Ashton, fists clenched, teeth, too: "Name them."
"Well — the personal risk, for one. Imagine the consequences of discovery."
"You're a coward."
He went red. "God, how I hate you sometimes." But he had turned away before he said it.
Later, Ashton again, wilder than before: "It's my money we live on, don't forget. Mine. You scarcely make as much as niggers who pick cotton. I control our funds —"
"By my sufferance."
"You think so! I can spend the money any way I wish."
"Would you care to test that in court? The law says those funds became my property the moment we married."
"Always the smug little attorney, aren't you?" She tore blankets from their bed, opened the door, and hurled the bundle into the hall. "Sleep on the settee, you bastard — if you're not too fat to fit."
She pushed him out. Eyes watering behind his spectacles, he raised a placating hand. "Ashton —" The slamming door struck his palm. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.
They had made up the next day — they always made up — although she denied him physical contact for a period of two weeks. After that her mood improved remarkably. She was cheerful, as if Powell and his scheme didn't exist.
But the memory of that quarrel existed and wouldn't go away; it was one more troubling cloud on a horizon that seemed to be filling with them. Huntoon sat at his desk with the forged note, his eyes vacant, his expression unhappy. The clerk he worked for had to tell him pointedly to get going to the paper.
Richmond's normal business day ended at three, with a large dinner, the main meal, served shortly thereafter. The schedules didn't apply to households of those who worked for the government, however. Ashton seldom had to worry about planning menus with her black cook — a blessing, since it bored her. Most weekdays, James arrived home well after seven-thirty, the customary hour for a light supper.
On this particular autumn afternoon, Ashton again did not expect him until late. She spent an entire hour making herself attractive and was ready to leave at two; one hour remained of the period reserved for formal calls. Homer brought the carriage around, and they left the two-and-a-half-story house on Grace Street, in a respectable area which was nevertheless a bit too far from downtown to be fashionable.
The day was mild, but Ashton sweltered. The risk she ran was enormous, but she had been driven to it by a number of things, including her husband's timidity and her growing frustration with their inability to penetrate Richmond society. She knew two reasons: they lacked position, and they lacked real wealth. James had failed her on both counts, just as he failed her whenever he tried to satisfy her with his wretched little instrument.
She leaned back against the velvet of the closed carriage, staring out the window into the dazzle of the day. Did she dare go through with this? It had taken a week merely to locate the man's address, then another to phrase and properly polish a note announcing the date and time of her call "regarding a commercial matter of mutual interest." She could imagine the amusement in his eyes when he read that.
If he read it. She had received no reply. What if he were out of town?
She had sent the note via an anonymous black boy she had hired on a corner opposite Capitol Square. How did she know the boy had delivered the wax-sealed envelope? Preoccupied with these doubts and with anticipations of disaster, she didn't hear the clopping rhythm of the carriage horse slow, then stop.
Over the hoot of a train at the Broad Street depot, Homer called: "Here's the corner you wanted, Miz Huntoon. Shall I pick you up in an hour?"
"No. I don't know how long I'll be shopping. When I'm finished, I'll catch a hack or stop and see Mr. Huntoon and come home with him."
"Very well, ma'am." The carriage pulled out behind a white-topped army wagon. Briskly, Ashton entered the nearest store. She hurried out a few minutes later with two unwanted spools of thread. After a quick survey of the area to assure that Homer was gone, she hailed the first passing hack.
Perspiring, her heart racing, she got out in front of one of the lovely high-stooped houses on Church Hill. It was located on Franklin, a few doors from the corner of Twenty-fourth. The imposing residence looked closed against the warmth of the afternoon, asleep under the maples just starting to lose their green.
Glancing neither right nor left for fear she would see someone watching, she climbed the stoop and rang. Would there be servants —?
Lamar Powell answered personally. She nearly swooned from excitement.
He stepped back into the shadow. "Please come in, Mrs. Huntoon." She did; the door closed with a tick like that of a clock.
The foyer was cool. Rooms were visible through doors on either side, rooms with opulent woodwork, furniture, pendant crystal. One night recently, James had again brought up Powell's name, saying he had made inquiries about him. "It appears the fellow lives on nerve, self-promotion, and credit." If the snide remark had any truth to it, Powell's credit must be enormous.
He smiled at her. "I confess I was surprised to receive your note. I wasn't sure you'd keep the appointment. On a chance, I sent my houseman off fishing and stayed home. There's no one else here." He gestured with one of those slender, curiously sensual hands. "So you needn't worry about being compromised."
Ashton felt awkward as a child. He was tall — so very tall — and appeared perfectly relaxed in his dark breeches and loose white cotton shirt. He was barefoot. "It's a splendid house," she exclaimed. "How many rooms do you live in?"
Amused by her nervousness, he said, "All of them, Mrs. Huntoon." He grasped her arm gently. "When we were introduced at the Spotswood, I knew you'd come here eventually. You look lovely in that dress. I suspect you'd look even lovelier without it."
Never hesitating, he took her hand and led her to the stairs.
They ascended silently. In a room where slatted blinds striped the bed with light — she noticed the top coverlet was already turned down — they began to undress; he calmly, she with jerky movements generated by her nerves. No man had ever put her in this state before.
The silence lengthened. He helped with her bodice buttons, kissing her left cheek with great gentleness. Then he kissed her mouth, slowly moving his tongue over her lower lip. She felt as if she were sinking into a bonfire. Began to hurry, fumble —
He pushed at the lace straps on her shoulders, baring her from the waist upward. His touch careful, tender, he lifted first one breast, then the other, gently pressing his thumb against each nipple. He bent forward, still smiling in that curiously remote way. She flung her head back, eyes closed, loins damp, expecting to feel his tongue.
He smashed his open palm against her head, knocking her onto the bed. She was too terrified to scream. He stood with one leg against the tangle of her skirt, smiling.
"Why —?"
"So there is no doubt about authority in this liaison, Mrs. Huntoon. I knew when we met that you were a strong woman. Reserve your displays of that quality for others."
Then, swiftly, he bent and began to strip her of the rest of her clothing.
Her terror transformed itself to an excitement that was so intense it resembled insanity. She ran wet as a river when he slipped off his cotton drawers. He was oddly shaped, smaller than she had expected, given his stature. He pulled her legs apart and bored into her without closing his eyes.
She couldn't believe what began to happen to her. She beat the twisted damp sheets, excited to frenzy by his having struck her. She began to cry as he quickened the tempo; that had never occurred with other lovers. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and when he gave her the last ramming thrust, she sobbed, screamed, and fainted.