She said abruptly, as they walked side by side toward the porch, “I’m going to move out of Benedict Hall.”
“What? But—where will you go?”
“I have the clinic. I’ll fix up the storeroom as a bedroom.”
“No,” Frank said, without thinking.
“That sounds like an order.”
He shook his head, powerless to explain his feelings about the idea. “Not an order, Margot, of course. Not—just—just not there.”
“It’s the best place for me.”
“It’s not! It’s not safe for you, Margot! A woman living alone . . .”
“Frank.” She fixed him with her dark, unwavering gaze. Her voice roughened, and she sounded very much like her father. “Without Blake, I’m not safe here, in Benedict Hall. Tonight was a warning.”
They reached the porch, ignoring the curious gazes of the partygoers. Supper was laid out on long covered tables, and the hired butler and the two redheaded maids were slicing a roast, dishing out salad, offering baskets of rolls and butter, pouring coffee into tiny china cups. Conversation and laughter filled the garden, and the ladies’ dresses spread over chairs and benches like pressed flowers over the pages of a book. Frank’s temper subsided under a wave of sadness. Preston was right, he supposed. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t fit into Margot’s life.
She started toward the front door, but he stopped. “I’d better go,” he said.
“Come in, Frank. Let’s talk.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Because of Preston?”
“Because of everything. Your family—”
“The family doesn’t matter.”
“It does. It always will.” Frank gazed into her face, her clear dark eyes, her determined mouth. Dickson’s flask felt like lead in his pocket, a reminder of his weakness, but a promise of relief. He wanted another drink, badly. He wanted, even more, to explain to Margot, but the words wouldn’t come.
She watched him for a long moment, her eyes full of hurt, her shoulders hunched in that defensive way, ruining the drape of her frock. She said bitterly, “So Preston wins.”
Helplessly, uselessly, he stared at her. He wanted to blurt it all out to her, tell her how bad it really was, but he had so little pride left. None, really. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the way to bridge the gap between them.
And she wasn’t going to do it, either, he could see. Not this time. A spark flared in her eyes, and her shoulders straightened, stiffened. “So, you don’t think I should live alone, but you won’t come in and discuss it with me. What do you suggest I do?”
Mute with misery, he could only shake his head once more.
Her eyes were bright now with anger, and her chin thrust out. “I don’t know what you want, Frank.”
The words were in his mouth, on his lips. In his heart. But how could he speak them? It wouldn’t be right. He had nothing to offer her. “If things were different—” he began.
“They are what they are, Frank. I have to deal with it, and so do you.” She turned in a glittering whirl of beaded silk, and stalked in through the front door.
They weren’t speaking of the same thing at all, but Frank, silent and stunned, couldn’t think how to set it right. He stood alone, watching her disappear inside the fortress that was Benedict Hall.
Preston’s hand shook with rage, making the curtain rings rattle against the rod. He stood just out of sight in the window of his bedroom as Parrish, healthy and more or less intact, strode away down the hill. Starlight gleamed on his dark hair, making it look polished. His lean shoulders were back, his head high, his steps quick and determined. He should have been dead. At the very least, he should still have been writhing in pain.
Preston dropped the curtain, and spun to gaze at the sapphire, gleaming dully from the coverlet of his bed. He had flung it there in exasperation, and now he glared at it, as if he could vent his anger on it, as if he could wrest an explanation from its depths. He had stood there with the stone in his hand, in front of everyone, risking exposure. He had concentrated, had poured his desire into it, with Parrish no more than an arm’s length away. It was just what he had done with Blake, and that had been a triumph. But now, tonight—his heart pounded with fresh fury as he thought of it—there had been nothing!
The bloody stone had rested in his hand as if it were no more than a piece of jewelry, some effeminate gem meant for a vain old woman. It wasn’t a deep, rich blue anymore. It had faded, its glow dimming to a pinkish hue he didn’t recognize. It was as if its fire had gone out. It didn’t even call to him now, lying on his bed in the little pool of its silver chain. It was useless.
Humiliation built in his belly, threatened to explode in his chest. Parrish had called him insane. The looks his father—and his insufferable sister—had bent on him made him feel like a spider they would as soon crush beneath a shoe as tolerate in the same house with them. His mother and his sister-in-law—oh, God, was he reduced to counting on brainless Ramona?—had fussed over him, tried to defend him to Dickson. But what did they count? Women! God, he hated women! It was too bad the world couldn’t sustain itself without them.
He paced his bedroom, around the bed, past the bureau, back to the window. He thought his heart might burst from his chest from the sheer pressure of rage and frustration and injustice. Frank Parrish! Father chose an outsider over him, preferred a one-armed cripple to his own son. He expected it of Margot, of course. She had always been hateful. But even Dick had said something nasty as he passed him in the garden, something about disciplining himself.
Preston pounded his chest with one fist, hardly able to contain the tumult building inside him. What had gone wrong? What had changed?
He stopped beside the bed, breathing hard, and gazed down at the stone. For the first time, he allowed himself to think that it might, after all, have been his imagination.
But that couldn’t be. “Seattle Razz” wasn’t his imagination. His newfound reputation, the admiration of Seattle society, that wasn’t his imagination. It had to be something else.
Margot, of course. It had always been Margot, and tonight was the same. She had simply gotten in his way before he could finish what he started.
He would settle her for good. He would do it as soon as possible. Then there would be nothing in the world to hold him back.
CHAPTER 18
Margot went to the telephone in the hall, and asked the operator for the Alexis Hotel. As she waited to be connected, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, trying not to remember Frank’s stricken face, her own harsh words. She was tempted to put the receiver down, to dash down the street after him. But what would she say? She couldn’t beg.
When the hotel desk answered, she booked a room for a week. She estimated her funds would just about cover that while she applied to other hospitals, and saw to a bed and a bureau for the storeroom. She would take Blake’s hot plate so she could do a little of her own cooking. Toast and tea she could manage, perhaps a scrambled egg once in a while.
She broke the connection with the hotel clerk and started up to her room to pack a bag. Hattie, wearing her best long white apron, passed through the hall with a carafe of lemonade for the party. She didn’t look up, and Margot went on up the stairs.
She gazed at herself in the mirror over her washstand for an uncomfortable moment. She had really thought, before the party started, that she looked well in this dress, fashionably slender, well turned out. Now, her eyes looked bruised, and her hair was disordered beneath the bandeau. She had just enough ego left to wish Frank had not seen her like this.
She took off the gown and threw it over a chair. Ramona could find some use for it. She couldn’t imagine she would ever want to put it on again. She pulled on a dressing gown, then took her valise from its shelf, and began to fold skirts and shirtwaists into it.
She was just closing the lid when someone knocked on her door. Her father’s voice said, “Margot? May I speak with you
?”
She snapped the lock shut, and straightened. “Of course, Father.”
He came in, and closed the door behind him. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the valise on her bed. “What’s this?”
“I’m leaving.” She folded her arms, and stood gazing down at the bed with its virginal white bedspread and embroidered pillowcases. It had been hers since girlhood. A wave of regret at the necessity of what she was doing tightened her throat. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Father. And Mother never will. But I’m not safe here.”
“Not safe? In your own home?”
“Not with Blake gone. I’m sorry, Father, but that’s the truth.”
Her father seemed to sag, suddenly, to diminish in size, and in presence. “I was going to tell you—” he began. White spots suddenly appeared around his mouth and nose. “I wanted to explain that when—when Blake came to see me—” His voice faltered.
“Take your time,” Margot said, as gently as she could.
“I didn’t listen. I should have—” His voice broke completely, and he passed his hand over his eyes.
“Father!” Margot was beside him in a stride, helping him to sit on the lacy stool in front of her dressing table.
He sank onto it, and gently pushed away her hands. “I’m all right, Margot.”
Margot knelt beside his stool, her hands on her bent knees. She said warily, “What did Blake try to tell you?”
“He tried to warn me about Preston.”
“You mean, the day of the accident?”
“Yes. But before that, long ago, when you were all still young. He tried to tell me—but I thought it was just, you know, hijinks. Childish pranks. You were Blake’s favorite, and I thought that made him protective. Stricter with the boys.”
Margot pushed herself to her feet and walked to the window. The lights from the Chinese lanterns shone on the front lawn, and the music had resumed from the garden.
Behind her, Dickson said, “I just couldn’t believe that my son—my own son—”
Margot remembered Frank’s ashen face, his eyes blurred with pain, and her heart hardened. “There are no excuses for him. Not anymore.”
“I keep thinking there must be an explanation, a reason. The accident—”
“Preston would do anything that served his purpose.”
Her father winced at the harshness in her voice. “But what purpose could he have? Why would he want to harm Major Parrish? Or Blake?”
“As you just said, Father. Blake knew what Preston was. He knew Preston hated me.” Her voice sounded like breaking glass.
“But, Margot—why?”
Margot sighed. The years of struggle made her feel ancient and worn. It was hard to remember sometimes that she was only twenty-eight.
She crossed to her bed, and sat down beside the valise. “I suppose it’s because I came first,” she said sadly. “And because you and I—I know we argue all the time, but we—we have an understanding, don’t we? And Preston couldn’t be part of it.”
“But he could have!”
“I don’t think he could, Father. He doesn’t think the way we do.”
Her father let his head drop into one hand, and she feared he might actually weep. He said in a muffled voice, “What do we do now?”
She tried to speak bracingly, to steady him and herself. “I don’t know yet. But it will help if I’m out of the house.”
He lifted his head, and to her relief there were no tears in his eyes, only the same dragging weariness she herself felt. “I don’t want you to go, daughter.”
“And I don’t want to make you choose.”
“But where will you live?”
“At my office, eventually. But for now, I’ll spend a few days at the Alexis.”
Dickson came heavily to his feet, bracing his weight on the dressing table. “Have them send the bill to me.”
“No, I—”
For a moment, he looked like his old self, his mouth firm, his chin jutting. “Don’t argue with me, Margot. You’re going to let me do this one thing. We’re not going to discuss it.”
Further protest died on her lips. She knew she often looked very much like her father did at this moment, leading with her chin. She understood it. She rose, too, and crossed to her father to press her cheek to his. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “That will be a big help.”
“And what about Major Parrish?”
She pulled back, and said warily, “What about him?”
“I like him, Margot. I think you do, too.”
“I suppose that’s obvious.”
“It is to me. But I know you, daughter. It may not be so obvious to him.” The corners of her father’s mouth relaxed, just a little, and his voice was easier. “He’s a fine man.”
She looked away, back to the starry night beyond her bedroom window. “Yes, he is.”
“Does his—his wound—does that hold you back?”
Startled, she whirled to face him. “No! Of course not. What do I care about that?”
“It holds him back, though.”
She stared at her father, frowning. “What do you mean, it holds him back? From what?”
“Think, Margot. His arm is gone; his job is gone. Probably his money is gone. He feels like half a man.”
“Why should he feel that way?” she demanded. “What does any of that matter?”
Dickson shook his head. “Margot. Put yourself in his shoes. What if you were about to lose your clinic?”
“I—” She put a hand to her lips, thinking of it. “Yes. I see what you mean.”
“I think you’re a match for each other.”
Margot dropped her hand, and folded her arms around herself. “I don’t know, Father. I’m not sure he thinks so.” She gave a small, pained sigh. “He doesn’t talk much.”
“I noticed that.” Dickson picked up her valise. “Come. I’ll call you a taxicab.”
She led the way out of the bedroom. As they descended the staircase together, Preston emerged from the small parlor and looked up at the two of them. “What’s this?” he asked brightly, as if nothing at all had happened. “Going on a trip?”
Margot brushed past him without answering. Dickson said, “Preston, go tell your mother that Margot’s leaving. She’ll want to say good-bye.”
Margot glanced over her shoulder at Preston’s suddenly frozen face. “Never mind,” Margot said, meeting her brother’s gaze with her own hard one. “I’ll speak to her myself.”
Dickson went to the telephone on the hall table. Margot turned toward the small parlor. Preston came close to murmur, “Watch yourself, Margot. I’m warning you.”
She paused, an arm’s length away. “Warning me of what?”
“You keep sneaking around behind my back, talking about me to Father, to Mother. Like you did to Blake.”
“Preston. You’re—” For a moment she couldn’t think of the word. She stared at his cold, handsome features, and her belly crawled with revulsion. “You’re irredeemable,” she finished at last, in an undertone.
His laugh was short and hard. “I don’t need redemption.”
“What do you need? I’ve never known.”
His eyes were like blue ice, fixed on hers with the baleful attitude of a snake. “I need you out of my life,” he whispered.
She shrugged. “You should be happy I’m leaving, then.”
As she turned away, she thought she heard him say something like “That won’t be enough,” but she wasn’t certain, and she didn’t stop to ask. She had had all she could take of her younger brother.
Frank lay awake most of that night. The morning after the party he got on the streetcar and rode up Broadway, meaning to go to Benedict Hall and try to explain to Margot, but in the end he simply rode it back again, and paced his room trying to think what to do.
He couldn’t leave without seeing her. But what could he say to her? That if he were whole, if he had work, if he had a future—he would ask her to share it? Even the id
ea of broaching the subject stirred the memory of Elizabeth’s shocked face as she stared at the devastation of his arm, and made him shudder with shame and revulsion. He would just tell Margot he needed to look for work. He wouldn’t tell her what was in his heart. He thought if he ever were to see that same revolted look on Margot’s face, he would never get over it.
Half a dozen times that day he passed the telephone on its stand in Mrs. Volger’s hallway. Each time he yearned toward it, wishing he had a reason to call her, some excuse that didn’t mean further humiliation. Had she kept her vow to leave Benedict Hall? If he called, would Preston answer? Her mother? It was all hopeless. A mess.
He decided, as the afternoon wore on, that the thing to do was to present himself at the clinic when she was ready to close. Blake had usually been there to drive her home, and seeing the street empty when she came out must be painful.
Clouds had rolled in over the city, and the cooler air smelled of autumn. Here and there maple trees had begun to turn, spots of red and gold flaring against the ubiquitous evergreens. Frank walked down Cherry, and crossed Madison, turning onto Post Street at about five thirty. He paused a moment to look up at the familiar sign—M. BENEDICT, M.D. in those strong red letters— and to gather his courage. Then, after adjusting his hat and smoothing his sleeve into his pocket, he pushed the door open.
She wore her white cotton coat over a shirtwaist and a pleated wool skirt. She was seated at her nurse’s desk with an open ledger in front of her. At the sound of the door, she lifted her head. Frank’s heart gave a twinge at her drawn look, the darkness beneath her eyes. Her hair was tumbled, as if she had been pushing her fingers through it. He wanted to cross to her, go around the desk, pull her up into his embrace. Instead, he found himself blurting, “Where’s Thea?”
Something about the wryness of her sudden smile told him she understood, and the alacrity with which she rose from her chair and came around the desk to meet him told him he had done the right thing, even if the right words had eluded him. His feet carried him forward without his volition. They met in the middle of the little reception room.
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