Woman's Own Page 7

  It was nearly midnight when Dale Montaine entered the foyer of his home. He had been to his club, had had drinks with the men, and then they’d gone to find some whores. Despite his effort to change his mood by drinking and watching the fellows sporting with the whores, he still seethed with anger. He poured himself a drink of gin in his father’s study.

  There was a tap at the study door and he hid the glass behind a pile of papers on the desk. The housekeeper stood there. “Is there anything you need, Mr. Montaine?”

  “Nothing,” he said, waving her away.

  “Miss Dorthea Lancaster sent an invitation for tomorrow afternoon. I left it on your bureau.”

  “Thank you,” he said, turning away, waiting to hear the door close so he could finish the drink. He poured another; when his father was not in the house, this study was his favorite place. The gin was in good supply and the room was broodingly dark, like his mood. He poured a third glass of gin. He relied heavily on the stuff; it blotted out much of his anger and worry.

  He did not have many severe headaches when the gin was plentiful. As a youngster he had suffered wrenching headaches that had caused him to faint and vomit. There was once a housekeeper who would sit for hours and gently rub his temples and neck. She had been gone for years. He thought he remembered that she died. Another housekeeper had lashed his hands together when he was put to bed so he wouldn’t be able to touch himself. She was gone, but not forgotten. A third housekeeper quit when she discovered him spying on her bath; he hated to see her go. He was relieved to be a man and no longer at the mercy of housekeepers.

  Dale hated all women. It was one of only two passions he had in life. He hated the mother who had died when he was a baby; his first stepmother, whom his father had divorced ten years ago; his present stepmother, whom his father had married five years ago; various servants whom he had victimized or who had made him the victim. And Dorthea, to whom he would propose marriage within the year. He did not ponder his misogynous character, nor see this as an aberration, nor wonder if other men felt likewise. But this hatred showed itself in many ways. Sometimes it appeared in the blinding headaches and sleeplessness. Quite often a problem with a woman made him crave gin. In his treatment of women, he was perverse. He would not buy prostitutes, though he frequently went along with the boys when they were whoring. He despised the trade. He watched the other fellows at work, then did not pay. He sported young virgins, seducing them with vague promises until they nearly begged for it, then he would cast them off, not in a few days or weeks, but at the moment of his conquest. He wanted to claim not only a maidenhead, but the dignity of each one. And he had slept with Deanna, his present stepmother, but only a few times and only to degrade her. He seduced her, pleaded with her, crept to her, then called her a slut. Now, even though she was not a woman of high moral tone, she could barely look at him and had taken to tippling late into the night.

  Dale planned to propose marriage to Dorthea Lancaster on her nineteenth birthday. Her family was prominent; they established and maintained the social standard for good form in Philadelphia. The Montaine name had never achieved any social distinction, despite their millions. It was a well-known fact that Wilson was a parvenu, a jobber made good, and not a man of scholarship and heritage. This was Dale’s second passion, to change the way Montaine was uttered in this city. He had been working hard at changing the image, though he worked against unbelievable odds. By getting himself an aristocratic wife, he would gain respect. He had finally compromised his goal; his father was sixty, and if the elite in society continued to tolerate Wilson so long as they accepted Dale, that would do. The old man could not live forever, and the Lancaster family would welcome him. He knew they liked the smell of his money; he considered it a worthwhile investment.

  Wilson Montaine, an orphan proud to have made it out of an impoverished youth rather than ashamed of his lack of heritage, was an ostentatious bore in his son’s eyes. He had no style or education, though he did have a knack for making money. He kept no records, belonged to no club, and had been married three times, once actually divorcing a woman. Divorce was completely unacceptable in polite society; Wilson would be banned forever. He was an atrocity, and he did not care. He was bright enough to make millions on property, but he refused to study the discriminating manners of his peers and attempt to cautiously enter their charmed circle. Instead, he spit in their eye. He was belligerent and careless and knew that people laughed at him.

  Dale had found no advantage in being a rich parvenu’s only son. He had been abused by the city boys who didn’t have money, and when he was sent to Harvard, he had been snubbed by the rich boys who had as much as he. He had eaten plenty of dirt because he was the son of that clod, Montaine. He was alone, bereft of friends. But he meant to change all this, and so he went to their polo matches, their lawn parties, the Sunday evenings. He courted young women from prestigious families, thus finding Dorthea. Finally, after a very long struggle, he had overheard it said, “The old man may be a buffoon, but Dale’s a decent enough fellow.” He was their comrade now. Dale collected their secrets greedily, hoarding them for future use. He wanted only to be among them, held in high esteem, and when he was certain his position was secure, he would begin slowly, ruthlessly, to single them out for dismissal. Someday they would all feel as he had.

  Patricia Armstrong had put him off and goaded him into a temper. His surprise had caught him off guard. He had never been treated so by a mere working-class girl; they usually groveled just for a ride in his carriage and wouldn’t risk making him angry enough for him to withdraw his attention. This was precisely why he frequented neighborhoods like Patricia’s. The girls were not desperately poor and dirty, nor were they shallow, haughty, and privileged like Dorthea. These were clean girls from strict homes, and they were pure--what else could they take to their husbands? And, they would do anything for a chance to be loved by a rich man. The worst that had ever befallen him was a payment of one hundred dollars to an angry father. He had hardly noticed the withdrawal from his purse.

  But this one, Patricia Armstrong, confused him. She seemed impressed by his style and wealth, yet she risked losing him by playing coy. She thought highly of herself, apparently. And he knew she was just like the rest, another lying, using female.

  When his better judgment warned him to forget Patricia Armstrong, he ignored it. He would find a way to teach her a lesson. Patricia was looking for a husband; she would learn the price of stalking such big game. Then he would see how highly she thought of herself. The notion of his vengeance caused him to smile. He had several more glasses of gin while he brooded on the girl and finally, full of liquor and plans, he fell asleep on the leather sofa in his father’s study.

  Above his head was a portrait that had once been a curiosity to Dale. A beautiful woman, her hair rich auburn, her eyes bright blue, her skin like creamed gold, had been the previous mistress of this mansion. Wilson Montaine said he had kept the painting to remind him of what happens to those who don’t watch their money carefully, for when the woman was widowed, she found that her husband had mishandled all her money and everything was lost. Wilson Montaine had been able to purchase the house and most of its furnishings because she had been desperate to sell. But the staff nurtured a rumor that he had actually proposed marriage.

  The intelligent eyes of Amanda Chase Bellmont stared straight ahead, as they had for twenty years, above the young man who had fallen into drunken slumber while contemplating the rape of her granddaughter.

  Chapter Three

  “Lilly, Lilly, wait till you hear,” Patricia whispered in her conspirator’s voice. “But you must swear you won’t tell anyone. Especially Mama.”

  Lilly had been writing. She had been given a journal on her seventeenth birthday, less than a month ago, and she had thought it a useless gift. She wouldn’t write about Andrew, and there was nothing else about her life she had found the least bit interesting. Was she meant to record John Giddings’s most recent obituary?
Perhaps Mrs. Fairchild’s latest complaint?

  Patricia had been writing in her own journal for two years. With all her various suitors, daydreams, romantic foibles and conquests, Patricia had provided Lilly with some blushing reading. Of course they had promised never to read each other’s writings. Lilly had broken that promise quite soon after it was sworn. Lilly knew almost as much about Patricia’s schemes and flirtations as Patricia did herself, but would never let on. Patricia might stop writing it down. Lilly read every word, some pages so often she feared she might wear them thin. Patricia had written of the daring liberties she had allowed Dale Montaine, and his passionate response. After Lilly had read that, she was warm for a whole day. That was a marvelous page.

  Then Mr. Padgett arrived and threw Dale Montaine into the bush. Their mother had revealed a fascinating past and provided a notorious grandmother who lived in England and married rather indiscriminately, Patricia had launched a campaign to discover a rich man to marry, and Lilly’s journal pages ached for new entries every day. Life had finally become interesting enough to write down, although Lilly was very careful--she assumed Patricia would peek.

  “Do you promise?” Patricia asked.

  “You know I never tell your secrets,” Lilly returned, and in fact, she never had. “But Mama is going to discover exactly what you’re doing, and you’re going to get your ears trimmed.”

  “But I’ve taken her advice!” Patricia cried indignantly.

  Lilly frowned but said nothing. This was hardly Emily’s advice, even if it was arguable that Patricia was becoming more serious in regard to marriage.

  “Oh never mind, just promise,” Patricia said.

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Well,” Patricia said in a hot little whisper, flouncing on the bedspread and nearly causing the ink bottle to tip. Lilly grabbed it, saved the quilt, and glared at her sister while she corked the bottle. Patricia didn’t notice she had nearly caused an accident. Lilly had found Patricia’s beaux, fabric swatches, and plans annoying, but her quest to marry well was unbearable. New schemes unfolded almost hourly.

  “Remember,” Patricia continued, “how I managed to meet Roger’s cousin, the lawyer, and found that his younger sister who is nearly my age was in desperate need of a friend? She’s just barely older, actually, and well, Mary Ellen Jasper has taken me under her wing. Truly! She is concerned with helping me to keep the right company. She is nearly betrothed to Thomas Markland of the Markland family. Surely you’ve heard of the Marklands? Well, Thomas has a very good friend by the name of Wilbert Kennesdow. Well, Wilbert isn’t much, really, a nice young man but, well, not terribly handsome, although he’s quite tall. But his father is just very important, just very. Mr. Kennesdow is actually related to the mayor and was an alderman or some such. And Thomas thinks that Wilbert might be interested in keeping company with someone like me!”

  Lilly moaned and rolled over on her back, her skirt up and her pantaloons flaring. She looked blankly at the ceiling. The names changed too rapidly for her to keep up…and worse, too quickly for Patricia to write them all down.

  “Well,” Patricia went on, completely nonplussed by Lilly’s apparent lack of interest, “of course I complained to Mary Ellen, ‘Oh dear me, how in the world could a man of such stature be interested in me when I come from such a humble home and have so little?’ And Mary Ellen not only comforted me, saying that I came from quite a good family, if a little impoverished at the moment, but offered to help me with appearances. She has just piles of pretty dresses, some of them almost new and she doesn’t even want them anymore. She has offered to share some of her formal attire, one dress in particular that could be worn to a ball or evening of opera! Oh, Lilly, can you believe it?”

  Lilly’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve told,” she accused. “Don’t even bother to deny it, I know you’ve told. You’ve been tossing out the Bellmont name!”

  “I haven’t! Not actually. Well…”

  Lilly no longer reclined. “You have!” She was up on her hands and knees on the bed, her back arched like a cat’s, her face pressed close to Patricia’s. “How could you? You promised.”

  “I didn’t promise. And I haven’t actually said anything; I’ve only told Mary Ellen--who just happens to be my very best friend--a little bit about Mama. And so what? I won’t ever say another word!”

  “I would tell on you,” Lilly said gravely. “I would tell on you for the very first time in my life, but I’m afraid it would hurt Mama terribly to know how you’ve betrayed her.”

  “Good gracious, Lilly! Mama’s concern is with our friends and neighbors--Mary Ellen won’t cause Mama any discomfort. Such a fuss. But never mind that. What do you think of me having a ball gown and keeping company with someone like Wilbert?”

  “I hope Mama throws up your skirts and takes a switch to your fancy little ass!”

  “Lilly! If Mama heard your language, guess who would get a switch! Now stop being nasty and tell me what you think of my news.”

  “What I’ve always thought of all of this,” Lilly said, easing down on the bed again. “It all seems like a lot of foolishness to me. Are you going to marry him now?”

  “Heavens! I’ve barely met him! I only mean to keep company with him--if he likes me, that is.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “He’s not very handsome at all, and Mary Ellen says he’s just terribly shy. But he is quite tall.” She began to laugh happily, her teeth shining like drenched pearls. “And to think I once considered Roger, who wishes to drive the city horsecars! Mama was right--I must take this more seriously.”

  “Patsy, you are not doing what Mama suggested at all. Aren’t you afraid people might get angry with the way you’re simply using them to make more introductions?”

  “But I’m not! I happen to like them. Especially Mary Ellen. I never thought I’d have such a dear friend.”

  “In just a week or two? You wanted to meet her brother!”

  “We simply weren’t well suited,” she replied evenly, but her journal had told how the lawyer had ignored her since she’d been with Roger. The lawyer, apparently, had more integrity than Patricia. “But it wasn’t a complete disappointment, you see, because Mary Ellen and I liked each other instantly.”

  “Patricia,” Lilly began, her tone suspicious. She rolled onto her side to face her sister, propping her head on her hand. “Do you mean to say that you liked Mary Ellen Jasper instantly?”

  Lilly had read about that, too. Patricia had found nineteen-year-old Mary Ellen spoiled, bossy, homely, and unsophisticated for a rich girl with servants. But she was also very lonely, and Patricia had simply behaved with humility and awe, and Mary Ellen swiftly saw Patricia as someone to advise, instruct, and promote. Mary Ellen had a faithful subject and Patricia had her entree. Patricia had written that she hoped she came into the acquaintance of some people easier to abide than Mary Ellen--and soon.

  “Very well,” Patricia relented, “not instantly. I suppose she can’t help it if she’s spoiled and accustomed to having her own way. But now that we’re better acquainted, I’m simply amazed by her generosity--it’s awfully kind of her to bother with me. I’m certainly not like her other friends.” Lilly wondered if underneath Patricia’s amazing ambition there was any decency at all.

  “She does become a little irritable now and then,” Patricia added indulgently. She went to stand before the small oak-framed mirror that Susan Pendergast had left behind. This had become Patricia’s favorite place. “I suppose we all have our quirks, hmmm?”

  “Do you think you’re fooling Mama?”

  “Lilly, Mama’s so very strict and she doesn’t approve of anything. I’m eighteen and a half, after all, and still not allowed to do anything stylish or choose my own friends or go as I please--not anything. And there are some things I intend to do even if Mama doesn’t approve. There’s a party planned at the home of the mayor or someone, to celebrate the opening of the Centennial Exhibition. The Jaspers and Kennesdows are to be included. Dozens
of rich and famous and influential people will be there. There’ll be dancing and everything. I mean to go if Wilbert asks me and I daren’t ask Mama. If she said I couldn’t go, I would die. That would be just too unfair of her.”

  “You’ll die if you don’t ask her,” Lilly pointed out.

  “I’m going to ask Mama if we can invite Mary Ellen to tea so that Mama can meet her. Then Mama will be much more agreeable about our friendship.”

  “Patricia, we don’t have tea!”

  “Oh, silly, Mama will know what to do. These are all the sorts of things Mama understands. Imagine, if she had not told us all about her life before she married Papa, we’d never have known who we actually are. We’re actually quite rich. We just haven’t any money at the moment.”

  They called him Papa, this man neither of them could remember. It had only recently piqued Lilly’s curiosity, the way their mother seemed guarded about him. She answered questions, but did not volunteer much. She had said he was quite handsome, but there was no photograph or painting. Agnes Marlene’s father had also died in the war, and her mother had kept his Union coat, complete with the sooty hole from the lead ball that had dealt him death. Emily had not one article of clothing, no letters, and she never provided intimate details about him.

  Patricia swept up her shining locks to make a crown of curling gold on top of her head. She wanted to cut her hair into one of the modern styles, short ringlets framing the face, set off by a headband, but their mother wouldn’t allow it. Emily said the style was suggestive.

  “Mama told us about her family so you’d learn an important lesson. She wouldn’t have you repeat her mistakes.”

  Patricia stopped preening to meet Lilly’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection. There was a look of serene and detached power on her face. The chill in her cool blue eyes sent a shiver through Lilly. “And I shan’t,” Patricia replied. Then she broke the gaze and went on twisting and turning before the mirror.