Catherine found after a time that she felt at a disadvantage naked while he was clothed, and a wry appreciation of her mother’s feeling earlier brought a grim smile to her mouth. She looked about for her gown, feeling tentatively beneath the coverlet.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked, bending to pick the blue muslin and the white underdress up from the floor in one hand, holding them out to her.
“I — yes, thank you,” she said, keeping her eyes firmly on the clothes as she took them from him.
When he had turned back to the fire once more, she spread them out around her. She had not expected the muslin to be salvageable and so she was not disappointed. The neck and waist tape of her underdress had been torn from their stitching. A sash of some sort could be devised to go with it, and if it fell open in the back at least modesty would be served. With luck it might be possible to survive this debacle with her reputation intact after all, if she could only make her way home. Some tale, plausible on the surface, could be concocted for the servants. Perhaps she could say she had stayed the night with a girlfriend. The house would be locked so early in the morning, but Dédé would let her in. The Negro nurse would have to be told; she could not hope to hide much from her sharp eyes, even under that garish shawl. Dédé was one of the few people who could be trusted with the secret however. She was more jealous of the good name of her ladies, Catherine and her mother, than they were themselves.
The shawl. What had become of it? The last time she remembered having it was in the carriage. Its loss would make things difficult, but she would surmount this problem also. She must. She would not stay trapped here, to be disposed of at the discretion of Rafael Navarro.
4
The arrival of the cognac provided a welcome diversion. Though Catherine had had wine with her meals all her life, she had never tasted spiritous liquors, such as the brandy. These were ordinarily reserved for men. Still, she had no hesitation in taking the glass Navarro offered her. The burning warmth of it in her mouth was a warning, and she struggled not to cough, but the effort made tears stand in her eyes.
As a restorative the brandy had compelling power. By the time she had emptied the glass, she could feel her spirits rising and the chill leaving her body. She was even emboldened to the extent of taking up their conversation where they had left off.
“Were you?” she asked.
He did not look up from his glass. “Was I what?”
“A trifle — pique — from overindulgence,” she answered with a small toasting gesture.
“What difference does it make?”
“None, I suppose,” she said at last, but that was not true. While she appreciated the fact that he did not like to admit to a weakness or hide behind it, it did matter. The exact circumstances of what had happened between them inevitably affected how she felt about it. It seemed necessary to know the degree of his responsibility.
What was he thinking of, standing there, brooding like an injured and outcast demon? Were his thoughts of Lulu, that plaintive waif — or did she, herself, have a place in his musings? Did he feel regret for what had happened, or remorse — did he feel anything? She doubted it
If she was honest she would have to admit he was not totally to blame. That did not in any way alter the dislike she felt or the distaste she had developed for his company.
“Do you think it possible to obtain a carriage for me?” she said suddenly.
“You were thinking of leaving me. Mademoiselle?” Bright mockery sprang into his eyes. “I should be desolate.”
“Indeed, I am sorry to distress you. But I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer,” she said, exactly matching his sarcasm.
“I am certain a carriage could be arranged.”
Directness seemed the best policy. “Will you arrange it?”
“May I know your destination?” he asked, still gravely polite.
“Home, of course.” She allowed her irritation at the need for an explanation to creep into her tones. “My old nurse will let me in, and I doubt very much that my mother will question my whereabouts.”
“An unnatural parent, surely?”
She had no intention of relating the history of the sordid episode that had set the events of the night in train. If, because of it, Yvonne Mayfield would have little interest in her daughter’s welfare, it was no concern of his. She must have been more transparent than she realized, however.
“Come, petite,” he said coaxingly. “Don’t make me resort to subterfuge again to learn what I wish to know.”
Catherine stared at him. He could be quite charming when he wished. She was sure that slow smile appealed to some women.
“We quarreled,” she said finally, without grace.
“I begin to see.”
Did he? She doubted it, but she would not open her lips to give him the opportunity of drawing more from her.
“It must have been serious to send you out of the house on such a wild escapade — or is this your usual style?”
She sent him a look of pure dislike. “It is likely to become my style if I do not get home quickly,” she told him.
“You seem certain it is possible to retrieve your position.”
Something in his soft tone sounded a warning. “Yes. Why not?”
“Forgive me, but I have no great confidence in Marcus Fitzgerald’s powers of deception.”
“No,” she said, unconsciously agreeing with him. “But you and he are the only ones who know.”
“And the coachman?” he suggested quietly.
Catherine felt the blood drain from her face. Of course, the coachman, the free-man-of-color who made his living hiring out his vehicle. He had transported Marcus and herself to the charity levee, then to her home, and from there, directly to the St. Philips ballroom. He had known she was white, and she had little hope that he would not make it his business to learn her name. Especially after watching her abduction! Such a juicy bit of scandal would not go unreported, the penalty for taking the presence of a servant for granted.
But perhaps all was not so bleak. If the man could be reached in time his silence could be bought.
“I see you had forgotten him,” Navarro was saying. “And if you are thinking of offering him an inducement to keep a still tongue, I fear you are too late. He had ample time, while waiting with the other drivers outside the ballroom, to divulge the most damaging portion of your secret a dozen times over. Already news of it is probably circulating through the various servant hierarchies of the city. I’ll wager two dozen ladies will be served this tidbit with their café au lait.”
Catherine had seen the swiftness and accuracy of the servant grapevine too many times to doubt his prediction. Grimly she faced her ruin, then lifted her head. “Then I must not allow my mother to learn of it from another source. If you will be so obliging—” She indicated her clothing with a slight movement of her hand, desiring his removal from the room. She might as well have spared her breath and delicacy. Navarro paid no heed. His absorption was broken only by a scratching once more at the door.
“Entre.”
“Your bath, Maître.” The manservant bowed himself into the room, carrying the copper hip-bath on his back to the fireplace. Cans of steaming water followed, three of them to half-fill the tub. The man left the door open while he went out, then returned with linen towels draped over his arm and a cake of soap that released the smell of vetiver as he shook it from its oiled paper wrapping.
“A screen,” Navarro said absently, as though his mind was far from the order he had given.
Catherine looked at the steam rising from the tub, then down at her hands with their brownish-red stains under the nails and lining the creases of her palms. A bath. No, she must not think of it. She must think only of leaving this house. Now. At once. All might not be as hopeless as Navarro indicated. Something still might be done.
The screen, a bamboo affair, its sections painted with scenes of the countryside in imitation of Fragonard,
was set in place. The manservant withdrew. A screen was usually set to protect the bather from drafts, but Navarro stepped forward to pull it into place between the bath and the bed.
Moving to the door, he bowed. “My tribute to your blushes,” he said with a gesture at the arrangement. “Well, don’t just lie there. Even if you fancy a cold bath, I don’t.” He pulled the door open. “If the rest of the house is as inhospitable as this room, I doubt I will find much to entertain me. Make the most of your opportunity. It won’t last long.”
He is enjoying this, Catherine thought incredulously as the panel closed behind him. He was actually enjoying her discomfiture and the intolerable situation they found themselves in. Not the attitude of a man bowed with grief for a former love, but then he had as good as admitted he had not loved the childish quadroon. She had been a plaything easily put aside when she no longer amused him. And then when his toy had been broken, in remorse and guilt he had sought to punish the one who had harmed her.
Suddenly the meaning of his last words was clear. She threw back the coverlet and scrambled from the bed, reaching for her gown and underdress.
The water was hot, but not unbearably so. Its heat had a beneficial effect, soothing away her tiredness and distress. The flickering fire, the scent of vetiver, were invitations to linger. She smoothed the silken water over her arms and breasts and down her back until she could feel completely clean again. After a time the warmth of the water seemed to drain her strength away. She could not find the will to rise — until she heard the echo of footsteps along the uncarpeted hallway outside the door.
Navarro was returning! She stood up quickly, sloshing water over onto the floor, reaching for a towel. Its linen length was barely adequate. With her other hand, she stretched up toward her underdress, where she had hung it on top of the screen. She dragged it toward her and the light bamboo piece began to teeter. Instinctively she reached out to catch it as it toppled over upon her. The towel fluttered to the floor. The door opened behind her. Catherine clenched her teeth.
Standing knee-deep in water, she righted the screen, and took down her underdress with a dignity composed of three-quarters bravado and one-quarter iron will. She could sense Navarro beside her, but she did not face him until he said in a low voice, “Your towel, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” she answered gravely, taking it from him. Tears were close. This last trick fate had played on her seemed the crudest of all. She met it without flinching, but she thought if he laughed, if he turned it into the ludicrous farce it undoubtedly was, she would want to kill him. But when she at last raised her eyes, he was already turning away.
With trembling fingers, she slipped the underdress over her head then tore a sash from the blue muslin. The ensemble was not very satisfactory. She had never noticed how thin and near transparent the white silk was worn alone. Her hair tumbled down her back and she tried to bring some order to its tangled confusion, but her fingers were no substitute for a comb. She had no idea what had become of her pins. At least the smoked-honey mass of it would fill in the back where the underdress fell open.
When she stepped from behind the screen Navarro gave her one brief glance, then moved to tug at the bell pull. As at a prearranged signal, the manservant entered the room with two more cans of hot water which he tipped into the bath.
Turning her back to the operation, Catherine moved to the window, absently pushing her hair back behind her shoulders. A leaf of the jalousies swung inward beneath her hand as she tried it. She saw that the room opened out onto a gallery under the overhanging roof, a gallery overlooking a small garden enclosed by the solid walls of the buildings on either side. The faint tracery of footpaths and the ghostly shadow of a tiny fountain were visible in the dimness. So much planning, so much caring, she thought. Sighing, she stepped back into the room and closed the jalousies behind her.
The manservant was making the bed with fresh linen sheets. It crossed her mind to protest, but she reconsidered. The man was only seeing to his master’s comfort. There was no other significance. Still, she was glad when he finished and took his leave.
She knew from the sounds when Navarro settled into the bath. Safe from his intense, following gaze, she strolled to the commode table where a roll of linen lay beside what appeared to be a small sewing case. Neither had been there before. Gingerly, she touched the bandage linen. She thought of Navarro, wondering if he had told her the truth before. Was Marcus being cared for? What would he think when he heard what had happened to her? What would he do? Would he accept his share of the responsibility? Would he still wish to marry her? Would any man? Or would she remain a spinster all her life, an object of scorn and scandalized whispers over the ratafia and orange flower water. Would she fade away in the back room of some relative’s house, growing old and wrinkled, a figure to be used to rebuke rebellious daughters? Look at Tante Catherine! You want to ruin yourself as she did, hein?
She had not realized she was tracing the design on the sewing case, a lyre entwined with petit-point flowers, until Navarro spoke behind her.
“It belonged to Lulu, but that need not trouble you. I assume you can ply your needle as well as she? I would like you to make a few of your simplest stitches in this gash in my side.”
“I — I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could.”
His dark head was sleek with water, a towel hung about his neck, and he had donned his breeches once more. For all that, there was little of the civilized gentleman about him, an impression heightened by his casual suggestion that she practice her embroidery on him.
“Couldn’t you?” he asked, one brow lifted quizzically.
She indicated his side ignoring his question. “A mere nothing, I thought you said?”
“Deeper than I first thought,” he said, looking past her shoulder. “I seem to have — irritated it. The bleeding is becoming bothersome.”
That certainly was true. The cut, its crusting of dried blood washed away, was oozing again, and at this close range she could see that the waistband of his black breeches was stiff with blood he had shed earlier. It had never been as slight a wound as he pretended then, and she had certainly not helped it. It was this knowledge that weakened her resolution.
“You should see a surgeon,” she told him.
“And have him clap a bleeding cup to me the minute I come in the door? No, I thank you. Other than that, what could he do that you and I together could not? I know a little of the trade. And you probably have more skill and experience with a needle than any leech in the city.” His gaze moved to her hair, laying like a golden mantle across her shoulders. “Do this for me,” he said slowly, “and I will see about finding a comb for you, and after that, I will escort you wherever you wish to go.”
The promise of deliverance was enough. “Very well,” she agreed through stiff lips. “I will try.”
He held the needle in the flame of the whale oil lamp, then dropped it, threaded with embroidery silk, into a glass of cognac, tricks he had learned from a shipboard doctor, he said. Remembering the tale Marcus had told, Catherine would have liked to have asked him the circumstances, but did not quite dare.
Next, he tore a pad from the linen, soaked it in brandy, then gave it into her hand while he lay down across the bed.
“Swab the cut well. If your nails are as lethal as the glances you give me I should be dead of blood poisoning before the sun sets on this new day.”
The reminder of what had passed between them strengthened her grip on the cloth. Taking a deep breath, she set to work.
Her enmity did not last long. He was an injured human being. So long as she did not look at him, she could forget who and what he was; she could think of him only as someone who needed her help, and give it in the same manner that she used while caring for their household servants. Dédé made an elixir of her own that Catherine often used. As the fumes of brandy rose to Catherine’s head, she realized that Dédé’s elixir must be based solidly on spirits also, al
ong with a few herbal infusions. For good measure, she lifted the bottle of cognac sitting nearby, and holding the wound agape with her pad, filled the clean-edged incision.
His skin was resilient and it took a strong, deliberate effort to pierce it. She did it quickly and he made no sound, but she felt his muscles tense as his flesh was torn. She worked quickly, sensing the pain she must be causing. The edges of the wound were slowly drawn together. When she had finished, perspiration beaded her upper lip and her knees felt weak.
Dropping the needle into the sewing case, she sat down on the foot of the bed. Only then did she look at her patient. He had made no sound, but he was perfectly conscious. A smile lit his eyes in spite of the paleness about his mouth and his hand was steady as he reached out to splash a double measure of cognac into the remaining glass and pass it to her.
Catherine took a small mouthful before handing it back. As she watched him down the rest in a swallow, she gave a shaky laugh. “My old nurse, Dédé, would recommend red wine, for strength.”
“Along with beef broth?” he said. “I had a Dédé once.”
“You had? What became of her?”
As he struggled to sit upright he answered, “She died.”
After a moment Catherine moved to take up the roll of linen. She made a pad to place on the injury. Holding it in place she wondered exactly how she was going to secure it. Navarro got to his feet and raised his arms helpfully. She was forced to move in closer, to wrap the linen strip about his waist beneath his ribs, nearly embracing him each time she passed the roll around behind his back. She could sense his amused gaze on her flushed face but she refused to be drawn.
“So earnest,” he said, his warm breath stirring her hair. “Did you know you bite your lip when you concentrate?”
She flicked an upward glance, but did not answer. Her fingers pressed the firm skin of his back, holding the bandage taut, smoothing the material so there would be no irritating wrinkles. As she worked she became aware of ridges on his back. They were long and leathery. She ducked beneath his arm to tie a neat flat knot at his side. She gasped. His back was crisscrossed with a mass of ancient lacerations. The skin had recovered most of its smoothness and the sun had gilded the wounds, but they remained, mute reminders of endured pain.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 51