Paxton Pride by Kerry Newcomb Page A

spoil Alfred’s fun, but I suppose I should go ahead and tell you.”
    â€œMother, tell me what?” Karen asked, her voice trembling.
    Iantha sat back regally, enjoying the role thrust upon her, the bearer of such happy tidings. “Your father stopped by my room before he retired. He was in such good spirits, even smiling. He told me he had a lengthy visit with Alfred during your absence—I trust, my dear, you will be so kind as to let me know just how you spent the afternoon—and they decided … well, obviously you were not with them, but.…”
    â€œWill you please get to the point!”
    â€œAlfred and your father have set the date for your wedding.” Karen stood abruptly, the blood rushing from her head. “It’s to be in July, on the fourth, of course—a nice touch, I thought—and will be officially announced at a gala we will hold here a week from Saturday.” She rose from her seat and embraced Karen. “I’m so happy for you, my dear,” she managed to finish, making a conspicuous show of dabbing at her eyes and stifling a sob.
    Karen was stunned. She stood totally mute and unbelieving. In a little less than two months’ time she would be Mrs. Alfred Randol Whitaker II. It was set. The trap had finally been sprung. Up until now her relationship to Alfred had taken on the aspects of a game. A complicated game to be sure, but a game one could stop playing whenever one wished. Now reality loomed over her. The game was nearly over. She had played too well, and had lost.
    Iantha picked up the lantern and turned the flame higher. “It’s late, dear. Much too late for proper young ladies to be up. And much, much too late for proper old ladies such as I.” She chuckled briefly, started to leave, then stepped quickly to Karen and embraced her again. “I know you’re happy. Your father and I are too. Come along.”
    Karen followed more through shock than obedience. Her mother chattered ahead of her, hardly aware of the silence that hung over Karen like a dark cloud. “I’m so excited. I think we shall have the wedding right here on the grounds. The formal garden is a bit scruffy, but we shall have plenty of time to make it presentable. There is so much to be decided. Guests, flowers, your gown—I’m sure we shall have Mrs. Peachman for your gown don’t you think?—refreshments. I shall have our family china sent down from New York, I think. And your grandmother’s carriage. Repainted and resprung it will be magnificent. And Hermann must get the bays in shape. Oh, you shall be a picture, I’m sure.…”
    They stopped at Karen’s door and Karen allowed her mother to hug her once more. “Good night, dear,” Iantha said tenderly. “Sweet …” She stopped and held Karen at arm’s length. “My heavens! Whatever are you wearing? You are positively bare. No wonder Alfred forgot to tell you. The poor boy was probably half out of his mind. Why you insist on wearing those … those … French garments! It’s very naughty of you, even if it is effective.”
    â€œMother. Please. Good night? Just good night?” she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes.
    Iantha enfolded her in yards of chiffon. “I’m so happy, Karen. The marriage will be a good one. The Hamptons and the Whitakers! We have come a long way, my dear. We will go farther.”
    Karen pushed herself back from her mother. “How far is farther, Mother?”
    Iantha’s gaze turned cold. Her words were measured, as if she had been waiting a long, long time to say them. “Wealth and power are not to be sneered at, my dear. Nor is position. We shall have all three in abundance. I will allow nothing to stand in my way.”
    Karen could find no answer. Afraid of giving away her true feelings should she speak, she leaned forward and meekly kissed her mother on the cheek, then turned and