Violet Fire (20 page)

“Grace, I'm sorry,” Allen said, taking her hand.

She sank back down by his hip. “It wasn't the way you think,” she sobbed. “I tried to stop a whipping. Rathe saved me. I was so afraid. He took me to that hotel. I was in shock. Then I fell asleep.”

“I'm sorry,” Allen said, easing her into his arms. “That wasn't fair of me. You must love him very much.”

“No, I don't,” Grace gasped, pulling back.

“How damn cozy,” Rathe drawled from the open doorway.

Grace stiffened.

Allen glared. “If I was a whole man, Bragg, I'd break your nose.”

“You could try,” Rathe said with clearly false pleasantry. Grace didn't turn to look at him, but she could feel his smoldering presence. Then she heard him stomping away. She realized she was barely breathing.

“Are you all right?” Allen asked.

Grace nodded. But she wasn't. And soon it got worse, because a letter with the mayor's seal was waiting for her beneath her door. This time she felt absolute dread as she picked it up and opened it. Sheinreich was precise and to the point. She was dismissed, for reasons of moral unsuitability.

 

At the sharp rapping on his door, Rathe moved to open it. He felt his entire body go taut with anger as he stared at Grace. He hadn't forgiven her for what she'd said—or for the fact that she had left that morning without waiting for him to return.

“May I come in?” she finally said, staring back at him.

“Finished with Allen already?” he asked snidely. He couldn't help it. Since last night, feelings of possessiveness had overwhelmed him—and something else, some
thing like dismay. He had overheard her vehemently telling Allen that she didn't love him.

“I wish to discuss a matter with you,” she said, her chin coming up. “And I'd prefer not discussing it out in the hall.”

Rathe stepped aside, making a grand gesture with his arm. Grace walked rigidly past him, paused in the center of the room, then turned to face him. Rathe folded his arms and waited.

“Could you close the door?” she asked.

He shrugged and complied.

“I believe you owe me some money.”

“I do?”

A pink tide swept her face. “Yes.”

“For what?”

“For—er—services rendered.”

He wanted to hit her.

Rathe walked stiff-legged to the window and opened it, hoping for a cool breeze to ease his own burning anger. Unfortunately, only muggy air touched his face. He counted to ten—three times. Then he turned. “What services, exactly, are we talking about?”

“You know exactly what we're talking about,” Grace snapped, her fists clenched.

He raised a surprisingly nonchalant brow. “Darlin', I do believe you're mixed up. A man does not pay for what occurred this morning—on the contrary.”

She was confused and angry. “Don't think you can twist things around.”

“If anyone owes anybody,” Rathe said, wanting to kill her, “you owe me.”

She blinked.

“I performed for you, darlin', not the other way around.”

She gasped.

“I pleasured you,” he said crudely, cruelly. “Quite thoroughly, if I recall.” He paused. “Although not as thoroughly as I'd like to.”

She took a step back, her face white.

Rathe felt like the cad she was constantly accusing him of being. But he couldn't stop, not when she had come prancing in here perverting his offer and everything he felt for her by turning herself into a whore. “If you would like, we can rectify that immediately.”

“I didn't come here to be insulted,” Grace said tightly.

“No? Tell me, Grace, why did you come? To insult me—to insult us? Again?”

“I'm leaving.” But she didn't move.

“Why did you run out on me this morning?” Rathe demanded.

She flushed. “I was late.”

“It was only seven o'clock.”

“I thought it was later.”

They both knew she was lying. “You could have waited for me to return with your clothes. I would have driven you to the school.”

“I didn't want to wait.”

His smile held no humor. “Yes, you made that very clear.” His jaw tightened visibly. “Are you going to spend your entire life running, Grace?”

Her nostrils flared. “I am not running!”

“No? You've sure fooled me.”

“I told you a long time ago, Mr. Bragg, that you do not scare me. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be running from you!”

“Ahh! So you admit you're running from me!”

“I did not admit any such thing!”

“You're thinking it or you wouldn't have said it.”

“You're impossible—impossibly conceited.”

“Go ahead and run, Grace,” Rathe said harshly. “Run as hard and as fast as you can. But don't lie to yourself. You
are
running, from me, and from your feelings for me.”

She was trembling, her chest heaving.

“And remember this,” he said, his gaze searing, “I am a man. I can run faster, and I can run farther. You can't
escape me, Grace, and you can't escape your feelings, either—not even if you run to China.”

For a beat, Grace stared at him. Then she turned and fled.

Grace woke the next morning feeling desperate. She had no job, no money, and a fistful of her mother's medical bills that were all long past due. Thanks to Rathe Bragg, she had no prospects either, for clearly everyone in Natchez knew about the night she'd spent with him.

Nevertheless, she dressed to hunt for a job, thinking she'd check back in at a few of the clifftop hotels. She didn't hold out much hope, though, because even if one of them had an opening, she'd be viewed as a pariah. She stopped in the middle of brushing her hair, covered her face with her hands, and began to consider the worst.

If worse came to worse, could she bring herself to go to work on Silver Street? What a hypocrite she'd appear! But then, Natchez already considered her a branded woman, so what difference did it make?

Damn! It made a difference to her; she was a woman of principles who condemned the businesses conducted in those dens of iniquity along Silver Street…prostitution, gambling, drinking. But she needed a job; principles wouldn't pay for her mother's hospital care.

Grace was halfway to the cliffs, preoccupied with her worries about money, trying not to think of that impossible cad, Rathe, and agonized over the fact that now the Negro children had no teacher. How soon would a replacement be found? Would the mayor even bother to actively recruit one? After all, Dr. Lang had said that Allen could
return in a month. But one month was one month, and those children needed their schooling.

That precipitated a dangerous thought. Who was to stop her from organizing an informal class? Wasn't her time her own to give? She grew excited, so excited that she almost walked right past Sarah Bellsley and Martha Grimes without seeing them. “Sarah, Martha, hello,” she cried, realizing that the next temperance meeting was coming up very soon. “When is the meeting,” she began, then stopped abruptly.

Martha was averting her eyes; Sarah was staring her down with pure contempt. “I'm afraid, Miss O'Rourke,” she said frostily, “that our meetings are only open to
ladies
.” She barreled past, with Martha on her heels.

Grace stared after her, feeling stunned and hurt. And even though she knew why she had been treated so rudely, she didn't want to believe it. With her chin up, her lips pursed, telling herself
It does not matter
, she marched to the first hotel on the cliffs—the Silver Lady.

Instantaneously, she was flooded with memories. It had only been yesterday that she had awakened in Rathe's strong arms. She could still feel his hard body against hers. Her blood began to race.

There was absolutely no way she could work there. She bypassed the establishment. On the next block was a sprawling brick edifice called the Southern Star. Since she had already tried all these hotels previously, she knew exactly who to ask for. The owner was a portly gentleman who had offered her tea the other day and shared some innocent gossip. Today, his expression was full of contempt. “Even if there was something available, Miss O'Rourke, I don't think you and the position would suit.”

Even though she'd been expecting just such a reception, Grace was devastated. But fists clenched, she tried the rest of the hotels, with the same results. Outside the last one, she had to fight not to give in to tears.

Grace was tired and demoralized, but she could not give up. She knew she had to venture into Silver Street. This
was the one area of town she had never attempted to find work in before—so the prospects were actually better. It was just so very hard to believe that she had been reduced to these straits.

Grace paused at the first hotel she came to, the Golden Door. She peeked inside, and panicked. It was dark, dank, the floors filthy, the furniture scarred and broken, and it stank of sweat, beer, and cigars. Clearly she could not work in this sort of establishment. She backed hastily out, aware of the frantic hammering of her heart. She ignored the rest of the hotels for the same reasons, then found herself in front of one of the saloons.

Oh dear, she thought, standing on the boardwalk and clutching the railing. Did she have a choice? Did it even matter? Didn't the way she had just been treated by Sarah and Martha and all the hoteliers on the cliffs prove that where she worked didn't matter? What did she have to lose, now? And why was she once again on the verge of tears?

She had already learned one lesson in the past hour, so it was easy to realize she had little choice when it came to the saloons, for most were as raunchy and rank as the Golden Door. She already knew that the Black Heel was the most elegant saloon in town, boasting the most elite clientele. But there was no way she would work there—not when
he
was a regular.

She strode resolutely past, finally deciding on an obvious runner-up as far as quality went—if such a word could be used in describing any kind of saloon. Max's wasn't bad. The floors were polished oak, the bar mahogany, although it lacked the fine brass trimming and the ornate mirrors of the Black Heel. Grace tried to ignore the paintings of lush nudes gracing the pine walls. She took a few deep breaths, and shoved through the swinging doors.

It was the middle of the day and the saloon was quiet, with only a half dozen customers, the bartender polishing glasses and bottles, and a man sitting in the back at a table with papers spread out before him. Grace approached the
barman, feeling very self-conscious and very out of place. He looked up and studied her speculatively. “Lady, you lost?”

“No, I'm not,” Grace said in her clipped northern accent. Knowing that now was not the time for her careful diction to emerge, she tried to soften her tone. “Is the owner or manager around?”

“Right here.”

Grace turned to the man who had risen and approached. He was in his fifties, broad-shouldered and a bit portly, his dark hair streaked with silver. “I'm Grace O'Rourke,” she murmured, wanting to back out now, before it was too late.

“Yeah, I know,” he said grinning. “I'm Dan Reid. A redheaded schoolteacher isn't too easy to miss.”

Her tension increased because she recognized the gleam in his dark eyes. “Mr. Reid—”

“Dan.”

“Dan.” She swallowed. “I'm afraid I am out of employment.” She turned her violet eyes on him with a consciously appealing look. “I have a mother in New York who is ill and needs constant medical care. I'm desperate. Although I am a teacher, I need a job.”

Dan's eyes were wide. “You asking me to hire you?”

“Yes.” She quickly added, “But only to serve drinks, Mr.—uh—Dan.”

He grinned. “He know about this?”

“Excuse me?”

“Bragg. He know you're here?”

Grace went crimson, her mouth tightening. “I assure you, I am my own woman.”

“Yeah? I don't want any trouble with the likes of Bragg.”

That possibility had not occurred to Grace. “There will be no trouble.”

“Good.” He looked her up and down. His gaze lingered on her breasts, flattened by their binding, then on her tightly pulled-back hair. “Take down your hair.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take down your hair. I want to see how you look with it down.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Only an angry exhalation came out.

He held up a hand. “You're pretty in a prudish way, even if you are a bit long in the tooth. I don't need a prudish-looking schoolmarm working here. My customers want to see pretty young girls.”

Feeling like a cow at auction, Grace slowly pulled the pins out of her hair and let the wild mass fall past her hips.

“Holy Christ,” Dan said, picking up a heavy strand and fingering it. “I don't think I've ever seen hair like yours before.”

“Do I have the job or not, Dan?”

“You got it. You can start tonight. You come by at five an' ask Lisa for something to wear.” He looked at her as she blanched. “You can't work like that.”

“I realize that,” Grace managed. “How much do you pay?”

“Five dollars a week and the tips are your own.”

Grace was stunned at the generous sum. “Do—do the girls make a lot of tips?”

He gave her a look. “If they work hard enough.” He grinned. “In fact, take the customers upstairs and you'll make a fortune.”

“I think I already made myself quite clear on that point,” Grace said.

He chuckled. “You really are pretty. But honey, you talk like some spinster schoolmarm and you won't make a cent. Take my advice. You got to be sweet and soft and make the customer feel like he's special.”

“I'll try and remember that,” Grace said stiffly, then escaped back into the street.

 

By that evening, Rathe had calmed down over Grace's attempt to collect money from him. Of course, he still felt
an urgency, a restlessness, a barely containable need—and it all centered around her. He couldn't go on much longer like this. He wasn't used to this kind of treatment. He was used to women who wanted him and leapt at his beckoning finger.

But Grace—Grace was an entirely different story. He knew her well enough now to know that he could beckon from now until doomsday, and she wouldn't give in. Even if he had deflowered her last night and brought her to the heights of ecstasy, she would still refuse him. He could not wait until doomsday. As far as he was concerned, he had waited long enough. His patience was gone. He wanted Grace at his side.

Which was why he was sitting here thinking about marriage.

He had always intended to get married eventually. Maybe now was the time for him to think about settling down, building a home, raising a family. A wonderful image came to him suddenly of Grace cradling their baby in her arms. It moved him.

He would gladly give her anything and everything she wanted. The finest home, in New York, London, Paris, anywhere she wanted. Silks, furs, jewels, horses, paintings, sculpture…Then he grinned.
Am I thinking about Grace O'Rourke?

He tried to imagine being married to Grace. He figured she would be perfectly content with a cottage and modest clothes. Rathe knew he didn't have a modest bone in his body. He imagined spending a lifetime trying to teach her to be immodest—it was a wonderful thought.

He would probably spend the rest of his life extracting her from danger, too. For some reason, the idea tempted him immensely. God knew, someone had to look after her!

Rathe grew excited. He was truly sorry that he hadn't been thoughtful enough to send her home the night before last. But now, now he couldn't help being a bit pleased with the way it had turned out. He knew that they were the gossip of the town. That suited him just fine. Now it
was his responsibility to marry her, after being the instrument of her downfall. He grinned. The idea of marrying her was appealing to him more and more every minute.

Then he thought about Allen. His smile disappeared. Apparently, Grace had rejected Allen. A niggling thought invaded: she might reject him, too! Rathe refused to entertain it. It was one thing for her to reject his proposition, another for her to reject his proposal. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, handsome, wealthy, and successful. No woman could possibly turn down his suit.

Rathe, his mind made up, went directly to the finest jeweler in town, to purchase the biggest diamond he could find. Stern's was renowned for its jewelry, having catered to the great Natchez planters for the last fifty years. There he found a twelve-carat yellow diamond that was nearly flawless. He tried to imagine her expression when she saw it. She would gaze at him out of stunned violet eyes. Then she would smile. Tears might appear. She would bite her lip in that nervous manner she had, then fling her arms around him, crying, “Yes, oh yes!”

That evening Grace did not join them for supper at the boardinghouse, and no one knew where she was. Rathe found himself unable to eat and thoroughly distracted, a hundred thoughts racing through his mind. Knowing Grace, he figured she was in some kind of trouble. He finally excused himself early and went straight to Allen's room.

Allen was reading, and he laid aside the book to greet Rathe quietly. Rathe nodded back. “Allen, have you seen Grace today?”

“Yes, twice,” Allen said.

Rathe felt a surging of jealousy. He hadn't even seen her once. “When?” he asked, quite calmly.

“This morning and this afternoon,” Allen said, trying to straighten further. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not really,” Rathe said, not wanting to worry him, not when he was bedridden.

“Isn't she at supper?”

“I forgot,” Rathe lied. “There's a ladies' meeting tonight.”

“Of course,” Allen said, smiling fondly. “Grace would never miss a ladies' meeting.”

If only there
was
a ladies' meeting. Rathe prowled about the front and back parlors. His feeling of imminent disaster grew. No one, including Harriet, knew where Grace was. Frustrated and anxious, Rathe finally slipped out the door and headed to town, hoping to run into her. He finally stopped in at the Black Heel for a badly needed drink.

He was in that establishment for exactly three minutes when he heard the news. His friend and fellow card sharp, George Farris, bought him a drink with the funniest twinkle in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Rathe said with grim preoccupation.

“You look like you need it.”

“I do.” He downed it in one swallow.

George chuckled. “Never thought I'd see the day.”

Rathe scowled. “George, how come I get the feeling you're just dying to spit something out? What day?”

“The day one of your women wears the pants in your household.”

Every nerve ending in his body went on alert. “What?”

“Or maybe she isn't your woman—is that it?” His grin widened. “I can't imagine you letting her work like that.”

“Are we talking about Grace?”

“Yeah. If she's not your mistress, I sure wouldn't mind a crack at her myself.”