Rage filled Hank. “You pompous little prig,” he said under his breath. “You sit there in your silk dress surrounded by food and you’re too good—too superior—to even eat it while others are out there fighting to make enough to buy a loaf of bread. People like you make me so mad I could—” He broke off, so angry he could no longer speak. Without thinking what he was doing, he shoved his right hand into the cake she seemed so fascinated by and grabbed a quarte
r of it, then lunged across the food and slammed the cake in Amanda’s face. “There!” he yelled at her, grinding icing and cake and chocolate cream filling into her face. “You can eat and won’t. They want to but can’t.”
He was trembling with rage. Amanda’s face and most of her hair were black with chocolate, her eyes wide in horror.
“I’m going to wake you up, Amanda Caulden,” he yelled at her. “I’m going to pull you out of that cocoon of yours no matter how hard I have to fight.”
It was very difficult to keep one’s dignity when one’s face was covered with chocolate cake, but Amanda did her best. “Did it ever occur to you that some of us are happy the way we are?” she said, her own rage making her tremble. “You set yourself up as a god and decide to change me, change the workers, yet maybe we like the way we are. If I’m asleep I’d rather stay asleep than participate in a world where men bombard women with food.” With that she got up and went to the pond to wash her face.
She felt like crying; she felt like screaming. But most of all she felt as if she’d let Taylor down. He would be horrified beyond description if he saw her now. She turned when she heard Dr. Montgomery walking up behind her.
“If you do another thing to me I shall press charges,” she said, cringing away from him.
He winced, then held out a clean handkerchief. “I thought you could use this.”
She snatched it from his hand and wiped her face. She thought she’d got most of it off but black smears came away on the cloth. Taylor was going to kill her. She’d have no supper for a month. How she wished the earth would open up and the flames of hell swallow Dr. Montgomery!
“Here, let me,” Hank said, kneeling beside her.
“Don’t you touch me,” she said, seething.
He snatched the handkerchief from her and washed it in the pond. “Amanda, you are a mess. You have cake all over your face, your hair, even your clothes.”
Amanda could feel the color draining from her face. She had never done anything to really, truly anger Taylor, but if she came home looking like this, what would he do?
Hank’s face changed as he looked at her. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Do they beat you?”
“Of course no one beats me,” she said, but her tone showed her uncertainty.
He stood, then took her hand and pulled her up. “All right, we’ll fix everything. We’ll wash your hair and your dress and everything will be dry by the time we return. You’ll be as good as new.”
“Wash my dress?” she gasped, horrified. “My hair?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s either that or go home to your beloved Taylor looking like that.”
For a moment she weighed the consequences and she decided that most anything would be better than having Taylor see her like this.
Hank watched the emotions play across her face and he was reminded of the migrant workers, torn between wanting to cause no problems and wanting to join a union and protest. Was Amanda really that afraid of Driscoll?
Hank made her decision for her as he slid his suspenders off, unbuttoned then removed his shirt and held it out to her. “Go into the trees there and take off your dress and put this on. We’ll wash the chocolate off and it’ll dry in no time.”
Amanda looked up at him, standing there in an undershirt, exposing broad shoulders and muscular arms. Contrary to what she would have thought, he wasn’t repulsive-looking or frightening. In fact, he looked rather pleasant.
“Go on,” he said, and his voice was a bit lower than usual.
Amanda stood and walked around the pond and into the deep shade of the trees. She was wearing a severe, straight suit of boyish cut, and right now she wished it were two pieces so she could leave her skirt on, but it wasn’t. She removed it to expose an ankle-length slip of flesh-colored chiffon trimmed with wide borders of ecru Chantilly lace. It felt odd to be without long sleeves and a high collar but it also felt cool and unrestrictive. She glanced down at the skirt and frowned at the lace. The skirt was semi-transparent from her knees down, her black silk stockings peeping through. Once again she reminded herself of Taylor’s wrath if she appeared at home with a chocolate-encrusted suit and face.
She pulled the pins out of her hair and let it hang loose to her waist, then shook it and smiled. Sometimes her hair was pulled back so tightly it hurt her head.
When her hair was free, she picked up Dr. Montgomery’s shirt and for a moment she held it out and looked at it. To her knowledge, she’d never held a man’s shirt before and she was surprised at how large it was. She wondered if Taylor’s shirt would be so large.
Ridiculous! she told herself and hastily put the shirt on. Next she’d be comparing Taylor and Dr. Montgomery. The shirt only reached to her knees, and below that were several inches of lace that played peek-a-boo with her black, silk-clad legs.
Hesitantly, she walked into the clearing, her suit over her arm.
Dr. Montgomery was stretched out on the tablecloth, still wearing only his undershirt and trousers. He was gazing up at the trees, looking to be half asleep. Lazy, she thought. The man was lazy. But she didn’t think of it angrily.
“Ready?” he said and turned toward her.