Neither Martha's nor, especially, John's attempts at conversation on the return drive did anything to lift my heavy mood. John helped carry our packages in, but when I didn't invite him to stay, he gave me another of his maddening smiles. Secrets, that smile seemed to say. You have them, too, and before I'm through, I'll know all of them.
Either Martha wasn't aware of my mood or she ignored it, and I was glad for that. She seemed happier than I had ever seen her as she busied herself putting away her new household treasures. I helped her, not wanting to spoil her excitement.
She chartered pleasantly but incessantly as we unwrapped the new linens. I tried to follow her words, but images were flashing behind my eyes so rapidly, so insistently that only an occasional comment penetrated my consciousness. This was memory, the common, ordinary variety, if anything about what I was experiencing could be called common, not the flashes of complete and detailed involvement that still had the power to shake the foundations of everything I had thought I believed. Nevertheless, I knew Eliza had lived in that house in Fort Smith as surely as I knew. . . as I knew that she had lived in this one.
". . . so nice today, just like . . ." A stray phrase caught my attention. The subject seemed important to her.
"I'm sorry, Martha." I gave myself a mental shake. "What were you saying?"
"Why, John. Today he was almost the way he used to be. When he was a boy."
I didn't want to talk about John Richards, but it seemed that Martha, too, was bothered by memory.
"I had forgotten," she said slowly. "So much has happened, I had forgotten what a good child he was. So well spoken and serious, and always having a kind word for me."
A smile softened her lined face as she delved back into her past. "He used to practice his piano lessons up here—of course, being a Richards, he always had the run of this place—and on his way home he'd stop at the ranch for a drink of water, for a little visit, and then he would be off again on that black stallion of his, riding like he was part of the horse.
"But that was a long time ago," she said abruptly, turning again to the linens. "Too much has happened between then and now."
She tore a wrapper from a sheer. "No. That John Richards is gone. When he changed, he changed."
I took the sheet from her. "What made him change, Martha?" I asked, more to quiet her than because I wanted to learn. Or maybe I did. What had he done to her?
"I don't know," she said. "I know when it happened, but I don't really know what. It was his sixteenth birthday. He'd gotten a new saddle and was going to try it out, but for some reason that stallion of his threw him. Threw him into the corral fence. It knocked him out for a while, but everybody said it didn't really hurt him all that bad.
"They didn't even keep him in the hospital. But he got rid of that horse. Never rode it again—well, one time, my Jim said. He got up on the horse with his hand still bandaged and rode till the horse was just about dead. Jim said he did it to prove he was still boss. But he got rid of it right after that.
"Maybe it was the first time anything or anybody crossed him. I don't know. Maybe he thought that because he was a Richards, he couldn't be hurt like the rest of us. Whatever it was, it changed him. It was like overnight he grew up, and he's been a hard, cold man ever since."
We finished with the linens in silence and then I pleaded the need for a nap as an excuse to be alone.
In my room I sank into the wing chair by the window and thought about Martha's words. "Why, God?" I whispered, not truly understanding my own question. But I had to ask someone, and there was nowhere else to turn. "Why would You allow that face and that body to belong to that soul? Tell me I'm wrong; please tell me it isn't so."
A hard man ever since, Martha had said. She had no way of knowing how hard he could be, or how long he had been that way. And I? Did I know? Oh, God, it felt as though I did. I moaned and shrank more deeply into the chair. The images had been pushed back for too long. They would no longer be denied.
Eliza sat stiffly, ill at ease in the carriage. A long line of other carriages paraded past the gleaming whiteness of the nation's Capitol. People called to each other and waved greetings while she waited, as silent and still as her Negro driver, for Owen to join her.
Owen's latest actions puzzled her. For years his commands had been simple. She was to remain in his house, unseen and not speaking unless he required it of her, oversee the household, and accommodate him in her bed when he so desired. Now, suddenly, he wished her to become a hostess, to accompany him to the social activities from which he had always excluded her. Suddenly, she must have an extensive wardrobe, be seen shopping, be seen calling for him at the Capitol. He had even insisted she be in the Senate gallery the following day, although he didn't tell her why. These things frightened Eliza, for Owen demanded perfection from her and when she failed in any way his punishments were cruel and often painful.
Eliza was acutely aware of the inquiring glances cast her way by the passing parade of unknown persons, just as she was aware of the stiffness of the new blue gown she wore and of the unyielding band of her ridiculous hat and of the silly little frilly parasol which did nothing to protect her from the heat of the July sun.
Would Owen never arrive? The thought stunned her. This was the first time she had ever wished him to hurry to her. No, she told herself, she didn't want him; she just wanted to be gone from where she was. Strange. Within the confines of his house, Eliza found it almost possible to accept the emptiness of her life. There, habit and what will she had left pushed down those feelings of frustration, anger, or loneliness that still struggled within her. Only outside the house, where she could see real people, living real lives, did those feelings threaten to overcome her.
What was Owen's latest game? Politics? Perhaps. He hadn't risen as rapidly in the Department of the Interior as he had wanted. He wouldn't long be satisfied with remaining in the same position. His ego couldn't stand his not advancing in power and prestige.
She looked impatiently toward the steps of the Capitol. A group of men emerged from the building, started down the long line of steps, then paused near the bottom, engaged in an animated conversation. One, taller and slimmer than his companions, stood slightly apart from them. Something about his stance caught Eliza's eye, and she glanced toward him. She felt her heart leap, but she fought against leaning forward to see better.
"It isn't David," she whispered through clenched teeth. "It never has been. It never will be. Never." But she stared, feeling the blood drain from her face as she recognized long-remembered mannerisms.
One of the other men spoke to him. He shook his head and turned to start down the remaining steps. He was looking right at her. She felt her breath imprisoned within her and forced herself to exhale. Oh, God, she thought, he's seen me. He had. Her eyes locked on his face. She couldn't move. She wanted to run. To him? From him?
He stopped. Not twenty feet from her, he stopped, his eyes taking in the frivolous hat, the expensive fabric of her gown. For a second he looked as if he were going to call out to her, and then he seemed to draw into himself.
She felt the weight of the carriage shift and knew that Owen was climbing in beside her.
"Those damned Indians kept me a good hour longer than they should have," he swore loudly. "You don't look half bad, dear," he said in a lower voice. "A little pale, and the gown could be livelier, but I think you'll do."
Eliza said nothing. She tore herself away from the sight of David and focused on the back of the driver's head.
"You could smile," Owen whispered. When she didn't, he hissed at her. "Smile, I said."
She forced her lips into a smile as Owen shouted to the driver, "Get us to Mrs. Carmichael's, Jericho. We're late already."
A crack of the whip, a lurch of the carriage, and David was left behind, a blur against the larger blur of the Capitol.
Something long repressed stirred within Eliza. She felt moisture gathering in her eyes. No. She had not shed a tear in four years. She would not cry now.
Amanda Carmichael was the widow of a senator who had died in office two years after the end of the war. Josiah Carmichael had been powerful, and Amanda had enjoyed that power. After his death, Amanda declared that Washington City was her home and refused to leave. Quietly at first, because of the prescribed period of mourning, she began building her own position and was now the acknowledged queen of Washington society. Owen, although not a member of her inner circle of friends, had often been invited to gatherings at her home. Eliza had never been included in the invitations—until now.
"Remember, you are a lady, and you are my wife," Owen reminded her needlessly as they were led into the drawing room. "The wrong word from Amanda Carmichael to the right person can ruin my career."
Owen guided her through the crowded room to an incredibly beautiful woman dressed in maroon satin. She wore her dark blond hair piled regally atop her head, framing patrician features. A choker of diamonds circled her slender neck. As she turned toward them, Eliza thought she saw a flicker of something—distaste? distrust?—in the woman's eyes, but it was gone in an instant, and when she spoke her voice was warm and welcoming.
"Owen, I'm so happy you could come this afternoon." Amanda extended a hand to him and then turned to Eliza. "And I'm especially happy you could come, too, Mrs. Markham. I do hope we will have an opportunity to visit."
From Owen's tightening grip on her arm, Eliza felt sure that no visit would take place, but she murmured what she hoped was an appropriate comment.
Owen glanced around the room. "I see your other guests have not arrived."
"No," Amanda said, "but they did have the grace to send a messenger saying they'd been detained." Her hand rested lightly on Owen's arm. "I'm counting on you today. You know these people; I don't."
"I hope you never know them as I do, Mrs. Carmichael."
Eliza wondered briefly who those other guests were, but Amanda Carmichael excused herself at that point, leaving Eliza with a silent Owen. There were a number of other women present, but Owen did not introduce her. He saw her to a chair near the doorway and left her seated there while he visited from group to group, but she frequently felt the intensity of his gaze upon her.
She knew he was using her, but didn't know how or why. Be patient, she told herself, you'll know sooner than you really want to; just be on your guard.
Even with that warning, she was not prepared for the group that entered the room. She started, then forced herself to sit quietly, showing no more than mild curiosity as the men who had been with David on the Capitol steps were greeted by Amanda Carmichael. Eliza's heart pounded furiously with fear that she would be faced with meeting David here, but she had long ago trained herself to hide behind an inexpressive façade. She did this now, and when Owen joined Amanda Carmichael and looked quizzically at Eliza, she felt sure he read nothing in her face.
David did not appear. Eliza felt a strange sense of relief and disappointment at his absence. She was too far from his associates to hear their conversation. She was almost too far from them to see them clearly. There were five of them, all dressed in socially acceptable black suits. The oldest, obviously a full-blood, betrayed his discomfort only in the erectness of his carriage. Their features, their hair, their coloring set them apart from the rest of the gathering. Eliza wondered how differently they would look out of the confinement of the Washington drawing room. She also wondered if she were reading her tension in their actions, for they seemed to her to be on the alert, ready to flee should the throng of gaping onlookers turn hostile. It must have been her imagination, she decided, for one of them, a heavy man of about fifty, said something to Amanda Carmichael, and the woman's delighted laugh rang through the room. She linked her arm through the Indian's arm and led him to a cluster of chairs, where they sat and held a lively but obviously friendly conversation.
Eliza willed herself to sit impassively through the rest of the long afternoon. Finally, the guests were leaving. Finally, Owen was at her side, and they were making their polite farewells. But Eliza did not relax. She knew from Owen's expression that the evening would require all her strength.
It did. A supper she did not taste, served by the housekeeper who had also learned not to speak unless Owen asked her a direct question. Owen asked no questions. He called for whiskey and dismissed the housekeeper, who went gratefully, Eliza knew, to her room.
Owen filled his glass repeatedly, not speaking, studying Eliza all the while, until the silence was as heavy as the heat, a physical force in the room, pressing her down, squeezing the life from her.
He rose abruptly from the table. "I want you to play for me," he said, and walked into the adjoining room.
He never asked that of her. Eliza sat in stunned disbelief until she realized that he had settled into a chair waiting for her to respond. She followed him into the parlor and seated herself at the piano, hesitantly placing her fingers on the keys.
"What would you like to hear?" she asked, the calm in her voice giving lie to the turmoil she felt.
"Surprise me. Something a loving wife would play for a husband who has had an involved and trying day."
She had no idea what to play. A waltz, perhaps? She began playing softly.
"Not that," he said, interrupting her. "Play the one you used to play when you didn't know I was in the house. It's repetitious and rather sweet."
Her fingers froze in place on the keys. When had he heard that melody? It had to be the one he meant, but she hadn't played it for years.
"Eliza. Play it for me."
How could she, when the memories that music evoked were only painful now? But he waited, and she couldn't refuse to do as he asked. Perhaps if she concentrated on the mechanics of the melody there would be no room in her mind for anything else. It almost worked. Owen's presence in the room kept her from surrendering to the call of the past. She played through the piece, her fingers stumbling only when her concentration faltered, and sat with hands on the keyboard as the final note echoed through her mind.
Owen reached for the decanter again, poured the last of the whiskey into his glass, drained the amber liquid, and set the glass beside the decanter with a clatter.
"You're tired, my dear," he said carefully. "Shall we go upstairs?"
He stumbled only slightly as he rose from the chair, assisted her from the piano bench, and, with a cruel grip on her arm, guided her up the stairs to her room.
The soft glow of a lamp near the bed provided the only illumination. Owen bent his head to hers in the beginnings of the too familiar ritual. Eliza's eyes closed. Her memory turned to another kiss an eternity before. What would it hurt, she thought, to pretend, just this once? Owen's mouth was claiming hers, but it was David she remembered, longed to respond to, until the memory of his face at the Capitol swam before her eyes. My God, what am I doing? she thought. Passion drained from her and she endured Owen's embrace until he pushed her from him with an oath.
She stared at him in amazement as he went to each lamp, lit them, and filled the room with light.
"Come here," he said from across the room.
When she didn't move, he walked to her and pushed her into a circle of light.
"Owen!" Involuntarily, against all her knowledge of how he expected her to act toward him, she protested.
"Shut up," he told her. "I want to see. I want to see just what you are."
Trembling inwardly at this new violation, Eliza stood rigidly before him, her vision fixed firmly at a spot on the carpet.
He loosened her hair. She felt it cascade around her, the softness of it falling below her waist.
"You look like a woman," he said. His voice changed, the chill of it penetrating her to the bone. "Look at me." When she failed to do so, he clenched his hand in her hair and jerked her head up. "Look at me!"
He stared into her eyes as though he could find answers there. "Other women find me attractive. What is there in you that won't let you respond?"
She remained mute, her eyes locked on his.
"I've given you everything." He spoke evenly now. "My home, my name, a place in society."
He pushed her toward the wardrobe. "I've bought you clothes other women only dream about," he said as he opened the doors and began pulling dresses from their hooks. "But you dress like a widow. You only go out when I insist upon it. You never smile. You never thank me." He tore her new blue riding habit from its hanger and it joined the pike of velvets and satins on the floor. The strap of the small riding crop caught on his ring, and, swearing, he released her hair to free his hand. She fought back a long-battled urge to tell him why she could never respond to him, knowing he was dangerously close to losing all control.
"I want you, Eliza, but I want more than just your shell. I want your warmth. I want your comfort. I want you to want me. Other women would give me that. I have a right to it from you."
She closed her eyes against the demands in his. "Go to one of them," she pleaded softly. "I can't help you that way."
His blow caught her beneath the right eye, his heavy signet ring biting into the skin between cheek and temple. Her head snapped to the side, and she stumbled backward.
"You will," he groaned, catching her, jerking her to him in a travesty of an embrace. His mouth closed on hers, and she tasted the warmth of blood as her lips were forced over her teeth. "Damn you, you will," he muttered as he began fumbling with her clothes.
Eliza knew that she should submit passively, so that this evening could finally be over, but something in her was alive for the first time in four years. Each touch of his hands, his mouth, and his body against hers was a violation she could no longer tolerate. She began struggling, quietly, desperately, until she was able to push away from him. Her feet tangled in the riding habit, and she sprawled on the floor.
He walked to her slowly and deliberately, with a look she had never before seen in his eyes. He bent over her but did not touch her. Instead, he picked up the riding crop and stood toying with it while he studied her.
"You saw him today, didn't you?"
She fought the panic clawing at her throat and forced herself to look up at him. "Who?"
The whip slashed into her shoulder, tearing the delicate fabric of her dress and leaving a narrow line of blood on the exposed skin.
She tried to rise from the floor, but he pushed her down.
"I know he exists. Your father told me that much when I visited him this spring. He came once, looking for you. Did you know that? Your father was so drunk he couldn't remember anything about the man, except the lie he told him to get rid of him. God, I wish I had been there. I want to know who he is."
Her voice caught in her throat. She had to force the words out. "There is no one else. You know I have never broken my vows."
She saw his movement and threw her arm up to protect her face. The leather bit into her arm, curled around the old scar, then scraped her flesh as he yanked it away.
She waited for the next blow, but he stood transfixed, staring at her arm.
"The courier," he said. "That's who it has to be. You lied to me even then."
He grabbed her arm, pulling her from the floor. "He's in the city, isn't he?" he demanded, twisting her arm until she cried out.
"I thought I could find out who he is without asking you, but that was before I knew how deep the lie went." He bent over her. "Have you been with him? Is that why you won't have me now?
"He is a member of the Choctaw delegation, isn't he?" he asked, his face so close she felt the harshness of his breath against her. "They're going back to their wilderness in a few days, and I will have his name before they leave."
At her continued silence, he pushed her away from him, still holding her arm. The whip sliced across her back. She jerked away from the pain of it, but still he held her.
"His name, Eliza." The whip bit into her back again. "Tell me his name."
Eliza caught the cry which nearly escaped her. She clenched her teeth against any sound slipping from her. Now Owen only suspected that David was a member of the delegation. If he were certain—No. her mind refused to consider what he might do if he were certain. She had known, dimly, what he was capable of doing to David and his people four years ago when she married him. For him to find out now, to exert the full force of the influence he now possessed, would mean that she had endured the last four years for nothing.
It was as though she were watching herself from across the room. Her voice betrayed none of the tumult within her. "I'll see you in hell first."
As the whip cut repeatedly into her back, she could no longer remain the calm, detached observer. She felt every biting blow, endured every agonizing second, until she found herself on the floor, her arms protecting her head.
Please, God, make me mad, she prayed through a red blur of pain. Give me the peace of madness so that I don't know what is happening, so that I don't have to be strong any longer.
The lashing stopped, but still she knelt, waiting.
She felt the toe of Owen's shoe in her side, nudging her around. She forced her eyes to focus and looked up at him.
"There are other ways, Eliza." He took a step closer to her. "I will know his name. Before I finish with you, I will know everything about him that you know."
He would, too. She knew with sudden clarity that he would abuse her until she betrayed all she had ever loved, unless he killed her first, unless she . . . She felt hysterical laughter rising within her. Was this, then, madness? If so, where was the peace she had prayed for?
He leaned closer. She drew herself as upright as she could. The laughter bubbled in her throat and escaped into the room. She saw him draw back the whip to strike her again. She threw her arms in front of her face. The leather bit into the palm of her left hand, but her fingers closed on it, and with her right hand she grabbed for the slender strip. She felt it sliding against her palms as she tried to hold it, as Owen tried to reclaim it. She felt her flesh burning as she lost her grip and felt the knotted end of it bite into her hand. Then, with more strength than she had, she tore the whip form Owen's hand. With an oath, he sprang for her.
She flailed at him with her only weapon. The tooled leather handle caught him just above the ear, and he fell to the floor.
Eliza stared at him for a moment. Then, with a whimper, she dropped the whip.
He had fallen face down in front of her. I've killed him, she thought without feeling, until the enormity of what she had done slammed into her.
"Owen?" she whispered. "Owen?" She reached for him, not daring to touch him. When she saw the pulse beating at his temple, a great sigh escaped her and she realized that she had been holding her breath.
I've got to get help, she thought, struggling to stand, but as quickly as that thought came there also came the knowledge of what he would do to her when he regained consciousness. She stood utterly still, torn between her instinct to give aid and the surety that she had to flee even though she had no money, no one to turn to, and no safe place to go.
Her glance darted from object to object in the room, as though searching them for answers, before falling on the whip at her feet.
"I have to," she whispered. With trembling hands she reached into Owen's jacket, drew out his wallet, and took a few bills from it. "I have to," she repeated. She took all the bills and held them tightly in her fist as she ran from the room.
She was at the front door of the house before she remembered her torn dress. Panicked now, she knew there was no time to change. She hurried to the door beneath the stairs, tore it open, and fumbled inside the closet for something to cover her. An old black cloak hung from a peg at the back. She grabbed it, throwing it around her and drawing its hood over her hair as she escaped from the house.
She had no plan for her flight other than putting as much distance as possible between herself and Owen Markham. David. The thought of searching him out, of losing herself in the safety of his arms, beckoned to her, but she cast aside that idea. Owen would expect her to do that. God help anyone he found her with.