Nan Ryan - The Seduction Of Ellen

Her head snapped around and she faced straight ahead. She silently begged the train to start moving. To leave the station. To hurry and take her far, far away from this cocky carnival hawker who had dared to kiss her against her will!

Or had it been against her will?

As the train finally began to pick up speed, Ellen miserably searched her soul. Had she participated in the disgraceful caress? Could she have freed her lips from his? Had he physically forced her to stand there locked in his close embrace? As he kissed her with such devastating intimacy, had she shamelessly kissed him back?

The southbound train left Grand Central Station—and Mister Corey—behind and was moving toward the outskirts of the city.

But Ellen couldn’t leave behind what had happened there.

She kept reliving that blazing kiss as the miles clicked away. Over and over again she felt those hot, smooth lips moving aggressively on hers, felt the incredible hardness of his broad chest pressed against her breasts, felt the powerful strength of his arm around her waist.

Ellen gave herself exactly a half hour to behave like a silly young girl. During that time she carefully plucked one of the ivory roses from the bouquet, withdrew a book from her reticule and placed the rose inside the pages. She closed the book.

Then closed her eyes and sighed and squirmed and daydreamed and pretended that she was someone else and he was someone else and that the two of them were madly in love and could hardly bear being parted from one another, even for a few short days.

At the end of her allotted half hour, Ellen’s blood had cooled and her equilibrium had returned. She was herself again, a wise, sedate, rational woman who placed the book in her reticule where it belonged.

She also placed Mister Corey where he belonged.

Out of her thoughts.

Ellen was weary.

Tired to the bone.

She had been sitting up all night and all day in an uncomfortable wooden day chair and her back was aching mercilessly.

But her exhaustion magically departed when, less than twenty-four hours after leaving New York City, the train began traveling across the beautiful South Carolina lowlands toward the coastal city of Charleston. Hardly able to contain her excitement, Ellen lowered the window to look out. She inhaled the heavy, humid air and could have sworn it carried the faint scent of magnolias. Soon she could see the tall spire of St. Michael’s Church. Her heart raced. She was almost there.

Ellen considered Charleston, South Carolina, to be a beautiful, unique, seductive city, unlike any other. The city proper was built on a peninsula between two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, which flowed together to form the busy Charleston harbor. The earliest settlement in South Carolina, it was an enchanting, semitropical city where gracious living prevailed, good manners were requisite and some of America’s oldest, wealthiest families lived.

The pace was much slower here than in New York City. The content Charlestonians took the time to enjoy life’s pleasures and the pleasures were many. Chris had told her that Charleston was often referred to as an American Venice by the proud citizens. And she knew why.

The train was fast approaching the downtown depot. It was nearing three in the afternoon. In less than one hour she would see her son. When she’d wired Chris that she was coming, he had wired her back, saying, apologetically, that he would be unable to meet her at the station. It was a long-standing tradition that Fridays at 3:45 was parade at the academy and all the corps marched. His general leave wouldn’t start until 5:00 p.m. Then he would be free until midnight.

Ellen was glad he wouldn’t be at the station. She knew she looked a sight and she wanted to freshen up and change clothes before she saw her son or his friends.

She didn’t want Christopher to be ashamed of his mother.

Ellen hired a carriage to take her to the Mills House on Meeting Street. Chris had made reservations for her at the imposing five-story hotel in downtown Charleston a few short blocks from the harbor.

As the uniformed doorman stepped forward to help her down from the carriage, Ellen asked the cabdriver if he would kindly wait and drive her to the Citadel. She wouldn’t, she promised, be more than fifteen minutes. The driver agreed.

Once inside her fifth-floor room, Ellen went hastily about throwing open the windows. She paused before one for a moment and looked out, viewing the Battery and the sailing vessels on the calm waters of the Ashley River. And out in the harbor, the big parrot guns of Fort Sumter, that historic place where the War Between the States had begun.

It had been, legend claimed, cadets from the military academy her son now attended who had opened fire on a Northern supply ship attempting to deliver supplies to the garrison at Fort Sumter. The first shots fired in the war.

Ellen turned away.

She didn’t want to think about war and destruction. She wanted to dwell entirely on the next two carefree days she would be spending with her son.

Humming happily, Ellen took a hurried bath, redressed her long chestnut hair neatly atop her head and put on her best summer frock, a sky-blue poplin with elbow-length mutton-chop sleeves, tight waist and narrow skirt that flared at the knee. Taking one last appraising look in the mirror, Ellen frowned and sighed. She certainly wouldn’t win any beauty prizes. Her cheeks were too hollow, her complexion too sallow, her hair too dull.

She turned away, grabbed her gloves and reticule, rushed downstairs, out onto the street and up into the waiting carriage.

“The military academy,” she said. Then, unable to keep her maternal pride to herself, she added, “My son is a cadet at the Citadel.”

“Is he now?” the cabbie responded, then drove several long blocks down Meeting Street until he reached the section of the old rampart called Marion Green. Once a state arsenal and guardhouse, it was now the remodeled, three-story Citadel.

Quickly paying the fare, Ellen was out of the carriage with the agility of a young girl. She was ushered through the gate and onto the academy grounds by the Cadet Officer of the Guard.

Her heart aflutter, Ellen hurried toward the parade ground to join other visitors and natives who were watching the South Carolina Corps of Cadets marching in full-dress parade. Ellen stood at the perimeter of the quadrangle with the other onlookers, shading her eyes against the strong Carolina sun, searching a sea of bright young faces for the one dear to her heart.

The marching cadets wore their crisp summer whites. The tight-fitting waist-length jackets with their stiff stand-up collars had a triple row of brass buttons adorning the chest. The neatly pressed trousers had gold stripes going down the outside of each leg. Those stripes were now moving as one, as feet were lifted and lowered in flawless cadence by the well-trained cadets.

On their heads were tall, plumed hats with chin straps worn just below their noses. The cadets’ white-gloved hands swung back and forth in perfect precision. They were, Ellen thought, America’s finest sons and her heart swelled with happiness at the knowledge that her own precious son was one of their elite number.

Awed, she watched the proud corps pass in review while the regimental band played and the crowd of visitors applauded and waved American flags. Ellen continued to anxiously hunt for Chris. Finally she spotted him. Her hand went to her breast and she exhaled with pleasure.

Christopher marched with the skill and expertise of one who’d spent many long hard hours on the parade ground. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, chest out, stomach in. He was staring straight ahead. Lean. Proud. Erect.