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Chicago, 1890

It started innocently enough. Mrs. Grey, a fifty-year-old wealthy widow in Chicago, saw a young man rummaging through some garbage. She had her carriage driver stop. She offered him some food; then seeing that behind his dirty clothes and rags, his face was beyond handsome. She invited him to her home.

Mrs. Lucinda Grey was as I said wealthy. How wealthy? Her deceased husband owned the railroads. All the railroads in the United States and when he died two years ago, she was his sole heir.

When I say she invited young Marus home; home was a twenty-eight-room mansion overlooking the lake. Except for her maids, cooks, gardeners, etc. she lived there alone and lonely.

Not that she had any designs on young Marcus. She didn’t think of him that way, and she doubted he was of age. Mrs. Grey didn’t think of any man “that way.” Her marriage, from the beginning, included very little love and affection. Alyosius Grey’s, a veteran of the Civil War, sole focus was on acquiring railroad lines.

Oh, even in that first year of marriage, once a month at most, he’d mount her. She’d willingly acquiesce, more out of duty than out of desire.

On the ride home, she inquired about where the young man lived and where he went to school.

“Mostly, I sleep in barns. I can’t remember the last time I was in school, but I can read and write.”

“I have a big house; I could make a room available to you. When was the last time you ate a decent meal?”

“I don’t know. Three days ago, I stole two apples.” He was thinking, winter was coming. Last winter he almost froze to death. “Thank you, that would be nice. I won’t be any trouble.”

Marcus didn’t know where his parents were; he thought they might be in jail. He told Mrs. Grey he wanted nothing to do with his father’s name. “Then, I shall call you Marcus Grey.”

She made sure he was fed, clothed and arranged for him to go to school: a private school, of course.

His teachers praised his intelligence, but I’m sure that’s not what you want to know about.

Two years later, at the dinner table he blurted out, “I just realized it; today is my eighteenth birthday.” That was cause for celebration and that was all. As I said, Mrs. Grey had no, let’s call them impure thoughts about her house guest.

That wasn’t exactly true of her help; her colored female help. One day, while in her study, she overheard Matilda and Gladys, dusting the furniture in the adjacent room. “Tildy, yesterday I saw Mr. Marcus get out of the bath. It was a complete accident, but I have to say, Mrs. Grey’s horses don’t have what he has. You should make it a point to spy on him.”

Matilda, the upstairs maid did. Spy on Marcus that is. “Gladys, that boy must have twice what my husband has.”

“Told you. I bet it would hurt.”

“I’d like to have something like that hurt me for an afternoon.”

“Or all night,” Gladys laughed.

Mrs. Grey was curious. She’d rarely seen her husband’s. I mean he’d mount her in the dark. Only on occasion would she walk in on him when he was getting dressed or undressed, and it was always accidental.

She watched Marcus. Watch him through the door’s keyhole while he bathed. When he got in she was in awe watching his manhood dangle. It’s an exaggeration to say it hung to his knees, but you get the idea.

Mrs. Grey was there when he finished, too, peeking through that keyhole. Her maids were right; it rivalled her stallions.

What to do about it was the question.

TO BE CONTINUED

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