Secret of the Wolf (12 page)

compulsion, his compulsion to remain and seek mending for the wounds even he didn't

understand
.

His compulsion to stay near her—his healing goddess. His Valkyrie
.

For your sake, Johanna, I pray that the answers aren't more dangerous than the

questions
.

Johanna loved the early morning, before any of the patients but May had left their

rooms—when she had the garden and wood and orchard to herself, and plenty of time

to think
.

She walked out to the orchard while the dawn air was still lightly touched with mist and

the old bantam rooster was completing his ritual welcome to the sun. The neatly pruned

apple, peach, and walnut trees in their measured rows, like the vineyard on the other

side of the house, contrasted sharply with the wild woods on the hillside beyond
.

The vineyard and orchard were unmistakable emblems of man's imposition of order

upon nature. Even in the short time Johanna had been in the Valley, she'd seen more

fields put to the vine, more houses built for the men and women who worked this rich

land. Yet it retained its loveliness
.

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Such order could be a very good thing, like a physician's aid when complications beset

a woman's ordinary process of birth. Or when the mind turned upon itself and must be

cured with the help of science
.

Johanna leaned against the trunk of a mature apple tree, striving to arrange her

thoughts in similar tidy ranks. She'd spent a restless night after yesterday's conversation

with Quentin, her mind wholly taken up with the new patient, and not to any useful

purpose. It wasn't at all like her to lose sleep just because she encountered the

unexpected in her work
.

But Quentin had managed to surprise her. His rapid and unprompted transition into an

hypnotic state was startling enough, but then to witness what must surely have been a

reliving of some great anguish in his past

She pushed away from the tree and began to walk down the center of the row, hands

clasped behind her back. It wasn't as if Quentin's capability for such retrogression was

unique in Johanna's experience. He clearly hadn't known what he'd revealed during the

incident outside Harper's room; amnesia for such episodes was typical. His ravings

were those of a man trapped in a situation of great stress and suffering; he had been

stricken with the kind of grief and horror she had seen in another of her patients. But

Harper was seldom so lucid
.

She remembered how Quentin had slipped with equal swiftness from an embattled state

to one quite different, behaving in such a way that she hadn't been able to tell if he were

genuinely enervated or playing the rake. His "affectionate" conduct had certainly

suggested the latter
.

Her cheeks felt warm, in spite of the morning coolness. She was beginning to see that

Quentin's ready laughter and flirtatious speech were all part of the way he protected

himself, his kind of defense against what was too terrible to bear, like Lewis's washing

and Irene's delusions
.

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But what had he borne? Had Quentin Forster been a soldier? His words and expression

during the episode implied it. Many former soldiers had turned to drink to blot out

memories they couldn't tolerate. She had visited asylums housing men driven insane by

the War. Most could not be cured
.

Not by conventional methods. Not while so many asylum superintendents and

neurologists believed that all madness was hereditary or came from physical lesions in

the brain. Papa had never subscribed to that conventional belief. "Insanity," he had said,

"is never simple.”

Johanna turned at the end of the row and moved to the next, plucking a leaf from a

dangling branch. Insanity was never simple, nor was her as-yet-unproven theory. It was

still new, tested only by the smallest increments for the safety of her patients. But she'd

begun to see results
.

The first time she and Papa had witnessed what she called "mental retrogression,"

she'd been treating Andersen under Papa's supervision. While Andersen was

hypnotized, he began to speak, spontaneously and unpredictably, of events that had

occurred in his past—events that had clearly contributed to his illness
.

Papa had been fascinated, ready to pursue this new avenue with his customary

impetuosity. But Andersen had come out of his trance, and they'd had to postpone a

second attempt. Papa's attack stopped any further exploration of their discovery
.

But Johanna had never forgotten. During the past year she had taken it up again. She

began cautiously, meticulously guiding Andersen into a past he was unwilling to speak

of outside the hypnotic state. She walked with him through the very ordeals that had

twisted his mind into its present illness
.

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And the treatment was working. Slowly, step by painfully slow step, it was working.

Lewis had improved. Her tentative theory came into being, fragile as a new grape in

spring
.

The mind hid from itself. It was able to conceal its own darkest desires, its greatest

fears, those most unpleasant memories it did not want to remember. And when it did so,

it inevitably warped the personality out of its proper channels. Until those thoughts and

memories were exposed to the light of the conscious mind
.

Johanna had become more and more certain that her new method, based upon Papa's

work, was the right one to pursue. Why, then, did she question herself when she

thought of treating Quentin Forster with that same method? As if by fate, he had

appeared on her doorstep—a man who might prove to be the perfect subject: easily

hypnotized, suffering from unbearable memories of his past, but clear-minded enough

to cooperate. And to wish for healing
.

But he was not a "subject." He was as real and important to her as any of the others, for

all the briefness of their acquaintance
.

Johanna unclenched her fingers and let the crushed leaf fall. This idle speculation was

unproductive; she'd already made the decision. She'd assured Quentin that she would

help him, tried to allay his natural fears. She must not doubt herself if she was to

succeed
.

She went back to the house, pausing to throw feed to the chickens. That was usually

May's job, as was collecting the eggs, but the girl had neglected her duties this morning
.

Reminded of the letter in her pocket, Johanna drew it out and opened the envelope.

Mrs. Ingram's missives from Europe were infrequent, always sent general delivery and

without a return address, but at least the woman made some inquiries after her

daughter's welfare, and expressed the intention to come for her eventually. What she

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did across the ocean she kept to herself, except for her occasional hints about working

to make sure that she and May need never live in fear again
.

Johanna kept the letters hidden from May. Until Mrs. Ingram actually arrived, there was

no point in getting the girl's hopes up. Two years had passed; many more might do so

before May's mother saw fit to come for her
.

She scanned the first lines of the letter and inadvertently crumpled the edge of the

paper. The promises in this one were much more explicit than any before. "Please keep

my daughter safe," the last lines said. "I will return for her very soon.”

The statement might even be true. But if it were not, Mrs. Ingram need have no fear for

May's safety
.

She pushed the letter back in her pocket and looked up to find the subject of her

musings only a few yards away. May was standing at the border of the garden in her

plain, loose-fitting dress, poised on the edge of flight. The object of her riveted attention

was Quentin Forster
.

He stood as still as she, with the absolute motionlessness of a wild animal. He and May

regarded each other minute by minute, as if in silent communication. Then Quentin held

out his hand and spoke. Johanna couldn't hear his words, but the tones were low and

soothing. He smiled. May flinched, eyes wide, and stared at his hand
.

Of course Quentin didn't know any better; she'd failed to properly warn him. May was

terrified of strangers, men especially, and Quentin was, in spite of his leanness, an

imposing figure. Johanna felt an instinctive need to protect May from any discomfort he

might inadvertently cause her. She prepared to go to the girl's rescue
.

Then a miracle happened. May reached out to brush Quentin's fingers with hers,

withdrew her hand, repeated the gesture. Quentin spoke again, and her piquant, heart-

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shaped face broke out in a tremulous smile. She answered him, her voice hardly more

than a whisper
.

The magical moment passed, as it must. May remembered her fear and backed away.

Quentin didn't try to hold her. He watched her run off, a faint frown between his brows.

Concern. Why should he care about a girl who was a stranger to him?

Why should he not, if he were a decent man? Inebriety, even insanity, did not always

destroy what was fundamentally good in a human being
.

She strode along the graveled path to join him on the other side of the garden. His

engaging smile was back in place by the time she reached him
.

"I've finally met your May," he said
.

"So I see." She looked him over severely. "You ought to have remained in bed.”

"But I had so little incentive. I've always felt that sleeping was a very poor use for a good

bed.”

This time she managed to control her blush. "A return of your illness will be incentive

enough." But he hardly looked as though he needed more time to rest. He'd thrown off

his debilitation as if it had never existed. "You have no lingering weakness, no distress?”

"Nothing that a dose of your healing touch wouldn't cure.”

"I am surprised, Mr.—Quentin." She must not treat him differently than any of the

others. Using first rather than surnames and formal address helped build trust, and she

could not abandon the practice simply because it smacked of a greater intimacy when

used with this man. "May generally refuses to go anywhere near strangers. She seldom

even approaches any of the other patients, except for Oscar. What did you say to her?”

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He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I told her a secret.”

What sort of secret? she almost blurted out. Instead, she considered how much she

was prepared to trust him with May's well-being
.

"I have no objection to you speaking with her

if you are very careful. It might help her

to realize that not all men are—" She stopped herself from revealing too much. "Just

remember that she is fragile, and cannot be pushed.”

He glanced the way she'd gone. "Poor child. But you are helping her.”

"I do what I can," she said coolly. Within the unconstraint and surprising rapport of their

conversation lay a trap—that of treating Quentin more like a colleague or sympathetic

friend than a patient
.

"Breakfast should be ready soon," she said, starting for the house. "Let us go in.”

He raised his head to sniff the air. "I thought I smelled cooking." His stomach rumbled

audibly
.

"I see that you have a healthy appetite," she said dryly. "Mrs. Daugherty arrives early

five days a week to cook breakfast, so we shall have something substantial this

morning.”

Together they went in the back door of the house, passing the patients' rooms. Johanna

sent Quentin ahead to the kitchen and looked in on Harper. He sat by the window,

staring at the drawn curtains. No change
.

If she could succeed in helping Quentin, there might be hope for Harper as well
.

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The others, with the exception of May, were already gathered about the large oak table

in the center of the kitchen. Laid out on the cheerful gingham tablecloth were plates of

sliced bread, a crock of fresh butter, a pitcher of milk, and a wedge of cheese
.