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Authors: Phillip Margolin
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the rare newspaper that found its way into Mr. Barbour’s house.
There were some lawbooks in the house, and one other type of book that Barbour kept under lock and key in a cabinet in his bedroom. On one occasion, Roxanne had found the cabinet unlocked and had looked inside. At first, she had been excited to discover a cache of books, but her excitement had turned to unease when she saw that the books contained illustrations of men and women engaged in activities that she had seen practiced in the dark in the slave quarters of Barbour’s plantation before she’d been moved to the house. Some of the activities also reminded her of the goings-on of barnyard animals.
Roxanne’s perusal of these pictures had aroused her. She found these new feelings confusing and frightening. Did looking at the illustrations arouse similar stirrings in Mr. Barbour? Since her breasts had begun to grow and her body had started to change shape, there had been times when her master had looked at her strangely. On one occasion, Mr. Barbour had surprised her while she was bathing and had stood overly long at the door, eyeing her queerly. On another occasion, she had turned suddenly before leaving the parlor and had caught Barbour staring at her, then flushing red and glancing away quickly. There was something unhealthy in the way he looked at her.
Roxanne shifted in the heat. Remembering the illustrations made her start to feel the way she felt while looking at them in Mr. Barbour’s bedroom. Her hand strayed between her legs, and her fingertips touched her thigh. A current shot through her body, and she moaned. It was an animal moan, and it made her think again of what Mr. Goodfellow had said. Was it true? Was she somehow closer to the animal than the human? Did these feelings prove Goodfellow’s point? Roxanne closed her eyes and fought the urge to let her fingers creep upward. She was not an animal; she was a human being, no matter what Caleb Barbour might think.
CHAPTER 11
M illing crowds stirred the dust on the sun-baked streets of Portland into a swirling brown cloud that drifted upward toward the red, white, and blue banner that stretched across First Street. Matthew pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to keep from choking as he hurried along the plank sidewalk toward the waterfront and the strains of a rousing march. Most of the cheering throng was massed along the wharves, but some young men had climbed to the rooftops to get a better view. Sailing vessels, their masts furled, and steamers, their whistles blasting and their smokestacks ejecting plumes of smoke, jammed the Willamette River. At the center of this furor was the steamer Pacific , upon whose deck stood the Oregon Pony.
Matthew crossed the street, dodging a wagon and almost tripping over one of the gnarled and blackened stumps that were still in the ground years after Portland’s founding. Then the city had been known as Little Stump Town, and its single street ran from forest to forest, unpaved and ungraded, with potholes deep enough to drown a good-size child during the long rainy season, and only trails made by woodsmen leading through the stumps and logs out into the forest. No one called the city Little Stump Town anymore. This thriving waterfront community was the seat of the newly created Multnomah County and the center of everything moving up and down the Willamette and Columbia Rivers, which met at the town. Coastal steamers docked near Stewart’s Willamette Theater, which had been built exclusively for dramatic productions. There were three daily papers delivered to subscribers for twenty-five cents a week. In addition to livery stables, a public school, saloons, butcher shops, and grocery stores, the town boasted a bookstore, a private academy, a candy factory, and other establishments one expected to find in an up-and-coming metropolis. Today, most of these businesses were closed to celebrate the arrival of the Oregon Pony.
A grandstand decked out in
There were some lawbooks in the house, and one other type of book that Barbour kept under lock and key in a cabinet in his bedroom. On one occasion, Roxanne had found the cabinet unlocked and had looked inside. At first, she had been excited to discover a cache of books, but her excitement had turned to unease when she saw that the books contained illustrations of men and women engaged in activities that she had seen practiced in the dark in the slave quarters of Barbour’s plantation before she’d been moved to the house. Some of the activities also reminded her of the goings-on of barnyard animals.
Roxanne’s perusal of these pictures had aroused her. She found these new feelings confusing and frightening. Did looking at the illustrations arouse similar stirrings in Mr. Barbour? Since her breasts had begun to grow and her body had started to change shape, there had been times when her master had looked at her strangely. On one occasion, Mr. Barbour had surprised her while she was bathing and had stood overly long at the door, eyeing her queerly. On another occasion, she had turned suddenly before leaving the parlor and had caught Barbour staring at her, then flushing red and glancing away quickly. There was something unhealthy in the way he looked at her.
Roxanne shifted in the heat. Remembering the illustrations made her start to feel the way she felt while looking at them in Mr. Barbour’s bedroom. Her hand strayed between her legs, and her fingertips touched her thigh. A current shot through her body, and she moaned. It was an animal moan, and it made her think again of what Mr. Goodfellow had said. Was it true? Was she somehow closer to the animal than the human? Did these feelings prove Goodfellow’s point? Roxanne closed her eyes and fought the urge to let her fingers creep upward. She was not an animal; she was a human being, no matter what Caleb Barbour might think.
CHAPTER 11
M illing crowds stirred the dust on the sun-baked streets of Portland into a swirling brown cloud that drifted upward toward the red, white, and blue banner that stretched across First Street. Matthew pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to keep from choking as he hurried along the plank sidewalk toward the waterfront and the strains of a rousing march. Most of the cheering throng was massed along the wharves, but some young men had climbed to the rooftops to get a better view. Sailing vessels, their masts furled, and steamers, their whistles blasting and their smokestacks ejecting plumes of smoke, jammed the Willamette River. At the center of this furor was the steamer Pacific , upon whose deck stood the Oregon Pony.
Matthew crossed the street, dodging a wagon and almost tripping over one of the gnarled and blackened stumps that were still in the ground years after Portland’s founding. Then the city had been known as Little Stump Town, and its single street ran from forest to forest, unpaved and ungraded, with potholes deep enough to drown a good-size child during the long rainy season, and only trails made by woodsmen leading through the stumps and logs out into the forest. No one called the city Little Stump Town anymore. This thriving waterfront community was the seat of the newly created Multnomah County and the center of everything moving up and down the Willamette and Columbia Rivers, which met at the town. Coastal steamers docked near Stewart’s Willamette Theater, which had been built exclusively for dramatic productions. There were three daily papers delivered to subscribers for twenty-five cents a week. In addition to livery stables, a public school, saloons, butcher shops, and grocery stores, the town boasted a bookstore, a private academy, a candy factory, and other establishments one expected to find in an up-and-coming metropolis. Today, most of these businesses were closed to celebrate the arrival of the Oregon Pony.
A grandstand decked out in
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