a pastry and meat pie, then a slice of beef cooked in its own juices and side plates of exotic-looking vegetables: carrots cut strangely and ornately, pea pods, and miniature corn cobs. The bread was fresh from the oven and aromatic; the butter was whipped. Finally there was a chocolate mousse topped with whipped cream. The courses came so rapidly and efficiently that too soon they were finished.
Patricia, of course, didn’t eat much. Her stomach was tense from pretending. She wasn’t enjoying herself at all. She had expected so much more of the evening: introductions, much fuss over her beauty, playing and flirting and having fun. She was left standing alone while he chatted with his friends in the theater and was hidden behind a drape while she dined at the fancy restaurant. When, she asked herself, will I be with all the others? For parties and games and festivities? When will I be one of them?
“I’d like to show you my house,” he told her.
“But Dale, I’m supposed to be home early!”
“You do want to see it, don’t you?”
“Maybe it would be better if we did it another time,” she attempted. “I should be home before Mama--”
“Have you had a good outing, Patricia?”
“Oh yes,” she lied. The hired coach lurched into motion. She knew he had directed the driver before she accepted.
“You should go to plays and dinners every day.”
But Patricia was aching with disappointment. She would not be marrying Dale to be with him. “I thought we’d meet people you knew,” she said. “I thought you would be taking me to places where your friends gather.”
“I’m afraid that will have to come later, darling. It’s impossible with the hours you’re forced to keep. If I could call for you earlier in the day for afternoon gatherings, there would be a group involved in something. As for parties, plays, and dinners, nothing much happens before seven. Never.”
“Dale,” she nervously asked. “What are parlor girls?”
“Don’t you know?” he asked, astounded.
“No.”
He laughed loudly at that and put his arm around her as the coach rattled along at what seemed a high speed. “Well, they’re beautiful women,” he said, a ripe chuckle in his voice. “You could be a parlor girl, Patricia. A good one.”
“But what do they do?”
“Just what you do best, my dear. Adorn the arms of prosperous men and entertain them, make them feel important and pampered.”
“And is that what I do?”
“Indeed, darling. Better than anyone. It is exactly what every man wants. Believe me. Now, I want to show you how a rich man lives. You should know exactly what it’s like. I want to show you where Father figures his fat accounts, where dinner parties for seventy are held, where the finest books money can buy are shelved, where imported and exotic flowers surround our breakfast parlor.”
His description of his mansion went on through the ride, and she fell silent and listened. She had imagined it all, but had never set foot in a wealthy home. She thought she had, visiting Mary Ellen Jasper, but that house was nothing to what Dale described. Sixty rooms made up his home. She indulged in more daydreams. Quiet and solitude while she took her tea and toast, surrounded by orchids and ferns even in the coldest month of winter. Bath closets with brass tubs for every member of the household; no more outdoor conveniences. Glittering men and women surrounding the largest dining table ever built, Patricia at the head.
She was so tired of Dale--so tired of pretending to like him. She had not had a fun day. Dale was solicitous, but greedy. He pawed her while he described his house
. She wanted either to go home or to move quickly into the mansion and become its mistress. As the hour grew later and she remained at Dale’s disposal, so diminished her chance of slipping back into the boardinghouse and acting as though she had never left. She hoped her mother would defer, profess understanding, accept Dale and his courtship graciously.
“My mother will be furious by the hour of my return.”
“We can deal with Mama, Patricia,” he said patiently.
Gas lights lit the gate and the mammoth front doors of the mansion. The ride itself had taken thirty minutes. It might take as long as an hour for her to get home. It would be after ten.
“Please wait,” he told the driver. “We won’t be long. We’re just going in for a few moments.”
She was so encouraged by his instructions to the driver that she went with him willingly. He took her hand, which had become cool and damp, and pulled her up the ornate, curving, walnut staircase.
“Where…where are we going?” she asked, expecting a tour of sorts, but not beginning upstairs.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said.
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
“No one. We’re completely alone.”
“Dale, should I be here when there’s no one at home?”
He pulled harder, hurrying her up the stairs even though she resisted. “But you are. Are you worried? I thought you were ready to spend your entire life with me. How can you be ready for the one thing, and not the other?”
“It’s just that--”
“Here we are,” he said, stopping before the door at the top of the stairs. “This is what I want to show you. Look,” he said, opening a door. “This is the room that will belong to my wife. I’ve had it made up. I want to know what you think.”
Patricia knew, as she had never known, the special moment had arrived. Now he would propose marriage. The room was lit, ornately furnished, a huge raised brass bed in the center with the satin drapes pulled back. There was a desk, table, dressing table, window seat, even a bowl of fresh flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, envy causing her legs to feel weak. “Beautiful.”
“Come here,” he said, leading her into the room and opening an adjoining door. “Mrs. Montaine’s sitting room,” he said, showing her another luxurious setting. “And here,” he said, leading her away to the other side of the bedroom and opening another door, “Mrs. Montaine’s bath closet and dressing room.” Within was one of Patricia’s most earnest desires--a bath closet with tub, toilet bowl, large wooden sink with marble bowl.
“Oh, Dale,” she breathed.
He turned again to the bedroom. “Are the colors to your liking?” he asked, his fingers toying with the tulle strip.
“Dale,” she said, her voice wheedling and silky, “don’t you have something you want to ask me?”
His eyes became smokey, intense. He lowered his lips to hers and softly kissed her. He leisurely played with the tulle strip until it fell away. He embraced her gently, toying with the buttons at the back of her gown, opening one, the next, the next. “Yes, darling, I have something to ask you. Will I be happy with you? Will you always desire me as you do tonight?”
“Yes,” she breathed against his mouth. “Yes.”
Suddenly her gown slipped over her arms, exposing her camisole. She gasped, and he chuckled softly. He moved her backward toward the bed while she struggled in vain to raise her gown over her breasts. “Dale!” she protested. He forced her to sit on the bed. “Dale, you shouldn’t--”
But his lips were on hers again, and she was pressed so firmly against him she couldn’t resist.
“You wouldn’t pretend to want me, would you, darling?” he asked. “Do you know how it is with a man? A man can’t be teased, can’t be put off again and again. The urge in a man is so much stronger than in a woman--”
“But, Dale--”
“You do want me, don’t you? Forever?”
“Of course, but--”
“Show me,” he said, his voice husky. “Show me that my touch pleases you.”
Patricia swallowed, but gave herself to his kiss. She endured his fondling, not attempting to distract him even though his hands on her breasts became rough, squeezing. When he pulled down her camisole, she pushed at his shoulders, but he was as immovable as any rock. Then he moved, putting his mouth on her, sucking at her nipples, and she pushed at him harder, an urgent plea escaping her.
He pushed her back on the bed, kissing her mouth to stifle her panicked cries, fumbling with her plentiful petticoats and his breeches. Her mouth and neck were wet from his tongue. She squirmed beneath him, but more for a breath of air, which she gasped greedily when it was possible. She pushed at his shoulders, pushed him away, but hardly a sound escaped her. His shoulders seemed to be pointing downward, his chest pressed against her so hard that she couldn’t move, and her flailing arms could not free her. He let go of her breast and his face was buried in her neck. Her shock was so great that all she could do was utter his name, and his name came like a question, faint and disbelieving. “Dale?”
“Ah, Patricia, what would you give to show me you want to be with me forever? If you give this,” he said, his hand on her upper thigh beneath her abundance of clothing, “it would be like a pledge. A pledge.”
Then she felt it, his hot, hard, and bare penis, thrust there between her thighs. She knew it was too late. She had not given an answer, a consent. She had not even been forced to pretend, he was so oblivious to her. Her eyes, huge and astonished, saw only the dark hair that surrounded his ear. But then he raised his head as he poked at her again and again and she began to cry silently beneath his grunts of determination. And then the dam broke and he plunged into her. His expression became dark, flushed, detached. He was using her, yet seemed completely unaware of her. He smiled. His eyes glittered in victory, in conquest. He was in her! Her pain was blinding, searing, and she could not even scream. Her breath was gone. He thrust and pumped. Once, twice. Twice more. It tore her apart, and a small whimper of loss came from her as she turned her eyes away from his face. But that was all for him. It took hardly a moment for him to have his fill and become still. She turned back to look at his face. He held himself above her with hands on each side of her. His head was thrust back, as if he looked at the ceiling, but his eyes were closed, and the hot pink drained from his cheeks. There was sweat on his forehead and upper lip.
Then he pulled himself out of her and stood beside the bed. There she saw it, through eyes that smarted with anguished tears that wouldn’t quite flow. His wet and bent cock hung out of his open pants. He touched himself there, stroking it with his thumb and forefinger, up and down, groaning softly with eyes still partially closed, as if consoling his injured member. Fluid dribbled from it, and she saw that her blood stained it. Patricia stared at it in horror, could not take her eyes away as it seemed to lose its power slowly. And Dale’s face relaxed, softened, just as his awful cock did. She felt the sticky wetness that he’d left in her run out between her sore thighs. Her disgust was so intense that she tasted vomit at the back of her throat. And then Dale stuffed his now flaccid weapon in his pants and buttoned them. He turned away from her as he finished doing this, and she willed herself to be strong.
When he turned back to her, his eyes had lost all the fire she had seen moments before. “I’ll give you a few moments alone,” he said. “Use the water closet if you like.”
She drew herself to a sitting position and pushed her skirt down. The threat of tears caused her throat to ache but she valiantly held her dress, a burdensome bundle of clothing around her waist, and went to the water closet. She washed her face, attempted to smooth her hair, which was a hopeless mess, and found her pantalets torn; they had not even been pulled off but rather ripped aside. All she could consider was that Dale would have to go to the door with her and beg her mother to let him marry her. She struggled to keep her composure. If she let him think she had been nearly destro
yed by this event, he might doubt her.
When she finally left the water closet, she found him seated in a chair in the bedroom. His shirt was opened, his hair tousled, and he held a glass of clear liquid. He spoke without looking at her. “I seem to have lost control,” he said, not apologetically.
“It will be impossible for me to conceal this from my mother. You’ll have to come with me and talk--”
“The driver is waiting for you, Patricia. Go ahead.”
“What?”
“I said, you can go now. And thank you for a pleasant evening.”
She stood, stunned, looking at his profile, watching as he leisurely lifted the glass to his lips and sipped.
“What?” she attempted again.
He turned to look at her. “You’d better be going. Wouldn’t want Mama to worry.”
“Dale?”
“You can find your way out, can’t you?”
“Why? What have you done to me?”
“You acted as though you wanted it, Patricia. Did I misunderstand?”
“Are you…do we…are we to marry now?” Her shaking hand moved, and she touched her hair, as if checking her coiffure. Confused and still anguished by the burning pain that lingered, she didn’t know what to do next.
“I think not, Patricia. The coach is waiting for you.”
“Dale! Dale, what have you done? Why have you--”
“Parlor girls, Patricia, are whores. You dined with whores this evening. They pretend to like rich men, act as though they enjoy their company, and then when the evening is paid for, the trinkets dispersed, there’s a nice little moment of pleasure for the man, the money changes hands, the parlor girls go home, and the men go back to their wives. Their wives, by the way, never pretend to love them.”
She stared at him in astonishment, staggered by the impact of this affront. He stood from his chair and watched as the meaning of this evening settled over her. Finally, outrage winning, she shrieked and flung herself at him. But he quickly grasped her wrist before she could slap him. The drink fell, and he had her easily under his control.
“There is no one home, darling. No one to hear your temper or screams. We can tussle a bit more if you like, but frankly I think you’d be better off taking advantage of that coach before the driver gets tired of waiting.”