O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [31]
He had awarded his daughter what he had given to very few—respect. Her words were never to be taken frivolously and her wishes never brushed aside. It was a civil relationship now, a relationship of equals.
Horace had the wreckage of his relationships with his son and older daughter to haunt him. Likewise, a long line of disappointing relatives—father, brothers, nephews—feeding at the trough of his success, themselves riddled with mediocrity.
Amanda was it. She was the endgame. From the time she was six or seven when she had first stood her ground against him, Horace trod with care, but Amanda had finally come to understand that she would not gain her desired end unless she carried out her half of the bargain.
Bedrock? Amanda knows what she wants in life, Horace realized. In the end, it won’t be a Marine. Horace trusted her behavior and instincts. She’d not go overboard and lose her inheritance. She was too ambitious, too clever, and too spoiled to throw away what lay ahead for her.
So, Horace, he told himself, don’t rush in like a bull. Handsome Marines come and handsome Marines go, but the Kerr family is forever. Don’t squeeze her on this, trust her poise and control.
“Why don’t you invite Private O’Hara to join us for Sunday brunch at the Willard, our next time in Washington?”
He could feel his words give her pleasure, but she also understood that this was a gesture with limitations.
“He’s a decent chap,” Horace went on, “and this is America. After all, his father saved half the Marine Corps at one time or the other.”
“That’s very nice, Father. I’ll think about it.”
Horace did not tack on an addendum of warnings. Amanda already knew what they were, and knowing them, she rationed her time with Zachary delicately. Nor did she ever let Zach know of the stabs of jealousy she had endured seeing another and then another girl show up on the arm of this blossoming Irish rover.
1889–1890
Zachary loved seeing Amanda. There was more to see of her each day. He never told her of the stabs of emotion that he had felt as well.
No one would mistake Private O’Hara for a fine Irish tenor, although he sang the aching lyrics with perfect soul, if not perfect pitch. He and Amanda had gone off on a picnic and he serenaded her as he paddled their canoe toward shore. He eased the vessel onto a shallow beach, took off his boots and socks, stored them carefully, rolled up his trousers and jumped out into calf-high water, tied the boat, then carried her ashore, piggyback.
Their picnic was in soft shade and grass by a field of wild black-eyed Susans. Amanda wasn’t feeling hungry, so he ate for the two of them. She was intoxicated by the beauty of the day.
She stood up suddenly. “Turn your back,” she ordered. In a moment he was allowed to turn back around. He saw her pantaloons and underskirts folded on the ground. She still had her dress on but it was close to transparent in the light. Amanda lay back down and stretched and groaned with pure delight.
“I’m free!” she cried.
“Well, don’t get any more free,” he said, telling his heart to quit thumping.
“I hate all those clothes they make us wear.”
He could steal a peek or two, but not to touch, he warned himself. They cooed for a bit, then dressed in proper swimming costumes, dared to dive into the river, re-dressed, and she leaned back against an oak as he fished around in the bottom of the picnic basket.
Amanda’s mood changed, just like that. “I was looking over the blueprints of the new class of armored cruiser my father is going to build.”
Zach offered her a bite of apple, which she took. Her eyes told his eyes that she was going to jab him about something.
“You can read blueprints?”
“What you meant to say is that girls aren’t smart enough to read blueprints.”
Zach knew she was picking a bloody argument. He clicked on his warning button to remain placid.
“I’m