“Don’t be frightened. You’ve had an accident.” His voice sounded rougher than before.
She shook her head. “I’m not—it wasn’t.”
“What wasn’t?”
“An accident.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “You did this deliberately?”
“Yes.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
She searched for a way to explain and thought of Will, understanding his frustration when the right words wouldn’t come.
“You were behind the screen.” Just as the other man had been.
He yanked his hands from hers with a violence that had her recoiling, finally frightened of him.
“So now your curiosity must be well satisfied.” His voice remained quiet, but the words were swollen with anger.
“No.”
He was standing now, backing away from her.
“You will pay with your nightmares. Was it worth the cost?”
“It’s not—you’re not my nightmare.” She started to reach toward him, sending the bloody cloth fluttering into her lap.
“Your deceit disgusts me.”
Had a judge pronounced her death sentence, it could not have been uttered with less kindness. His gloved hand clenched into a fist. She shrank from him, thinking he meant to strike her. But then he turned on his heel and in a few long strides was through the door, slamming it behind him.
Isabelle plucked the bloody cloth from her lap. Her cut had stopped bleeding.
“Oh God. Oh God.” She lay sideways, her head on the arm of the loveseat, her knees tucked against her body like an infant in the womb.
Not only had she lost her job, she would be lucky if they didn’t place her in a home for the mentally unfit.
She had failed her sister. Her only hope for earning any sort of redemption had been to save Jenny from a fate such as hers, and now she had failed. Miserably.
* * *
Jonathan bounded up the stairs and into his study, slamming the door behind him, then leaned back against the closed door, afraid to trust his legs to carry him as far as the nearest chair. He thrust his hand into his pocket, closed his fingers around the glass vial, and cursed his Jezebel. He had taken only a few drops, enough to get him through the encounter. If he had been less relaxed, this woman would not have tricked him so easily.
He looked down at the blood spotting the palm of his glove and remembered the weight of her hand cradled in his clawed fingers. Why had she done it? Why had she deceived him?
He reached for the bell cord, pulling it to call Nellie, then let his arm drop like a dead weight against his side. An unmanly urge to cry came over him. Instead he banged the back of his head against the door several times. Hard. The moment when she first looked at him was etched in his mind. If only he could pound out the memory.
Oddly enough, he could not recall the revulsion in her eyes. Surprise? Yes. Shock? Without a doubt. But then—what? Curiosity?
Of course, it must have been curiosity.
So she had a strong stomach. He was a curiosity to her. A carnival freak. An oddity.
The loud knock at the door landed directly behind his head. Jonathan jumped forward from the shock of it, all his nerves on edge after the fiasco downstairs.
“Mr. Nashe, sir? Did you ring for me?”
He turned to face the door, bracing his body against it to keep Nellie from barging in, knowing even as he did so that she would never enter uninvited.
“There was an accident in the downstairs parlor.” An accident. The words slipped easily from his lips, without his thinking. He wondered, had he lied for himself or for her? “The woman—she injured her hand.”
“Miss Tate, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Should I call for the doctor, sir?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
She hesitated. Not liking the responsibility of a decision, he guessed.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“There’s a mess needs cleaning as well.”
“Very good, sir.”
She had turned to go. He could tell before hearing the first footstep, a skill developed throughout years of listening behind door panels. He waited until Nellie’s last steps faded away and she was well out of earshot before venting his anger.
He turned and kicked the door with all his strength, leaving a black heel mark on the door and himself with an aching foot. The pain felt good. “Damn you,” he whispered to the door, then kicked it again.
“Damn you.” This time a little louder, with another kick.
It felt even better. The next kick landed hard enough to bounce a nearby picture off kilter.
“DAMN YOU!” The tendons in his neck strained in protest as he bellowed out the curse.
Jonathan lurched into the next room and fell on his bed, tearing at the glove on his good hand with his teeth until it pulled away, then using his bare hand to free the other. He held his hands up, twisting them around to study their scarred backs, turning them again to look at the smooth skin on their underside.
The mask lay heavy as lead, suffocating him. He tore it away, then covered his face with his hands, exploring the lumps of scar tissue that distorted his features, the drooping fold of flesh that angled across his left eye, the ridge where his brow should have been. He traced the outline of his mouth, normal on one side and on the other . . . not.
“Oh, Jezebel, Jezebel.” He moaned the name. He wanted to lie with her again. To be embraced by the dreams that made him forget the monster he was.
Chapter Twelve
Garrick closed the door behind him with a sense of relief when he left his office that day. Standing at the top of the steps a moment, he watched the late afternoon traffic passing along the street. Little had changed in the nearly thirty years since he had begun his practice in the well to do neighborhood. During that time, his patient roster had grown to include the best known members of Philadelphia society.
Thanks to improved rail travel, those who sought his services journeyed from as far as New York. Though it must be said, the patients who troubled to come such a distance were usually individuals seeking discreet treatment for indiscreetly acquired diseases. Had he chosen to flout the physician’s code of ethics by breaching his patients’ confidentiality, he could have ruined more than a few business and political careers.
Lately, the hypocrisy of it all rankled more than ever. He wondered if his moral fatigue stemmed from discouragement with society or a more general ennui with his profession. At any rate, he was glad to put the week behind him.
Garrick donned his hat and descended the steps of his building. It seemed a pity to waste what was left of the first really fine day of spring. Giving in to a sudden restlessness, he decided to make his way home on foot.
A niggling guilt had irritated his conscience for the last couple of days like a tiny splinter under his skin. Abruptly, Garrick decided the present was as good a time as any to deal with the problem. He changed direction and began heading away from home, past the well kept houses and their respectable residents toward the decidedly seedier side of town. After half an hour’s walk, he arrived at the Tate household.
A polite rap with the knocker failed to produce any sign of life. Garrick pounded the door with his fist. The advance of Miss Tate’s first month’s wages had provided her dissolute father with the means for a protracted binge. The thought angered Garrick, and he pounded all the harder, determined to rouse Tate from his drunken stupor.
When the door finally opened, the sight that greeted him was a good deal pleasanter than the one he had expected.
“Dr. Garrick!” The younger Miss Tate stared at him wide eyed, lacking the sophistication to feign mild surprise rather than outright shock.
“Miss Tate.” Garrick bowed, then took pity on her obvious bewilderment and announced the reason for his visit. “Is your father at home?”
“No, sir.” She looked down at her feet, blushing, then remembered her m
anners and quickly added, “Would you like to come in?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
Garrick felt the heat rise to his own cheeks when he realized the indelicacy of his question. “As much as I would like to visit with you, it would hardly be appropriate for me to do so privately, while you are unchaperoned.”
When her eyes clouded with hurt, Garrick cursed himself for a clumsy boor. What he had meant as a gentle reminder of the necessity to guard her reputation, she took for a harsh reprimand.
“However.” He smiled down at her in a manner that he hoped she would perceive as avuncular generosity. “I’m certain no one would look askance if you cared to join me for a walk on such a lovely spring afternoon.”
“Oh, yes! Very much so.”
Her mood rebounded with the speed and resilience that is only possible in youth. Her unguarded delight at his invitation buoyed Garrick’s spirits, and he found his own eagerness rising to meet hers.
“A moment please, while I fetch my hat.”
Garrick chuckled when Miss Tate shut the door in his face. True to her word, mere moments passed before she once again opened it to greet him.
He couldn’t help thinking how charming she looked in the modest hat perched atop her upswept mass of blonde curls. The hat’s demi veil added a touch of coquetry that intrigued him all the more for its artlessness. He helped her on with the waist length cape she brought with her, then offered his arm as they stepped into the street.
“Have you any news of my sister, Dr. Garrick?”
“She is well.” Garrick hesitated. He found the innocence in Miss Tate’s clear blue gaze even more disconcerting than the soul piercing knowledge in her sister’s. “The . . . ah, unusual demands of her new situation will require a certain period of adjustment.”
Miss Tate’s faintly puzzled yet polite smile at his vague remark pricked Garrick’s conscience. His evasiveness bordered on prevarication.
“But I am certain she is more than adequate to the task.” Garrick barely kept from wincing when he heard himself utter the weak bromide. Had he really thought to assuage the girl’s misgivings so easily?
“I have never doubted my sister’s capabilities.”
She murmured the words so gently, with such mild consternation, that Garrick felt himself at a loss to explain why he received them as a stinging pronouncement on his lack of judgment.
As they turned off Miss Tate’s street onto the main thoroughfare, Garrick attempted to direct the conversation away from her sister, a topic he had handled with embarrassing clumsiness. “Tell me, how do you fare? What shall I say to your sister the next time I see her?”
She cast him a quick sidewise glance, then looked away, trying to hide the tears that had immediately filled her eyes. “I miss her terribly.”
Garrick held her arm more firmly as he guided her across the busy street. Once they had safely crossed over, he patted her hand as they walked along, realizing even as he did so that his gesture conveyed as much condescension as sympathy. “Of course. As I am sure she misses you.”
Without warning, Miss Tate halted on the spot, causing him to tug awkwardly on her arm before he could come to a stop. He turned to face her, his hand still resting atop hers. Her lower lip quivered as she fought back tears.
“What is the matter, my dear?” The familiarity slipped from his lips before he could recall it.
“Oh, Dr. Garrick.” A single tear spilled over and trailed slowly down her cheek.
He leaned forward to better hear her choked whisper above the noise of the street. “Yes?”
“I am all alone at home.” A second tear coursed down her cheek.
“What do you mean, all alone?”
He reached in his breast pocket and produced a handkerchief for her. As she blotted her tears, he cursed his stupidity. He already knew her story before she told it to him, one so pathetically obvious, he felt an utter fool for giving it no thought until now.
“The advance on my sister’s wages arrived on Monday, as you promised. My father left that very night.”
She stifled a sob. Garrick steered her under the awning of a nearby shop, away from the stares of passersby.
“Forgive me,” she begged, with uncalled for contrition. Her brave attempt at a smile nearly brought tears to his own eyes.
“I am the one who should ask your forgiveness, Miss Tate.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up at him with eyes the luminous blue of a sky washed clean by spring showers. Garrick looked away, then reviled his cowardice and forced himself to meet her gaze once again.
“I failed to consider the consequences to you of your sister’s absence.”
She shook her head with firm conviction. “No, sir, you mustn’t blame yourself. How were you to predict what my father would do?”
“Wisdom is meant to increase with age.” He drew in a long breath and let it out as a heavy sigh, one weighted with discouragement. “A man of my years—especially a man in my profession—has seen enough to know that certain types of behavior are distressingly predictable.”
“Oh dear.” She bowed her head and began plucking at the handkerchief. “Oh dear.”
While he’d thought he was apologizing, he had instead succeeded in shaming her. If he were this persistently clumsy in his manner with patients, his practice would have dwindled to nothing years ago.
“I have upset you, Miss Tate, and for that I am deeply sorry. Come.” He encouraged her along, hoping the shop fronts would distract her, or at the very least provide them with an innocuous topic of conversation.
As it happened, neither of them had anything to say. They walked in silence for several minutes, Miss Tate politely pretending an interest in the merchants’ displays. She had perceived his discomfort, and for that Garrick credited her, realizing he had mistaken her innocence for lack of discernment.
They strolled past a French pastry shop, its window heaped with mouth watering concoctions artfully displayed. A momentary flash of true covetousness lit Miss Tate’s features, and once more Garrick berated himself for his obtuseness. When her sorry dipsomaniac of a father deserted her, it was extremely unlikely he had spared a moment’s consideration of their no doubt bare pantry. How long had it been, Garrick wondered, since the unfortunate young woman had eaten a proper meal?
He continued walking until they were well past the pastry shop, hoping to spare her feelings. If she realized he had seen her look of hunger, she would be further shamed. When they had gone what seemed a safe distance, Garrick stopped. Smiling at her in a manner he hoped displayed benign disinterest in her reply, he issued his invitation.
“Miss Tate, I have just come from a full day of attending my patients and did not take the time to lunch. Would you be so kind as to join me for an early supper? I know an excellent restaurant not a block farther on.”
“Oh yes,” she said breathlessly, and favored him with a grateful smile. “I would love to join you.”
He answered her smile, relieved that he had finally done the right thing. “Good. Then we shall have ample time to discuss my proposed remedy for your situation.”
“Oh, Dr. Garrick.” She squeezed his arm, looking up at him in wide eyed admiration. “You are my rescuer. My knight in shining armor.”
On hearing her exaggerated praise, he felt the heat spread up his neck and onto his face. Suddenly, his collar felt too tight.
“Think nothing . . . it’s nothing, Miss Tate,” he stammered, feeling as awkward as a schoolboy and yet, somehow, strangely gratified.
Chapter Thirteen
He heard her coming. Was it past midday already?
Jonathan went to the door and compulsively checked that he had, indeed, engaged the bolt.
“A letter for you, sir. I’ve left it on your tray.” Nellie’s voice sounded strained.
Of course. She had seen the last tray sitting exactly where she’d left it, untouched.
“Very well.” H
e waited for her to leave, but she hesitated, hovering outside his door.
Damnation. She had been dismissed. What business was it of hers that he’d not eaten?
“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
“No,” he answered curtly, then added with clenched jaw, “Leave.”
“Yes, sir.” Her breathless answer was followed by the sound of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.
Nellie was running away from him. As well she should. His anger had not abated one iota during the last twenty four hours. If anything, it had grown.
A letter indeed. It must be from Richard. Ever the physician, damn him. Didn’t the man realize he would rather hack off his afflicted hand than endure the gaping curiosity of a stranger?
Jonathan stepped into the hall to retrieve the letter, leaving the tray where Nellie had left it. He cursed when he saw the envelope. The writing was not Richard’s, but an unfamiliar script. Hers.
The thought of that woman’s hand tracing his name across the paper swept over his sensibilities with the same effect as an unwanted caress. To his way of thinking, she had violated him, and now this vulgar familiarity, her audacity in addressing him directly. His sense of shame at becoming her victim bore down on him anew.
He crumpled the envelope in his fist. How dare she? How dare she after her blatant deception?
Cornelius always said he was too soft, like his mother. Like a woman, he had meant, saying so at times, accusing him of the worst sins, in Cornelius’s opinion, those of sympathy and mercy.
For once, he felt inclined to agree with his father. In a moment of weakness, he had abandoned caution and gone to this woman’s aid, only to discover that she had tricked him into revealing himself. For the cheap satisfaction of her curiosity, she had stolen his most valuable possession, his privacy.
Jonathan threw the crumpled ball of paper across the room. He was furious with her. Even more furious with himself for being the fool.
It was an irrational act, what she had done. Perhaps she was like Pandora, unable to resist the temptation to look upon that which is better left hidden. How else to explain why she would go so far as to inflict injury upon herself?
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