Oscar, at Dr. Dunlap’s nod, stepped to the bed, and bent to undo the ties behind Preston’s back. Preston groaned as feeling began to return to his hands and arms. He rubbed them, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t stand up, but sat folding back the long sleeves of the jacket. His burned face was as unreadable as the face of a cliff. “What now, Pater?”
“I thought I should tell you. I’m not going to let your mother come again unless you can be—dependable,” Dickson growled. “I have to protect her.”
Preston said, “No more visits. Righty-ho.”
“It’s not funny,” Margot said. “Mother’s not well, Preston.”
His eyes drifted slowly to hers, and fixed on her face. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Doc,” he said, “but I’m not too well myself.”
“No excuse,” Dickson said.
What was left of Preston’s eyebrows lifted. “No? Well, Pater. That seems a tad bit harsh, but there’s no need for you to worry.” His eyes were clearer now, and Margot thought the sedative must be nearly worn off. He rubbed his arms again, and shook out his fingers. “It won’t happen again. I can assure you of that.”
Margot said, “Who is this girl, Preston? Why did Mother bring her?”
Preston rested his hands on his knees, and pushed himself up to stand. Oscar tensed, ready to block him, but Preston waved him off. “Down, Oscar, down. I’m quite tame now.”
Dr. Dunlap and Dickson exchanged a glance, but Margot kept her gaze on Preston. “Why should she have set you off, Preston? What is it about this girl—”
“This girl,” he said mockingly, in imitation of his old insouciance. “She has a name, Doc. She is the charming Bronwyn. Bronwyn Morgan.” He waved his hand, and executed a mocking bow. “Of the Port Townsend Morgans, if you must know. Only the best for your little brother.”
“I still don’t understand why she matters so much, or why Mother brought her here.”
“Come now, Doc. It’s not like you to be slow.”
“What do you mean? I know nothing about this girl.”
“Well, you should, sister mine. Bronwyn Morgan is the mother of my bastard.”
The stunned silence that followed his pronouncement was most gratifying, Preston thought. Father’s jaw thrust forward in his customary bulldog way, and his mouth worked, but evidently he couldn’t come up with a comment. Dr. Dunlap stiffened at the rudeness of the word, but of course he wouldn’t know anything about the circumstances. Oscar just glowered. Oscar was the glowering sort.
But Margot—now, that was amusing to watch. Satisfying.
Her lips paled, and a muscle quivered in her chin. Her eyes darkened until they were nearly black. He had surprised her. No doubt she had believed he no longer had the power.
But the sapphire was here now, hidden behind the leg of his bed, safely tucked into a hole in the plaster. He had kicked it in there during the night, between sedative doses, and he had felt, despite being tied up like a corpse in a shroud, that she was with him. Roxelana, the laughing one, the slave girl who rose to become a queen. He sensed her spirit in the jewel, as he had the first day he laid eyes on it in the dusty shop of the hapless Turk. He had taken possession of it, and she had bestowed her power upon him. He was the only man worthy of it. And she was the only woman worthy of him.
It was a kind of power the great Margot would never know. He would take it with him. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone else having it.
The stupefied silence lasted for at least a minute. When Dickson spoke at last, sorrow vibrated in his voice. “Son. Your mother said there was a child, but . . .”
“A boy. Your grandson, Pater. Good news, no?”
Margot said, “Preston, if you’re making this up, it’s beyond cruelty. Poor Mother!”
“Poor Mother? Whatever do you mean, Doc? She’s thrilled!”
“What’s become of this child?” Dickson growled. “Where is he?”
Preston shrugged, and said in the lightest voice he could manage, “No idea, Pater. I’ve been—away.” He gave a hoarse chuckle. “I would guess our little Bronwyn doesn’t know, either.”
“So that’s why Mother brought her here. Because of the child.” Margot folded her arms, her hands gripping her elbows until the knuckles turned white. “My God, Preston. There’s never an end to it, is there?”
“You’re looking for an end?”
“Preston,” Dickson said somberly. “This is disturbing news. If there’s a Benedict child somewhere, I don’t see how we can ignore that.”
Preston spread his hands and attempted a grin. He knew the effect was ghoulish, nothing like the old charming smile he had always placed faith in. It was all he had, so he offered it one last time. “Thought you should know, Pater. I guessed you wouldn’t believe the mater if she told you.”
“I wouldn’t believe you now, if it weren’t for Miss Morgan,” his father said.
“Well, then. There you are. How superbly providential.”
There was a knock on the door, and Dr. Dunlap put his head out. When he came back, he said, “Mr. Benedict, your wife has asked for you.”
“Good, good. I’ll go to her. I think we’re done here,” Dickson said. He squared his shoulders, and thrust his chin at Preston. “Good-bye, son. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. It may be a while. I hope you’ll reflect on all of this. You should write to your mother. Apologize.”
Preston wanted to give a snappy answer to that, but none came to mind. It was the drug, he supposed, slowing his thoughts, thickening his tongue. Old Dunlap had gotten carried away with the dose this time, and the worst of it was that it made him soft. He didn’t like being soft.
He made himself raise two fingers to his brow in salute. “See you, Father,” he said.
“Son,” Dickson said. His lips pursed, as if he might have wished to say something more, but like Preston himself, couldn’t think of anything. Perhaps, indeed, there was nothing left to say. As he turned to follow Dunlap, Dickson looked diminished somehow, his shoulders slumping and his head down. He glanced back at Margot. “Coming?”
“In a moment. I’m going to have one more word with Preston,” she said.
Preston hated the way Margot spoke, as if she never expected anyone to disagree with her. It was just one of many, many things he abhorred about her, and now there was nothing he could do about it. She gave orders to people, and they usually, maddeningly, obeyed.
He managed to say, “What about Oscar, Doc?”
She eyed him, obviously considering before she said, “Oscar should stay.”
Well, no one could call her stupid. She wasn’t likely to forget that he had come within a hair’s breadth—a razor blade’s breadth, more accurately—of putting her out of both their miseries. And she was right. If he were capable of overcoming the sedative, he would gladly put his hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her.
Instead, he would have to play his final card in this long, long game the two of them had been engaged in. The last blow. It should be one she would feel for a very long time to come.
Margot watched her father leave, and her heart twisted at the way the events of the past three years had aged him. He was like a granite pillar, once seeming invulnerable and unbreakable, but now worn down, as if by the incessant current of a river. Preston had brought such pain to Benedict Hall that she was sure it would take years to fully measure it.
And for how long, she wondered, turning back to face her brother, could they maintain him here? Too many incidents like the one of the day before might cause the Dunlaps to refuse to keep him. It wasn’t their business, after all, however profitable they might find it. It could be, in truth, that he belonged in some other place, some less lenient establishment.
“So, Doc,” he said. Only his eyes were the same as they had been, glittering with intelligence, humor, and malice. “What now?”
“I’m not going to see you again, Preston. I thought I should tell you that.”
&nbs
p; “Gosh,” he said. He tilted his head, and grinned. “How will I bear up?”
“I’ve never understood why you feel the way you do about me, but I think I understand you better now.”
“Do you, Doc? You think so?”
“I do.” She took a step closer, causing Oscar to move also, staying near her elbow. She looked into Preston’s face, searching for the brother she remembered behind his distorted features. “I think, Preston, that you were never capable of living in the world the way everyone else does.”
“Oh, that’s a bit unfair,” he said. His gaze met hers without flinching. “I could live in the world just fine, as long as it was on my own terms.”
“What terms, Preston? What would you have changed?”
“I think you know.”
“It couldn’t all be about me. There are always people we don’t like, but we manage to go on with our lives just the same.”
“You do. I don’t.”
“You can’t just kill everyone you dislike.”
“Sad, isn’t it? Because I’d prefer that.” He laughed without a trace of humor.
“I know you hate it when I use medical terms, but I think there’s one that fits you.”
“You’re thinking of Birnbaum?” he said, with a flick of his fingers. “Oh, yes, I’ve read him. I’ve known all about that for a very long time, of course, but aren’t you the clever one to figure it out. Yes, it seems your little brother is a psychopath, if there is such a thing.”
“So you know. But you don’t care.”
“That’s the very definition, Doc. I don’t care.” Preston heaved a long sigh, and sank back down on his narrow bed. He leaned back and crossed his legs, the posture looking incongruous in the untied straitjacket, with the sleeves folded back and the tail hanging loose around his waist. “The thing is, Margot,” he said, and she thought for just a moment she saw a flash of the man he could have been. “The thing is, I can’t change. This is the way I am.”
“People can change, Preston. They do it all the time.”
“You would have to want to change, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Obviously.”
He stopped smiling, and regarded her soberly. “You still don’t understand, Margot. I don’t feel what other people feel. I especially don’t feel what you feel.”
“Yet you’re kind to Mother.”
He shrugged. “Mother appreciates me. She’s the only one.”
“Hattie adored you.”
He put up one finger. “Ah. Note the past tense.”
“What about this girl? The one you claim bore your child?”
“I didn’t claim it. She did it. I went to Port Townsend to make certain. She had the child in Vancouver, a boy, and her parents shipped him to Seattle.”
“Do you have any feelings for her at all?”
“Nope. Couldn’t care less.”
Margot glanced to her left, where the orderly stood staring at the ceiling, then looked back at her brother. A wave of sadness swept over her at the futility of all of it, the waste of life and possibility. “If you could feel what I do, Preston,” she said softly, “you would be able to understand how sorry I am for you.”
His neck stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t need it.”
“But I can’t help feeling it any more than you can help not feeling it. You’re my brother, and I grieve for you.”
“Grieve for Mother, if you want to grieve for someone. Leave me out of it.”
“I’ll try.” She nodded to Oscar, who pulled out his key ring and began sorting through it. To Preston, she said, “I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you.”
“Since when did you ever do anything for me, Doc?”
Margot made a wry face. “I tried, Preston, believe it or not. I did try.”
“Waste of energy.”
“Yes. Evidently.”
Oscar had unlocked the door, and was holding it open for her. She turned her back on Preston and started toward the corridor. She had one foot over the doorsill when Preston called, in a low voice, “Doc.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Find the baby. My son. Your nephew.”
For a long, long moment Margot gazed into her brother’s eyes. They had gone, as they so often had, guileless. Innocent. She didn’t trust those eyes, and didn’t trust his expression, but there was something in his voice, the vulnerability in his words, that touched her just the same. “Why?” she finally said.
“For the mater.”
“You think that will help her?”
“I think it’s the only thing that will.”
Margot said wearily, “We’ll try, Preston, of course. We’ll do everything we can.”
“And tell her good-bye.”
“Do you want to tell her yourself?”
“No. I’m done.” He turned away to face the empty wall. Margot watched him for a moment longer, but he didn’t speak again. She turned abruptly to walk away. Behind her, she heard the click of the door, and the clank of the key in the lock. Then there was only silence.
CHAPTER 26
“There was no need to lie to me.” Olive Ryther sat behind her cluttered desk, wiping her spectacles on a handkerchief. She replaced the glasses on her nose, and picked up a fountain pen. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“I was afraid you would write to my parents.”
“You’re not a child, Miss J—I mean, Miss Morgan. You needed a place to live, I believe. You had no money. Your reasons were not my concern.”
“Just the same, I’m sorry, Mother Ryther. You were kind to me, and I—well, I’m not proud of running off that way. I didn’t really intend to do it. It just sort of—happened.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Ryther removed the cap of her pen and opened the thick ledger in front of her. “If you’ve come to apologize, I accept. I don’t think I can take you back into my home, however.”
“No. I didn’t expect it.” Bronwyn shifted in her chair. She could see that Mrs. Ryther was eager to get on with her paperwork, but finding the words for what she had to ask was proving to be difficult. It had been much easier to lie to this woman than it now was to tell the truth.
“Something else?” Mrs. Ryther said with a touch of impatience.
“Y-yes.” Bronwyn looked down at the handbag in her lap, which still carried a bit of money from the charity box of Mr. Bernard’s church. She had managed to pay for a hotel room, which included a bath and a chance to wash her hair and sponge the stains from the dotted swiss material of her borrowed dress. Though the dress and her hat had seen better days, she had done the best she could. She knew she looked down-at-heel, but at least she was clean. She drew a deep breath, and made herself meet Mrs. Ryther’s gaze. “Yes, Mother Ryther. I need to tell you that—the thing is—I had a baby. Three years ago.”
Mrs. Ryther showed no surprise. “Yes? Did your parents throw you out, then?”
“N-no.”
“You were fortunate. Many girls find themselves out on the street.”
“My parents—no. They were angry, of course, especially my father.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because they sent my baby here. To you. I came to try to find him.”
Mrs. Ryther’s expression changed at that. She laid down her pen, and folded her hands across the open pages of the ledger book. “That wasn’t your decision, Miss Morgan?”
“No, but—they meant well.” As Bronwyn said it, she recognized the home truth of her own words. Her parents had indeed meant well. They had tried to do what they thought was best in what had seemed an impossible situation. What was best for her. “I was only sixteen,” she said ruefully. “I was shockingly ignorant.”
“You’ve learned a few things since then, I think.” Mrs. Ryther smiled a little, and Bronwyn thought it was the first time in their association that she had seen the old woman show any feeling at all. She dealt in action, not e
motions, and that could be hard to understand.
“I want to find my child, Mother Ryther. I need to know he’s safe. That someone loves him. That he’s not—not like the little boy who was just left in the yard. The one who died.”
“Whoever left that child here might have meant well, too,” Mrs. Ryther said. “Sometimes people simply can’t take care of their children.”
Bronwyn thought with a pang of her beautiful bedroom, her closet full of clothes, her mother hovering over her. “It’s so sad,” she breathed.
“Not when we can do something about it.” Mrs. Ryther straightened, and spoke crisply. “I have to tell you, Miss Morgan, that your parents were here looking for you.”
“Oh! They came here? Did you tell them?”
“How could I? I thought you were Betty Jones.”
“Oh, dear. Were they—are they all right?”
“They’re terribly worried, of course. Think about it.” She fixed Bronwyn with a hard gaze, made even more daunting by the gleam in her spectacles. “You’re worried about what’s become of your child. You are your parents’ child, and naturally they’re fearful for you.”
“Do you know where they went? I have to find them!”
Mrs. Ryther hesitated, tapping her lips with the closed fountain pen. “I couldn’t say, of course, where they are now. But they mentioned something about Benedict Hall. Something about a clipping they found in your room.”
Bronwyn jumped to her feet, and tucked her handbag under her arm. “I’ll go there,” she said. “I know where it is.”
“They also asked about your baby, Miss Morgan. Your mother and father.”
Bronwyn put a hand to her throat. “What did you tell them?”
Mrs. Ryther came to her feet, too, laying aside her pen, pushing herself up with an effort. “A child,” she said stiffly, “is not a toy to be tossed away and then picked up again when you change your mind.”
Bronwyn lifted her chin, and met Mrs. Ryther’s stern gaze as best she could. It wasn’t easy. The bubble of grief and guilt in her chest swelled until she could hardly speak. “I know, Mother Ryther,” she said. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m no longer a child. I’ve felt like one—and acted like one—for far too long.”
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