“So how was it you didn’t know he had a daughter?”
Blast and bother!
Her stomach lurched and she scrambled for her handkerchief.
“I think we’ve had quite enough questions about me, Mr. Smith. I don’t think it’s seemly for a hired hand to be so familiar.”
“Why not?”
Her mouth worked for a moment as she sought a suitable answer. “Because you already know far too much about me, while I know hardly anything at all about you. I doubt that you would enjoy matters if the tables were turned and I was the one interrogating you.”
“Feel free to ask me anything you like.”
Louisa knew that she should resist the temptation he offered. She had no business asking this man about himself. Her only defense against his allure would lie in keeping him at a distance—and knowing the intimate details of his life wouldn’t help.
But even as her brain churned out a list of reasons why she should call a halt to their conversation, she found herself asking, “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Smith?”
When he grinned, she flushed.
Why hadn’t she begun her interview with something more bland, more mundane?
“Why, Mrs. Winslow, I’m impressed with your audacity,” he drawled.
She clenched her teeth to keep from offering a pithy—and very unladylike—response.
“As a matter of fact, I am currently courting a very fine young lady.”
Courting? The man was courting another woman and at the same time kissing Louisa?
“Her name is Betty.”
“Betty?”
“She’s a barmaid at a little tavern I frequently visit.”
A tavern or a saloon?
“She’s a fine one, Betty. Granted, she’s had a tough time of it since she lost a tooth in a brawl—”
She’d lost a tooth?
“—but as long as she keeps her mouth closed, she’s still a looker.”
Smith suddenly stopped, then tipped his head to the side as if considering something. “I don’t suppose you would help me woo the girl, would you, Mrs. Winslow?”
Her fingers curled so tightly around the strings of her reticule that she could feel her nails biting into her gloves.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s a bit persnickity about the kind of fellow she entertains.”
I’ll just bet.
“She keeps telling me that my manners are too rough for her delicate sensibilities.”
“I can see why.”
“We’ll be marrying soon.”
He was nearly married to one woman, yet he was kissing her? Louisa thought, stunned. Jealousy surged through her, but was quickly doused by a slow anger.
“You’re engaged?”
“No, no. Not yet. Betty hasn’t agreed to my proposal. Like I said, she thinks I need some polishing.”
Saints preserve them, the two of them made an appalling pair. Louisa had been widowed only a few days and John was all but betrothed—yet neither one of them could control the awareness that pulled them together time and time again.
Although Louisa might have expected as much of John, she was disturbed by her own waywardness. Had she no pride? No sense of respectability?
Without thinking, she swung out her hand and slapped John Smith hard across the cheek.
“There’s lesson number one, Mr. Smith. Never, never toy with the affections of one woman when you are clearly involved with another.”
Then, lifting her skirts, she marched back to the carriage, her chin high, her breast filled with outrage…
And her heart aching in a way she didn’t completely understand.
The rest of the journey was made in an uncomfortable silence. Through it all, Louisa sat rigidly, damning the fact that she had ever met John Smith or that she’d had the lack of foresight to have melted in his arms—not once, but on numerous occasions.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she cursed herself for her foolishness, even as she tried to repair her emotional defenses.
She had a life for herself now. A full life. A meaningful life. She had responsibilities, obligations…
Pressures.
Again she laid a hand on her stomach, praying that the jouncing of the carriage wouldn’t make her physically ill. She really didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d been so certain that her health would return to rights once she’d “come home.”
If anything, her condition had grown worse. Rather than occasional bouts of nausea when she was most nervous or upset, she seemed to suffer continually—as if she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Worse yet, her condition seemed to be plaguing her with a trembling weakness and the inability to sleep. Her head pounded, her body ached with weariness….
No wonder she had been so weak as far as John Smith was concerned. She wasn’t feeling well. And when a person didn’t feel well, one often made mistakes in judgment.
Didn’t one?
“This is it.”
She jerked herself from her thoughts as John gently brought the carriage to a stop. She studied the imposing iron gates, and in the distance, the craggy, sprawling facade of Hildon Hall.
The moment her eyes began to absorb the scene, she felt a chill run through her veins. Woodenly, she lifted the veil away and tossed it backward as she read the sign that hung discreetly from a post near the front gate.
Hildon Hall
School for Unfortunates
“There must be some mistake,” Louisa breathed, more to herself than to John.
“I don’t think so,” he said grimly.
Touching the reins to the horse’s flanks, he urged the animal onward.
From the moment their carriage stopped in front of the main doors, it was obvious that their unannounced arrival was far from welcome. Hostile stares and expressions of complete disbelief followed their progress.
“Do you get the feeling that we’ve broken one of their rules?” John asked under his breath as he helped her step from the carriage.
She nodded, dropping the veil of her bonnet over her face again, needing the anonymity of the black lace to hide her instinctive reactions. Emotions crested over her, one on top of the other like an incoming tide—confusion, horror, fear.
What would cause a father to send his only child to an institution such as this?
But even as the thought arrived, she knew from her own life that such a practice wasn’t completely unknown.
John took her arm and looped it around his own. Despite the fact that after their argument on the bridge she had sworn she would never let him touch her again, she clung to him for strength.
Ignoring the glare of a nearby groundskeeper, they climbed the outer steps and entered the heavy wood-and-glass doors.
Inside, the corridor held the unpleasant odors of musty books, floor wax and boiled cabbage. The tiles beneath their feet were cracked and showed distinct signs of wear. The benches that lined the walls were scarred and broken.
“Not a very cheery place, is it?”
“Charity schools rarely are,” she said faintly. The sights and sounds caused a rush of memories to tumble through her head.
The orphanage where she’d spent most of her childhood wasn’t much different than this. Even there, the air had hung thick with the pervading sense of discipline and disgust, loneliness, isolation…
She’d suffered for years.
Until she’d found a friend in Neil Ballard. They’d become inseparable until he’d been taken back to America. It was that enduring friendship that had inspired Louisa to write to him for help when she’d found herself destitute in London.
Shame swept through her. How easily she had abandoned that friendship. And for what? Money? A life of ease?
Louisa was swiftly learning that even those with great wealth had their troubles. She was beginning to wonder if happiness was an illusion that all men sought, but no one really attained.
John stopped in front of a door with the word Offi
ce stenciled in chipped white paint. Tapping on it twice, he twisted the knob and ushered Louisa inside without waiting for a response.
A woman was bent over a desk, her brow creased as she pored over a ledger filled with numbers. At their entry, she looked up so suddenly that the pince-nez balanced on her nose trembled and the chain that secured it to her bodice shook.
“Who—”
“This is Mrs. Charles Winslow III. She has come to retrieve her stepdaughter.”
Louisa was grateful for the way John took matters into his own hands. The fact that he had announced her presence in a deep, booming voice seemed to give far more credit to the spontaneity of her arrival.
The woman’s eyes widened and she stood, dropping the papers on the desk.
“Mrs. Winslow?”
“I believe that you were sent a telegram stating that Mrs. Winslow was Evie’s new guardian.”
The woman snatched the spectacles from the bridge of her nose, folding them precisely.
“Yes, of course. But naturally, with all that has occurred, I was sure that Mrs. Winslow…that Evie…” Obviously rattled, she took a deep breath, then asked, “Why exactly are you here, Mrs. Winslow?”
“I’ve come to take her home.”
The woman blinked, offered a mirthless laugh, then sobered when she realized that Louisa had spoken in earnest.
“How long will she be visiting?”
“She won’t be visiting, Mrs—” Louisa read the name carved into the placard on the desk “—Mrs. Bitterman. Since the death of her father is bound to affect Evie deeply, I intend to have the rest of her education conducted at home.”
The woman smiled as if Louisa had offered the punch line to a joke, but when Louisa didn’t respond, she quickly cleared her throat.
“Mrs. Winslow, Evie has been with us for quite some time.” When Louisa didn’t respond, she said, “Years. She’s been with us for years.” She pressed her lips together in a thin white line. “Mrs. Winslow, I don’t think that you fully appreciate the challenges that will be involved with keeping that girl at home.”
Chapter Fourteen
That girl.
Louisa stiffened as Mrs. Bitterman’s phrase echoed in her head. There was a hidden slur to the comment, a note of disapproval.
“Mrs. Bitterman, have you received a telegram informing you that I am Evie’s legal guardian?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Are you also aware that my husband has died?”
“Of course. You have my deepest sympathies, Mrs. Winslow.” The woman’s tone was more conciliatory as she obviously remembered the money to be found behind the name. “However, I didn’t see a need to let Evie know of her father’s demise.”
A chill swept through Louisa’s body. Evie hadn’t been told of her father’s death? A blaze of fury followed, chasing away her last vestiges of nervousness. This…this woman had denied Evie the opportunity to grow accustomed to her orphaned state before she was collected to attend the funeral. Instead, Mrs. Bitterman had left it to a stranger to inform the girl that her father was dead and her new stepmother would care for her. Such a cold handling of the affair shocked Louisa to the very core.
“Mrs. Bitterman…” she said with a sense of hauteur that conveyed she wouldn’t be denied. “You will bring the girl to me. Now. Then you will have one of the teachers pack her things and have them loaded into my carriage within the next quarter hour. Is that clear?”
Two bright spots of color blazed on Mrs. Bitterman’s cheeks. If possible, her lips pressed more tightly, nearly disappearing altogether. “Yes, ma’am.”
She picked up a small bell from her desk and rang it sharply. Within seconds, a severe woman with a plain equine face opened the door.
“Where is Evie Winslow?”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “She’s in one of the cells in the upper wing.”
“Cells?” Louisa repeated ominously.
“She’s being punished,” the woman said simply.
Louisa’s fury erupted. Turning back to Mrs. Bitterman, she demanded, “Take me to her.” When the woman hesitated, she added icily, “At once.”
Mrs. Bitterman might have protested again, but with a slight shifting of his weight, John pulled back the edge of his jacket and rested his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Clearly enraged, Mrs. Bitterman opened a drawer and removed a ring of keys. “This way,” she snapped.
Louisa’s horror increased with each step she took. As she traversed the halls of Hildon it became clear that this was no ordinary charity school. Despite the civility of the title inscribed on the sign at the front gate, the building didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to a school. This was an asylum, a warehouse for those who were too disturbed or too ill to care for themselves.
What could possibly possess a man to allow his own flesh and blood to live in a place such as this? Louisa could think of no infirmity, no condition that would excuse such cold-bloodedness.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Bitterman said as they reached the third floor. The air here was stale and stifling. Judging by the sloped ceilings and narrow corridors, the rooms had been carved out of the attic space.
“Why is she being kept locked up?” Louisa asked in open disapproval when the woman began searching through the assortment of keys.
Mrs. Bitterman sneered at Louisa. “You women are all the same. The moment you’ve married, you trot over to Hildon with your sensibilities aflame. You’re so sure that you’ll be the one to make the difference and that a little loving care will make everything all right.” She sniffed. “But you’ll be back here soon enough, ready to lock her up so that you don’t have to deal with the unpleasantness yourself.”
Mrs. Bitterman’s eyes narrowed. “Within a day or two, you’ll discover that your new daughter is a demon child, one possessed by the worst characteristics to be found in human nature. Only harsh discipline curbs her willful spirit.”
She gave a snort of distaste. “And don’t get all high and mighty with me. I’m following doctor’s orders—her own doctor! One paid for with the Winslow millions. Why, if it weren’t for the tonic that she must be given every day, she would be little more than an animal.”
Louisa shook with anger, a fury that blazed even more intensely as Mrs. Bitterman twisted the key in the lock and swung the door wide.
There was no light in the tiny room, no window, no lamp, no chink in the wall to provide the slightest illumination. Sensing a change in her condition, the girl started, whirling to face the open door from where she’d crouched in the corner behind a rusty iron bedstead.
As Louisa’s eyes met those of her new daughter, she was stunned again.
From everything that she had heard about Evie, Louisa had expected a small child. But the figure that regarded her with suspicious, narrow eyes was well on her way to becoming a woman. True, she was small and lithe, but Louisa would say that the delicate girl was at least fifteen or sixteen years old.
“Evie?” Louisa said softly, speaking much the same way she would to a cornered, wild animal. “Evie, I’ve come to take you home.”
The girl didn’t respond. Instead, she watched Louisa with a blank, glassy stare.
“Would you like to go home?”
“She won’t answer you,” Mrs. Bitterman proclaimed. “She hasn’t spoken in years.” Her arms folded beneath her breasts. “She’s more than capable of speaking, I can assure you. She remains silent in order to demand attention from everyone around her.”
Louisa’s hands trembled with her effort to control her temper. With a sharp gesture, she pointed at Evie. “This is the unruliness you warned me against?” she snapped.
Mrs. Bitterman glared down the length of her pinched nose. “Upon the advice of her physician, we felt it necessary to treat her with laudanum to soothe her nerves.”
Soothe her nerves? The girl’s glassy stare indicated she was only partially aware of what was going on around her.
“Rest assured
that I’ll be speaking to the board of trustees about this,” Louisa said.
Mrs. Bitterman shrugged and offered her a sour smile. “Nothing has been done without the advice of the girl’s doctor. You would be highly advised to continue with her medication as prescribed. Otherwise, she becomes violent.”
Louisa was suddenly glad that she’d come without an appointment. If she’d waited for the school’s invitation, she was sure she never would have seen the horrible treatment being inflicted on the child.
“I’m taking her home.”
Without even being asked, John strode into the tiny room. Offering soft soothing sounds as if she were a skittish colt, John gently slipped his arms beneath the girl’s slender frame and lifted her against him.
“You’d best hurry and get her things, Mrs. Bitterman,” he said darkly as he brushed past the woman and began to carry the girl down the twisting staircase.
Once they reached the carriage, Louisa climbed into the rear seat first, then helped John to settle the girl beside her. Clinging to Evie with one arm, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, then tucked the carriage blanket around her knees.
At one point, Evie reared away, clearly disturbed by the fussing. Her eyes were sullen and suspicious, her expression rife with apprehension.
Louisa couldn’t blame the girl for her reaction. Who knew how long she had been abused by the matrons of Hildon Hall?
Feeling much like a mother hen whose chick had been attacked, Louisa hugged Evie tightly as the girl’s things were loaded onto the opposite seat—little more than a trunk the size of a hatbox and a worn winter coat.
The evidence of such pitiful belongings pained Louisa even more. This was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Boston? She had been treated with less regard than most beggars.
“See to it that she’s given her tonic at each meal,” Mrs. Bitterman said as she handed Louisa a bottle filled with a milky substance. “If you don’t, she’ll have a serious reaction.”
Louisa took the bottle and stuffed it into her reticule. Then, ignoring the matron’s look—one that seemed smug and confident about the fact that Louisa would soon be bringing the girl back—Louisa indicated to John that they should leave.
Lisa Bingham Page 15