She found Hattie at the sink, her arms elbow-deep in soapy water. Leona was just starting out with a bucket and several cleaning rags in her hands. She stopped, and bobbed one of her maddening curtsies. “Miss Margot! Did you want that toast after—”
Margot said, interrupting her, “Never mind the toast. I want to know if either of you saw Mr. Preston this morning.”
Leona shook her head, and Hattie, twisting to see over her shoulder, said, “No, Miss Margot. I guess he’ll be having his breakfast downtown, though I wish he’d told me. I fried up those sausages special because I know he likes them, and I thought he might want somethin’ extra good with that broken arm and all.”
Margot turned swiftly and left the kitchen. She heard Hattie say, “Miss Margot? Don’t you want breakfast, neither?” but she didn’t take time to answer. She hurried up the stairs to dress, and in fifteen minutes was on her way to the hospital.
She could see from the street that the reception area of Seattle General was already busy with the change of nursing shifts and the arrival of physicians for their rounds. She hesitated on the steps, but seeing Dr. Peretti just climbing out of his automobile decided her. She spun quickly, hoping he hadn’t spotted her, and strode down the block and around to the back entrance.
There were visitors now in the cramped corridor of the colored section of the hospital, a woman in what looked like a maid’s uniform whispering with an elderly woman leaning on a cane. They cast wide-eyed looks of surprise when the tall white woman appeared. She nodded as she paced past them to Blake’s ward, and paused outside. She heard a man speaking inside. It wasn’t Blake’s deep voice, nor was it her father’s hoarse growl. It sounded familiar, though it was hard to hear, and fresh anxiety made her hand tremble as she opened the door.
Sarah Church, in her long nurse’s apron, looked up from the sink where she was coiling a length of intravenous tube into a basin. She flashed Margot a white smile and went on with her task. The man whose voice she had heard still lounged in the chair near Blake’s bed, the same chair Margot had tried to sleep in, his long legs stretched out, his head resting on a pillow. It was Frank, smiling sleepily up at her. “Good morning, Margot,” he said.
She exclaimed softly, “Frank! Have you been here all night?”
He pushed himself upright, letting the pillow fall to one side. “Seemed like the thing to do,” he said.
Nurse Church pushed the basin to the back of the counter, and turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I told him he didn’t have to stay, but he insisted. It was good, because we were busy last night, and I didn’t like to leave Mr. Blake alone.”
“Thank you,” Margot said with sincerity. She crossed to the bed to take Blake’s wrist in her fingers. As she did so, his eyes opened. The wrist she held didn’t move, but his opposite hand did, lifting unsteadily to reach across his body and touch her arm.
“Good morning, Blake,” she said, trying to summon a cheerful smile. She bent to look directly into his face. “How are you feeling?”
His eyelids flickered, and his fingers grazed the back of hers with a faint pressure before his hand fell limply away.
The nurse, coming up beside Margot, said, “He hasn’t spoken, Dr. Benedict. He did take some broth, though, and his color is much better. At least, I think so,” she added hastily.
Margot held Blake’s hand in both of hers. “You’re absolutely right, Nurse Church,” she said. “His color is better, and his pulse is steadier. We’ll continue with the digitalin, and perhaps we could get him to take a bit of breakfast, if he can swallow it.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse said, her tone touched with pride.
“You’ve done very well with our patient,” Margot said.
The nurse looked up at her, a quick flash of brilliant dark eyes and thick lashes. She showed a single dimple in one smooth cheek before she turned toward the door. “I’ll go to the canteen myself,” she said, and swished out into the corridor, the long hem of her apron flicking behind her.
Frank stood, stretching his shoulders. Margot released Blake’s hand, and his eyes closed once again. She watched him for a moment, then crooked a finger at Frank to invite him out of the room. When the door of the ward was closed behind them, she said, “Did anything happen?”
He leaned against the wall, gazing down at her with a grave expression. “Preston showed up about four this morning.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Wasn’t a bit pleased to find me here, either.”
Margot released a long, slow breath. “What did he do?”
Frank’s mouth tightened, and he gazed past Margot at the blank wall. She could see he was choosing his words deliberately, as if he was still trying to make sense of it all. “There’s something else Carter told me,” he said. He glanced up and down the hall, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him. It was empty now, though Margot heard voices coming from other wards.
“What was it?” she asked.
Frank looked into Margot’s face, and even now, in the brittle electric light of the hospital corridor, the intense blue of his eyes in their frame of black lashes made her breath catch in her throat. The few silver threads in his black hair gleamed, a reminder of the toll the war and its aftermath had taken. “I thought Carter was being silly. Superstitious. Not a smart man at the best of times.” He gave a slight shrug. “But Preston has it, just as Carter said.”
“Has what?”
“A stone. Heavy, old-fashioned. Carter said it was a sapphire, but I wouldn’t know.”
Margot frowned. “He wears it around his neck.”
“You’ve seen it?” Frank’s jaw rippled, and Margot saw that it wasn’t fatigue drawing deep lines in his cheeks. It was anger.
“A glimpse. I thought it was just—an affectation. What happened, Frank?”
He described Preston’s visit to Blake in the tersest terms, with a minimum of drama, but Margot could see it clearly, feel the tension, understand the threat. Preston had crept into the darkened room at a moment when Sarah had just gone out. He had opened the door only wide enough for him to slip through, and closed it soundlessly behind him. When Frank, drowsing in his chair on the far side of Blake’s bed, startled awake, Preston was standing at the head of Blake’s bed. He was holding the stone in his hand, poised above Blake’s heart.
Frank leaped to his feet with an exclamation, and Preston swore, jumped back, and was gone from the room almost before Frank understood what had happened. When he leaned over Blake to be certain he was all right, he saw that Blake’s eyes were open, showing the whites as they followed Preston’s movements.
Frank said now, “Carter said the stone makes Preston stronger.”
“Foolish, isn’t it?” she said. “But I could see him convincing himself it’s true.”
“That would make Preston no smarter than Sergeant Carter.”
“Well. This isn’t my field of expertise, but there are a number of studies on how war experiences affect the mind. Not just battle fatigue, but delusions and paranoia. Preston has always been difficult, but since the war . . .” She put up a hand to rub the tight muscles of her neck. “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone understands him, including Preston himself.” She gave him a helpless look. “He has always hated me, since we were little children.”
“Why?”
“He says I’m in his way. I don’t see how, but he told me just the other night that I’ve always been in his way.”
Frank’s voice was low and hard. “It’s jealousy.”
“What does he have to be jealous of?”
“Your father is so proud of you, Margot.”
She gave a surprised laugh. “Proud of me? We argue all the time!”
“Your father loves that. Anyone can see it.” She shook her head doubtfully, but Frank pressed on. “Preston came here to hurt Blake last night, Margot.”
Margot’s answer was so soft Frank had to lean closer to hear her. “I think he already hurt him, Frank. I think they fou
ght, out there near Jefferson Park. Preston had these round bruises on his chest, and . . . I keep thinking of Blake’s cane. Could he have tried to deal with Preston himself? If my father wouldn’t do it?”
“Blake’s not young,” Frank said grimly. “A fight with a younger, stronger man—”
“Yes. That could have caused his heart attack, and the resulting stroke.” She shivered suddenly with fatigue and tension. “Blake did it for me, Frank. That makes it my fault.”
“No,” he said, and gripped her arm tightly with his hand. “No, it’s Preston’s fault. He caused all of this.”
“And he’s not done, it seems.”
Frank straightened, gazing past her. She turned and saw Sarah returning with a tray carrying a small, steaming bowl. She smiled up at them, and said, “Porridge.” Margot nodded approval of this choice as she and Frank stepped aside to let the nurse go into the ward.
When Margot started to follow her, Frank held her back. “I have no doubt that Preston came to finish what he started. Came to shut Blake up forever.”
“It’s a nightmare.”
“Blake won’t be safe at Benedict Hall.”
She answered sadly, “I know.”
Margot arrived home after her day at the clinic just as the family was gathering in the small parlor for drinks. Preston already sat next to his mother, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. She laughed, and touched his shoulder with her manicured hand. Ramona sat across from them, and Dick was at the sideboard, pouring sherry into two tiny glasses. Margot met her father in the doorway. He stood back to let her pass through, and she assessed him with a swift glance. He was looking worn and worried, thick eyebrows drawn together, the pouches beneath his eyes heavier and darker than usual.
They would have to talk later, she thought, when they could be alone.
“Doc!” Preston cried when he saw her. “How’s our patient tonight?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his neatly flanneled legs. His suit jacket draped over one shoulder, where the cast was too thick to allow him to put his arm into the sleeve. He contrived somehow to make it look chic that way. His tie was perfect, and she supposed Edith had helped him with it. His eyes were as bright and clear as if he had just arisen from a refreshing sleep. If she had been creeping around the hospital at four in the morning, she was sure she would have looked like hell.
But she would make no accusations. They would only be energetically denied. She said, “I assume you mean Blake, Preston. He’s doing remarkably well, all things considered.”
“Henderson concurs?” Dickson rumbled.
Margot nodded to her father. “He does. With good care and a lot of rest, we expect Blake to improve significantly. He may even, one day, make a full recovery.”
There were murmurs of relief around the room. Margot fixed Preston once again with a hard gaze, and he met her look with a challenging one of his own. Any pretense of fraternal affection between them was at an end. The battle between them was joined, even if they were the only two who knew it.
Preston said, with a nonchalant air, “Is he talking?”
Margot let a beat pass, watching her brother’s face, before she said, “Why do you ask that particular question, Preston?”
His lips curled in a cherubic smile, and his eyes didn’t flicker. “Well, of course, I’m not a medical man—like you—” The subtle insult didn’t escape Margot. She felt her father tense beside her on the sofa, but she let it pass. “But you know—a fellow hears the word stroke and he thinks speech problems. What’s that word? A—a—”
“Aphasia?”
“That’s the one.”
Margot turned slightly on the sofa so she was facing her father. “Blake hasn’t been able to speak,” she told him. “But he’s moving his hands and his feet, and he’s been able to eat and drink. It’s hard to predict how much movement he’ll recover.”
Dickson said, “We’ll bring him here. We can hire a nurse, and—”
“I don’t think that’s best, Father. He needs more care than one person can provide.”
“What will we do, then?”
Margot let her eyes flick over Preston, as if by chance. “I’ve moved him to a convalescent home,” she said. “He was transported there by ambulance this afternoon.”
“Where?” Preston asked, and Margot thought his tone was a bit sharper than he intended.
She said mildly, and untruthfully, “Oh, it’s a private home out of the city. There was no place in Seattle for a colored man to go.”
Preston was about to press her, she could see, but Dickson said, “They’ll send me the bills, of course.”
Margot nodded. “Of course, Father. I knew I didn’t have to ask you.”
“Can he have visitors?” Dickson asked.
“For now, it’s better he has complete rest. I’ve left orders to that effect, and arranged a special nurse. He’ll have the best of care, Father.”
Edith said, “That’s very good news, Margot. Isn’t it, dear?”
Dickson nodded, and in a rare display, turned his hand over to grip Margot’s. “Thank you, daughter. I know you’re doing all you can for him.”
She squeezed his hand just as Leona appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.
When dinner was over, Dickson went out onto the wide front porch to smoke his cigar. Margot followed, taking a seat next to him on one of the white wicker chairs. The summer twilight glowed over the city, and in the distance the waters of Puget Sound glistened with faint starlight. The heat of high summer had given way to a cooling evening breeze, scented by the roses Blake had nurtured all around Benedict Hall. Margot shivered a little in her short-sleeved frock, but she didn’t want to go in for a wrap. It wasn’t easy to find a moment alone with her father.
He leaned back in his chair, cigar clamped between his teeth. He stared across at the park, where the brick water tower rose into the darkness. “What was it between you and Preston tonight?” he asked in a low tone.
She said, just as quietly, “I think perhaps you already know.”
He heaved a smoke-filled sigh. “Blake came to see me,” he said.
“He told me he was going to do that.”
“He said Preston told the hospital you had performed Loena’s abortion.”
“Yes. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about my meeting with the board.”
Her father turned his head to her, and his heavily lidded eyes were sharp and sad. “You didn’t do it, did you, daughter?”
“I did not.”
He looked away again, out into the gathering darkness. A mosquito whined past, but didn’t alight. “I couldn’t believe,” Dickson said slowly, “that Preston would do something like that. I knew Blake would never lie about a member of the family, but—I thought he was confused somehow. That he had misunderstood.”
Margot waited in silence. Her father, she thought, had to come to understand about Preston in his own way, and in his own time. Dickson was a canny and insightful man. It was one of the reasons he had been successful in his business and financial affairs. He knew and understood people—except for his youngest son.
“It seems very strange,” Dickson said, his voice dropping even lower, “that this terrible thing happened on the same day. Blake looked fine when he was in my office. Troubled, of course. Sad, I believe. But not ill.”
“No.”
The cigar had gone out, but Dickson still chewed on it, rolling it across his teeth as he ruminated. “I suppose a heart attack can happen like that, out of the blue?”
“Usually there are some warning signs. Not always.”
“I guess I have to accept that Preston tried to hurt you.” A pause. “Do you think he caused the accident?”
“I don’t know any more about that than you do, I’m afraid,” Margot said. She went on gently, knowing her words would wound him. “What I do know is that Preston went to Blake’s room at the hospital at four o’clock this morning. That’s what was between us this evening. Frank wa
s there. He spent the night watching over Blake because he knew I was worried. Frank woke up just in time, and Preston bolted.”
Dickson took the cigar from his mouth and turned it this way and that in his fingers, gazing at it as if its dark wrapper might be hiding an answer. He blew out a breath, and shook his head. “No one visits a hospital at four in the morning. Not in any reasonable way.”
“No.”
“That’s why you’re not telling the family where Blake is.”
“I feel that’s best, Father.”
He turned his face to her, and even in the darkness she could see how his features sagged, dragged down by sadness and shame. “Be sure the bill comes to my office, Margot. Not here. Not Benedict Hall.”
She nodded.
“Can we avoid telling your mother about this?”
It was Margot’s turn to look out into the darkness. Gooseflesh prickled at her bare arms, and she hugged herself against the cold. “I know Preston is special to Mother,” she said. “But there’s bound to be more trouble with him. I’m afraid you can’t protect her forever.”
“I’ll have a word with him, of course.”
“I hope it helps, Father. I really do hope so.”
CHAPTER 17
The brief season of high summer faded quickly in the Pacific Northwest, and Frank’s hopes of a new position disappeared with it. Carter and Preston had made a thorough job of ruining his reputation in Seattle. He made the rounds, asked questions, presented his credentials, but without any luck. His months at the Boeing Airplane Company opened doors to him at first, but when he gave his name, interviews were canceled without explanation, telephone messages not returned. He had sold his British Army greatcoat, but even that money was gone now. It was time to move on.
He had to find a way to explain this to Margot, and that was bad. Even worse, it meant that Preston Benedict had won, and Frank hated that even more than the coming separation. He could hardly ask Margot to leave her clinic and come with him. He had no home to offer her, no income, and for the moment, no future.
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