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I laid my fan down on the divan, fingering the broken spine. I wouldn’t break as easily. I’d made my point, shown him he couldn’t make me surrender to his will. I’d let him simmer for a few days, feed his sexual temperament with provocative thoughts of me watching his every move in the Orient, then I’d invoke a woman’s prerogative.
I’d change my mind.
You see, dear lady reader, I had no intention of going to Japan. The idea disturbed me, images of intense strangeness and violence making an indelible mark upon my mind. Besides, I’d made my place here in London and occupied it with a surety and confidence I’d never experienced at home. The viscount would understand my position when I explained my trepidation and withdraw his offer gracefully. After all, what sane woman would wish to travel halfway around the world to such a barbaric country?
“Katie, me girl, you saved the old man a heap of anguish tonight.”
“What are you talking about, Da?” I asked, curious. I poured myself another glass of claret, still gloating over how I had perturbed my husband about accompanying him to Japan. I also knew the power of an eloquent silence and didn’t protest when James excused himself and left the gun room in haste with a feeble excuse about finding his manservant to bring more liquor. Most likely he ventured off in search of a plump bottom to vent his frustration upon with his favorite crop. The viscount finished his port then rang for his driver, citing his gout as the reason for his early departure.
Leaving my father and I alone.
“I don’t know how to say this, Katie, but I’m worried.”
“About what, Da? Is Mother overdrawn on her account at Fortnum & Mason again?” I was well aware of my mother’s appetite for fine pickle relishes and peach preserves.
He smiled. He never denied his adored Ida anything, but it wasn’t my mother’s spending habits that made him peel off the wrapper of another cigar and hold it tightly in his palm before crushing it. “I overheard something about that husband of yours that set the old man’s ears atwittering.”
“You did?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Did he know about James’s sexual indiscretions? This upset me more than I would admit. After all the times I spoke with my father in blunt terms about the world of politics and life’s frailties, I felt embarrassment at the thought of my da knowing about my husband’s sordid liaisons with prostitutes. Rare to blush, I put my hand to my cheek and the burn meeting my fingertips surprised me.
“Yes,” he continued. “Some braggart from Parliament mentioned a stock deal James got himself involved with that had shady overtones.” He paused, tossing down the cigar, then said, “Though he couldn’t prove it when I challenged him.”
“I never heard anything about it, Da.” I bit my lip the second I said the words. Why was I defending my husband?
“I hope you’re right, Katie. I was leery about sending that husband of yours off to Japan with a letter of credit worth thousands of pounds sterling honored by my bank here in London,” my father said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “but with you going with him—”
“Me? Go to Japan?” I turned around so quickly I spilled the wine, the deep burgundy staining my fingers red. I grabbed a cloth from the table and wiped up the mess, my victory over James dissolving as quickly as the cloth soaking up the liquid. “I—I can’t go, Da.”
“But you seemed so eager—”
“I was. I mean…it sounded so romantic…” I shuddered, my breath ragged. What had I done?
I couldn’t tell my father about the dangerous game I played with my husband, the sexual innuendos, unfulfilled lust, his blatant adultery. Thomas O’Roarke already harbored a prejudice against the Englishman because of James’s high financial demands for our marriage settlement. My father had paid the exorbitant amount to make my mother happy and to secure my future. Or so he believed.
“A sea voyage will do wonders for you both,” my father answered in that glib manner of his I knew so well when he wanted something. “Think of it as a holiday.”
I tried to smile, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter what I said or did. My father would see only what he wanted to see, the range of his vision clouded by his personal motives.
“A trip to Japan would be most illuminating,” I lied, “but Mother needs me here in London to help her, especially since Elva and the baby are coming to visit.”
Though we had our differences, I was looking forward to my younger sister’s visit. Elva was the pretty one, dark and dainty, the daughter my mother groomed to marry a duke or a prince. Instead she’d gotten pregnant at seventeen and had her baby in a Paris hospital. I was eager to see her.
I continued, making excuses. “I spoke without thinking, Da.”
“I’m mighty glad you did.” He lowered his voice. The glibness was gone. That surprised me, made me uneasy. So unlike the rogue Irishman who could talk a gang of rail busters into working extra hours for no pay. “I need this deal with the Japanese, Katie. Need it bad.”
No fragmentation of thought, just straightforward talk. I stared at him, something about the edge in his voice frightening me. “What are you saying?”
“We’re heading for bad times with the railroad boom in the States coming to an end. Banks are overextending themselves and President Grant invoked the gold standard for the money supply.” He paused, chewed on his cigar. “I’m dead certain we’re going into an economic crisis before the end of the year.” He thought about what was on his mind, then finished with, “I fear I could lose everything if I don’t diversify my holdings.”
“I had no idea it was that serious.”
“It’s worse, Katie.” Thomas O’Roarke shook his head, his jowls drooped, the toll of many years of track walking for the railroad in his younger days showing on his face. Success had its price, I knew, though my father would never admit it. He’d come up the hard way, working with his hands till they bled, but it was his quick, mathematical mind and keen business sense that had put him at the top of the railroad game.
“If what you’re saying is true, Da, wouldn’t it make more sense if you went to Japan with James?”
I rattled my brain for an excuse, any excuse not to go on a long, tiresome journey halfway around the world with a man I feared and hated. No warmth existed between us, any attraction I may have felt toward him disfigured by his deviant games of domination, and if I stripped away the pretense we had forged with each other, it revealed only emptiness.
“I wish I could, Katie, but I can’t.” He spoke harshly. “You must go to Japan and keep an eye on my business interests.”
“But Japan is a pagan country,” I reminded him, “run by barbarians and samurai.”
My father ignored my plea. “You’re a strong girl, Katie, not letting anyone get the best of you and speaking your mind.” He smiled, pleased. “You remind me of meself when I was starting out, all fired up with ambition, a wild temper and always breaking rules.”
I grinned, remembering the photo I’d seen of my father back in his youth, a tall, thin young man with pants too short for him, a lantern in his hand and a whistle between his lips. I saw that young man come alive again when he said, “There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than miles of railroad track, all straight and shiny, calling to you.” He laughed. “Except your mother, of course.”
I poked him in the ribs. “You always did know how to turn a phrase, Da.”
He didn’t give up his cajoling, now that he had my attention. “Railroading is in your blood, Katie. When you were a wee girl, I’d take you along with me down to the tracks and we’d watch the big trains roaring into the station. Side by side they came, the crew heaving coal into the engines, the iron horses puffing, straining every bit of steel and muscle, passengers hanging out the windows and waving handkerchiefs, the rolling black smoke turning the sky dark overhead, the great iron steeds rounding the sharp curve and arriving at their destination, brakes screeching, tracks sparking.” He let go with a heavy sigh. “’Tis a sight to behold, but railroading is a young man’s game and the old man is running out of steam.” He patted his belly protruding over his trousers.
“Not you, Da. You can do anything.” I remembered those days with my small hand clasped in his, hanging on to my soft blue bonnet whipped by the wind. I hugged him with warmth in my heart, but I couldn’t stop a cold fear growing in my bones.
“Not this time, Katie. Your husband may be what we call an upstart back home, but he’s shrewd and can get the job done.” He leaned forward and looked me square in the eye. “I’m counting on you to see that he does.”
I found the courage to return my father’s hard stare, though turmoil raged inside me, a smooth sheen of sweat moistening my upper lip. I remained silent for several minutes, my insides churning with something I didn’t understand, an anticipation of the unknown knocking my inner compass off course. I’d been so sure of myself, filled with self-direction, capable of making my way unaided, asserting my freedom as Lady Carlton, but all that ended if I followed my father’s wishes and journeyed to Japan.
I looked away, guilt flooding me. How could I explain to him my husband was a madman who reveled in floggings, whippings and spankings? My father believed I was a happily married woman, though sexually I moved in the shadows, darkness cloaking my secret, my cries of ecstasy mingling with silence, my solitary game bringing me release but little joy.
How I longed to crush my nude breasts against the muscular bare chest of an imaginary lover, rubbing my hard nipples against him, the heat of my need stirring his desire. Moving his body on mine, then thrusting his cock into me until the loneliness I lived with day after day ceased and my body hummed with a comforting rhythm I had yet to experience.
When we did meet, my samurai relit my soul with acts so profound and passionate, so brilliantly intense I existed in a floating world. Every gesture, nuance and caress teasing me with the finest blue silk pulled taut over my breasts so my nipples peaked through the sheer fabric, inviting my samurai to linger at the task before stripping it off me and exploring me further, capturing my spirit and giving me pleasure with consummate skill. My nude body glimmering with such translucence it was as if I were bathed in mica dust.
Yet at that moment I believed that would never happen with this new set of circumstances entering my life. Strange, I had gotten myself into this situation because I wished to strike back at my husband, make him see me as an equal, not as a sexually repressed woman. Agonizing, meandering thoughts consumed me. Questions haunted me, but the answer didn’t change. I had no choice but to embark on this journey.
Reluctantly, over the next few weeks I assisted James with making the necessary arrangements regarding our identity papers, letters of credit from the bank along with a signature book and visiting cards, as well as securing passage to America, then Japan. I owed my father that much, but I couldn’t shake the uneasiness overtaking me as his lordship and I undertook our long journey to the Orient, a land of myth, pagan rituals and strange customs. I prayed I would survive nameless dangers I had yet to contemplate.
What I didn’t know, dear lady reader, was that I would face a clear-cut danger the night we were to board the steamer to Yokohama from San Francisco.
I shiver still, remembering the frightening incident that nearly cost me my life. Read on, if you have the courage. You won’t be disappointed. I have worked hard to re-create that night with witty dialogue and pertinent details as I remember them; but I must warn you to keep your smelling powders close at hand since I have also included a most explicit scene with my samurai that will—
No, I will let you see for yourself, but I beg you to read the chapter in its entirety so as not to lose sight of the story line.
That is why you’re reading this book, isn’t it?
5
Cliff House, San Francisco, California
Six weeks later…
We made the journey from London to New York, then across the continent by railway, and I must say I was flattered by the endearing personal service afforded to me as Lady Carlton. It mattered not that I was Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, more that I commandeered the title of aristocrat with a handsome husband at my side. James cajoled the wives of business associates we met along the way, impressing their husbands with my father’s money, paying for lavish parties and handing out Cuban cigars. He was on his best behavior.
Until tonight.
We were dining in a private room at Cliff House, marveling at its lofty view overlooking the coast and the bellowing seals romping about on the rocks below, when James made an off-putting remark about the fashionably low décolleté of my gown. In a not-too-subtle manner, he insinuated I was intent on seducing every man I came in contact with, including our sober-faced waiter.
Me? A seductress? The idea amused me since the art was unknown to me, though I had travailed in my reading about infamous mistresses, their style, repartee, even the popularity of their scent. (The next time you smell a musky odor upon his lordship’s handkerchief, be advised it could be the natural perfume of a certain courtesan residing on Lupus Street known for imparting her body aroma on a gentleman’s handkerchief.)
I knew the daring gown was stunning, too dazzling for an early dinner, but I ventured to wear it anyway. Shoulders straight, bosom high, hips buoying the twenty or more flounces on my overskirt, I walked with a sensual flair to make every man dream about what was underneath. (I learned to affect a certain disinterest in what I wore from watching ladies of the British aristocracy, as if the nature of wearing garments was a plebian aptitude one merely adopted on a divine whim.)
Aside, I must tell you I loved the feel of the satin swishing between my legs, the velvet caressing my breasts, the lace pricking my nipples and making them taut. I wore such frilly, pretty clothes to evoke a mood and create a world of my own, a world where I played the role of a woman beautiful and mythical, a woman desirous to men, a woman so legendary no man could resist her. I cared not if that world collapsed when I stood nude before a full-length oval mirror and examined my features, plain as they were. When I swathed myself in glittering finery, I embarked on a deep and satisfying adventure that allowed me to indulge in my romantic wanderings, to race forward into the mirage I had created and walk through the fire of criticism unscathed.
Which was why I chose the color red. A defiant color, bold and perfect. I relished how the velvet gown in crushed strawberry hugged my body, the small cap sleeves sliding down my bare shoulders while the tiered soft bustle swayed behind me, the long train sweeping over the muted Oriental carpets. A long row of pearl buttons gave off an opaline luster, racing down my back like a game of dominoes.
I also enjoyed the effect this gown had on the ladies who gossiped about me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree when I returned to London. (You remember what I wore that night, of course you do.) I also relished the attention of the gentlemen who couldn’t take their eyes off me. Especially my husband. He hated the idea of another man looking at me, even a servant, when he couldn’t bed me.
“What do you think about my husband’s remark?” I asked the black-tailed server as he poured me another glass of claret. My fourth. I needed no excuse to indulge in spirits. My nerves were frayed from fatigue, my mind listless. I admit the wine as well as his comment brought up my Irish dander, knowing as I do my susceptibility to lose my tongue when imbibing spirits, so I tossed aside any reserve I held in abeyance.
“I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” the server answered quickly.
“Am I trying to seduce you?” I drank the wine quickly lest I spill it on my gown and sour the rich red color with a dark stain. The wine teased my tongue with its tartness as I swallowed it, the choker of diamonds around my neck bouncing up and down when I tightened my throat muscles. I held my glass up and the waiter poured me another with hesitation.
“Whatever your ladyship wishes,” he answered automatically, without moving a muscle in his drawn face, then realized too late the consequences of maintaining his cool exterior.
I smiled at my husband, showing my teeth as I answered him. “You see, my dear husband, you’re not the only man I’ve charmed with my…wit.”
James threw his head back and laughed. “I may have agreed to your terms, my dear wife, but the game between us isn’t finished.” He glared at my cleavage, smacked his lips, then took another bite of his half-eaten salmon, pink and moist. He rolled his tongue over his lips, teasing me. “Seeing how I’ve yet to taste your American…wit.”
I ignored his sexual innuendo, preferring instead to stir up naughty mischief of my own, something, anything to assuage the emptiness in my soul. I refused to allow his remarks to hurt me, though I suffered from an illness of the mind brought on by the infusion of indulgence when a loving touch would have meant so much.
“Then I shall order dessert to tempt your palate.” I waved at the waiter who hadn’t moved a muscle, though I detected a persistent twitch under his right eye. “Bring us a tart.”
He cleared his throat. “What kind, milady?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Blond or brunette will do.”
“Your ladyship, what you ask for is…indecent,” the waiter sputtered. “We are a reputable establishment.”
I pushed my empty plate away from me. “The man refuses to serve me, James. What are you going to do about it?”
“Shall I shoot him?” he asked, the intent in his voice not serious, but the waiter didn’t know that. The poor man’s shoulders slumped and his eyebrows flew upward. He bowed and excused himself without delay, leaving us alone to play out our depraved game in private.
“I’m surprised you didn’t flog him,” I mocked, picking up my napkin and twisting it around my fingers. “Isn’t that more your style?”
James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table in a laissez-faire attitude. “I prefer a plump, feminine bottom to satisfy my need.”
“Any female, James?” I probed, pricking his mind with my verbal needle. “Or must they be young and saucy?”
“I prefer virgins.” He pulled the cork from the wine bottle the server had left on the tray and stuck his forefinger inside. “They’re tight and so willing.”
I ignored his blatant exhibition of erotic double entendre and drove home my point. “Like the poor girl you ruined in London?”
“Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.
“The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”
I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened the door to see the young maid teetering on the window ledge, her cap missing, her apron and shoes tossed onto the floor, her body poised and ready to jump. Only by the grace of God and a quick Hail Mary—and with my promise to find her another position in a Mayfair residence was I able to talk her out of jumping.
“The poor girl was desperate,” I continued, “when Lord Penmore’s housekeeper found out she fell victim to your charms and sacked her.”
“Lucie fancied herself in love with me.” James ran his finger up and down my cheek in an intimate manner, making me squirm. I hated him for it. “It happens with women, you know. I’m powerless to stop it.”
“You can’t have every woman you wish, James.”
“Can’t I?”
“No.”
“You won’t admit it, my dear wife, but you want me to flog you. Yet you’re afraid of what you’ll feel when I do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
He leaned in closer to me, his voice heavy with anticipation as he whispered, “The ecstasy, the thrill, the joy when my whip finds the curve of your lovely arse, that curious romantic dichotomy of pain and pleasure, the inescapable emotional confusion racing through you that seems at once both wicked and frightening. I guarantee, you’ll beg me for more.”
I tried to turn away but he grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard, hurting me. “Let me go, James.”
“No, I want to see your legs spread, your buttocks up in the air,” he continued, “your lower lips opening and closing, aching for my cock while I strike your arse with my flogger—”
“You’ll never touch me,” I said, pulling away from him and bolting from the table to rid myself of his reckless threat. Throwing on my wrap, I raced out of the restaurant, not looking, not seeing, my emotions overtaking my reason until I heard the barking of the seals on the rocks below. I stood on the edge of the cliff, my blinding anger making me oblivious to the wet, violent winds tearing at my marron-colored satin cloak, the deep red silk lining becoming soaked and making it difficult for me to walk along the soggy earth on the edge.
As I put one foot in front of the other, I became aware of a simmering fear of this man. It was a revelation that came from my deepest inner self, a cry from my unconscious not to be seduced by his words and threats, to retreat, though I wondered if there was any possibility of escape from my husband’s arrogance and hunger for debauchery.
Fearing he’d find me, I searched the shadows for his distinctive figure, his body sloped to one side, but I saw nothing. Instead, a cold, callous wind slapped me in the face, making its presence known to me. I shivered then turned back toward the sea, dragging the train of my opulent gown in the soggy dirt behind me. Where had the sudden storm come from? The carriage ride along the Point Lomas toll road had been pleasant enough, followed by an early dinner at Cliff House. No clouds in sight. I pulled my cloak around me. The oncoming storm didn’t bode well for our journey to Yokohama. What would happen to me when we arrived? I had been briefed by the Viscount Aubrey and the Foreign Office to be prepared for a society where no one said what they meant, to do anything required of me by the mikado’s government, to keep my opinions to myself (in Japan, James was quick to tell me, a wife could be divorced for talking too much) and not to ask about geisha.
I had to smile at that last request. I already knew about these sensuous women from Lord Penmore’s letters and the floating world of sexual arts where they plied their trade. No, it was more than apprehension about my trip to Japan causing me discomfort. I rubbed my forehead, but to no avail. I couldn’t explain it, but a feeling of anxiety took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. My good humor and impish sense of play had dissipated, something I’d noticed happening more often. My mother would say it was because I was growing up and taking my place in society. I suppose that meant I would turn into a gossipy, sour-faced matron tugging at her corset garters and trying to hide her protruding stomach. Where was the excitement, the thrills, the adventure? Though I was barely twenty years, I had been bestowed the prestige and power of someone far older in experience, someone able to flow with the expansion of their world, knowing they were powerless to stop it but accepting it. I, on the other hand, was sorely lacking in confidence about representing western womanhood in the mikado’s court when I was yet a virgin.
I remained standing along the edge of the cliff, the incessant noise of the seals adding to my throbbing headache, the hinges holding my psyche together lopsided, threatening to come loose and reveal a different reality beneath the surface of my carefully costumed self. I took deep breaths as waves dashed against the rocks below, while howling seals rushed about in a maddening frenzy to escape the wild breakers covering them in spray and foam. I reveled in the rush and excitement, wanting to stay here, live only for this moment with the wind whipping my cloak around me. So intent was I in relishing the solitude, I didn’t hear the sound of familiar footsteps behind me.
“You can never escape me, my dear wife.” James.
“Can’t I?” I refused to turn around and face him, though I’d no doubt my dismissal of him fueled his passion.
“No. You denied me my spousal rights on our wedding night, but I promise you it shan’t happen again. You’re mine.” He enunciated each word, tightly controlling his voice so I could hear him against the pounding surf, his hot breath on my neck, burning my skin with his intent.
“We made a bargain, James, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I can make you change your mind,” he said.
“You can’t bend me to do your bidding.”
