Free Gregory, Lisa by Bonds of Love

related to what a man did
to you on your wedding night, she knew, but being a proper Victorian girl, she
had never been told enough to ask what that was either—and certainly no
one had told her. One went to bed with a husband; husbands could kiss one—but
did they kiss like that? She couldn't imagine it. So that sort of kiss must be
how rape was different. If he raped her, her life was ruined—that much she
knew. She wouldn't be received in polite society; she would be shut up here
forever with Aunt Amelia, ashamed to show her face! And she would have a baby;
that was always the awful consequence.
    Tears
began to stream down her face. Why did he want to hurt her? Why should
he hate her so much as to want to ruin her life? They had hurt him—whipped him
and put him in a horrid cell by himself. And apparently he thought she was the
one who had persuaded them to. But why did he think she would do such a thing?
And why—why did the thought of his eyes, his husky voice, his strong, brown
hands, create this trembling warmth in her? Bewildered, upset, she collapsed
into tears, the sobs wracking her body.
    For
two days she didn't go to work, claiming that she was ill. She spent the two
days in turmoil. What was she to do? She would quit work, she decided. Papa
would be upset, of course, and her life would be sheer boredom, but anything
would be better than having to face him again, having to live in dread that he
might attack her. At other times she would burn with anger that he should think
her capable of such vindictiveness as to have him beaten just because he had
been rude and insulting to her, and she would decide to go right down to the
yards and inform him that he was wrong about her. But what did it matter what
he thought of her? His opinion was not of the least importance to her. It would
be so cowardly not to go back; she had never backed down from a fight before.
She had to return—she couldn't let him think that he had won.
    Then,
unbidden, images would creep into her mind—she would picture him being lashed
and almost cry out at the horror of it; she would feel once again his lips on
hers, and she would become restless and begin to pace her room. If only she
could talk to someone about it! But there was no one. Aunt Amelia would
probably faint; any friend of hers would be as unknowledgeable as she; Pegeen
would be afraid for her and only urge her to tell her father. And Papa—well,
she couldn't tell him, for he would straightway have Hampton punished. And no
matter what he had done, she could not bear the thought of his being whipped
again. "At least I ," she thought fiercely, "am not one to
beat someone because I have them in my power."
    During
the afternoon of the second day, there was a knock at her door, "Miss
Kate?"
    "Come
in, Pegeen."
    Pegeen
opened the door and popped her head in; her eyes shone with excitement.
"Oh, miss, Lieutenant Perkins is here to see you." Pegeen was not one
to be fooled by Katherine's story of being sick. Love troubles—that was her
diagnosis; and she believed it all to be due to the unfortunate lieutenant who
had called over three weeks ago and not returned. She knew for a fact that
Henry Stephens or the Miller boy wouldn't send Miss Kate into such a high snit.
So it was bound to be the lieutenant, and though he wasn't what Pegeen would
have chosen for her—too somber by half—she wanted Katherine to have whomever
she wanted. Therefore, Pegeen had almost cried out with joy when she saw the
lieutenant standing at the door.
    "Oh,
really?" Katherine brightened. "I'll be right down."
    "He's
in the drawing room, miss. And," she added conspiratorially, "Miss
Amelia is upstairs taking a little nap. It's a good thing I opened "the
door. That stuffy old Simmons would have sent word up to her." Pegeen,
with a large, strict Catholic family, knew how difficult it was to get a little
time alone away from nosy relatives.
    "Thank
you," Pegeen." Katherine patted her hair into place and