Her Defiant Heart (47 page)

"They look as if they are playing cards, Jenny. It might not be what I want the president of my bank to do during business hours, but as far as I know, it is not illegal."

"You know they are not playing cards."

"I know it because you're telling me. Your photographs are not telling your story. I don't know of a lens that has been made that will do what you want it to do. You cannot have it both ways. If you keep your distance, your pictures will not have enough clarity. If you go closer, you will be sacrificing your safety."

Jenny knew he was right, and it pained her almost beyond bearing. She pitched the photographs into the hatbox. "I need help," she said. The words should not taste so bitter on her tongue, but they did. Feeling the sting of tears, she knuckled her eyes impatiently, and then continued flinging photographs at the box. She felt Christian's hands on her shoulders, and she shrugged him off. "No. Do not be kind to me just yet. I want to be m-miserable right n-now. I am enjoying this."

Christian let her go. "Of course you are. I don't know why I didn't realize it right away."

"You should not be a-amused." Jenny shoved the hatbox away from her. It tipped, spilling the photographs. "Do you see what you've made me do?" It was no good blaming him; it did not make her feel a whit better, and on her next breath, Jenny hunched her shoulders, buried her face in her hands, and began to sob in earnest. "What's wr-wrong with m-me?" she asked mournfully. "Wh-why is this h-happening?"

Christian had no answer for that, but when she came out from behind her hands and went after the scattered photographs, he put a hand on her elbow. "Leave them."

"B-but—"

"Leave them." This time he did not let Jenny shake him off. He stood and brought her with him, swinging her into his arms. Surprise made her hiccup. "I'm putting you to bed, and you are going to stay there until I bring Scott... and then you are going to do exactly what he tells you." He pushed open the door to her bedroom with his foot.

The stern look Christian gave her kept Jenny quiet, but as soon as he set her on the bed, she feinted right and ran in the direction of the bathroom. Christian followed, waited until she was through being sick, then wiped her face with a cool cloth and gave her a glass of water to drink. He helped her to her feet, held her while she continued to weep softly, and then, seeing no end to it, led her back to bed.

"I'm going for Scott now," he said. "Any objections?"

Jenny shook her head. She hiccupped again. "You sh-should get dressed f-first, though."

He kissed her wet cheek and tucked blankets around her. "Thank you. I will do that." He held the image of her pathetic, watery smile the entire way to Scott's and back again.

* * *

"It's no good pacing," Susan said as Christian started his fourth tour of Jenny's parlor. "Sit down, have some tea, and see if Scott has not completed examining Jenny by the time you've finished it." Susan poured a cup of tea for Christian in anticipation of his cooperation. After a brief hesitation, he accepted her direction. Susan sighed with relief. She tried to recall a time when she had seen Christian as agitated as he was now. She could not. Even when Jenny disappeared, he had managed to compose himself because he'd had a course, a purpose. He was helpless now and hating it. As soon as she saw him this evening, Susan knew something was very wrong. She had offered to come along as much for Christian's support as to keep him out of Scott's way while Jenny was examined.

Susan passed a cup of tea to Christian. "What are those?" she asked, pointing to the photographs scattered on the floor.

"Jenny's been taking pictures."

"May I look at them?"

Christian nodded. "I was going to drag you and Scott into this anyway. Perhaps together we could solve Jenny's problem."

"Oh?" She returned the pictures to the hatbox and placed it on her lap. "What problem is that?" she asked as she began to sift through the photographs.

"Later. When Scott is here as well. He might not want to involve you."

Susan snorted lightly. "As if he has a say in the matter."

Christian's eyes warmed for a moment. "Jenny would say something like that."

"I am sure she would." She continued to study the photographs, taking her time with each one as she tried to understand what it was that Jenny was doing. While she looked at them, Christian finished his tea and took to pacing the floor again. He was too occupied in his own thoughts to notice the stillness that had settled over Susan. As for Susan, she said nothing about what she had seen in the photographs, nothing about the fact that she had finally recalled where she'd first seen Jenny Holland.

Christian did give Scott his full attention when he entered the parlor. Susan set the pictures aside. "Well?" they asked simultaneously.

Scott put his bag down on a table and raked back the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. "I have given her something to help her sleep. She's resting now. May I have some tea, Susan?" He sat down beside her while she poured. He could feel Christian's gaze boring through the top of his head. Scott took a large swallow of hot tea before he went on. "Jenny's thoroughly exhausted, Christian. I'd say her weight is down about ten pounds, and she has very little in the way of strength. Emotionally or physically. Whatever it is that she is doing—and she said you would explain—she is done with as far as I am concerned."

"She agreed to that?" asked Christian, surprised.

"It is not a matter of whether she agrees or not." His voice was sharp, and beside him, Susan flinched. "I am her physician, and I say she's done with it."

"Scott," Susan said gently. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Christian's eyes frosted over; fear made his voice cold and stilted and barely audible. "Just how sick is she, Scott? Is she going to die?"

Scott's head jerked upward, and he took full measure of Christian's ashen face. It was unfair of Jenny to put him in this position. "No," he said, willing Christian to believe him. "No, she is not going to die. It is not pneumonia or the influenza. She has worried herself into a near collapse, but it is nothing that rest and regular meals won't take care of."

"You're certain?"

Scott met Christian's suspicious gaze squarely and lied through his teeth. "I'm certain." He finished his tea. "Now tell me what it is that Jenny has been doing here. It seems to me that it has some bearing on her present state of mind."

Christian eased himself into the rocker opposite Susan and Scott. "Show him the photographs, Susan. I'll explain." While Scott and Susan reviewed the pictures together, Christian went over everything Jenny had told him. He pointed out technical problems with the prints as well, showing them where Jenny had made mistakes with exposure time and in developing the image. "Her work is actually quite skillful," he told them, "but the problems are technical, well beyond the solutions that would come with continued trial and error. She can't get the proof she needs at this distance. We have to take the cameras into the bank."

"Of course," Scott said agreeably. "We'll ask William and Stephen to pose in front of the open safe, preferably with their pockets overflowing with treasury notes."

"Oh, Scott," Susan chided. "I'm sure if Christian is suggesting we take the cameras into the bank, then he knows precisely how it might be accomplished."

Christian smiled, appreciative of Susan's confidence even though it was undeserved. "As a matter of fact, Susan, nothing's occurred to me." He picked up one of the photographs and studied it, rocking back and forth gently on the balls of his feet. "But something will... it has to."

* * *

Amalie Chatham's excitement was a near tangible thing. She drew Mr. Todd out of the blue parlor and down the hallway to her office and suite. "Tell me again," she said once they were alone. "You really found her?"

John Todd nodded. He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. Ice crystals melted in his hair. "You were right, Amalie. Christian Marshall was the key. After all this time of following him and getting nowhere, I thought you had to be mistaken about him. But tonight,"—he whistled softly in appreciation of Amalie's quick wits—"tonight your suspicions were confirmed. She's registered as Mrs. Carlton Smith, Room 212 at the St. Mark. That's how Marshall asked for her. He got the room key and—"

"He didn't see you?"

"No. I'm sure of it."

"Did you see her?"

"Well... no," he said reluctantly. "That is, not exactly."

Amalie's excitement vanished so quickly it might never have been. Her emerald eyes flashed. "What do you mean, 'not exactly'? Did you or didn't you see her?"

"No."

Amalie flounced to the sideboard, poured herself a drink, then rounded on John Todd. "Then how do you know who Marshall was seeing?" she asked. "It could have been anyone. My God, Todd, you shouldn't have come back here without making certain. Otherwise what good was it having Maggie wheedle information out of young Bennington? Finally, I hear something that I has merit—namely that William's stepdaughter was committed to Jennings Memorial and that she left through the apparent negligence of Christian Mar—"

Todd held out his hand. "Don't go on, Amalie. I don't want to hear anymore. I'm convinced that Marshall met Bennington's stepdaughter this evening. Look at this and decide for yourself." He picked up his coat, drew a sheet of paper out of one of the pockets, and unfolded it. He did not take it to Amalie; he made her come to him for it. "Marshall dropped this when he was crossing the lobby."

Amalie stared at the sketch. Her mouth slackened, then finally opened in astonishment. "It
is
her."

"I know. I took the sketch to the desk clerk after Marshall went upstairs. He had no difficulty identifying her. According to him, she is Mrs. Carlton Smith, Room 212."

"I don't care what she is calling herself these days. I know who she is, Mr. Todd, and you know how to find her. William Bennington is going to regret trying to turn the tables on me."

* * *

"How are you feeling this morning?" Christian asked, setting a breakfast tray across Jenny's lap.

"The same as I did yesterday, and the day before that,
and
the day before that." She picked up a piece of dry toast and nibbled on the end of it. Her churning stomach settled a little. "Really, Christian, it's been almost two weeks. Don't you think Scott's being a trifle ridiculous, confining me to bed this way?"

"I did not get any sympathy from you when he did the same thing to me."

"That was different. You were pie-faced for far longer than I have been ill."

"So I was."

Jenny moved her legs over so that Christian could sit on the edge of the bed. She could not fault the care he had given her these past ten days. He made certain she ate, saw that she napped, read to her, entertained her with stories about growing up in Marshall House, and promised her that he was working on the problem of the Benningtons and Hancock Trust.

She believed him. As she began to recover her strength, Christian asked her every conceivable question about William Bennington's routine. He wrote everything down, leaving nothing to memory. He knew that there were only two days a month when the Benningtons were likely to take any money—the days when the safe swelled with funds for local payrolls. They never wrote drafts, but always dealt with cash, and it appeared they worked together. Most of what Jenny knew about the thefts came from overheard conversations, but she had observed enough since moving to the St. Mark to understand what was going on in William's office, even when she couldn't see the events clearly. Eventually she satisfied all of Christian's concerns, but she was never privy to the ideas he was entertaining. As far as Jenny knew, Christian still had not arrived at a solution to their technical problems.

"Eat something," he prompted, nudging the piece of toast toward her mouth again. "When Scott left you in my charge I promised not to let you waste away."

"That's hardly likely to happen." She dutifully took a bite of toast. "Are you going to paint today?"

"No." He glanced toward her bedroom window. "Too cloudy, and I doubt if it will clear. You should have agreed to come back to my house, Jenny. Then I wouldn't have all these problems with the light. Of course you would probably freeze in my studio. I don't think spring is coming this year. I hear they are still skating in the Park."

Jenny sighed. She would have liked to go there with Christian. "May I see the portrait?"

"No. Not until it's finished." It was the same answer he had given her since he'd begun. His easel sat in one corner of Jenny's bedroom, covered with a sheet. His paints and palette and brushes were scattered on a table, which he had hopelessly damaged with splatterings of color. "At the risk of being called immodest, I can tell you it is one of the best things I've ever done."

"So you say. If I had my way you wouldn't be painting me at all right now. Why would you want to paint someone with sallow skin, shadows under her eyes, and a bony chin? You might have waited until I fill out a little more."

"I am filling you out as I go along," he said. "It is an artist's prerogative."

Jenny gave him an arch look and pointed to her tray. "Take this away, please. I cannot eat anything else."