A. Verse - The Violation of Marcia Thomaston

“Now, my dear, I’ve taken care of all the preparations… you won’t have to bother your lovely head about a single thing, outside of being attentive to the attentive and important gentlemen who attend the affair,” said the effete and pretentious Mrs. Elspeth Thomaston, languidly applying her soignй and jeweled hand to her coiffure, fresh from the salon of Madame Dubonnet off Fifth Avenue.

“Very well, Mother; but I’m sure I’ll be bored to tears, really,” responded her eighteen-year-old daughter Marcia, reclining indolently on a chaise lounge, her eyes flitting over the pages of a new Faith Baldwin novel, a box of imported chocolates beside her at a taboret. Nor did she gaze up from her perusal of the saccharine tome to notice her mother’s shallow smile and leave-taking.

For well aware was this aristocratic and inordinately egotistical young offspring of one of New York’s most elite families that she was the center of attraction; that her debut was scheduled-as one of the season’s most elaborate and expensive affairs-for the following night.

Beautiful, snobbish, undisciplined and affected to an irritating degree, Marcia intended to remain the center of attraction as long as. her attributes of beauty remained to her.

And she was beautiful-that might truly be said of her.

Brunette, with hair as black as her perfect and well-cared-for skin was ivory white, tall, svelte, magnificently proportioned, with breasts as full, as firm and as delectably molded as ripe pears, with sleek hips that proclaimed her superbly suited to the rites of love, with long, lissome and resilient thighs whose appetizing columns never failed to draw the admiration of male eyes when she entered the swankiest of nightclubs invariably gowned in dazzling red or black satin that sheathed her almost to the point of lewdness, with low-cut back and bosom and naked and flawlessly sculptured slender arms which she delighted in sheathing with expensive and incredibly thin black suede gloves to her elbows.

Aware of her beauty, yes and triumphantly enthroned in its aura-but, belying that beauty with the vain, supercilious and selfish behavior of a young schoolgirl who knows little of life save that all its worries do not exist for her.

Such was Marcia Thomaston, who reclined indolently on the chaise lounge of her apartment, clad in a costly lace-festooned black silk negligee, her dainty feet sheathed in pretty Russian mules, fur-lined and delighting her with the sensuous feeling of luxury and comfort.

Her beauty naturally drew men to her as a flame draws moths; until her suitors, discovering her emptiness and affectation, evaded burning in that clear, chill flame wherein no true passion was kindled, no reciprocal response, or sincerity of emotion.

One suitor she had who had been most persistent of all-and this was strange, for he was a worldly and debonair man nearly thirty, sophisticated, polished in bearing, enormously wealthy-the sole heir to an oil fortune left him by an uneducated father who had “struck it rich.” Gregory Matthews, this questing swain, fascinated by the sensual beauty of Marcia, had courted her for a year, wined and dined her, ingratiated himself with her father and mother- who certainly approved of the possibility of such a liaison-and had proposed to her several times.

Marcia, unmoved by such obdurate attention, was, far from being flattered at Gregory’s offer- many another New York socialite in the crowd of beautiful girls and young women of which Marcia was a member would have been overwhelmed by his interest-plainly bored and she had told him so, laughing in his face on the occasion of his latest proposal, three weeks past, at the fashionable Rainbow Club near Park Avenue.

“Marry-and especially you? Why, that’s too ridiculous to think of, Greg. And what would you do with a wife like me?” she had mocked him.

He, dark, tall, lean and bronzed-for he had spent much of his life on the Oklahoma fields where lay his father’s latent wealth-gazed at her a moment, in silence, then replied, with a smile that sought to rival her own in urbanity and brittle mirth, “Beat you regularly, get you big with a dozen brats and take up with the blonde in the next penthouse, doubtless.”

A darkening shadow of distaste passed across Marcia’s petulant face.

What a revolting thought Let’s make that our ignoble sentiment for today, Greg.

And now, let’s go, shall we? This place is getting too full of trash to suit me!” And, rising, her head preeningly high, she undulatingly paraded toward the exit of the establishment, seeing to it that the most handsome males dining at nearby tables were offered the spectacle of her flamboyant red satin gown, with split skirt trailing voluptuously along the lush carpeting of the Rainbow’s distinguished dining room.

And when, at last, she managed to attract the attentive gazes of these spectators, she would stop, languidly turn her alligator leather purse in tapering fingers whose long nails were deeply incarnadined with the most vivid scarlet polish conceivable and then cast a contemptuous glance at them, seeking to discomfit their ardor and to tell them openly of her disinterest in their approbation of her.

Gregory bore it all patiently-indeed, his friends tabulated him as a prize novitiate, marveling that a man whose polish and education so contrasted with his origin should waste his time on so empty a feminine jade as the affected Marcia.

But-like all men when in the throes of their desire-he had his reasons.

Petulant of face, Marcia had been described and it was true.

Sensual red lips, always too brilliant with lip-stick the curves of her mouth exaggerated, blue eye-shadow and an accentuated usage of mascara on her long, fluttering raven lashes which she employed, ah, how effectively, to veil her limpid brown eyes that could become as cold as diamonds an aquiline nose, haughty, delicate, luring chiseled nostrils like a hummingbird’s wing in flight, high-set cheekbones and this physiognomy gave her a je ne sais quoi of provocative allure which her shallow nature denied and, indeed, feared and despised. For Marcia was virginal-though not out of innate, chastity: she despised the experience of sexual communion; she would be slave to no man’s bed, not she, beautiful and provocative and independent that she was! These silly young matrons, overjoyed by their husbands, gossiping and chattering like magpies-oh, how she despised them, for they were a category of women who had surrendered their charm, social self-esteem and command of wealth and desire, merely to become the legal partners of a mundane concubine-that was not for her!

Men she would dangle from her scented and tapering fingers, hearts she would intrigue and ravish with her beauty-she would exploit them, scorn them and turn to new conquests wherein she ventured nothing and gave all.

She was an ivory tower demi-vierge-more despicable because of her wealth and education and social advantages than the candid harlot of Seventh Avenue who has no shame in offering her body for hire!

And, considering her youth, she was remarkably familiar with the courtesan’s ruses of drawing out men’s confidences, till she had enthralled until the moment when they were wise enough to learn how joyless would be their pursuit of her, this will-o’-the-wisp, heartless, superficial, without passion or response to it.

The debut was to be at the Waldorf-Astoria; the great, sparkling salon on the third floor was the site of the event. Invitations, caterers, wine stewards, decorations-all had been attended to; she had done nothing. Her mother, doting on her, made a great show of her devotional sacrifice-Marcia would meet a fabulously wealthy man and marry him and all would be well.