The Monstrosity, Part Seventeen

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fan Fiction (Bonanza)
Rating: R

LINK TO PART ONE

~

Over the next few days, Drew and I became inseparable. Drew even ignored his business interests, choosing to remain at my disposal instead. In return, I did my best to help him learn the layout of the Monstrosity.

We fell into a comfortable routine. We would begin each day by breakfasting together. Sometimes Jack joined us, but he often slept too late or took his morning meal in his room. I wondered if he was trying to ensure that Drew and I had sufficient privacy—the servants not withstanding—but Drew said it was no such thing. Jack had a new mistress and she was wearing him out.

I'll admit to some petty jealousy at that news—apparently Jack had no issues with impotence, despite the abuse he suffered in the past.

When breakfast was done, Drew and I would retire to the library for a couple of hours. He would stretch out on the rug while I sat cross-legged beside him, reading the paper to him. We would pour over the articles we cared about, groaning over each setback Lincoln and the Union faced.

We discussed the suffragettes now and again—Drew was still firmly of the opinion that women should have the right to vote. “Plato had it right,” he said. “He understood that we put our women to waste by keeping them cloistered at home.”

“This isn’t ancient Athens, Drew,” I objected, folding the paper up. “Women aren’t cloistered.”

“They might as well be,” he retorted. “They certainly don’t have an opportunity to put their brains to use, do they? No, I agree with Plato. Educate them, allow them to work outside the home and they might just become tolerable.”

I grinned at that. Unlike Plato—and Drew, apparently—I found women tolerable just as they were. But Drew did have a point. There was no use in pretending that women were incapable of learning or working outside their homes.

“Would you have women in the army, as Plato would?” I asked.

“Why not?” Drew asked. “Plato acknowledged that they wouldn’t be as effective as men in hand to hand combat—but he could see other uses for them in the armed services. Some arrangement might be reached.”

I bit back a grin. “Our society won’t be ready to agree with you any time soon,” I warned him.

That drew a smile from him. “That’s true,” he owned. “Plato was a damn sight too far-sighed, wasn’t he? Well, we may not get women into the army, but I’ll wager we can get them the vote.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed, remaining noncommittal. I wasn’t opposed to the measure outright—but I couldn’t bring myself to agree with Drew whole-heartedly either.

“Why are you so lukewarm?” he demanded.

I sighed. “You may be right—granting women the vote may be a simple matter of justice,” I said. “And, therefore, it’s something to work toward. But our society will change radically once we grant that right. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said, rolling over so that he was lying on his back with his hands behind his head. “But I don’t mind society changing. It’ll change if the Union wins the war and frees the slaves.”

“And that might be all the change society can tolerate right now,” I commented. “I don’t think we’ll be able to stomach emancipation for slaves and votes for women at the same time.”

It was Drew’s turn to sigh. “You’re probably right—Lord, what cowards we are!”

When we finished with the paper, we’d walk back and forth over various sections of the house, counting the paces and steps. Drew would grumble that I was too strict a taskmaster when it came to teaching him the layout, but he generally managed to keep his temper in check.

We’d take lunch outside, on one of the back porches. I did my best to teach Drew more about self defense after our stomachs settled. I wasn’t too hard on him, but I wasn’t gentle with him either. We both ended up with our share of bruises and grass stains each day—and that seemed to satisfy him.

We wouldn't bother to change right after wrestling—we’d wait till it was time to dress for dinner. Meanwhile, we’d go back to the library and collapse on the floor. Drew was much more tactile with me now, I noted. He’d either sprawl next to me or lean up against me as I read whatever book we’d agreed on.

I didn’t mind that he was so tactile; I was just surprised. Before confessing his feelings for me, he had allowed me to put an occasional brotherly arm around him, but he would just as often stiffen up and push me away. And back when we were in that stage wreck together—well, he was tactile out of necessity, but he made his distaste for human contact abundantly plain.

But now he seemed completely at ease with me. He even stopped bothering to ask permission before feeling my face when he wanted to know what expression I was wearing. He just assumed that he had my tacit consent. Which, I suppose, he did.

He was feeling my face right now, in fact, to judge my reaction to the passage from Moby Dick that I’d just read. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking,” he complained as he continued to move his fingers along my mouth and my cheekbones.

“I’m trying to decide whether this book is brilliant or trash,” I told him.

“Or brilliant trash,” he volunteered, letting his hand drop.

“Just so,” I agreed, smiling down at him as he stretched out on the floor again.

“Well, let me set your mind at ease,” he said. “It’s brilliant. I think it’s the best novel our country has produced. History will bear me out.”

I grinned and tousled his hair. “It just might,” I owned.

“It will,” he assured me, accepting that show of brotherly affection. Then he sat up a little. “I envy you being able to read that book—rather than having someone read it to you, I mean. It’s bloody tedious not to be able to read myself to sleep at night. I think I’d like that.”

“I’ll sit up in your room tonight and read it, if you’d like,” I offered.

He shrugged. “I won’t say no—but it’s not the same.”

“No, it isn’t,” I agreed, frowning. “Isn’t there some sort of system to help the blind read—some sort of raised marks on paper?”

“There are dozens,” Drew said. “Some French fellow named Braille invented one that’s supposed to be the most promising. But I don’t think his system is used outside of France—and I don’t speak French.”

“Let’s look into it,” I said, “starting tomorrow.”

He smiled up at me. “Ever the optimist,” he commented. “Very well—but don’t forget that we’ll have to leave plenty of time to get ready for the soiree.”

“I haven’t forgotten—that’d be impossible, considering that you bring it up every fifteen minutes.”

“I just don’t want you making excuses come morning,” he said.

I grinned again, impressed by his persistence. “I won’t,” I promised. “We’ll go to the damned soiree.”

He nodded, satisfied, and let himself collapse again. I stared at him for a long moment before turning back to Moby Dick. He was good for me, I realized. Without him, I'd still be buried on the Ponderosa, refusing to see anyone but family and a few hands.

I sighed to myself. If there was any justice in the world, I'd have been able to respond to Drew's advances. That would've been preferable to the frigid, empty lack of desire that plagued me. Even the thought of meeting an enticing woman at the soiree didn't pique my interest.

But I couldn't manufacture desire, so I'd have to find some other way to thank Drew. Perhaps the system that this Braille fellow had invented would be the answer.

LINK TO PART EIGHTEEN