I felt pretty much the same about her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fine Times
Before you know it, we both got stirred up again and had another go-round. This time, I took the top. I rather knew what to expect, so I wasn’t scared. The only surprise was that it didn’t end so quick. I got plenty of chance to plunge about and appreciate things.
After we finished, we pulled the blankets over us and snuggled.
“I love you so much, darling,” she whispered.
“You’re simply smashing,” I said.
She laughed softly, her sweet breath caressing my face.
“I only wish we’d had a go at this months ago,” I told her.
She laughed again, then squeezed me hard. “We couldn’t, of course. Not with Grandma and Grandpa in the house.”
“They needn’t have known.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to take the risk. They would’ve thrown you out of the house. Besides…”
She didn’t go on, so I asked, “Besides what?”
“I…feared that I might frighten you off. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. That’s what I thought I’d done tonight, lost you. When you pulled away from me.”
“It was only Whittle.”
“The cure seems to have worked.”
“Splendidly.”
“We’ll have such fine times together.”
In the morning, I dressed and crept out of Sarah’s room without being spotted by any of the visitors. Later in the day, the last of them departed.
The house was empty, but for the two of us.
We didn’t talk about last night. We didn’t carry on, either. But I could tell she hadn’t forgotten about it. She acted different. She hardly ever took her eyes off me, and stayed a lot closer to me when we were doing chores and such. She touched me considerable, but not in any needful way—more like how she might touch her best friend. Also, she couldn’t stop talking. She chatted on and on about this and that, and laughed at near everything I had to say.
I felt mighty grown-up and happy, though I got a bit nervous at times, wondering what was to happen next.
After our evening meal, we went into the parlor. She had me sit in the General’s chair. Then she filled one of his pipes with tobacco. She lit it up, smiling at me as she sucked the flames down into the tobacco. When it was going good, she handed it to me. She sat at my feet and leaned back against my legs. I puffed away. Every now and then, I reached down to stroke her hair and she’d turn her head and gaze up at me.
The only light in the parlor came from the fireplace.
It all seemed uncommon peaceful and nice.
When the pipe went out, Sarah got to her feet and hauled me up. Humming a slow, peaceful tune, she started to dance with me. We stayed right in front of the fire. There wasn’t much room, what with all the furniture, so we more or less kept to the same place, hanging on to each other and turning in circles.
It was cozy and a bit exciting, the way we held each other and glided about and sometimes kissed.
She hummed one tune after another. After five or six of them, she began to unbutton my shirt while we danced. We fumbled about and undressed each other and kicked our duds out of the way. After that, we went on dancing just like before. Only it felt quite different.
She was all smooth warm skin against me, sliding and rubbing. Sometimes, we danced far enough apart so our fronts hardly touched at all, just the tips of her breasts brushing my chest and me prodding her belly a bit. Other times, we mashed ourselves together. The hand I had on her back drifted down, and I took to holding her rump, which was ever so soft but flexed up firm with every step. She did the same to me.
Eventually, we gave up on the dancing part. We stood there squirming and kissing and caressing each other till we couldn’t hold off any longer, and ended up on the rug in front of the fireplace.
We went upstairs after we were done, and had a fine time in her bed, and then fell asleep.
In the morning, she woke me with a kiss as she’d done so many times before. I opened my eyes to find her leaning over the bed, wearing her nightdress. “Your bath is ready, dear,” she said.
She’d brought my robe and slippers into her room. She walked out, the same as she used to do. I put on the robe and slippers, went downstairs, greeted her in the kitchen, and got myself into the tub.
Like always, she brought the coffee in. I sat in the tub, sipping mine, while she took her usual seat nearby.
“We’ll be going into town today,” she said. “I need to see our attorney about a few matters.”
“An attorney?”
“He’ll be turning over the estate to me.”
“The house?”
“Oh yes. The house, everything. I’m Grandpa’s only heir, of course. He was very well off. Not that he earned a great deal. But he’d inherited a considerable sum from the family.”
“I’m quite glad to hear that. So then, you’ll be able to continue on without financial worries.”
“None at all.”
I considered asking if she might raise my weekly pay a trifle, now that she was coming into a certain amount of wealth. That would’ve appeared greedy, however. Besides, such a request would only serve to remind her that I aimed to book passage for England if I could ever afford to do so.
Sitting in the bathtub with my coffee, I wished I hadn’t thought about returning home.
I was not at all eager to leave Sarah.
Still, England was home and I sometimes missed Mother terribly.
I worried about her. She hadn’t responded to any of the several letters which I’d posted to her during the past months. I’d received no message whatsoever other than the quick response to my cable just before Christmas.
It was perplexing, disturbing.
At times, I wondered if something terrible had happened to her. That seemed unlikely, however. Uncle William and Aunt Maggie no doubt knew my whereabouts and would’ve let me know if Mother had met with some sort of tragedy. But why hadn’t she written to me? It seemed quite unlike her, and a day rarely went by that I didn’t puzzle over the situation.
“Is something troubling you?” Sarah asked. I reckon my worry showed.
“It’s Mother again, I’m afraid.”
She frowned and shook her head. “You should’ve received a letter from her by now. It’s strange.”
“I do hope she’s all right.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Then why hasn’t she written?”
“She probably did. Maybe her letters were misplaced. Such things happen. You shouldn’t let it upset you.” With that, Sarah set her cup aside. She came over to the tub, knelt behind me, and rubbed my shoulders. “Any day now, the postman will come by with a letter from her. You’ll see. But the main thing is, she knows you’re in good hands.”
“I am that,” I said, and looked over my shoulder to smile at Sarah. My worries about Mother faded out, right quick. Sarah didn’t have her nightdress on, any more. “I say!” I said.
She laughed and kissed me. “Never you mind,” she said, and took to soaping my back. I was used to that, but liked it all the more knowing she’d stripped down. When she finished my back, she reached around with both arms and slicked my front, which she’d never done before. Not just my chest, but my belly, too. Then lower down. She had to lean in pretty good for that. She nibbled the side of my neck while she was at it. Sent shivers all through me. And so did watching her hands. They were up to their forearms in the water, one sliding the soap bar while the other rubbed and stroked me.
“You are a thorough wench,” I said.
“One can’t be too clean.”
“And does that apply to you as well?” I asked. Before she had a chance to answer, I scooped up water with my coffee cup and flung it over my shoulder. She let out a squeal that turned into laughter. Then she grabbed both my shoulders, pulled me backward and shoved, scooting me down till my head went under.
>
I came up gasping and blinking, just in time to watch Sarah swing a leg over the rim of the tub. She climbed right in with me. Kneeling between my legs, she took away the cup and handed the bar of soap to me. “Finish the job you started,” she said, and laughed some more.
I was mighty glad to oblige her.
I soaped her up good, using both hands and taking my time about it. By and by, she quit laughing. She breathed heavy and moaned, and took to guiding my hands around. I’d been working mostly on her breasts, but she didn’t want her southern section neglected, so she took my hands down there. After a bit, she was in an awful frenzy. I could say the same for myself, actually.
She didn’t wait to rinse, but sprawled atop me, all sudsy and slippery.
Well, that came to a quick, wild finish. But we didn’t stop. We carried on, thrashing and tussling and flopping about, taking breathers now and again to soap up places we might’ve missed earlier, soaping some of the same places, too, then commencing to splash around and join up all over again. It’s a wonder nobody drowned.
The water was cold by the time we climbed out.
There was near as much on the floor as in the tub.
We dried each other with towels. Then I stayed and mopped the floor while Sarah made breakfast in the kitchen.
After the meal, we dressed and went out to the stable. There, we harnessed Howitzer to the carriage and headed off. Sarah let me handle the reins, as she knew I enjoyed it. That left her to hop down and attend to the gate. After closing the gate, she rushed over and checked the mailbox. I longed to see her reach inside and pull out a letter from Mother, but she returned empty-handed. Climbing aboard, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Perhaps the postman hasn’t arrived yet,” I told her, though I knew it was already past noon. Back when the General was alive, Sarah had usually brought the mail to him before he’d finished breakfast. Though he and Mable ate much later than us, they’d get done by around eleven. So the postman had certainly come along by now, but with nothing to leave.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Sarah said.
Disappointed, I got us rolling.
Sarah stared at me, looking rather solemn. Pretty soon, she said, “Shall I buy you a ticket for England?”
The merest whisper of a breeze could’ve knocked me over when I heard those words. I gawped at her.
“I’m able to afford it now, you know. Would it make you happy?”
“Do you mean it?” I blurted.
“Of course. If that’s what you want.”
I gazed at her, struck dumb with surprise and gratefulness. The sun was out, shining on her face. She looked so beautiful it made my heart sore.
Much as I longed for home, the notion of going away from Sarah all of a sudden filled me with a sick, lonely feeling.
I’d been keen on Sarah since the moment I first saw her, the night I warned the General about Whittle and we stormed into her bedroom. It was likely Christmas night that I fell in love with her. After that, I would’ve been sorry to part with her. But now, what with all that we’d done since the funeral, I could hardly bear the thought of going off and never seeing her again.
“Would you come along with me?” I asked.
“What would your mother have to say about that?”
“I’m sure she’d be quite fond of you. You could stay with us. I’d show you all of London. We’d have a ripping good time!”
She shook her head. “It’s nice to think so, but…the difference in our ages. Your mother would be appalled. Everyone would be appalled.”
“They needn’t know that we’re more than chums.”
“We’d have to behave like strangers. We couldn’t so much as hold hands or kiss, much less dance or share a bed…or bathe together.”
“Why, we would find times for such things.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“But Sarah!”
“It would be too horrible for both of us.”
“But how can I leave you?”
“I haven’t ordered you to leave. I’m simply offering you the opportunity. The choice is yours.”
“I can’t go without you.”
When I said that, her eyes watered up. She stroked my cheek and kissed me. “You may change your mind, someday.”
I shook my head.
“If ever you do, tell me. We’ll buy the ticket for you. Next week, next month, next year. You may grow weary of me, you know.”
“Never,” I said.
Soon after that, we reached the outskirts of town. Sarah gave me directions to the attorney’s office, which turned out to be in his home. Before climbing down, she handed me a wad of money and told me I should go on and buy our supplies. She would find me when she was finished with the legal matters.
I left her, and headed for the markets.
I had a fair idea what we needed in the way of food and such, and set to gathering it. But my mind was all ajumble. Had I done the proper thing, refusing her offer? I felt as if I’d betrayed Mother. I felt, too, that Sarah had somewhat let me down. After all, she could go with me.
The more I puzzled over it, though, the more I saw she was right. Should she come with me, we’d be forced to keep apart. It would be awful.
So it came down to stay or lose Sarah, and I’d made my choice to stay. Bad as I felt about Mother, though, pretty soon I eased my mind about that. If Sarah hadn’t offered to buy me a ticket home, why, I would’ve been staying anyhow. At least for several more months. The trick was to keep on saving my money till I’d earned enough for the passage home, and study the situation then.
I was feeling fairly comfortable about things by the time I’d rounded up our food and supplies. I loaded them into the carriage. Sarah hadn’t returned yet, so I read the World while I waited for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Slaughter
The story that changed everything wasn’t in the issue of the World which I read while waiting for Sarah to return from the attorney’s office. I turned from page to page, and gave little thought to Whittle.
We went on about our lives, both of us mighty pleased and content. The next couple of weeks were smashing. We bathed in the mornings, and danced in the evenings. Between all that, we ate our meals and cleaned the house, worked on the grounds, took horseback rides, had picnics here and there, went into town for supplies, and generally had a fine time at whatever we were up to. It was wonderful even when we only just talked. Sometimes, we did nothing except sit about and read. Taken all around, we couldn’t have been much happier.
But then came the day we returned from town and I settled down for a look at the newspaper while Sarah sat nearby with a book of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The story I ran across went like this:
TOMBSTONE ROCKED BY SAVAGE MURDERS
Tombstone, Arizona Territory, infamous for its history of gunslinging desperados and marauding Apaches, was stunned on 22 April by the early morning discovery of Alice Clemons (42) and her two daughters, Emma (16) and Willa (18), brutally slain in their room at Mrs. Adamson’s Boarding House on Toughnut Street.
According to the Tombstone Epitaph, the three women met their fate at the hands of person or persons unknown sometime during the previous night. They were found by the maid at 9:00 the following morning, whereupon the unfortunate woman swooned at the grisly sight.
All who viewed the scene were shocked beyond measure. “The room looked like a slaughterhouse,” averred Dr. Samuel Wicker, who went on to say that all three women had been most horribly butchered and dismembered. Said Deputy Marshal Frank Dunbar, “I’ve seen a few white men who got themselves carved up near as bad by the Apache, but these were ladies. Whoever done this is a monster, pure and simple.”
In addition to numerous unspeakable mutilations committed upon Mrs. Clemons and her daughters, it has been reported that all three were scalped. This has led some to suspect that they did, indeed, fall victim to one or more renegade savages. Since th
e surrender of Geronimo to General Miles nearly three years ago, the citizens of Tombstone had experienced little or no difficulty with the redman. They had considered such troubles to have come to an end, and many are filled with dismay at the possibility that murderous Indians may be lurking in the area.
Not so Deputy Dunbar. “A white man did this,” Dunbar avowed. “He left bootprints in the blood. You don’t catch many redskins shod in boots. He had a long stride, too, that puts him around six feet tall. If you don’t count the likes of Mangus Colorado, your basic Indian’s usually a short fellow.”
Be he redman or white, the vicious assailant remains at large and no witnesses have come forward with information about his identity. The people of Tombstone, so accustomed to acts of bloody violence, remain shaken by the unthinkable nature of this outrage perpetrated in their midst.
When I read that story, I felt like the world had caved in on me. I sat there stunned, my breath knocked out.
“What is it?” Sarah asked, looking at me.
“Whittle.”
She shut her book and leaned forward. “What? They’ve caught him?”
I could only shake my head.
She set her book aside, came over to me, and took the newspaper from my shaky hands. “Which piece…?”
“Tombstone.”
She stood there, reading. Then she knelt in front of me, put the paper on the floor, and rested her hands on my legs. “It might have been anyone,” she said.
“No. It was Whittle. I know it.”
“You can’t know for certain.”
“He’s doing precisely what he planned to do—go out west and cut up women. He even considered that his butcheries might be mistaken for the work of Indians. He hoped he might join up with a band of hostiles. And show them a few of his tricks.”
Sarah rubbed my legs gently while she gazed at me. “You’re not responsible for him. None of this is your fault.”