A Christmas Scandal. Jane Goodger

be free to marry the—”

      “Mama, stop. I cannot marry anyone, most especially not the earl.” God, if he knew what she’d done, he’d never forgive her.

      Her mother stood, her face red with sudden anger. “I will not have a daughter as a spinster. And so that means you must marry. And you must find a husband now. Here. It is providence that we are here. You cannot throw this opportunity away as you threw away Arthur.”

      Maggie gasped. These uncharacteristic outbursts from her mother were getting more frequent of late. “What?”

      Her mother pressed her fingers against her temples. “This is all too much. Too much. I don’t understand you. You are a girl from a good family. A beautiful girl that any man would be proud to call a wife.”

      “No, Mama.”

      “How can you say that? Your father’s taint will not reach you here.”

      “Please leave it be,” Maggie begged.

      “Make me understand. I don’t understand.”

      “Oh, Mama, please. Why won’t you listen to me when I tell you I cannot, cannot marry?” she said, beseeching her to stop or understand, she wasn’t sure which.

      She watched as her mother’s expression changed subtlety, the slow dawning, the horror and disbelief. “It cannot be true,” she said, staring at her daughter. When Maggie looked away, so ashamed she couldn’t bear to look at her mother, Harriet let out a sound of distress. “Oh, no, Maggie. With Arthur? You let him touch you?”

      Tears flooded Maggie’s eyes. She was so sick of lying, so sick of it. But she told one more lie, one more because she knew her mother could never bear the truth. “Yes, Mama.”

      “And still he broke it off?”

      “It was because of Papa,” she said, telling the truth for the first time.

      “When?” her mother asked, her eyes drifting to her stomach.

      “Many weeks ago. And I…I am fine.” It was the one thing she’d been grateful for, that he hadn’t planted his foul seed in her.

      Her mother’s face turned a mottled red. Harriet was not a woman who got angry, who showed strong emotion of any sort. Indeed, Maggie hardly recognized her. “You have disgraced yourself,” she said. “And this will be rectified. We shall return to New York immediately and force him to marry you. He should do the right thing. You are a girl from a good family and it is unconscionable that he used you, then refused to marry you. He will marry you.”

      “I don’t want to marry him. I don’t love him.”

      “Do you think that matters at this point?” her mother asked. “Oh, dear, did he force you?”

      “No. It was all me.” Again, the truth.

      “I’m writing a letter today,” she said, rushing to a small desk. She began pulling out pieces of their precious stationery. “This minute, to demand he marry you. Do you have any idea what you have done? Do you? How could you let us leave New York without telling me this? How, Maggie?” Her mother sat down heavily in the desk chair as if her legs could no longer hold her. She stared blindly for a moment before pressing her face into her hands to begin a soft keening cry that tore at Maggie’s heart. When she dropped her hands, Maggie found herself looking into the eyes of a woman completely defeated. “It’s too late,” she said. “This cannot be rectified. I cannot think of anything worse. We must go on pretending you are engaged, of course. Unless…”

      “Unless what, Mama?” Maggie said, too weary to even care what her mother was thinking.

      “Unless we don’t say a word. Once you are well married, it will be too late for any objections. The earl—” She began warming up to her plan of deceit.

      “No, Mama. Absolutely not,” Maggie said, even though she’d been thinking the very same thing when she’d thought Arthur would propose. At the time it had been so lovely to pretend none of it had ever happened, but she would never perpetuate such a lie to someone she loved. “I hate lying, but I don’t want to encourage anyone’s suit and most particularly not the earl, even if he should do such a farfetched thing. I have accepted what I have done and you should, too.”

      Her mother’s face crumpled in grief. “You are ruined. What shall we do with you now? Oh, how could you do this thing? After your upbringing, after all the sacrifices we made to make you a better life, to make you attractive to men like Arthur. And to throw it all away. I just don’t understand you,” she said. “My God, Maggie, what shall we do?”

      “Let me think on it, Mama. I cannot think of that now,” Maggie answered dully. “I’m going to lie down, if you don’t mind.” When her mother called her name, she kept walking, shutting out her cries, her disappointment, her anger.

      When Maggie went into her room she lay dry-eyed staring up at the ceiling trying to stop herself from thinking about anything, but the images she’d been fighting for weeks kept assaulting her. Flashes of what had happened, bits of that terrible conversation flew at her, like some unstoppable pestilence.

      “Bend over, my dear. Grab the desk.”

      He always seemed to have too much saliva in his mouth and would noisily slurp at it, swallowing audibly. His hands dug into her hips, pressing, leaving marks that remained for weeks. She’d feared at first they would never go away, a brand that would never fade.

      Charles Barnes had been one of her father’s business associates. She’d known him for years, and had instinctively, even as a child, stayed away from him. She’d never liked the way he looked at her, the way on those few occasions when she’d been forced to offer him her hand, he’d grasp it and hold, pressing her flesh in a way that made her want to go bathe. He had a way of sweeping his gaze up and down her body that was slightly repugnant. But he was one of her father’s good friends and Maggie had always tried to be polite.

      Mr. Barnes was a soft man, not overly fat, but simply soft, like a blob of melting butter. His features looked like so much moist dough plopped together with two small raisins pressed in for eyes. And his mouth, Maggie had always thought his mouth too full, too red.

      This was the man who took her virginity. This was the man she bent over for. This was the man who put his penis inside her, who jerked in and out, grunting like a pig behind her, smearing her blood on her buttocks, who laughed when he was done as she’d cried.

      This was the man who promised if she did this thing, this disgusting mating, that he would guarantee her father would only serve one year. He’d said he knew the prosecutor, that he would make a deal. He’d told her, even as he painfully squeezed her breasts, that her father would be so proud of what she was doing, the sacrifice she was making, and he laughed when she begged him to never tell.

      As if he would. That is how stupid she’d been. How stupid and willing. She’d bent over that desk, felt the cool air on her legs, felt him drag down her bloomers, felt him separate her, felt him, felt him, felt him.

      Maggie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying in vain to press the images away.

      It had been her idea. Certainly, he had hinted at it. He’d told her he had the power to lessen her father’s sentence, but why should he? What would he get out of it? There was no money left to give him. What would be worth such valuable information? What could anyone give him? What?

      “Myself,” Maggie had said. “You can have me. Once.”

      A slow, horrible smile had appeared on those too-thick, too-red lips. “Do you think you are worth it, my dear?” he asked as he moved one thick finger across his lips.

      She’d swallowed down the bile and lifted her chin. “More than worth it.”

      “All right, then. I agree.”

      Maggie stood before him, her body suddenly bathed in a cold sweat, and she’d nodded. “But you must promise me my father