He lay propped on an elbow, smiling, when she woke. She was sweaty, spent, frightened by her loss of consciousness. "I passed out —"
"La petite mort. The little death. You mean it's the first time —?"
She swallowed. "Ever."
"Well, it won't be the last. I've been watching you sleep almost twenty-five minutes. Enough time for a man to renew himself." He pointed. "Put your mouth on me here."
"But — I've never done that with any —"
He seized her hair. "Did you hear what I said? Do it."
She obeyed.
They came to the next consummation a long time later. She slept again, and on the second wakening found herself free of earlier terrors. She thought vaguely of collecting the souvenir of this occasion but was too drowsy; she preferred to rest comfortably against his side.
The barred light changed, darkened. The afternoon was running out. She didn't care. What had transpired in this room, the secret things, had transfigured her emotionally but at the same time had destroyed a long-cherished sense of her own sexual enlightenment. She had had more than her share of lovers. Her souvenir collection proved that. But Lamar Powell had taught her she was a novice, a child.
Slowly, however, the second reason for the visit asserted itself. "Mr. Powell —"
His laughter boomed. "I should think we know each other well enough to use first names."
"Yes, that's true." Scarlet, she flung a wet strand of black hair off her forehead. His humor had cruelty in it. "I wanted to speak to you about business. I control the money in my household. Do you still have room for another investor in your maritime syndicate?"
"Possibly." Eyes like opaque glass hid whatever he was thinking. "How much can you put in?"
"Thirty-five thousand dollars." Investing that amount would leave only a few thousand in the event the scheme failed. But she didn't believe it would fail, any more than she had believed Powell would not bed her if she called on him.
"That sum will give you substantial equity position in the vessel," he said. "And in her profits. Does your decision mean your husband changed his mind?"
"James knows nothing about this, and he won't until I decide it's appropriate to tell him. He will also know nothing about my calling here today — or in the future."
"If there are any calls in the future." That was meant to make her squirm and worry. She didn't care for it.
"There will be if you want the money."
He leaned back, smiling. "I need it. As soon as I have it, we'll be in a position to proceed."
"I'll bring a draft next time we meet."
"Bargain. By God, you're a find. There are damn few men in this town with your nerve. We're a matched pair," he said, rolling over and bending to kiss her bare belly. This time, he was the one who fell asleep afterward.
Ashton had a box her husband had never seen. Into it went mementos of romantic liaisons lasting a month or a week or a night. The box, from Japan, was lacquered wood with designs inlaid in cleverly cut bits of pearl. On the lid, a couple sipped tea.
The inside of the lid pictured the same couple, but they had doffed their kimonos and were copulating with broad smiles. The artist had composed the design so that the genitals of both partners were distinctly shown. Considering the size of the gentleman's machine, Ashton could understand the woman's happy expression.
The souvenirs she kept in the box were trouser buttons. She had started her collection long before the war, after visiting Cousin Charles when he was a cadet at West Point. It was the custom in those days for a girl to exchange a little gift for her cadet escort — sweets of some kind were the most common — for a prized button from his uniform tunic. Ashton entertained not one but seven cadets in a single evening in the smelly darkness of the post powder magazine. From each she demanded an unconventional souvenir: a button from the fly of his trousers.
Now, while Powell slept, she crept from bed, found the pants he had flung on the floor, and silently tugged and twisted till one of the buttons popped free. She put this into her reticule and slipped back into bed, pleased. When the button was safely in the box, her collection would number twenty-eight — one for each man who had received her favors. This did not include the boy who had initiated her when she was a mere girl, one other boy, and a highly experienced sailor with whom she had had relations before her West Point visit inspired the collection. The only other partner not represented by a button was her husband.
37
Washington had scapegoat weather that autumn. McDowell continued to be castigated, but Scott now shared the blame for Bull Run. And almost nightly Stanley came home with some new Cameron horror story. The boss was being universally scourged by bureaucrats, press, and public.
"Even Lincoln's joined the claque. Our spy in the Executive Mansion saw some notes made by his secretary, Nicolay." He pulled out the scrap on which he had penciled the alarming quotes. "President says Cameron utterly ignorant. Selfish. Obnoxious to the country, incapable of either organizing details or conceiving and executing general plans." He gave her the scrap. "There was more, in the same vein. Damning."
They were taking supper by themselves; it was their custom, because, by day's end, Isabel was exhausted from dealing with the hostility of her twin sons, their resistance to discipline, and the near-lethal pranks meant to drive off the tutor she had engaged when it became evident they would never behave in a private schoolroom. She generally packed the twins off to eat in the kitchen — which suited them perfectly.
She studied the paper, then said, "We've waited too long, Stanley. You must disassociate yourself from Cameron before they lop off his head."
"I'm willing. I don't know how."
"I've thought and thought about it. I believe we can be guided by what happened to that fool Frémont." The famous Pathfinder, military commander in St. Louis, had independently declared all slaves in Missouri free. The declaration had pleased the congressional radicals, but Lincoln, still treating border-state whites with extreme deference for fear of losing them, had countermanded the order. "There is a definite schism, and we must gamble on one of the sides winning."
Baffled, Stanley shook his head and plied his fork. "But which?" he said with his mouth full of lobster.
"I can best answer by telling you who I entertained this afternoon. Caroline Wade."
"The senator's wife? Isabel, you constantly astonish me. I didn't know you were even acquainted with her."
"Until a month ago I wasn't. I took steps to arrange an introduction. She was quite cordial today, and I believe I convinced her that I'm a partisan of her husband and his clique — Chandler, Grimes, and the rest. I also hinted that you were unhappy with Simon's management of the War Department but felt helpless because of your loyalty to him."
Instantly pale, he said, "You didn't mention Lashbrook's —?"
"Stanley, you are the one who commits blunders, not I. Of course I didn't. But what if I had? There's nothing illegal about the contracts we obtained."
"No, just in the way we obtained them."
"Why are you so defensive?"
"I'm worried. I hope to Christ those bootees hold up in winter weather. Pennyford keeps warning me —"
"Kindly cease your foul language and stick to the subject."
"I'm sorry — go on."
"Mrs. Wade didn't say so explicitly, but she left the impression that the senator wants to form a new congressional committee, one that would curb the dictatorial powers the President is assuming and oversee conduct of the war. Surely a committee like that would make Simon's removal one of its first orders of business."