Chapter 21
The hansom cab ride back to the hotel had been excruciating for its pregnantly brooding silence. Words were not needed, for sandwiched tightly between her father and Archie on the cab’s narrow seat, Barbara could literally feel the intensity of their shock, anger and disbelief.
She had really done it this time. And now, as she shared a first class compartment with them on the train ride back to the City, she sensed that, if anything their foul mood had intensified. She had expected that, upon returning in the cab to the Grand Union Hotel, her father would insist on administering a terrible punishment. She had imagined herself being thoroughly caned over that sawhorse that she imagined was still in the sitting room of their hotel suite. But nothing like that had occurred.
On arrival her father had marched straight up to the front desk to inform the desk clerk that he, his daughter, and Master Archibald Vandergrift were checking out immediately, that they wanted to be on the evening train to New York City and that the hotel should immediately arrange for first class tickets for them on that train and call for another hansom cab to transport them to the station. The hotel was also instructed to pack up their belongings in their rooms and send the Moore luggage on to the Grand Plaza Hotel in Manhattan, and the Vandergrift bags to a New York address pushed silently across the front desk on a slip of paper by Archie.
Within a half hour they had been jammed together once again in a cab, arriving at the station where they sat in silence in the nearly empty waiting hall, waiting for the call to board the train to be announced. Her father had sat rigidly straight in his seat, head cast down as though he feared being recognized. Clearly he did not want to be seen at the hotel or anywhere else in Saratoga Springs, including the station. Archie, for his part, had been sullen and uncommunicative.
The train had made its way through Albany and they had changed in Schenectady before steaming on from there to New York, with only relatively brief stops.
Now as they rode in silence, Barbara sat gloomily on her side of their compartment, staring out the window to avoid looking at the two storm-cloud-like expressions fixed on the faces of the two men seated across from her. Yes, there was no doubt about it. They were not getting over it. She had indeed really done it this time!
Her thoughts turned to pathetic rumination about how she might justify the day’s disaster in her mind. As an avid devourer of romance novels, she thought she knew a few things about love and passion. Wasn’t it true that the heroines of those novels found the loves of their lives, and overcame all personal struggles and obstacles thrown in their path, often bravely defying the social customs of the day, and ended up secure and happy in the end? Surely this obstacle to her own happiness could be overcome, given enough time.
Soon her thoughts turned to fears about what punishments father might have in store for her once they were ensconced again in their familiar suite at the Plaza. Was there something worse … more fearsome than the tawse or the cane? She couldn’t imagine what. But somehow she knew there most probably was, and that she would have little choice but to submit to whatever horror might be … as there was no denying she was guilty as charged.
From there, her thoughts gravitated back to misguided hope. Surely, father would eventually get over it. He had, after all, gotten over what she had done on the train from Chicago with that dashing young Scotsman, Jeremy McIntyre. She and Jeremy had been caught in the act, just as had she and Stan Goldman, right? She’d taken her punishment then and by the next morning all was forgiven, or at least forgotten. Surely the same might well happen now. She just needed to be patient.
But then again, back then, there hadn’t been an Archibald Vandergrift on that train from Chicago, had there? That did complicate things.
However cautiously, she did like Archie. He was by far the best of her father’s “eligibles,” and he liked her. Or at least he had liked her before she had gotten herself caught doing what she had been doing with Goldman on a bed of straw beneath section B.
Now she imagined Archie was probably gone from her life forever. Pity that!
And it was at that point that her thoughts came around to Stan Goldman. She hadn’t dared think about him until then, but now so many images and memories suddenly flooded her mind. There were images of Goldman and his pals plotting the illicit rendezvous under section B that would bring she and Stan together at last. There were vivid memories of Stan leading her down that passageway beneath the grandstand, and how exciting that had been.
There were memories, even more vivid, of the rush of passion she had felt when they embraced and fell onto that bed of hay. Memories of how frantically he had worked at the fastenings on her blouse, eventually removing it and tossing it away. Memories of how his hot hands found their way down the front of her corset to fondle her breasts and work them partially free of their confinement … free enough, at least, to expose her eager nipples to his hot lips.
But most exhilarating of all were the images of Stan with his trousers down and his manhood erect, lifting her skirt, tugging at her drawers, exposing her, as she beckoned him into the wet and eager confines of her womanhood.
And there it was again, as these memories and images played in her mind … that irresistible tingle and rising warmth of passion surging through her loins. Instinctively, she pressed her thighs tightly together, squeezed, bore down as she slipped one hand down over the tautness of her belly and beyond.
Then with a start, she realized that both father and Archie were staring directly at her … and specifically at where she had subconsciously placed her hand. Did they guess? Was her face flushed? Did they know what she was thinking and feeling? Miserably, she imagined that they most surely did.
She had just managed to disgrace herself yet again.
For the rest of the train journey she willed herself to stop thinking about anything at all. And she managed, more or less, to drive everything from her mind and to quiet down the mounting physical desire raging within her.
Mercifully they arrived in the City not long after the moment and aftermath of her latest shameful embarrassment. She dutifully followed her father through the station and to the cab row out in front, where Archie left them to return to his home-away-from-home, as he called it, in the City. Father hailed a hansom cab for she and him, in which they rode in silence to the Grand Plaza.
It was late in the evening when they alighted before the Plaza’s imposing facade. The doorman touched his hand to his hat and whisked them inside.
It being a Saturday night, the hotel lobby was fairly busy. Impatiently, her father stood in line at the front desk and, when finally served, brusquely asked for the key to his suite. Mario, who was on duty along with two colleagues, flashed a smile at her when her father wasn’t looking. She didn’t return it, which made him frown.
Taking her firmly by the arm, her father propelled her towards the elevator. They got in,. The screen and doors closed, and they rode to the eighth floor, marched down the corridor and entered their suite.
“I’m tired, father. I’m going straight to bed,” she immediately announced once they were inside.
He said nothing.
She retreated to her room, removed her clothes and dropped naked into bed, not bothering with night clothes which she set aside to be packed by the hotel staff. Truly exhausted, she immediately dropped off to sleep.
It wasn’t until early afternoon of the next day … Sunday … that she awakened. Crawling out of bed, she found a hotel robe, and then ventured warily out into the sitting room,
Father was there, seated in an easy chair, reading the Sunday edition of the New York Herald. He was chomping furiously on an unlit cigar, his face red and contorted with rage.
“Hello, father. Is something wrong? Markets down?” she offered tentatively.
He responded by folding the paper so as to highlight whatever it was that he was reading, and handed it to her.
She took it from him. He had apparently been reading the society page. A well-known specialty of the Herald were the trashy gossip columns that populated that page, and father took reading them seriously … as part of his social climbing endeavors.
The headline of the very first column, obviously the one he wanted her to read, shouted in large type, “Duluth Business Tycoon Disgraced by Daughter’s Amoral Race Course Dalliance”.
She drew in her breath sharply as she read on: “Dateline Saratoga Springs. High society is shocked to learn today that Miss Barbara Ann Moore, daughter of Duluth Minnesota millionaire industrialist, James J. Moore, was discovered yesterday by authorities at the Saratoga Springs Race Course willfully fornicating beneath the race course grandstand with a young Jewish man, whose identity has not been revealed. Mr. Moore, who moved to New York recently with his lovely daughter, has been a much welcomed newcomer to the city’s high society social scene, and his young daughter’s hand in marriage has reportedly been quite eagerly sought after by some of our fair city’s most eligible bachelors. Currently foremost among her well-heeled suitors, according to this column’s always highly reliable sources, is Master Archibald Vandergrift, with whom she has often been seen as of late, and by whom she was reportedly escorted to the Saratoga Springs Race Course on the very occasion of her shockingly deplorable reported behavior. It goes without saying that Miss Moore’s morals must now be seriously questioned if not condemned, which sadly is a very sorry state of affairs for her father, as well as for young Archibald Vandergrift. Watch for any and all new developments on this highly disconcerting story to be faithfully reported in this column.”
“I’m so sorry, father,” she offered softly, handing the paper back to him,
The proffered words of apology were met with stony silence.
“I know I did wrong, and am prepared to accept punishment. What will it be father? The tawse?” she said softly, slipping off her robe, and nakedly crossing the room to the divan. Tossing a questioning look over her shoulder at him, she proceeded to stretch herself out on the divan, prepared to receive whatever thrashing he chose to inflict on her bare backside.
But nothing happened. He remained seated, and said nothing.
Eventually, she broke the silence. “Father?”
“No, Barbara not now, not today. Get up, cover yourself up, and return to your room. Go take a bath, get dressed and get yourself ready for the rest of the day. As for me, I need time … time to think. There has to be a way. But, at least for now, I don’t think thrashing your bare ass and saying that’s it … we’re done with this … is the answer.”
“Yes, father,” she murmured, rising and snatching her robe from the floor, but not bothering to put it on as she retreated to her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she backed up to and leaned against it for several minutes with her eyes closed. She’d escaped punishment, at least for now. With luck things might even blow over, she told herself.
Padding her way across the bedroom floor, Barbara pressed the button on the wall by the bathroom door to ring for Kristina. And then she perched herself on the edge of the bathtub to wait.
It took some time, but Kristina finally appeared, though rather than wearing her chambermaid’s uniform she was wearing street clothes. Her face looked strained, her eyes puffy red. She’d obviously been crying.
“Kristina! What is it?” cried Barbara.
“I’m sorry, Miss Barbara, but I cannot draw your bath. I have been sacked. I no longer can work here at the Plaza.”
“How? What happened? When?” demanded Barbara, although she knew full well who was behind it.
“Jag vet inte … I don’t know. This morning I was told that the management thought my work was not up to standards. Mario … välsigna hans själ … tried to argue with them, but … (sobbing) … Jag vet inte … I don’t know Miss Barbara.”
“Oh dear! What will you do?”
“I will look for work in the city … where I don’t know. I have no letters of reference. They wouldn’t write any. But I will find something … somewhere.”
