Paxton Pride (7 page)

“Lawd, it's hot this mornin'. Yo' watches yo' step or dat tub water'll near scald yo' pretty hide, chile.”

“Thank you, Retta.”

The black woman left the room and went about her chores. Karen disrobed and put one leg in the steaming water. Retta had spoken the truth and Karen winced as she stepped completely into the tub and sat all the way down, gritting her teeth until the water became bearable.
Burn, burn. There's much to be done today
.

She stayed longer than usual, letting the heat soak away her tiredness, ease the stiffness from her limbs. When she was finally out and toweled dry, her skin pink and shining with the healthy glow of youth, she padded back down the empty hall toward her room, barely missing her father as he descended for breakfast. Retta was waiting, ready to brush her hair and help her dress. She chose a pink gown of very proper cut by anyone's standards, quite suitable for a visit to the House later in the day. A small bustle from which hung yards of draped taffeta in a small train, rode just above the swell of her hips. She chose a cameo throat piece given her by her grandmother as her only jewelry. Retta helped her pile her hair into a broad sweep of curls. A Dolly Varden hat trimmed with white roses would later perfectly complement the pink taffeta and the natural warm red of her lips, for today she especially wanted to please her father and hopefully ameliorate his ire when she set about breaking the news of her unhappiness with the arrangements made the night before.

Barrett was seated at the spacious table, an empty breakfast plate shoved away from him. He still wore a bib cloth tucked into his collar to cover the front of his shirt. A steaming cup of coffee filled the air with its heavy aroma. Barrett was intently studying his paper. The sound of her approach broke his concentration. He rose from his seat and offered his hand to her. “Aah, Karen. Sit down. Sit down. Ross, bring my daughter's tea. And find her some breakfast. Something to stick to her ribs.”

“No thank you, Father. Just tea will do.”

Barrett held the seat for her. “I don't understand why you women won't eat a decent breakfast. What do you live on during the day? Why, I don't know what I'd do if I missed a meal.” He patted his growing paunch with affection and sat again as Ross entered with a china tea pot and a cup and saucer for Karen. “And take this damn dish out of here,” Barrett continued. “I keep getting yolk on the paper.”

Ross grimaced at Barrett's tone, but removed the offending plate, even if with obvious distaste.

“Now,” Barrett said. “Tell me about you and Alfred. So it's set, hmmm? That makes your mother and me very happy.”

Karen smiled and sipped her tea. The smile would have curdled milk had Barrett taken the time to notice. “I'm glad you're happy, Papa. That everyone is happy.”

“Yessir,” Barrett continued, lost in a fabrication of his own design, “the Whitaker influence in England and on the Continent and the Hampton enterprises in America. Plus Alfred in politics, of course. A fine combination. Daughter, this is the beginning of a financial empire, mark my words.”

“I'm sure it is, Papa.”

“Oh, by the way. Alfred invited us to attend the meeting of the House today. Some bumpkin from Texas will be addressing them. It should be most entertaining if you want to go along.”

Karen experienced a moment of panic. A bumpkin from Texas? She shivered slightly at the memory of his hand on her breast, his hardness pressed against her. Could she face him without blushing? Would anyone suspect? There was little to do but acquiesce. “Alfred's already asked me. I said I would be there,” she answered quietly.

“Fine. Fine. We'll have Hermann drive us down a little early. Pick up something to eat at the Senate Club. Father and daughter, eh?”

“That will be lovely, Papa.” She paused as he picked up his paper again, hating to begin yet knowing she must before it was too late. “Papa.…”

“Damn!” Barrett exploded, shaking the paper angrily. “The fools don't understand the first thing about international finance. I've told them and told them. But do you think they'd listen? Of course not. An ignorant lot hardly fit to govern the backside of.…”

“Papa!” Karen tried again, her voice pleading.

Barrett glanced up. “Oh, yes. Sorry,” and went back to his paper.

It was too late already. Barrett Hampton was totally engrossed again, miles from the daughter who sat so near across the table.

They left before noon in plenty of time for a leisurely luncheon at the Club before continuing on to the House. Hermann guided their carriage down Massachusetts Avenue and along a garden- and shop-lined street running parallel to Pennsylvania. They passed a small French cafe and after a moment's pleading, Barrett agreed to Karen's wishes that they dine there instead of at the Club. Karen often visited the cafe. To her a wistful reminder of Europe, the Dog, for short, was a colorful spot where artists, poets and clever wits came to argue endlessly over innumerable cups of coffee and tea. Barrett gazed suspiciously at the crudely lettered sign above the door where faded blue paint announced the Dog in more complimentary terms as “
Le Chien Commendable.
”

Inside the place was all but deserted save for three or four silent, shabbily dressed fellows and the proprietors, a middle-aged Frenchman and his wife. The Frenchman, Clement by name, hurried to greet his new customers, recognized Karen and gave a stiff bow, elegantly kissing her proffered hand. “Ah, Madamoiselle Hampton. Such a pleasure to see you again,” he said in a voice that carried only a slight trace of accent.

“This is my father, Monsieur Clement.”

“I am honored, sir,” Clement nodded exuberantly, extending his hand.

“I trust you have something suitable for an American stomach, Mr. Clement,” Barrett said officiously. “We're in somewhat of a hurry.”

“
Mais oui
, but who in Washington isn't in a hurry these days,
ça va?
It is very bad for the digestion.” Clement's eyes twinkled as he chuckled to himself and led his guests to a prominent table near one of the front windows and assured them he would bring their food quite rapidly. The Frenchman clucked to his wife and the pair hurried off to the kitchen.

Barrett was ill at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings so obviously far below his standards. Had he been in Europe he would have thought
Le Chien Commendable
quaint and amusing, would have assumed the food to be above average and more than prepared to accept it as superior. But this was Washington. The United States of America. Such a place would not be visited by anyone he knew or cared to know. He hoped no one saw him. “He seemed to know you quite well,” he observed brittlely.

“I come here often, Papa.”

“It would seem a young lady of your upbringing might frequent establishments of a more proper nature.”

“This is a perfectly proper place, Papa. And the people are most pleasant, gracious and cultivated. And talented. The young man by the door is writing a novel. The elderly gentleman is a painter whose works are hung in museums in Europe. Clement's grandparents were chefs for the French court. On the contrary, what better place to spend one's time? Why, the entire place is less a cafe and more an education.”

Barrett grudgingly gave up the argument. There was no point in carrying on a discussion with anyone who catered to artists, even if the anyone involved was a daughter. She would be neither convinced nor swayed by logic. Should he tell her he had no use for artists of any sort, Karen would only become embarrassingly upset. But such was the way of women. The way they should be, probably. Kept them busy and out of the way. Not one in a thousand realized the world turned on the marketplace and in the halls of state, not on some artist's canvas or writer's romantic blather.

Clement brought them their lunch, paper thin slices of rare beef smothered in a combination of gravy and sauce in which floated the button heads of tiny, succulent mushrooms. Small young potatoes boiled and spread with fresh butter lay surrounded by tender spring-sweet green English peas. Tiny loaves of white bread, brown and hard on the outside, sweet and soft on the inside, filled a wooden bowl, next to which lay a platter of thinly sliced fresh cucumbers, grown God-only-knew-where at that time of the year. Karen had a light Bordeaux while her father, refusing to be seduced by the delicious meal in front of him, declared himself unconvinced any wine bought in a cafe named the Dog could be anything other than vile and settled for coffee.

Barrett, his eye on the lowering clouds, hurried through his meal and urged Karen to finish hers much more rapidly than she wished. It was obvious he was anxious to be out of there and to the Capitol before the storm broke. Karen sensed his discomfort and mischievously lingered over her meal, sipping the wine with infuriating slowness as the interior of the cafe rattled to the reverberation of distant thunder.

Outside the gray clouds grew suddenly ominous and black and the wind stopped, leaving an expectant and weighty hush over the city. Swallows swooped low, an indication of a sinking barometer and the imminent approach of a storm. Brilliant streaks of lightning darted in and out of the boiling clouds, stitching them together with blue-silver fire. Each flash increased Barrett's discomfort until finally, his face livid with growing anger, he snatched the glass from Karen's hand and finished it himself, flinging change enough to cover their bill twice over on the table even as he drank. As they stood to leave, the Piper entered. The Piper was a huge burly fellow, a street musician earning pennies as best he could. His beard and hair were long and ragged, his clothes in such a state of disrepair it seemed they might fall off him at any moment, leaving him dressed in no more than his flute. Barrett hustled Karen around the disreputable fellow as if he had the plague, snorting in disgust as Karen greeted him affably.

“My God in Heaven, Karen! I hope Alfred doesn't have to put up with such behavior. It would drive me to distraction.”

“But the food was good, wasn't it, Papa?”

“Food is as good as the surroundings in which it is enjoyed.” He held the door for her as they exited. “I did not enjoy it.”

“And you must admit the price was reasonable.”

“Had we eaten at the Club, as I intended, I could have signed for it as usual. Further, we would be where we were going, instead of a half mile away and threatened by a storm.”

His words might have served as a cue, for suddenly large fat drops of rain began to splatter the ground around them, leaving wet, saucer-sized stains on the stone path. They ran to the carriage. Hermann quickly wrapped his cheese in its cloth and jumped to the door, opening it just as Karen reached the carriage and holding it while she climbed in. A bolt of lightning struck somewhere nearby and the horses started, forcing Hermann to leave the door to go to their heads and calm them, leaving Barrett to enter the coach unassisted. Just as the older man climbed to the running board, however, a gust of wind snapped the hat from his head and sent it tumbling past the horses, startling them anew. Barrett cursed and gave chase, nearly bowling over Hermann, hard at work now holding the plunging beasts. Karen couldn't help but laugh at her father's victimization at the hands of nature as Barrett finally managed to trap his wayward hat, jamming it to the ground with his cane. He scooped it up and hastily returned to the carriage, his face furiously crimson, more from anger than exertion.

Hermann crooned to the horses and worked his way back to the steps to the coachman's seat, holding the reins tightly all the while. He freed one hand to shut the door after his employer and quickly climbed onto the high seat, at the same time lightly touching the backs of the nervous horses with the carriage whip. The animals broke into a quick, crabbed gait through the increasingly heavy rain, splashing water and mud to all sides.

Karen decided abject silence was the better part of valor and turned her attention to the Washingtonians scurrying along in search of cover. On one corner an irate fruit seller screamed useless epithets at a cluster of ragged Negroes huddled beneath the cloth awning protecting his racks of fruit. So closely were they packed together there was not even room for the owner to re-enter his shop. Karen caught a final glimpse as the carriage rounded the corner. Several of the children were beaming happily, cheeks puffed out and jaws chewing, obviously delighted and thoroughly enjoying their pilfered gains.

The carriage increased in speed as the rain fell faster. Lightning flashed in dramatic bursts of brilliance. Suddenly they swerved violently to the right and skidded. Karen had time for a brief, muffled scream as the carriage teetered crazily to one side then partially righted itself and settled at a drunken angle to the road. Hermann looped the reins around the brake lever and leaped from his seat into the ankle-deep mud and water. The trouble was readily apparent. The right rear wheel had hit a pothole and sunk axle deep, leaving the left rear wheel in the air. The coachman knew he'd never be able to get them out alone. He sloshed to the carriage door and knocked. Barrett's face, appearing for all the world like an angry ghost, peered through the fogged-up glass.

“I'll be needing to find some help, sir. I'm afraid we're stuck.”

The face shook sideways, indicating Barrett couldn't hear, then disappeared. A moment later the door opened and Barrett, misjudging the steepness of the angle of the coach, almost fell onto Hermann, who had put out a hand to steady him and unceremoniously shove him back into the carriage. “What's that?” he yelled at Hermann.

“We're stuck. I'll have to get some help.” As close as he was, the steady hiss of rain and the driving wind, accompanied by an almost constant rumble of thunder, plucked the words from his mouth and made them nearly incomprehensible.

Barrett shouted back, “Damn it, man. Hurry up. Do what you must, but hurry up.”