Cate Campbell (29 page)

Margot sat down, and drew the cap toward her. She gazed at it as Frank explained that he had seen Carter out of town, that he had thought it best under the circumstances. “I hoped, if the rumors stopped—”

She nodded. “I appreciate that, Frank. It’s too late, unfortunately.”

“Is it?”

“It hardly seems to matter now, when Blake is all I can think of.” She turned her dark eyes up to him, and they were so sad his heart twisted with sympathy. “I went before the board this morning. They revoked my hospital privileges, because Preston told them I performed Loena’s abortion. As if I would have botched such a simple procedure!”

He sat opposite her, shaking his head, stunned by the unfairness of it. His arm ached, but that was no surprise. The whole world was full of pain.

“Blake found that out, and he was furious,” Margot said. “He was going to talk to Father, he said. I can’t think why he was driving Preston, or where they were going. He never did that.” She looked around the cramped kitchen. “Blake used to fix us cocoa up here,” she said in a small, flat voice. “Sometimes when it rained. And cinnamon toast. He let me use the toasting rack. Mother was never around, you know, and Blake was—he was—” She made an awful sound in her throat, more a groan than a sob. She buried her face in her hands and hunched forward, as if she could hold in her grief that way.

“Margot!” Frank got up, kicking his chair out of the way, and went to kneel beside her. He was on the wrong side, and it was awkward to try to reach his right arm around her, but somehow he managed. “Margot, for God’s sake. Cry if you need to.”

“He’s a
servant!”
Her voice was muffled by her hands. “Everyone will say he’s a
servant,
only Father’s Negro butler—but he’s so much more!” Her shoulders shook, and he held her tighter, as tightly as his one arm and strained position would allow. “No one will understand.” She shook with emotion within the circle of his arm. “Without Blake, I wouldn’t have survived my childhood. No one believes me, not even Dick, but Frank—Preston would have killed me! He tried, over and over again, and only Blake—”

Frank wanted to pry her hands away from her face, to draw her head to his shoulder, but he had no way to do that. Frustrated, feeling useless, he could only whisper, as she sobbed into her hands, “It’s all right, Margot. It’s going to be all right. Sweetheart, I’m right here.”

 

Margot, when the storm of her tears subsided, was afraid to show her face. She knew it must be red and swollen, and her nose as runny as an urchin’s. She drew a shuddering breath as she sat up, and tried to turn to one side.

She found Frank’s handkerchief, neatly ironed and folded, in front of her. With a little hiccup of thanks, she took it. When she had dried her eyes and blown her nose, she kept it. “I’ll see it’s cleaned,” she said lamely.

“Throw it away.” He helped her up, but she kept her eyes averted.

In a voice raw with weeping, she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“For being human?” She felt his arm come around her again, and she pulled away for fear the flood would return. He stepped back, a little stiffly.

“I don’t—I just don’t want to cry anymore, Frank. It won’t help Blake, and it never does any good that I can see.”

He said with a touch of irony, “I wouldn’t know.”

She managed a shaky laugh. “Most women cry often, I guess. I learned a long time ago that tears are a waste of time.”

“Not if they make you feel better.”

“Well.” She made a futile attempt to smooth her hair, then gave it up. “I suppose I feel a little bit better.” She looked at him then, and tried to smile. Her lips felt thick and unsteady. “Maybe you should try it.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “No, thanks,” he said.

“No. I didn’t suppose you would.” She wiped her eyes again. “I’d better get back to the hospital. Blake’s nurse will need time off, and I don’t know if there’s anyone else to stay with him.”

“I’ll take you there.”

She gave him a grateful look. “Thank you,” she said. “That would be good, Frank.” She turned to Blake’s bedroom. “I want to take some things to him,” she said. “Nightclothes. A dressing gown. Maybe his toothbrush—what else does a man need?”

“Razor. Shaving soap and brush. Comb.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Together, they went in search of these things. They were easily found among Blake’s simple, orderly possessions. There was a suitcase on the top shelf of the wardrobe, as well, an ancient cardboard one with a cracked handle. Frank pulled it down, and Margot looked at it doubtfully. “It’s awfully old,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Doesn’t smell too good,” Frank said.

“I’ll get one of mine. I have an overnight case we can use.” They turned toward the stairwell, Margot’s arms full of clothes, and Frank carrying the shaving things.

Just at the top of the stairs, Margot stopped beside the peg rack. A sweater hung there, one he sometimes wore on cool nights. There was nothing else. “Why wasn’t he wearing his driving coat? And—where’s his cane?”

“He carried a cane?”

“No, he never carried it, but he had one. It had a marble head on it in the shape of a lion—we always loved looking at it when we were children, though we weren’t allowed to touch it. I think it belonged to someone he knew, out in South Carolina. His parents were slaves, you know. That cane always stayed right there, leaning against the rack. Always.”

“Was it worth stealing?”

“I don’t think so. The head was marble, but it wasn’t very big. The wood was cracked. It looked old.”

“Maybe he took it with him.”

Margot touched the spot on the wall where the carved lion’s head had always rested. The violets on the wallpaper were darker there. “You can see,” she said softly. “It was just like Blake—always where it was supposed to be. I can’t imagine what happened to it.”

They went downstairs and took another look inside the car, behind the seats, in the back. There was nothing there. Margot touched the steering wheel with her hand, remembering Blake driving away from her, supposedly on his way to speak with Dickson.

“I wonder if he changed his mind,” she murmured. She straightened, and stepped back. Frank closed the dented car door with some difficulty. Side by side, they went into the house.

Preston watched from the window at the back of the hall as Margot and Frank Parrish emerged from the door at the side of the garage. They had been, obviously, in Blake’s apartment. Parrish carried what looked like a shaving mug in one hand. Margot had clothes folded over her arm. Her face was awful, red and swollen. Probably sniveling on Parrish’s shoulder, running on and on about Blake’s fine qualities.

Preston withdrew from the window and dropped the curtain back over it. He turned toward his own bedroom, thinking a bit of a lie-down was in order. His broken arm hurt like the devil, and the dose of morphine prescribed for him by that twit Miles barely touched the pain. If he propped himself on pillows, though, and laid the sapphire on top of his cast, that seemed to help. He would do that, and keep a quilt over him in case someone came in. He would double the dose, too. His supply was getting low, but if he ran out, Leona could go on the streetcar to Bartell’s.

It was too bad to be laid up this way. He would have to dictate his column to a stenographer instead of writing it out. Of course, he would contrive to look wan and noble as he did it, and that wouldn’t be bad at all. He would see her admiring him—the uncomplaining victim of a terrible accident, the humble savior of an elderly servant—that would be fine. The role of hero suited him.

He drew his bedroom curtains against the lowering sun, and folded himself beneath the embroidered quilt, the stone with its silver chain draped over the plaster of Paris immobilizing his arm. He lay back against the pile of pillows, and stared at the crown molding above his head.

It was too bad about old Blake, really. But he had gone too far. Pushed Preston to the edge one time too many, and paid the price for it. Pity he hadn’t turned up his toes right away. Would have been easier on everyone if he had. But that was Blake for you. You had to give it to the cagey bugger—he was tough, especially for an old man. From what Margot said, though, it shouldn’t be long now.

The double dose of morphine began to do its work. Preston smiled drowsily up at the ceiling. It had all worked out rather well, actually. They all believed Blake’s heart had given out, and even though Margot had her doubts, in a matter of hours Blake should be out of the way for good, and the matter settled. Parrish, with no job and his name on every blacklist in Seattle—nice bit of work, that—would surely have to go to some other city in search of work. There would be only Margot to settle.

He closed his eyes. Of course it had all gone just as he planned. There had never really been any doubt. Once he made up his mind, set his course, he would always have what he wanted, what was rightfully his. Nothing could stop him, just as
she
had let nothing stop
her.

He folded his right hand around the sapphire and fell into an easy, satisfied sleep.

 

When Preston woke again, the light had begun to fade in his room. He lay for a moment, feeling a little fuzzy from the morphine, wondering why no one had called him for dinner. He pushed the quilt away, and retrieved the sapphire from where it had slipped beneath him. He looped the chain around his neck, and got up to push back the curtains.

It was true, the sun had set beyond the Olympics. He could see a ferry with lighted windows sailing across the inky waters of Elliott Bay, and the mountains were only gray silhouettes against the dim sky. Preston dug a fresh shirt out of his chest of drawers and worked his way into it. It was damnably difficult with just one hand, and he felt a rush of irritation at his mother. She should have known he needed help. And she had let him miss dinner, which was strange. Hattie, he felt sure, would have insisted someone wake him.

He found a way to put his shirt on with relative ease, but the buttons were a struggle, and the tie was impossible. How did Parrish manage this every day? It must take a lot of practice. Parrish was getting that, of course. He himself didn’t intend to be one-handed long enough to become adept.

When he opened his bedroom door, the aroma of frying chicken met him, and he heard the clatter of Hattie cranking the potato ricer in the kitchen. It was damned odd that dinner had not yet been served. He started down the stairs, and met Leona coming up.

She stopped when she saw him, and bobbed a nervous curtsy. “Mr. Preston,” she said, keeping her eyes on her shoes. “Mrs. Edith sent me to fetch you. It’s dinner soon.”

“It’s almost nine o’clock!” Preston said irritably.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She stood aside so he could pass her on the stairs, then followed him down the hall. She ducked into the kitchen, and Preston went on into the small parlor, where he found his brother and sister-in-law and both his parents gathered. Preston stiffened when he saw that Frank Parrish was there, as well, with a tumbler of Father’s good scotch in his hand.

Edith jumped up from her chair when she saw Preston. “Oh, Preston, dear,” she said, hurrying across the room. “Your tie! Let me help you!”

He wanted to slap her hands away, but he did need the help. He stood still as she worked the knot, looking down at her fair head, and made himself say sweetly, “No dinner yet, Mater?”

“Your father asked Major Parrish to go to the hospital to fetch Margot, so I put dinner back. They’ve just arrived. Margot ran up to change her frock.” She patted the finished tie. He looked down, and saw she had done a creditable job of a four-in-hand knot. In fact, she had bought him this tie, one of the new bias-cut ones. He experienced a little rush of affection for her, and as she stepped back, he bent to kiss her cheek. “You’re a peach, Mater,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “Come now, you must be ravenous,” she said, taking his arm. She guided him toward the door, saying over her shoulder, “Major Parrish, please do come to the dining room.”

Parrish, silent as usual, followed at a little distance. Preston debated how to behave toward him. It was a nuisance to have him here, of course, but obviously he and Margot had formed an attachment, and to object to it now would only make him look petty. Who else was ever going to be attracted to a woman like Margot? He could afford to be generous, surely. After all, Parrish should soon be out of the picture.

Preston patted his mother’s hand as they reached the door. “Go on without me, Mother,” he murmured. “I’ll be there in just a moment.” He waited in the doorway, letting Ramona pass, Dick, then his father. When there was only Parrish left, he put out his hand, keeping his face solemn. “Cowboy. Thanks for helping the pater out with the car. It’s all such a bloody mess.”

He could see Parrish hesitate. He, too, must wonder how they should go on after their little skirmish. Of course, he couldn’t know Preston had blackballed him, but . . .

Parrish looked down at his outstretched hand, but he made no move to touch it. He brought his gaze to Preston’s face, and his eyes were like blue ice edged in charcoal, cold and hard and unforgiving. Preston’s neck began to burn. He pulled his hand back, and shoved it into his pocket.

Parrish said, “Delighted to help Mr. Benedict in any way I can,” and then, infuriatingly, stepped right past Preston and on down the hallway.

A scathing insult rose in Preston’s brain. It almost reached his lips, but before he could speak it, Margot came dashing down the stairs to catch up with Parrish at the door to the dining room. She smiled at him as she took his arm, and the two of them went inside without giving Preston so much as a courteous glance.

There was nothing he could do but follow. Every atom of his body seethed with sudden fury, but he had to paste a smile on his face and pretend that nothing had happened. There was a bit of fuss and bustle as everyone took their chairs. Preston sat next to his mother, as usual. When he looked up, he saw that Margot was still smiling, looking less tired and worn than earlier. He leaned forward, hoping to take control of this damnable situation.

“Doc?” he said, his voice throbbing with what he thought was appropriate gravitas, preparing for terrible news. “Tell us about Blake. Is there any improvement?”

Margot turned to face him. Her voice sounded sharp and deliberate, as if she understood very well how deeply her words would cut. “He’s awake, Preston. Blake is awake, and resting comfortably.”

 

Frank watched Preston as Margot gave him the news. His smooth features hardened, changing the shape of his face. His full lips thinned, and Frank thought they might actually pull back from his teeth like an angry dog’s.

The moment was gone in an instant. Preston recovered himself, cooing, “Wonderful! Mater, isn’t that the best news?” in a way that made Frank’s skin crawl.

“It’s marvelous,” Edith said. She put one hand on her delicately powdered cheek. “We’re all so relieved. Do tell us about it, Margot.”

Hattie and Leona came in with the platter of fried chicken and a bowl of mashed potatoes. Margot waited until everyone was served before she said, “We decided to try a Nativelle’s granule of digitalin, and watch him closely. The side effects can be—” She broke off, and her glance slid sideways to her mother. “They can be unpleasant,” she said.

She had explained the specific risks to Frank: nausea and diarrhea. Vomiting, she had told him, was dangerous in an unconscious patient, so she and the nurse—Nurse Church—had watched Blake closely as they gave the first dose. She had described all this to him, whispering in his ear as they rode in the streetcar, then speaking in a normal voice as they climbed the hill to Fourteenth Avenue. She had conferred with Henderson, then administered the digitalin with the greatest care.

Her eyes glowed now as she said to her family, “Blake responded almost at once, moving his hands, trying to lift his head. We waited two hours, as Dr. Henderson suggested, and gave him another granule. He opened his eyes, and when I touched his hand, he squeezed my fingers.”

Preston said, “Doesn’t sound like much, doc.”

Margot responded calmly. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But now that we know he tolerates it well, he’ll receive more digitalin in the morning. I expect soon he’ll be able to speak, to tell us how he feels. We should know more then.”

“And his heart, Margot?” Dickson asked.

“The heartbeat is significantly stronger, and much more regular already,” she said. “I’m so grateful to Dr. Henderson for his advice. It would have been hard to make this treatment decision on my own.”

Frank heard a sniffle, and looked up to see Hattie standing inside the doorway, listening. She was dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her apron. Margot turned in her chair. “Hattie, it will take some time, but I think Blake will recover.”

“Oh, thank the good Lord, Miss Margot!” Hattie dropped her apron and smoothed it. “Thank the good Lord! You tell him we’re all just so glad!”

“I will,” Margot said. “You can tell him soon yourself.”

Hattie, with a tearful smile, nodded, and turned. “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot the gravy boat.” They heard her heavy step down the hall, and the swish of the kitchen door.

Dick said, “Gosh, Margot, that was good work. I’m so glad.”

Edith said, “Yes, indeed, dear. We’re all proud of you.” Dickson nodded, and Frank thought his chest puffed just a bit as he regarded his daughter across the table.

Even Ramona said, “It’s wonderful, Margot. First you saved Loena, and now Blake!”

“I don’t know that I saved either of them, but I’m flattered you see it that way.” Margot smiled again. Frank thought she looked transformed. Her cheeks glowed with a bit of color, and even her dark hair seemed to shine. She looked as if she’d had a week of rest, though he knew she had slept no more than a few hours in the last two days. Blake, he reflected, was a very special man to have won such devotion.

Only Preston was silent. They all began on Hattie’s fried chicken, and general conversation sprang up around the table. The riced potatoes and cream gravy were delicious, and if the chicken was a little dry, Frank thought Hattie could be forgiven because of the delay of dinner. Loena, he knew, was resting upstairs. Dickson had persuaded his wife, with some difficulty, to allow her to return to her post when she was recovered, though she was forbidden to ever mention her “little difficulty.”

Peace, it seemed, reigned in Benedict Hall.

 

Margot, despite her relief at Blake’s improvement and her own weariness, found it difficult to sleep that night. The house was breathlessly hot, and though she opened her window, there was hardly enough breeze to stir the drooping leaves of the thirsty camellia. She folded back her quilt, and lay down under just the sheet, wearing her thinnest nightdress.

It wasn’t the heat, though, that kept her wakeful. She found herself listening for the furtive creak of a floorboard, the muffled click of a door opening in the bedroom across the hall from her own. She wanted to call the hospital and leave strict orders that Abraham Blake was to have no visitors, but since she was not officially on his case—and in fact was violating the board’s edict even by treating him in the hospital—she didn’t dare.

After dinner, she had walked with Frank as far as Aloha. The fading light outlined his clear profile, the set of his chin, and she had felt a swell of admiration for this taciturn man. She kept her hand under his right arm as they walked, and she confessed her fear that Preston would try to get to Blake, to stop him reporting on whatever had happened above Jefferson Park.

Frank said, “I could stay and watch the house.”

“You can’t just sit in the park all night.”

He nodded back toward the great brick water tower. “Could lounge on the stairs there, in the dark, and see that no one leaves Benedict Hall.”

She shook her head. “The police patrol the park every night. If they saw you watching the house, they’d probably put you in jail.”

“They don’t have to see me.”

“Frank. Can you imagine if they did? After what you’ve already been through?”