Barkskins (47 page)

“I guess you and me will have many a good old
Woods Talk.
I always knowed I'd hook up to a
Big Outfit,
and a course Duke Sons is one of the
Biggest.
Got some of the
Best Pineries
in Maine. We can sure enough make
Some Pile a Boards,
eh?” And he gave a frightful wink that implied he knew Duke timberlands very intimately. James was horrified. How to disabuse the man? He seemed to assume that the marriage meant that he, Phineas Breeley, was now a partner in Duke & Sons. If Edward and Freegrace ever discovered this scarred New Brunswicker imagined himself one with them they would perish from shock.

•  •  •

It was nearly two when they arrived at their inn, a handsome Georgian building fronted by graceful wineglass
Ulmus americana,
favored by red men for council meetings in ancient days. It was set far enough back that the roar of iron-shod hooves and rattling wheels did not drown out conversation.

James was relieved that Phineas Breeley's room was some distance down the hall from the handsome suite he had reserved, for Breeley had followed them upstairs, trailing the men carrying the trunks. He had inspected their room as though he were going to occupy it with them. Finally, oh finally, thought James, he went to his own room, calling out that they must meet in an hour's time under the elms and begin their exploration of New York.

“At last I have you to myself,” he murmured to Posey, embracing her lightly.

“Yes! Isn't Father grand company? He has a thousand stories.”

“What caused that great scar on his head?”

“You must ask him. He rarely refers to it.”

James knew he never would ask, and reconciled himself to a week in the man's company. Somehow he had to explain to Breeley that a marriage to Posey did not automatically enlist her father as a partner in Duke & Sons. How to put it without offending the man occupied his waking thoughts for the rest of the day. In their long perambulation down the busy streets ankle-deep in horse manure, they dodged scores of pigs, passed a platform said to be the site of the slave market, hurried past the stench of cattle pens and slaughterhouses, the vacant lots piled high with animal manure. James prayed it would not rain, would spare them the ordeal of wading through liquid shit. There was a constant moil of people harnessing horses, loading and unloading carts. Horses crowded the streets—omnibus horses, butcher horses, bakery cart horses, milk delivery horses, express horses—and lying alongside the curbs they saw dead and dying horses. These inhumane sights did not crush their appetites. They dined at the famous Red Cow Tavern on roast bear (
very
like pork) and mashed turnips. The waiter said they had a rare treat—pineapples from the Bahamas had just arrived, would they not wish to try one? They would. Swarms of flies hung like living chandeliers over the tables but the attentive waiters stood near waving fly whisks and they managed.

The pineapple, pared and sliced and served on pale blue dishes, was prime, ripe and fragrant. They fought the flies for the treat, but it was almost impossible to avoid the nasty sensation of a frantic buzzing insect in the mouth. When the pineapple was gone and the bill paid they started back to the Four Elms. On the way they passed several rowdy taverns where singing and the thumping of drums and female shrieks signaled some kind of coarse entertainment. At the door of their hotel Phineas Breeley stopped. “Reckon I'll just
Walk About
for nother hour—that
Pineapple
made me restless. See you on the
Morrow.
” He saluted and turned down a side street.

•  •  •

The wedding night was an extreme experience for James Duke. He knew what was expected of him and even looked forward to it, but in no way was he prepared for the flying tigress who leapt on him, tore open the falls of his trousers and seized his penis, in no way was he prepared for her biting and scratching, thrusting and wriggling, tearing at his and her own clothes, nor for the wrestling and panting. All night long Posey kept him going. Just before dawn he fell into a near-delirious sleep, his body shockingly embroidered with the experiences of the previous hours.

With daylight he woke and slid gingerly out of bed. Posey lay a-sprawl, breathing stertorously. James washed gingerly, dressed and went down to the small parlor, where coffee, tea and hot chocolate sat on a sideboard. He helped himself to a plate of still-warm biscuits dabbed with butter and strawberry jam, took his cup and plate to a table near the window and gazed out at the waving elm branches.

“There You Are!”
cried Phineas Breeley, entering the quiet room, striding to the coffeepot and pouring himself an overfull cup. He sat opposite James, looked at him searchingly. He saw the welts, the black and blue bite marks, the scratches on the backs of his hands, his swollen lips and earlobes.

“Give you
Quite a Ride,
didn't she? She's
Pretty Feisty,
ain't she? I taught her
Everything
she knows and she turned out
Good.
She's a chip off the
Old Stump.
Guess you can take it better than
Old Preacher Man Brandon.
” He winked and leered.

James felt the blood in his veins turn to mud. What in the name of God did Phineas Breeley mean? That he had tutored his daughter in the sexual arts? Cold horror flooded his mind at the thought. That a father would—! James felt his gorge rising, although he knew that such things happened, mostly to backwoods people deprived of diverse company. He could say nothing, and was relieved when Breeley launched into a monologue detailing the sights he had seen after he parted from them the evening before, the plump blond “patridge” he had found and
“Give a Good Fuck,”
the drinks he had swallowed. At last James got up and excused himself saying he would bring Posey a cup of morning coffee.

“Oh yas, I know about the mornin
‘Cup a Coffee.' 
” Breeley smirked, licking his lips and winking.

James Duke would have been happy to forgo sex for the next thirty years, but he was trapped. Indeed, Posey interpreted the morning cup of coffee much as her father had and pulled at James's waistcoat, trying to get him back on the bed. He looked at her. He was repulsed by the thought that the old scar-faced troll had had her and turned away. She seized his wrist with her hard grip and yanked. He fell onto the bed and she swarmed over him like ants on honeycomb. He tried, but could not keep down the image of the scar-laced head of Phineas Breeley pressed between his daughter's legs.

“No!” he shouted and leapt from the bed. Posey came after him, arms swinging, gorilla teeth bared. She beat him to blancmange consistency and left him in the corner.

“You had better come to some sense,” she gritted between those strong white teeth. “I won't have another milksop husband.”

“And
I
will not have a violent wife,” said James, summoning his quarterdeck persona. “We must talk all of this out.” He believed in reason, though it was unreasonable to do so.

•  •  •

James and Posey Duke walked out alone, leaving Phineas Breeley behind at James's impassioned request. “We must talk
alone, we must.
” After three and a half hours of questions, halting answers, temper fits, tears, scorn and expressions of sad disappointment they came to a compromise: Posey would have her own suite of rooms; she and James would agree beforehand on the times he would visit the matrimonial bed; he would not ask questions if she invited another (unspecified); she would not use violence to get her way; they would try to live happily ever after even though it might take great effort; one week after their return to Boston, Phineas Breeley must find his own quarters or return to New Brunswick. On this last point James had been diamond hard, and pledged a sum toward the purchase of a Breeley house. He said, in an almost threatening voice, that the alternative was divorce. But he had not asked the question of Posey's childhood relations with old Breeley. And she had not asked the question about his late-night visit to the Taunton farm.

•  •  •

Breeley seemed pleased with the idea of his own place and set off at once to look at houses in the neighborhood, for he did not wish to return to New Brunswick.

“It's
Lively
down here. I enjoy the
Lively.
Maunderville's quiet as a dead horse. Quieter. Your dead horse passes gas.”

In four days he discovered a small stone cottage with a garden and two-horse stable half a mile distant. James cheerfully paid the owner for the place, and Breeley, he thought, would no longer annoy.

A few weeks later, at the breakfast table, Posey said, in an agreeable and placatory tone, “I am givin a dinner party Friday week for your cousins and other relatives. I made up a menu and will sit down with Mrs. Tubjoy and the cook and see if they can deal with my selections and if we must get in an extra girl for the evening. Time we got into some society. And I wish an occasion to wear my red silk that I had fitted in New York. It come by post yesterday—fits to perfection.” She smiled and touched his hand very lightly as if to say, “See how chastely I behave.”

James felt a shiver of fear. He had not yet told the cousins of his marriage and had no idea how they would take it. Thank God that old lecher would be in his stone house. He thought rapidly. He would not present Freegrace and Edward with a surprise, but would pen lighthearted little notes to each letting them know he had embarked on the matrimonial state.

“I suppose we must do so sooner or later. By all means proceed.”

Posey whisked from the room, all purpose and plan.

T
he house was caught up in a hurricane of preparation. Mrs. Tubjoy hired two extra girls. They polished the silver, washed the best plates in vinegar water and dried them with linen cloths, wiped the glassware free of thumbprints. The cook's helper roasted and ground the best green coffee, pounded loaf sugar into heaps of crystals. Mrs. Tubjoy set one of the girls to seeding raisins and the other to winkling butternut meats from their chambering shells. James and Will Thing made an excursion to the distant woods to gather green pine boughs for decoration, for it was December. Posey engaged a string quartet to play—something high-toned. Two days before the all-important Friday, men arrived at the kitchen door with tubs of thrushes, pigeons and ducks, six wild turkeys, two venison hams. The cook's helpers were up until very late plucking the birds and storing them in the cold pantry. The grocer delivered gingerroot, lemons, nutmeg, allspice, hothouse Belgian endive. On the day itself came lobsters and sweet oysters, both in favor as they were growing scarce.

“Dear heaven,” said James, “there is enough food for a militia.”

“We do not wish to appear
poor,
do we?” said Posey. “Will you take Jason”—the new butler—“and see that there is sufficient of drink?”

“It is done,” said James, who had been overseeing jeroboams, magnums, bottles and decanters all the week. “Our guests shall reel—with spirits if not amazement.”

•  •  •

The hour arrived and Jason ushered in the first guests, the solicitor Hugh Trumbull and Mrs. Trumbull.

“My God, James, what a handsome wife you have caught, and how well you have done for yourself,” murmured Mr. Trumbull, looking around the warm room, taking in Posey's red silk, the decanters on the sideboard, the hundred blazing beeswax candles, the platter of smoking hot lobster pasties fresh from the kitchen, “and how well everything looks, far more festive than when your esteemed father held court. Of course he was not a one for society. I am glad you are venturing forth.” James fetched Mrs. Trumbull a glass of aged
jerez
and saw her seated near the fire. Posey, in her New York dress, drew up a chair beside her and flattered her by asking her opinion on the mushroom-colored velvet curtains—should they not be changed for some of wine color? Or ocean blue?

There was a rush at the door as the other guests arrived: Freegrace and Lenore advanced, smiling, toward the new bride, but Posey put on a strained social smile as she took in the flaxen-haired Lenore's simple Empire dress of silvery grey enhanced with a string of large pearls around her creamy neck.

“That is a beautiful dress,” said Posey. “Is it from New York?”

“Oh no. Paris. I go every autumn for the new fashions.”

Edward and Lydia came in with Lennart Vogel and Cyrus Hempstead, neither of whom had married, though it was rumored Cyrus kept a mistress of color. But they were not without dinner partners as Cyrus had brought a fresh-faced second cousin, Sarah Close, and Lennart the widow of his accountant, Martha Scoot. James glimpsed someone else behind Cyrus and with horror saw it was his father-in-law dressed in creased and spotted garments, his striped pants of the awful thousand-pleats style, so baggy they concealed a heavy abdomen and could accommodate a forked tail, the coat also striped and with a high collar. As he was wondering how to introduce them, Edward turned to the man and said, with familiarity, “Mr. Breeley, let me fetch you a glass of rum that we may continue our talk.” They had apparently met and performed mutual introductions on the walkway.

The two sat together much of evening, drinking, eating and talking as though they were the closest friends. James suspected Mr. Breeley had not disclosed his New Brunswick affiliations. It must be done at once, however unpleasant the result might be, and he watched for his chance, filled with rage at the old impostor busily pulling a thick fleece over Edward's eyes. At the dinner table the two sat side by side, drawing diagrams on the damask cloth with fingers dipped in red wine. Edward sat on Posey's right and between earnest conversation with her father, he talked gaily with her, staring into her lustrous eyes like a lovesick youth, thought James with some distaste. He had never seen Edward so outgoing, so full of smiles and charm.