by Dianne Day
‘‘I’m not dying,’’ I said. My seldom-in-two-weeks-used voice sounded like the hinge on a rusty gate. Then suddenly my sluggish mind produced one clear thought, an idea that shone like a ray of hope. I cleared my throat and spoke again: ‘‘However, I do need the doctor to come because I’m not recovering properly. As anyone can plainly see.’’
Selene nodded solemnly. Her skin was so fair that at her temples I could see the blue veins beneath its alabaster surface. ‘‘We know. Your fever broke, you seemed to be getting better, you were more lively, the wives were getting to know you, but then—’’
‘‘Something happened,’’ I supplied when she stopped, obviously at a loss for words. ‘‘I need the doctor. If you want to help me, and Father too, then ask him to have the doctor come.’’
‘‘I will tell him,’’ Selene said. Then she went away.
I lay there thinking about my plight. I knew full well there was nothing physically wrong with me except my broken legs, and they were getting better. No, what had happened was that by a certain light in Pratt’s fanatical eye when he told me exactly why the angel had brought us together, I had understood the depth of his obsession, and I had simply lost hope. Physical escape being impossible, I had dropped instead into a gray land of silence and inaction. A land called Melancholia, which existed solely in my mind.
While living in this gray land I had unwittingly stumbled upon something that proved very useful to me: Melancthon Pratt could not bear to be ignored. If I did not talk to him, if I did not respond when he read or lectured in continuance of my ‘‘lessons,’’ he went wild with frustration. Yet he would not strike me in order to make me respond. I believed he may have wanted to, because his face would flush a purplish red, and once he even raised his hand to me. But still he did not strike; instead he went away. He did not come again for at least three days, and since that day he had been less and less often in my room.
I thought about his not striking me. Perhaps he’d only refrained from physical violence because he believed I was under the protection of that angel of his; or perhaps because, although no one could deny Melancthon Pratt was a religious fanatic, he was simply not an abuser of women. He liked women. He liked them very much. Why he could not get any children on his women I had not the slightest idea.
One thing I did know for certain. It was only common sense: When a man tries repeatedly and fails to have any children with five different, healthy women, the fault most likely lies not in the women but in himself. Pratt was not impotent, and he must have been physically satisfying the wives, for they vied for their time in the Big House with him. All, that is, but Sarah, who could probably have done without her turns. So if not impotent, then he must be—whatever was the male equivalent of barren? Ah yes, sterile. Such a charming word. No wonder one would not want to admit it, especially someone like Pratt.
Sarah and her sister Tabitha often sat with me during the two weeks of my sojourn in the gray land of Melancholia, and I listened to them talk. Once when they’d gotten up to go, as if it were a waste of their time to sit with a woman who lay immobile, no longer smiling or laughing or speaking, I had whispered and asked them to stay. So they’d stayed that day, and continued to come regularly even though I was about as much fun for them as a knot in a pine board. But I learned a lot from listening to their quiet talk as they sewed. Mainly I learned that the Pratt household—in fact his entire colony of True Saints—was a mass of contradictions.
Imagine, if you will, a society where all grown men are priests; whose members believe that when they die and go to heaven they will all be gods—even the women if I’d heard that part right; where a man may have as many wives as he can support (this was true only for Pratt’s so-called True Saints—the main body of Mormons had given up polygamy years ago); where the wives in fact like that situation because they aren’t alone, they have each other’s help and companionship, and no one of them has to be everything to a demanding man all the time, every single night and day.
After listening to Sarah and Tabitha—not to mention the others—for all this time, I was beginning to be afraid that if I didn’t get away soon it would all begin to make a kind of crazy sense to me.
Of all the wives, the one most likely to come to my aid was Sarah. Norma, oddly enough, was a close second. Norma doted on Melancthon Pratt. She alone was jealous of the other wives, and would not welcome one more candidate for her idol’s affection. She was also physically the most intimidating. She would be good in a fight—or so I thought. Not due to sheer strength (that would be Verla), but because she had a large, firm, voluptuous body and she was not afraid to use it. When Norma entered a room, she filled it with her presence. Altogether she’d have been good to have on my side, except for one thing: She could not be trusted with a secret. Norma’s need for Pratt’s approval was so great, she’d do anything for him, tell everything to him—he had only to ask. Even though she herself wanted nothing more than to have me gone, she would capitulate in a heartbeat to his least importuning.
Verla I’d ruled out as a participant in any escape plot because she had no imagination. She was perfectly content to be first wife to a Great Man. Tabitha was smitten with this same Great Man, though nowhere near as much as Norma. So that left Sarah . . . and the unknown quantity: Selene.
Selene, more child than woman, and yet she was the one in whom the Great Man had confided his concern about me. Or perhaps he had told them all and she had been the only one to come to me and plead on his behalf. Again I felt touched, in spite of myself; touched and something more, though I was not sure what. I had a sense that there was much more to that young woman than met the eye.
Ah, here was another puzzle to occupy my mind: How could I gather information about Selene without calling attention to the fact that my melancholy had been short-lived? I certainly didn’t want Pratt to know it had lifted.
Well, I shall just have to dissemble, I thought, then grimaced in dismay. I had never been particularly good at play-acting, unless I was wearing a costume or disguise. Hmmm . . .
I folded the top sheet and quilt down to my waist and scrutinized the nightgown I was wearing. Never in a million years would I have chosen such a garment for myself: It was bulky cotton flannel, gathered to fall shapelessly from the shoulders, buttoned from neck to waist and at the hem of the long sleeves; a garment altogether without redeeming value . . . save warmth. The color, a medium blue, was one I might have chosen —but as for the rest of it, never.
This is a costume, I thought, this is Carrie’s costume, and Carrie is a role I play. Fremont Jones may feel her legs getting stronger, but Carrie James is languishing. Carrie needs a doctor in the worst way. I didn’t know exactly what Carrie’s symptoms were, but suddenly I realized I would soon find out.
The sound of the door handle rattling had me pulling the covers up to my chin, and then I barely had time to lean my head back against the pillow and arrange my face in what I hoped might appear as lines of suffering.
‘‘What’s the matter with you, then?’’ asked Pratt in a stentorian voice as he strode into the room. I have often observed that big, powerful men will bluster and assume an angry tone when in fact they are emotionally upset, being unable to express their more tender feelings. I hoped this was the case with Pratt. He might not be violent with women, but still his anger had felt dangerous on the one or two occasions I’d seen it.
I coughed and brought my hand up to partially cover my face, as if I could not bear to look at this man who had called himself my savior not so very long ago. I affected a hoarse half-whisper: ‘‘I am very ill. I need the doctor. It’s entirely possible I may not have long to live.’’
‘‘Nonsense. The doctor said if you stayed off your legs, once you’d gotten over the inevitable infection, in about six weeks you should be right as rain. They’re not bad breaks of the leg bones, more like cracks.’’
I wondered how the doctor could tell that, since one could scarcely look beneath the skin to see.
Feeling about, I supposed, when I had been unconscious— I put that thought away.
Screwing my face into a frown, I clutched my midsection with both hands. ‘‘But I have persistent pain, right here. I’m sorry to be such a disappointment to you. . . .’’ I let my voice trail off plaintively.
Pratt came to my bed, frowning hard too, though his was genuine and mine was faked. ‘‘Show me,’’ he commanded, holding out his hand palm down and fingers spread, ‘‘place my hand where you are hurting.’’
‘‘Oh no,’’ I said, cringing with false modesty, ‘‘I couldn’t do that, you’re not a doctor.’’ Even as the words came from my mouth I recalled how minutely Pratt had examined my naked body that first night he’d found me.
Whether or not he himself remembered, at least he did not argue. He didn’t capitulate either. ‘‘How long have you had this pain?’’ he asked, withdrawing his hand and looking at it for a moment as if not knowing what to do with the appendage. Then he let it drop by his side.
‘‘Since the first, off and on,’’ I said, feeling almost as if the pain were real and I did have it. ‘‘It never really goes away.’’
Pratt frowned mightily. I could almost feel the weight of his indecision.
‘‘I couldn’t very well tell the doctor about it, could I,’’ I persisted, ‘‘seeing as how I was either unconscious or delusional with fever when he was here before.’’
‘‘That is true.’’ The truth of it seemed to make up his mind, for he bobbed his head up and down in a nod, rubbed his hands together, and said, ‘‘Very well. I’ll fetch him. As before, it will take two days.’’
Two days! I had forgotten that little detail, but now I remembered hearing him say it before, eons ago, which in fact had been less than a month. Suddenly I was thinking of all the things I could do in two days, if only my legs would hold up. I wondered if he had horses, but of course he did; no one could survive out here in the wilderness without them. Wondered too if he had a wagon or a carriage or some such conveyance, and if he did, how I might gain access to it.
But I was forgetting my manners. ‘‘Thank you, Father, very much,’’ I called after him, inwardly cringing at my own slip of the tongue. He had already reached my bedroom door.
‘‘Humph!’’ he replied in his all-purpose grump.
As soon as Pratt had closed the door behind him, and I’d waited long enough to be sure none of the wives had been waiting outside, I flung back the covers and turned my body so that both feet swung out over the side of the bed. Then slowly, painfully, for I had not allowed anyone to help me sit up in a chair for many days, I bent my knees until my feet touched the floor.
Two whole days! I was thinking, If only I can do this, if only my legs will take my weight, everything else will fall into place. There will be a cart, or perhaps even a carriage. There will be horses to spare. I’ll go at night, no one will see me, no one will stop me. When he comes back with the doctor two days from now, I’ll be long gone.
I shifted, inching my backside farther and farther toward the edge of my mattress. If only I had something to hold on to while I got my balance—but the room’s only chair was impossibly far away. My knees were stronger, I was so sure. . . .
At last I could wait no longer. I felt it was better to stand quickly and get it over with, so that was what I did. I stood up, my head swam—and everything went black before my eyes.
9
MEILING LI could be just as stubborn as Fremont Jones, Michael was discovering. He had waited until an hour after sunup to knock on her door, and now they sat in her compartment talking. Arguing, more precisely.
He had told her about running into Hilliard Ramsey in the club car, identifying the man only as ‘‘an old enemy’’; and since then had been trying to persuade her that although he himself was in no real danger, it would be in Meiling’s best interest not to be seen in his company for the rest of the train trip.
Meiling cocked her head to one side and studied him with serious dark eyes. ‘‘I think you are not telling me enough of the truth,’’ she stated eventually, but not until her silence had let him know that this observation was most carefully considered.
‘‘What more shall I say? It would take all morning to tell you even half of what has happened between Ramsey and me over all the years I’ve known him.’’
‘‘How many years would that be?’’
Michael had to stop and think. Their first encounter had been in Hawaii, around the time of annexation, and Hill had been working for the Japanese then too, only Michael hadn’t known it. He’d thought Hilliard Ramsey was only an Englishman who liked his Pacific adventures—as indeed did Michael. So the year would have been . . . 1898. He told Meiling, ‘‘Ten years. Why do you ask, what difference does it make?’’
She shrugged, a pretty gesture the way she did it, especially in her rose silk robe, whose neckline revealed the curve where neck met shoulder. So often Meiling was buttoned clean up to her chin.
‘‘I am trying to make my own decision,’’ she said, ‘‘and I have a strong sense of more danger than you say. You carry it upon you this morning almost as a scent, like a strange perfume.’’
Her words made Michael’s skin crawl. He said, untruthfully, ‘‘I don’t know what you mean.’’
Again, that slight tip of the head to one side, the scrutiny of those fathoms-deep eyes. She said, ‘‘On the heads of my ancestors, Michael Kossoff, many of whom you have known, I swear to you this is true—you carry the scent of danger. And further, you do know exactly what I mean. It is not protection I want or need from you now, but information. Ten years is a considerable time for an enmity to be nurtured into dangerous hatred.’’
Michael rubbed his hand through his hair. He felt honestly perplexed. ‘‘Yes, but the last time Ramsey and I were involved in, um, something, he was definitely the winner. There was no physical bloodshed; nevertheless, I was badly beaten. It was a diplomatic matter in which influence was sought in various ways. He worked for Japan. You know, Meiling, what was the outcome of the Russo-Japanese War.’’
‘‘The Japanese got what they wanted, as they so often do. But this man is British, you said.’’
‘‘He carries a British passport and speaks the Queen’s—beg pardon, the King’s—English. I mean to say, with an upper-class accent. But the truth about Hilliard Ramsey is that he has no country, and he is at heart a killer. He hasn’t the patience for long, involved intrigues, he would sooner go in the cloak of night and darkness and slit a throat or two.’’
‘‘If he was the winner of your last encounter, then he has no personal enmity toward you?’’
‘‘I believe that to be the case, yes.’’ Michael nodded. ‘‘He did say he had been hired to watch me, that’s all.’’
‘‘So you prefer that I not be near you because I will be watched also, is that it? Or’’—Meiling held up a long-fingered hand to warn Michael that she was not yet ready for her question to be answered—‘‘could it be that you do not in fact believe this Mr. Ramsey will confine himself to merely watching?’’
Michael got to his feet, which in the tight space of the small compartment meant that he towered right over Meiling. ‘‘It doesn’t matter what I believe, Meiling. What matters is that I want you to be safe and to feel safe, which you will not—nor can I feel safe on your behalf—if we’re together on this train.’’
He was physically crowding her, intentionally, because he was annoyed. He wanted her to give up, to give in.
Meiling’s eyes flickered up to him and then away, almost in a disinterested fashion. She said, ‘‘I’d like you to leave now. Come back in an hour and I’ll give you my decision.’’
Oh, she was good all right, Michael had to give her that. He supposed it was in her training as well as in her blood. Fremont would have given him some hot reply for looming over her like that, but Meiling simply dismissed him like one of the many servants to which her family background had accustomed her.
Michael clamped his mouth shut lest the heat of his anger leak out like dragon breath. With an effort of will he took two long steps, all that were required to reach the compartment’s door. Then he turned back, unable at last to keep still. ‘‘Damn it, Meiling, what could you say in an hour that you can’t say now? The matter is not that complicated!’’
‘‘Oh, but it is,’’ she replied coolly. ‘‘When you asked me to come along, I brought with me my own set of special skills, my own ways to help my friend, Fremont Jones. That is why I’m here. Not to find out who has blown up the railroad, or even who may feel malevolence toward you, Michael, although you are a most honorable friend of the House of Li. To find Fremont and bring her home is my only concern. Before I can tell you how we might best do that in the light of this new development, by which I mean the appearance of your dangerous Mr. Ramsey, there is an action I must perform. It will take about an hour.’’
‘‘Meiling, I can’t have you running off in some direction of your own. We have to work together here.’’
‘‘Precisely,’’ Meiling said.
She stood now, folded her arms into the sleeves of her silk robe, and gave Michael a small bow such as Chinese women give the men who have some control over their lives—a formality meant to placate, he supposed. It worked, a little.
But he was not yet entirely placated. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ he asked insistently. ‘‘What is it you’re planning to do with this hour?’’
‘‘I will seek the wisdom of my grandmother.’’
‘‘But your grandmother is dead!’’
‘‘Not precisely,’’ said Meiling, with a mysterious smile.
I was lying on the floor when I awoke from whatever spell had overtaken me. Using my arms I pushed myself up into a sitting position with my legs straight out in front of me; my head was spinning. I supposed I might have stood up too fast. That would sometimes cause a person to lose consciousness, I knew.