“Sorry I’m late.” Garrick entered the room and immediately went to Monique. “I was detained at the last minute.”
“Richard, darling.”
When Monique offered her cheek to be kissed, Isabelle noticed how Garrick’s fingertips slid along her arm before lightly coming to rest on her wrist. It was a discreet but intimate gesture. One of my lovers, Monique had said.
How could she be so naive? No wonder Jenny had been eager to leave their company that afternoon, refusing Monique’s invitation to tea. Jenny had already guessed what she was only now discovering. Dr. Garrick and Monique were lovers.
Garrick bowed in her direction. “Miss Tate.”
“Will you have some tea with us?” Monique asked him.
“I’m sorry, there isn’t time. I’m afraid I have to take Miss Tate from you now.”
Monique pouted prettily. Isabelle didn’t doubt that Monique knew how well the expression looked on her. She had probably practiced in front of the mirror, pursing her lips until she found the right combination of childlike peevishness and womanly allure.
“You rush away so soon,” Monique complained. “And you haven’t even noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
Dr. Garrick seemed thrown off kilter by her remark. Isabelle was beginning to understand what Monique meant about the power a woman holds over a man. Some women, at least.
Monique shook her head in mock sadness, as though despairing of Garrick’s obtuseness. “The new dress I bought to match the earrings you gave me.”
Isabelle watched in amazement as Dr. Garrick’s cheeks colored. Dr. Garrick was blushing. He was actually blushing, though from pleasure or embarrassment, she couldn’t tell.
“Richard is a very generous man. And modest about it, which is a most refreshing trait.” Monique kissed Isabelle on both cheeks. “Until next week, my dear, when you come for your final fitting. I can’t wait to see your new dresses.”
Monique ushered them out, instructing her servant to carry Isabelle’s package as he escorted her to the carriage. Garrick stopped in the hallway, lingering long enough to question Monique in a low voice.
“Did you learn anything?”
Monique nodded. “She is quite naive. And afraid of men.”
“I am sorry to say I know the reason.”
“Tell me.”
Garrick looked toward the carriage, where Isabelle waited. “We will talk later. We must talk. Soon.”
Isabelle watched their exchange, though their conversation was inaudible. She would never have imagined. Never. Dr. Garrick and Monique. She was beginning to realize just how little she knew about men. If she had Monique’s experience, perhaps she could understand Jonathan’s changeable moods, how he could be kind and warm, wanting to be friends—and then avoid her for days.
She would never understand men. Nor, if the truth were told, did she care to understand. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Twenty six
Jonathan had spent the day in his laboratory, hoping to lose himself in his work, but as the day wore on, he found it more and more difficult to concentrate. His arthritic hand ached from the strain of holding the scalpel, which made him all the more determined to ignore the pain and carry on. Better sense told him to stop, that he risked making a serious error, yet he stubbornly persisted. He had already anesthetized the subject, one of the lab mice he bred for the purpose. To stop now, without performing the graft, would require him to anesthetize the animal a second time tomorrow, an added stress that could delay or even prevent a successful recovery.
Jonathan hesitated, knowing he had only one opportunity to execute the cut correctly. He held his breath as he positioned the tip of the knife against the animal’s soft flesh and readied himself to pierce its skin.
At the crucial moment, the scalpel slipped. Jonathan swore fiercely, unable to prevent the sharp blade from scoring a thin crimson line the length of the unfortunate creature’s torso. Blood began to flow from the wound, pooling bright red beneath the tiny corpse.
Jonathan stared at the scalpel still clutched between his fingers. He had committed another butchery. If he could no longer wield a pen, what made him think he could perform the delicate skin grafts? He had lied to himself all along, thinking it possible to continue with this line of research. And beside, what had he proven by his endeavors? Nothing of positive value, only that which could not be done.
Jonathan scooped the lifeless mouse onto his hand and dropped it into the metal bucket he kept for the purpose. At least a half dozen creatures had met a similar demise that week.
Glued to the wall behind the dissecting table was a tally sheet where he kept count of the operations. On it there were two columns, one labeled Success, the other, Failure. Jonathan picked up a stump of colored wax and made a crude mark on the paper, then studied the sad record of his work. The columns were disproportionately weighted on the side of failure.
With a growl of frustration, Jonathan began tearing at the sheet of paper, ripping it from the wall until a few loose strips were all that remained. His research was a failure, as was his life. He crushed the paper in his fist and threw the crumpled wad on top of the dead mouse.
His fit of temper past, Jonathan suddenly felt extremely tired. It was more than physical exhaustion. He was tired of everything, tired of failure, tired of struggling against his afflictions, tired of life itself. Above all else, he was tired of longing for a woman he could never have.
That, of course, was the crux of his problem. Before she came, he had learned to endure the endless sameness of his days, had even learned to take comfort in their dull routine. His failures had been easier to accept. He had sometimes gone for days without thinking of himself as a monster. Now he was continually reminded of his hideousness.
Her effect on him bore a curious resemblance to his opiate addiction. She filled his thoughts when they were apart, her absence a physical anguish that grew stronger with each passing hour. But the euphoria he felt in her presence was also a kind of exquisite torture, his pleasure mitigated by the knowledge that each time they were together, the separation which was to follow would be that much more unbearable.
Jonathan looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was after seven, much later than he’d realized. He had planned to watch Richard and Isabelle as they arrived, to see them alight from the carriage. Now he had left it too late. What should have been a minor disappointment mattered more than he cared to admit. His lateness, the missed opportunity, these must be added to the list—another failure.
And yet, a niggling hope gnawed at him like the ghost of one of his butchered mice. There might still be a possibility. If he hurried.
Jonathan attempted to divest himself of his laboratory smock, fumbling with the button, which refused to work through the tightly sewn buttonhole. It didn’t help that the hours spent manipulating the scalpel had taken their toll. The joints of his right hand protested his efforts with a sharp, brutal pain that shot all the way up his arm.
Jonathan bit his lip against the pain and tried again, using his left hand. Despite his increased reliance on that hand, his dexterity had not improved, and the result was an equal lack of success. Getting nowhere, he tugged impatiently at the button, which tore loose, landing on the floor with a soft plink before it rolled under the dissecting table.
Jonathan watched the button disappear from sight. To be thwarted by a simple task even a child could do. All the frustrations of his day culminated in this last indignity. He clutched the lapels and yanked the garment away from his body, ripping the remaining buttons free.
Jonathan shrugged the coat off his shoulders and let it slide down his arms onto the floor, then kicked the coat aside and strode out the door, taking the long hallway toward the front of the house. By the time he reached his sitting room, the hollow beat of horses’ hooves was discernible through the open window, which he had purposely left ajar in order to listen for their approach.
He hurried to the window and disc
reetly pushed the curtain aside in time to see an open landau slowing to a stop in front of the main entrance. Roger hurried out to meet the carriage, helping Isabelle down before he took the reins from Richard. When Isabelle turned toward the house, Jonathan shrank back.
Despite his fear of being seen, his curiosity soon got the better of him. He peered through the gauze inner curtain, trying to catch another glimpse of her, knowing all the while that his behavior was irrational. It made no sense, going to such lengths to catch sight of Isabelle when he had been avoiding her since Sunday.
As he watched, a troubling realization occurred to him. Isabelle looked different, though he couldn’t say how. Her hair was down, but it was more than that. Her cheeks glowed. She looked radiant. And happy.
The change worried him. Was it because she had spent the day away from home?
Fool. Simpleton. This wasn’t Isabelle’s home, no matter how much he wanted her to think of it as her own.
He would give anything for her to think it so.
Richard came up to Isabelle, taking her by the elbow to gain her attention. The gesture appeared overly familiar. After the long carriage ride together, what further did Richard need to say to her—and with such urgency?
A dark feeling settled on Jonathan, so dark that he rubbed his eyes to restore their sight. He resented Richard’s easy manner with Isabelle. What right did he have to stand so close to her, or to exhibit this unwarranted familiarity?
Richard bowed, taking his leave of Isabelle before he entered the house. Instead of following him inside, Isabelle went to Roger and initiated a conversation, smiling, pointing toward the stables and nodding, then turning away to walk in that direction.
“Salaud!” Jonathan cursed Roger in French. Had the two just arranged an assignation? The resentment he felt toward Richard was nothing compared to the black rage boiling up inside him now.
Eventually, he recognized the feeling for what it was. Jealousy. Pure, primitive male jealousy. Jonathan let the curtain drop and stood there, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a foot race.
He might have laughed at himself if he hadn’t been appalled at how quickly passion had overcome his reason. He had lost control of himself. This obsession with Isabelle frightened him. It bordered on madness. It was madness to harbor jealousy on account of a woman who could never be his.
Jonathan walked unsteadily to the table where he kept his liquor and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. His hand trembled uncontrollably, causing him to slosh half the drink onto the floor before the glass reached his mouth. He downed what was left in one gulp, then poured himself another and, using both hands, carried the glass to his armchair, where he dropped onto the seat like a stone. He drank again, more slowly this time, closing his eyes to concentrate on the whiskey’s comforting warmth as it traveled down his throat and into his stomach.
Jonathan’s thoughts drifted, taking a course along a path of vague generalities which were less painful to contemplate than his own particular dilemma. Like truth and beauty, the nature of love entertained him more as a concept than an actual fact. Love, it seemed to him, was complicated by the physical desire that invariably insinuated itself into the calculation.
He was suddenly arrested by a visual image that drove philosophy from his mind. Which, in effect, precluded thought altogether. Isabelle.
Isabelle, her hair in disarray, wearing his jacket, innocently exposing her breasts to him. The thin cotton of her bodice, wet through, molding to her body like a second skin. Her nipples, hard from the cold, straining against the fabric.
Beyond a doubt, she did not wear a corset.
There was a brisk knock at the door. “Richard here.”
Jonathan felt disinclined to rouse himself. The whiskey had done its job, aided by the fact that he had worked through lunch, as he often did, and had missed tea as well.
“Come in,” he called out after a moment’s hesitation. The abrupt interruption befuddled him slightly, leaving him stranded between his erotic memories and the present moment, in which he was compelled to deal with the mundane reality of receiving his guest.
The door opened, and Richard entered the room carrying what looked like an oversized hatbox. He brushed aside a few papers and set the box on the desk, then turned to greet Jonathan. His smile abruptly faded.
“You look terrible.” Richard surveyed the room until his gaze came to rest on the spilled whiskey. Without further comment, he exited through the door to Jonathan’s bedroom, then quickly returned carrying a towel.
Jonathan watched Richard stoop to mop up the spill, regarding him with a passivity induced by mild inebriation. Richard sometimes reverted to the role he had played after the fire, when he supervised his patient’s convalescence with an unyielding authority offset by his solicitous—one might even say servile—concern. Richard’s tendency to treat him as if he were still a young boy was often annoying to Jonathan, but tonight, mellowed by the whiskey, Jonathan viewed his performance with a certain amused detachment.
Richard dropped the wet towel in the hallway for Nellie to dispose of, then returned to pour himself a generous drink. When he crossed the room and took the chair opposite him, Jonathan replied to Richard’s initial comment.
“You’ve looked better yourself.”
Richard took a long swallow of the whiskey before he answered. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Sorry to hear it.” Jonathan scowled, remembering the way Richard had touched Isabelle’s arm. His perfunctory sympathy was a lie.
Richard leaned forward in his chair. “What’s wrong? Something is bothering you, I can tell.”
Jonathan glanced toward the window, avoiding Richard’s eyes. He shrugged and mumbled a reply that, while not a lie, was merely half the truth. “My work is going badly.”
“I see.” Richard paused. It was the sort of hesitation that stemmed from fear of offending. “Anything I can do to help?”
Jonathan ignored the question, asking one of his own instead. “What’s in the box?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Richard grinned before tossing back the rest of his drink. He stood and crossed the room to the desk, where he began undoing the metal clasps on either side of the carrying case. When he had finished, he looked over his shoulder at Jonathan. “Well, come see for yourself.”
Jonathan rose from his chair, begrudging the effort, and went to stand next to Richard. “I am here.” He heard the petulance in his voice and tried to soften it with a show of curiosity. “Do you plan to keep me in suspense?”
Richard smiled good naturedly and lifted the lid from the carrying case, setting it on the floor before he stepped aside to give Jonathan a better view.
Jonathan stared, at a loss for words. He had no idea what sort of response Richard expected.
Richard laughed. “It isn’t a shrunken head, you know.”
“A type writing machine?”
Richard was busy scrolling a sheet of paper through the machine. “I’ve discovered they are incredibly simple to operate.”
He tapped one of the round keys to demonstrate. A metal rod flew up, struck the paper, then fell back again, leaving an imprint of the letter R boldly inked in black on the white stationery. “Here, try it for yourself.”
Jonathan placed his index finger on one of the metal keys. It was cold to the touch. He depressed the key slowly, stopping when its corresponding metal rod had traveled halfway to the paper.
“Go on,” Richard urged.
He continued, pushing the key all the way down. When he released it, the key quickly sprang up again to take its place among the others. Jonathan leaned forward to study the results. His effort had left a faint ghost of a letter next to Richard’s bold black one.
“I haven’t got the knack.” He stood up straight, backing a step away from the machine.
“Nonsense.” Richard demonstrated again. “You have to strike the keys, not push them.”
Out of politeness, Jonathan attempted to take an in
terest. “Where did you find this contraption?”
“I got it from Barlow.” Richard hesitated, then went on as if he thought he should explain. “I had some business I wanted to discuss with him. His clerk was preparing a contract using this machine.” Richard shook his head and laughed at himself. “It was all I could do to keep from running into the streets shouting Eureka!”
“Unlike Archimedes, at least you were clothed.”
Richard appeared to take Jonathan’s wry comment as encouragement to proceed.
“Capitalize thus.” He demonstrated, holding down a key, then striking another. “And engage this lever when you reach the end of a line or paragraph.”
Jonathan thought the whiskey must have muddled his reasoning, because Richard’s enthusiasm was incomprehensible to him. “I fail to understand why you believe I need this marvel of engineering.”
Richard quit fiddling with the machine and looked up, surprised. “Don’t you see? With this, you can write perfectly legibly—and using only one finger, if need be. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
The import of Richard’s words shot past him like a quick, well aimed dart. What he said, or rather what he did not say, took a moment to find its mark, but when it did, Jonathan experienced a sharp prick of suspicion.
“Before what?”
Richard frowned at hearing Jonathan’s unmistakable hostility.
“Before what, Richard? Are you implying that I should dispense with Miss Tate’s services?”
Richard shook his head slowly. “I’m not implying anything. I merely wanted to offer you the independence of choice should you wish it.”
Jonathan could tell he had offended Richard. Yet Richard replied with civility, and such earnest concern that he felt guilty for ascribing a sinister motive to his kindness. His rush to judgment had originated from an unfounded jealousy, based on nothing more than the sight of Richard casually touching Isabelle’s arm.
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 22