"The traffic near the depot was unbelievable. It's the same downtown. I think half the country's here for the inauguration. At Willard's this noon, my waiter said they're putting cots and mattresses in the hall for the overflow." He bussed her cheek. "If you offer tent space in the yard, you might get rich."
Laughing, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He liked her tongue in his mouth and elsewhere. At the end of the long embrace, she asked, "Shall we eat now or later? I'm afraid the duckling is nearly black —"
"Let's have some anyway. Then we'll have the entire evening to do whatever we please."
She gave him a warm, slightly bawdy smile before he went down to the cellar for one of the several dozen bottles of wine with which he kept the place furnished. He was expert with a waiter's corkscrew; while she prepared the serving platters, he opened and decanted the wine.
Seated, they toasted each other. As Virgilia admired him over the rim of her goblet, she reflected that in many ways she was more fortunate than a wife. The illicit nature of their relationship lent all their times together a spice surely absent from most marriages. She had experienced the same kind of wicked and defiant excitement living with a black man.
The wine was a heavy-bodied Bordeaux; superb and not cheap. After he savored a sip, he said, "Damn big fuss over the inaugural ball — have you heard?"
She shook her head. "What's wrong? It sounds grand — just ten dollars for supper and dancing at the Patent Office, the Star said."
"But a number of our darker brethren expressed a desire to attend. Some of the congressional wives, mine included, were nearly prostrated by the news. Emily raved for an hour about the possibility of being asked to waltz by Fred Douglass or some other baboon. The ball committee had to rush out a statement of reassurance. The phrasing was polite, but the message was clear. No ticket sales to niggers."
"I find that disgraceful."
"Don't confuse liberty with equality, Virgilia. The former's all right. It's a tool for gathering votes. The latter will never be tolerated. At least not in our lifetime."
They talked on more pleasant subjects for a few minutes. The wine relaxed Virgilia and induced a playful mood not typical of her. "May I ask about the seat for the inaugural ceremony?"
"I have it for you. Reserved section near the platform for dignitaries in front of the east portico."
"Oh, that's grand, Sam. Thank you."
"But that's not all. I also managed to get you into the Senate gallery at noon, when that clod Johnson will be sworn in. Lincoln will be seated on the floor of the chamber, and his wife in a special section near your seat. You'll get to see the whole lot close up. When everyone moves outside for the swearing-in and the President's address, Emily and I will have places on the platform."
The giddiness brought words she herself didn't expect. "Perhaps when I see you and your wife, I'll wave."
He had been fondling her hand on the table. He let go, surprising her with his severity.
"I don't appreciate that kind of remark."
"Sam, I was only teasing —"
"I'm not."
Frightened and sobered, she hastily said, "I'm sorry, darling." The apology didn't come easy for her, but it was mandatory if she meant to keep him, which she did. "I know that in public we can't acknowledge that we're acquainted. I would never do the slightest thing to jeopardize your name or career. They've become as important to me as they are to you." She squeezed his hand. "You do believe me?"
An alarming silence. When he decided she had been punished sufficiently, he let his face soften. "Yes."
Virgilia was anxious to redirect the conversation. "I don't care a snap for hearing the Gorilla deliver a speech, but I am anxious to see him at close range. Does he look as bad as they say?"
"The man looks embalmed. He's thirty pounds underweight, and I've heard he suffers from almost constant chills. People are whispering that he's mortally ill. Unfortunately, his ailments have done nothing to reduce his mulish dedication to pushing his own opinions and programs. If the rumors of impending death were true, we'd be lucky." He sliced into the crackly duck and tasted a morsel. "Very good, this."
"I know it isn't, but it's kind of you to lie."
That got him smiling again. "I do it well, don't I? I practice every time I write or speak to constituents. Did you read the draft?" She nodded. "What do you think?"
Virgilia laid down her fork. "You told me you thought Lincoln's inaugural address would be conciliatory toward the South —"
"So far as I can find out, that's the tone, yes."
"I'm afraid the draft sounds much the same."
"Really? Too mild?"
"Not only that, too indefinite in terms of what you stand for." Here was one area in which she felt totally confident. So she pressed:
"The text wanders away from its purpose. The President has one approach to reconstruction, you and your friends quite another. You must do more than just establish the difference and identify your wing of the party. You must promote yourself more clearly and forcefully as a member of an elite group that should and will dominate reconstruction and rebuff the President's plan as the maundering of a moral coward. The public must know your name, Sam. They must identify it with absolute commitment to a hard peace. No forgiveness for traitors. You mustn't merely march in the right parade — you must show yourself leading it."
"I thought my draft did that."
"You want me to be honest, don't you? It's much too generalized and polite. For instance, it contains nothing remotely resembling Sherman's remark that he would make Georgia howl. The public needs to perceive you as the man who will make the whole South howl for years to pay for its crimes. It's that kind of simple, , vivid concept you must put into the speech, then repeat at every opportunity. If you do, when people think of congressmen, yours will be the first name to come to mind."
He chuckled. "That's an ambitious goal."
"It's what you want, isn't it?' He sobered. "Of course it is. But you won't get it unless you go after it. What if you fall short? All right, yours will be the second name people think of. But if you try for anything less than first, you'll be nothing."
Low laughter again. He took her right hand in his left, began stroking her palm with his thumb. "You are a remarkable woman. I'm lucky to have you for a friend."
"For as long as you want, darling. Shall we look at the draft?"
His thumb pressed and stroked, pressed and stroked. "Not just yet.”
"More food, then?"
"No."
"The dinner will be cold if —"
"It may be, but we shan't." He nearly overturned the table in his haste to stand and embrace her from behind her chair. She remained seated, pressed against the stiff bulge.
She reached around and squeezed the great strong thickness of it, moaning a little. His hand came over and down to grope her breasts. They stumbled toward the bedroom, pulling frantically at each other's clothing. Hair undone, Virgilia sprawled on the bed's edge and let him work at untying the side laces on her corset with one hand while he teased her lace-covered nipples with the other. Her breasts came free and sagged. He knelt at the bedside, kissing them. Then he kissed other places while she clasped her arms around his head.
She would never let him go. She would help him, comfort him, guide him — be a wife in every way but legally.
He flung her on her back, still with her petticoats around her ankles. She was yelling for him, arms extended. His sex felt huge as a Parrott rifle when he thrust it inside her. He was a potent, potent man, and not just physically. With him — through him — she would take revenge for poor Grady and the millions like him. She would exorcise her deepest hate. She would make the South howl.