Paxton Pride (5 page)

“I came in the back way, Papa.”

“Very well. Alfred has been here the better part of two hours, and while we've enjoyed our visit, he undoubtedly came to see you. I think you owe him an apology.”

Karen was already partway up the curving stairs. She stopped and turned, her hand resting lightly on the railing. The dim light from the lantern behind her backlit her hair and formed a halo of gold against a dark portrait. The lights from below in the hall lit her face unevenly, dropping her eyes in deep shadow and giving her the appearance of a beautiful, mysterious priestess, the effect heightened by the ominous hiss from the lantern. She paused for a moment, fully aware of the spell she cast on the two men below, paused as they stared up at her. There was no hint of apology when she spoke. Instead her voice was low and heady, full of promises yet unfulfilled. “I'll be right down, Alfred. Will you wait in the parlor for me?”

Alfred nodded, his jaw dropping slightly. So glib and masterful in the presence of the most powerful men in the country, he was reduced by the girl above him to a stuttering schoolboy.

Karen flashed a final smile, gathered her skirts and continued up the staircase, rounded the top and disappeared down the hall. Retta stood in the open door to her room, three doors to her right. The black woman took one look and shook her head in disbelief. “Land o' Goshen, look at you. What you been into dis time dat your momma ain't gonna lak? Chile, you looks lak a storm dat's done been played out, lak the rag-a-muffin end to a bad day.”

“Not a
bad
day, Retta,” Karen quickly corrected as she entered the room, pulling at the laces on the bodice. She stopped in front of the mirror. She didn't look any different. Still Karen Hampton. Retta bustled around behind her, mumbling incoherently, then started undoing the back of her dress. “A strange day, perhaps,” Karen said with as much brightness as she could muster. “But not a bad one.”

She chose a simple dress with little flair to the skirt but a bodice of daring Parisian cut revealing dangerously much too much of herself. The dress was of pale green silk overlaid on a darker green velvet.
Green again. Green for the grass I lay on. Green for spring. Green for my eyes. Green for Alfred's envy
. Retta worked on her hair, pulling the tangles from it with hard, swift strokes of the brush while Karen applied just enough blush to accent her cheeks. Nothing more. That, and the eyes framed by her long dusky-blonde lashes ought to make apologies hardly necessary.

Her appearance in the parlor had its desired effect. Alfred was alone, nursing his third brandy when she entered. His eyes grew wide with obvious appreciation and he stammered her name. Why does he look so fragile and pale? she wondered silently, unaware of the comparison she was making to the Texan now consciously forced from her memory. Alfred crossed the room and escorted her back to the double cushioned love seat.

“Karen, I searched all over for you but no one had seen you. Someone finally said you'd driven off. I must admit I was worried.”

“I decided not to wait, Alfred. Senator Duffy droned on and on, and when he started telling me for the fortieth time how terrible the French are, I couldn't take it any longer. It was such a lovely day I took the opportunity to visit friends and take a stroll. Surely you understand, don't you?” Her eyes lowered in calculated contrition.

“But I told you … that is I asked you to wait. The Speaker asked to talk to me and I simply couldn't get away.”

“Alfred Randol Whitaker. I had no intention of standing alone in the rotunda like some lost puppy, nor sitting in my carriage as do some men's mistresses.”

“Karen …!” Alfred's voice rose alarmingly in shock.

“They do and you know it, Alfred. We've both seen them, pretending to be that which they're not.”

“You could have gone to the library and left word with John.”

“John is a fool. And I had no desire to wait in a stuffy library full of law books for the conclusion of a meeting that might have taken fifteen minutes or all day. I think it was most rude of you to have expected me to do so.”

She allowed Alfred to take her hand. He held it gratefully, as one accepts a favor one doesn't deserve. “You're right, Karen,” he agreed a little too rapidly. “I apologize. It was unforgivable of me.”

A cringing puppy. Nothing more than a cringing puppy, showing the whites of his eyes
. “Oh, Alfred, not unforgivable, please. I'm just explaining why I left. Your work is so important and you do get so involved with it … and someone is always demanding your time, asking your opinion, seeking your advice. Sometimes I feel so left out, so unimportant …”

“Karen, you are more important to me than … than …” His voice filled with emotion. “Will you forgive me?”

His total surrender took her off guard. She had expected a better showing somehow. The question popped unbidden in her mind. Would Vance Paxton have given in so easily? She doubted it. Alfred was simply too easily led about. Amused, she leaned a little closer to him, coyly drawing his attention to the top of her bodice and the swelling breasts, laughing inwardly as his eyes lowered unconsciously and the color came to his face. There would be no unpleasantry.

Suddenly aware of the growing silence, Alfred jerked guiltily to his feet and crossed to a tasselled cord hanging against the wall near a large oil painting. He studied the painting for a brief moment before pulling on the cord. Scant seconds later Ross appeared, giving his usual curt bow.

“A brandy for the lady, Ross. And I'll have another one too,” Alfred ordered curtly. Giving an order seemed to reassure him, and instantly more at ease, he rocked back on his heels and ignored the butler, studying the painting as Ross bowed to his back and left the room. Alfred wanted more than anything else to look at Karen again but refused himself the pleasure, made himself wait in an abortive attempt to force Karen to take the initiative. When she didn't say anything he was compelled to give in himself. He turned and posed with the painting at his back, his head cocked to the right to present his best profile. A confident smile lit his face. “Your father and I get on famously, you know. He and I understand each other quite well. We had a pleasant chat.”

Karen watched demurely, once again and in spite of herself comparing him to the stranger she had met that afternoon. Alfred didn't present an unhandsome picture. His sandy hair neatly combed and one eyebrow arched a little higher than the other, he exuded, at the moment at least, the confidence she had seen him display at work on the floor of the House so many times before. Only three inches taller than Karen, his smallish frame was trim and of pleasing proportions, set under a rounded boyish face that would later run to jowls. He was far from being a weakling but his hands were delicate and he walked with feminine grace. And though he sported the traditional somber garb of black tail coat and trousers, his clothes were better tailored than most and he wore them with undeniable flair. When he added his tophat and ever-present ivory-knobbed cane he cut quite a dashing figure. One could do worse.
And yet he is so easily manipulated. I feel so safe with him
.

Ross appeared carrying two crystal snifters on a silver tray. Again the bow. Karen wondered if he could physically manage entering a room without bowing. If only he'd forego the convention once. Her mind wandered, trying to remember if he ever had. He hadn't. Alfred quickly crossed to the door, took the snifters from the tray and carried them to Karen. Ross, with the appearance of one who had been in the room the whole time, unerringly headed for Alfred's empty snifter half hidden behind the candelabra on the side table, placed it on the tray and started for the door. He stood there and announced, “Mr. Hampton bids you his apologies. He has work to do in preparation for an important meeting tomorrow, and will retire directly upon finishing. He trusts you'll forgive him not wishing you good-night in person.”

“Of course,” Alfred replied, his eyes wandering over the delightful cut of Karen's gown. “That will be all, then, I think.” Ross nodded and left. Karen raised the snifter, cutting off Alfred's view. He raised his eyes to find her gazing at him, a secret smile lighting her eyes. Alfred smiled back and raised his glass. “To us, my dear,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Karen nodded and took a sip of the brandy. It tasted of peaches and reminded her of earlier days, of summers spent along the coast of Maine. Of a grandmother too old and too kind. It reminded her of warm New Hampshire summers. Even her mother loved New Hampshire and for a time the Hamptons had been happy there. A bit of England in the colonies, as Iantha put it. Barrett Hampton kept spending less and less time with them and more in New York, though. His shipping firm expanded and by the end of the war Iantha and Karen had joined him in New York City and the Hamptons had become extremely well-to-do. From New York it was but a small step to Washington, and as the business trips to the capital increased in frequency, Barrett decided they needed a place there, too. There were drawbacks. The early, easy happiness dissolved the wealthier her father became. And the more time they spent in Washington, the more they associated themselves with power and the requirements of prestige, the more Karen ceased to be a daughter, becoming instead a marketable commodity, a high-priced piece of trading material. At least that's how Karen felt.

Alfred's lips against her neck broke the train of thought. His kisses trailed up along her neck behind her ear. His left arm encircled her as his right hand turned her face toward his. “Karen … my love …” he whispered, then kissed her deeply. The pressure of his left arm increased as he held her tightly. His breath came faster and faster. His right hand stroked the creamy flesh of her shoulders then inched down to the top of the deeply scooped bodice, forcing the fabric away from her breasts. Karen submitted to the touch with a coldly analytical mind, amazed at how little she felt, at how differently Vance's touch had affected her. Alfred's fingers felt clinically impersonal as they poked and pinched, pawed and plucked at her.
Disgusting, disgusting!
The thought shattered when Alfred groaned passionately and his hand cupped her full breast. Karen dropped her still full brandy snifter in his lap.

“Christ!” Alfred shrieked brittlely. He jumped from the couch, his voice breaking into a higher register with his frightened yelp. A large brown stain spread across the lower part of his shirt. The bulging crotch of his trousers, now thoroughly soaked by the brandy, flattened itself as his obvious arousal shriveled with noticeable speed.

Karen rose quickly in sympathy. “Oh, Alfred, I'm so sorry. I forgot I had it in my hand,” she said innocently as she straightened her dress.

“Tha … that's all right,” Alfred stuttered, managing as best he could an indignant tone to his still breaking voice.

“Can I get you a wet cloth?”

“No. No. I'm fine. I had to be going anyway. I can take … care of it on returning home.”

“Well, if you're certain there's nothing I can do,” she insisted, moving toward him.

Alfred was already heading for the door. “No. Please, Karen, you've done … uh … I'm fine, really. A little brandy never hurt anyone.” His laugh was brief and totally devoid of mirth.

They entered the main foyer. Ross appeared, seemingly out of thin air, carrying Alfred's top hat and cane. The butler allowed his forehead to wrinkle momentarily, his eyebrows arched high in disapproval. Alfred, all composure gone now, blushed under the English butler's icy stare and accepted his cane and hat without a sound. Ross muttered a polite, “Good-night, Sir,” his mouth moving almost imperceptively, bidding Alfred farewell with as much sincerity as a man with vinegar on his tongue.

“I hope you're not angry with me, Alfred,” Karen said with a pleading tone, afraid she had gone too far.

“No … no. Of course not. Perhaps you'll join me at the House tomorrow. We're expecting an interesting session. You might find it entertaining. After that we might dine. I have an important announcement.”

“Can't you tell me now?”

Alfred scowled. “I hardly think it's the time, considering the circumstances. May I expect you?”

Karen would have declined but she decided Alfred had had enough setbacks for one night. “Yes. I'll meet you,” she managed to say without sighing. It was little enough.

“Splendid. I'll see you then. No later than two, please. Our visitor addresses us then.” Alfred bowed stiffly and traversed the long stone path leading to the carriage circle. He walked with an unusual flourish, as if trying to keep his flesh from touching the clothes on his body.

“Poor Alfred,” Karen said quietly, finally allowing herself a sigh of relief at his departure. She pushed the door to and watched the distorted image of the lighted carriage through the leaded windows. Ross stood silently behind her, waiting for her to go upstairs. “I'll close up, if you don't mind, Ross. You may leave now.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ross answered, retiring through the swinging doors to the back of the house.

Karen locked the door and turned down the lantern over the umbrella stand. For a moment she stood quietly, the day running in confused circles through her head. The day? Not the day. The afternoon. Twenty minutes of it with Vance Paxton of Texas. Her head whirled and she forced herself to stop and look at objects around her. The hall became a reference frame, soothing the torment of images clouding her mind.

The umbrella stand. Only one cane, now. Papa's iron-wood with the ivory grip. Two umbrellas and one parasol, the latter hers, a gift from Alfred the day they had gone to the races and her old one had got torn on the fence. The matching Talbert leather-seated chairs at the sides of the library and parlor doors glowed with a rich luster, adding warmth to the generally austere setting. Karen walked slowly toward the parlor. Poor Alfred. He looked so … she couldn't go back in there.