Her Defiant Heart Page 5

  "I said you were sleeping comfortably and had left strict orders not to be disturbed."

  "That never stopped you before."

  The housekeeper's chin jutted forward. "But Dr. Glenn didn't know that."

  Scott held up his hands. "Enough. I could use more assistance and less conversation. Mrs. Brandywine, will you steam the towels? I need them warm and moist. Chris, turn back the covers on the bed, and then help me get Jane out of the tub. I'll hold her." He set down the kettle and traded places with Christian. Scott gently brushed back Jane's dark hair at the temples and examined her ears. "This could be a problem," he said to himself.

  "What's that?" asked Christian, pausing in turning back the covers.

  "Her ears. They're blistered, too. The shirt she had wrapped around her head was not enough protection, not with her wet hair."

  Christian swept back the sheets and blankets, smoothed the bottom sheet with his hands to warm them, and returned to Scott's side. "Let's get her into bed. How are you coming with those towels, Mrs. B.?"

  "Just fine. You take care of your, er, end," she said, blushing to the roots of her graying hair as Christian eased Jane's legs out of the tub.

  "Have a care with her feet," Scott cautioned. "That's it. Easy. Where's that nightgown, Mrs. Brandywine? We need to put her in it."

  "Here it is." She plucked it off the back of the rocker. "None of the maids had one to spare and mine wouldn't suit, so I took one of Mr. Marshall's nightshirts." She glanced at Christian. "You don't mind?"

  "I am going to pretend you didn't ask me that," he said. "That way I won't be insulted." He softened his words with a faint smile. "The towels, Mrs. B." When she was out of earshot he looked at the nightshirt and then at Scott, a question in his eyes. "Have you ever tried to dress a woman?" he whispered.

  "How hard can it be?" Scott asked.

  Christian knew evasion when he heard it. "Should I ring for one of the maids to assist Mrs. B.?"

  Scott took the nightshift out of Christian's hands. "We'll both do this. Lift her head. Now slip this over her shoulders. Raise her arm. No, the other one first. Be careful of her hand. Gently... gently. Good. Now the other. Pull the hem down over her chest. There, we've got it now. I'll roll back this cuff, you do the other."

  Christian was glad for Scott's chatter and the opportunity to keep busy. Perhaps no one would notice that his hands were trembling. Christian wanted to tell himself he needed a drink, but he knew it wasn't true. He had not descended so far into any bottle that he shook when he went without.

  It was Jane Doe making his fingers shake. The woman was unconscious. She was ill, probably mad as well. Her skin, where it wasn't red and blistered, was as pale as salt. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was tangled and matted. He felt sick to his stomach that he noticed other things about her.

  Like her legs. The splendid line of her legs caught more than his artist's eye. He felt an unwelcome tug of man-to-woman attraction. He despised himself for that. And how was he supposed to ignore her breasts? They were lovely, pink-tipped and ivory-smooth. Strictly speaking they were a bit too large for the narrowness of her waist and ribcage, but they held a fullness that made him want to cup their underside, lift them, and... He was disgusting, he thought. He disgusted himself. His thoughts were disgusting. If Scott or Mrs. B. suspected what he was thinking, they would be disgusted with him.

  "Did you say something?" Scott asked.

  Christian blinked. Scott was regarding him strangely. Had he spoken any of his thoughts aloud? "What?"

  "Did you say something?" Scott repeated. He took one of the warm, moist towels that Mrs. Brandywine held out to him and gingerly wrapped it around Jane's head, covering her ears with the wet heat. "I thought you were talking to me."

  "No," Christian said. "No, I didn't say anything."

  Scott frowned slightly, gave Christian a hard look, and then shrugged. "How about wrapping her feet? Don't rub them and don't break the blisters. We will leave the towels on five minutes before we replace them. Mrs. Brandywine?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Is there a warming pan somewhere in this house?"

  "Certainly. I'll get it right away." She dropped the towels in Christian's lap. Ignoring his pained look, the housekeeper bustled out of the room.

  "What's going to happen to her?" Christian asked after they had pulled the covers over Jane and retreated to the far side of the room. "Why doesn't she come around?"

  Scott began steaming more towels using the kettle in the hearth. "She's had a shock," he said simply. "Don't forget all that's been done to her these last six weeks. Her mind is resting now, restoring itself."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I don't, not with any certainty. There's no hard, scientific evidence to support that belief, but I suspect it's true." He paused and added quietly, "I have to hope to God it's true."

  Christian glanced over his shoulder at Jane, and then gave his friend a frank look. "You don't really know any more than Dr. Glenn, do you? This is all just a gamble. Your game may be a little more humane than the good doctor's, but it's still a game, isn't it? You're both using Jane as your personal blue-chip stake. You both think you know what treatment's best for her, and the truth is, neither of you knows a damn thing."

  Scott flushed. "I damn well know that one doesn't need to repeatedly attempt to drown a person to cure a disordered mind. And don't put words in my mouth. I am not saying that Jane's a lunatic. Or at least she wasn't when she was brought to Jennings. Violent? Yes. Disoriented? Certainly. She was hysterical, confused, delusional and possessed of a scream that sent chills up my spine. It remains my best professional opinion that everything I observed initially was related to some drug she was given."

  Christian remained skeptical. "What drug does all that?"

  "A very common one," Scott said. His eyes narrowed pointedly on Christian, then on the outline of the flask in his pocket. "Alcohol. Ever heard of delirium tremens?"

  Christian's applause was light and cynical. "Nicely done, Scott. You can be satisfied that your warning has been heard if not heeded. However, I don't believe for a moment that alcohol had anything to do with Jane's problem. So what drug was it?"

  "Cocaine. Opium. Rat poison. Foxglove. Datura. There are a host of possibilities. The actual dose would make a difference. Something relatively harmless at a low dosage could account for most of Jane's symptoms in larger amounts. Or the drug may have been introduced into her system over time. It could have had an accumulative effect. Hell, Christian, it may have been something I've never heard of. I have no way of knowing with one-hundred-percent accuracy. I would have to do tests, and for those I'd need a sample. You can appreciate the fact that Jane wasn't admitted with any."

  "How do you know the effects of the drug aren't permanent?"

  "I don't."

  "How do you know Glenn's treatments haven't damaged her mind?"

  "I don't."

  "How do you know it's not the pox?"

  That question, at least, Scott was prepared to answer with more certainty. "Generally syphilis takes years to generate insanity. Anyway..."

  "Yes?"

  "She's a virgin."

  Christian almost dropped the towels Scott had been piling in his arms. "What?" He shook his head. "You must be mistaken. Once I was alone with her in the treatment room, she attached herself to me like a leech. Trust me, she knew what she was doing. Jane's used to trading herself for favors."

  "Desperation."

  Christian snorted.

  "I did a thorough examination shortly after she was admitted," Scott said, pressing his position. "It's routine. I had to rule out pregnancy and venereal disease." He paused a beat, and then asked offhandedly, "Is it so hard to believe that she could be a virgin?"

  "Who ever heard of a virgin her age from the Five Points? They pimp children in that quarter."

  Scott tapped the side of his head and smiled, indicating that Christian was finally beginning to grasp the ri
ght idea. "Makes one suspicious, doesn't it?" he said. "Could even lead one to believe that Jane might not be from the Five Points at all."

  Christian followed Scott back to the bed. They began the process of exchanging the towels. "It's not enough, Scott."

  "Not by itself, perhaps, but I told you how she came to be at Jennings."

  "Dr. Glenn told me the same story."

  "Didn't you find it unlikely that two of the Dead Rabbits gang brought her to the hospital? And why Jennings? It's not close."

  "Perhaps the asylums turned her away."

  "You are reaching, but go ahead. It makes my case stronger. I checked other hospitals. There were beds that night. More to the point, no one could recall anyone fitting Jane's description being brought in for admission. That's because the Dead Rabbits did not try. They took her straight to Jennings."

  "Why?"

  "For the same reason they do anything—money. They were paid."

  "By whom?"

  "Now there you have me." He gathered up the used towels while Christian covered Jane again.

  "To what purpose?" asked Christian.

  "I would imagine it was to get her out of the way."

  Christian bent over Jane and rearranged the pillow so that her head and neck were no longer resting at an awkward angle. Satisfied that she was more comfortable, he turned away from the bed and sighed, thoroughly out of patience with Scott's thin explanations. "This is all about that book you read a while back, isn't it? The one about that woman in Illinois. What was her name?"

  "Mrs. Packard."

  "Mmm. Mrs. Packard. She was committed by her husband and—"

  "You don't have to tell me the story. I read it, remember? She was committed to the state insane asylum in Jacksonville, Illinois while perfectly sane. Her husband, a minister, if you recall, managed the thing quite easily. She spent three years there, Christian. Three years. Is it really so difficult to believe that the same thing could happen here, under our very noses?"

  "Frankly? Yes, it is. It sounds as melodramatic as one of those penny dreadfuls Harris Press is always trying to foist on the public." Christian shook his head. "This must be one of the oldest contrivances in literature."

  "But we are not writing a novel. This is real." Frustrated, Scott ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the matter with you, Christian? I thought you used to tilt at windmills, champion unpopular causes. What the hell happened?" Scott caught himself, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry. That wasn't called for. I know what happened almost as well as you do. Damn, but you try my patience. I never expected that you would require so much in the way of convincing, certainly not after you saw firsthand what Jane was going through."

  Christian shrugged. He removed the towel from Jane's head and indicated that Scott should examine her ears again. "Would it be all right if I comb out her hair?"

  "You amaze me," Scott said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're arguing with me every step of the way, yet you care enough to want to untangle that rat's nest?"

  "My arguments have nothing to do with whether or not I care." Christian picked through the contents of a chest of drawers and came up with a boar's-hair brush. He tested the bristles against the palm of his hand, concerned that they would not be soft enough for Jane. It was not quite what he wanted, but he thought it would do. He held it up and looked at Scott inquiringly.

  "Go ahead. Just don't touch her ears with it."

  Christian sat down cautiously at the head of the bed and eased Jane's mass of matted hair from beneath her head. He fanned out her hair on the pillow, tugging on it gently with his fingers, separating the strands as best he could before he used a brush on them. Her hair was the color of dark semi-sweet chocolate, a deep, rich brown that could almost be mistaken for ebony in the dim lamplight.

  "I was appalled by what I saw today," he said after a moment. "Nothing you told me going into this prepared me for what I experienced in the treatment room. I cannot even be sorry that Jane tricked me into helping her escape. Getting her out of there was our plan after all, and she merely took matters into her own hands. No one deserves what was being done to her. What I'm having difficulty understanding is your conviction that Jane is quite sane and that she was brought to Jennings Memorial against her will. There's not enough proof to support that view."

  "There is one more piece of evidence," Scott said, "but I hesitated to bring it up. No doubt you'll think it's as farfetched and fanciful as everything else I've told you."

  Christian smoothed back Jane's hair at the temples and continued brushing with light, rhythmic strokes. Her hair was like chocolate lace against the stark white pillow sham. "Let me make up my own mind," he said. "Alcohol hasn't dulled all my faculties for judgment. Just now I am feeling revoltingly sober."

  Mrs. Brandywine picked that moment to return with the warming pan. Scott took it from her and directed her to have some broth and tea prepared in the event Jane woke. She hurried off again, but not before she had taken in the sight of her employer's careful attentions to Jane. As she retraced her steps back to the kitchen, happy tears smarted her eyes. She made no attempt to wipe them away. They felt exactly right.

  Scott wrapped the warming pan in a towel to protect Jane's skin and slid it under the covers. She moved slightly but did not wake. Scott gathered the cool, damp towels and took them back to the hearth. He stoked the fire under the kettle and started the process of warming them again. "You've heard Jane called the princess, haven't you?"

  Christian nodded. "You've used it once or twice before, though I really didn't think much about it. It caught my attention today when one of the attendants called her that."

  "Did you ask about it?"

  "You know me too well. Yes, I asked the one called Billy. He said that Alice Vanderstell gave Jane that title. That was something of a surprise. I thought Mrs. Vanderstell was dead."

  "Her family probably wishes it were so. She's been at Jennings quite a while, and there's really no hope that she'll ever be allowed to return home."

  "You're not going to tell me she is also there against her will, are you?"

  "I'm sure she's there against her will," Scott replied. "If she had a choice in the matter, she would choose to be in her own home. However, she can't take care of herself there, and her family finds her a social embarrassment. She's disrupted parties they've given and invited complete strangers into the home. She still enjoys an occasional cigar." Scott gave a short laugh. "That would not be a problem except that she's started a number of fires as a result of her habit. Her unpredictable behavior and forgetfulness make her something of a danger to herself and others."

  "I'm not certain where this is leading."

  "Alice has moments of complete lucidity," Scott explained. "But it seems they are all connected, one way or the other, with her past. She recalls events of years ago with startling clarity and accuracy."

  "That's not so unusual, is it?"

  "No, not really. But it's important."

  "How so?"

  "Because she called Jane Doe the princess after only seeing her one time."

  "So? Jane reminded her of someone she knew from her past."

  Scott shook his head impatiently. A lock of hair fell forward, and he brushed it back with the heel of his hand. "It wasn't like that. It was more definite. I was there when it happened, and Alice seemed so certain. Don't you see? What if Jane is someone from Alice's past... someone she actually knew?"

  "Farfetched and fanciful. You were right on both counts." Christian put down the brush on the bedside table and eased off the bed. He sat down in the rocker and absently massaged his leg. "It's difficult to credit that Jane and Alice Vanderstell ever walked in the same social circles."

  "Why? The Marshalls and the Vanderstells could have easily shared a rung on the social ladder. And look at you now. Who would believe it?"

  Christian's jaw sagged a little and his eyes widened at Scott's plain speaking. "You're not pulling any punches, are you
?"

  "I can't afford to. This is important to me."

  "Well, to give your theory a bit of credit, my parents knew the Vanderstells. The family was a touch too high in the instep for my tastes, although it seems I missed something by never making Alice's acquaintance. She really smokes cigars, eh?"

  "Yes, she really does."

  "Imagine that." He slipped the flask out of his breast pocket and unscrewed the cap with his thumb. He ignored Scott's dark look. "You know what's even harder to believe?" he asked, raising the flask to his lips.

  "What's that?"

  "That Jane over there could ever come by a nickname like the princess. I can't think of anyone less suited to the title."

  "I am not so sure you should judge Jane on the way you've seen her thus far. When she's feeling more the thing, I think she'll be rather pretty."

  Christian's mouth pulled to one side. Pretty? It was an insipid description. Her delicate, elegant bone structure was a framework for features that were defined by their exquisite symmetry. When Jane was well she would easily transcend being merely pretty. She would be striking.

  "I was thinking of her demeanor," Christian said, "not her appearance."

  "I think it would be rather hard to affect the manner of a princess when one is being brutalized," Scott said dryly.

  "I suppose so." Christian capped his flask and put it away.

  Scott made a short, mocking bow. "How kind you are to concede that one small point."

  Christian sighed. "I am not saying I won't help. I'm in this up to my neck, and I'm not complaining about that, am I? I simply think your theories are without adequate foundation. That doesn't mean I am going to abandon you or Jane. I have no intention of forcing her out. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. Just don't ask me to involve the paper again. I want as little to do with the Chronicle as possible, and that includes pretending I write stories for it."

  "Am I missing something here? For God's sake, Christian, you own the damn paper. You're the publisher."

  "A set of circumstances that I would remedy if I could legally do so. My father and brothers cared about the Chronicle. I never did. I don't know why you expect their deaths should make a difference in the position I take with the paper. I do what I have to do because people depend on it for their livelihood."