Fletcher's Woman (47 page)

The voice that answered her was stricken and weary and gruff. And it was Griffin's “It's all right, Sweetheart—everything is all right.”

“Oh, Griffin, I—there was a baby—”

She felt his hand, gentle on her face, and heard the quiet grief in his voice. “I know. We'll talk about that another time.”

There was a stinging prickle in her upper arm and then, a few minutes later, a floating, blessed relief from the pain. Strange words drifted back and forth above her, cloaked in Griffin's voice and, sometimes, Molly Brady's soft, lilting brogue. Only one of these words would stick in her mind, once the nightmare was over. It had a French sound and Rachel, half-conscious though she was, made a determined effort to remember it.

“Curettage,” she said.

“Hush,” replied Molly.

•   •   •

Jonas hated the rain. It made him feel confined, made the grim business of waiting all the more difficult to bear. It had
been more than two weeks since he'd seen Rachel, and the strain was telling.

Athena's voice was peevish. “Sit
down
, Jonas. The weather is dismal enough, without you standing there at that window and brooding.”

He turned, glared at the woman calmly eating biscuits and jam at his table. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.”

Athena helped herself to another of Hammond's biscuits, spread a liberal helping of blackberry jam onto its porous, steaming middle. “Sure, something is wrong. There is a quarantine on. And we're losing the game, you and I.”

A denial rose in Jonas's throat, concerning the game, even though he sensed the truth in her words. Before he could utter it, however, there was a persistent knocking at the front door, followed by a shrill protest from Mrs. Hammond.

Jonas closed his eyes.
Another one of Griffin's dramatic entrances
, he thought, with dread. But when he looked, Elsa Mayhugh, the best whore ever to turn a trick at Becky's Place, was standing before him, red-faced and defiant. “If you want me keepin' an eye on things,” she fumed, “you'd better tell that snooty housekeeper of yours that I don't go in through
nobody's
back door!”

Jonas suppressed a laugh. “It's all right, Elsa. Sit down.”

The high color that rose in Athena's beautiful, aloof face at the suggestion delighted him. Ironic, that's what it was, her not wanting to sit at the same table with Elsa Mayhugh, considering how alike the two women really were.

“Thanks,” said Elsa coldly, making no move to accept the invitation. “I just came to tell you that there was some kind of trouble at Becky's early this morning. The kid woke up screamin' like a banshee, and Mamie sent me down to Tent Town to find Dr. Fletcher.”

Jonas felt his stomach braid itself into an icy knot. “What happened?”

Elsa shrugged. “I listened, but they had that door tight shut, the doc and that woman that cleans his house. I didn't see nothin'.”

“Then what did you hear?”

“Mostly just the kid screaming. And there was a lot of them high-falutin' doctor words, too.”

“Like what?”

“Kratrog, or somethin' like that.”

Jonas looked at Athena, saw his own horrified recognition
mirrored in her eyes. “Curettage?” he prompted, hoping that the trembling within him wasn't outwardly visible.

“That's it,” said Elsa, pleased.

Jonas groped for the back of his chair, fell heavily into the seat. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

“I'm supposed to get ten dollars,” Elsa reminded him, blithely.

Jonas was too sick to respond in any way; it was all he could do to breathe. He did, however, feel a flicker of relief when Athena paid the whore and got rid of her.

If his emotions were paralytic, Athena's were volcanic. “Curettage!” she cried.

“Please—” Jonas muttered, when he could speak. “Don't define it—I know what it means.”

Athena either didn't hear him, or didn't feel inclined toward mercy. “Either Rachel miscarried,” she speculated, in a furious hiss, “or Griffin Fletcher aborted his own baby!”

Jonas felt his reason give way, but he was powerless to retrieve it. “I'm going to kill him!” he said. “I swear by all that's holy, he's a dead man!”

Athena's form was a moving blur. “No!
No
, Jonas—I'll do anything—
anything!
But I won't be a part of murder!”

He swung at her, but she was like a mirage; he couldn't quite make contact. Then she was raising something in both hands, and there was an explosive, shattering pain in his head. He fell so slowly. It seemed like a long time before he felt the cool smoothness of the floor against his jaw.

•   •   •

Griffin was grateful, that grim morning, for the dogged weariness numbing his mind, dulling his emotions. Molly came into the room, handed him a welcome cup of coffee, and whispered, “How is she this morning, then?”

He could not look at the girl lying still and broken in his bed—even the pounding fatigue would not insulate him if he did. “She was pregnant,” he marveled, ignoring Molly's question. “My God, she was
pregnant
, and she didn't tell me!”

Molly's hand came cautiously to rest on his forearm. “It was early. She probably didn't know, Griffin.”

Griffin shook his head, still keeping his eyes fixed on the dismal, sodden view from his bedroom window. “She knew. She said ‘there was a baby.' ”

“Aye. Griffin, you're not thinking that the child wasn't yours, are you?”

“It was mine, all right. God, why didn't I leave her alone?”

Bless her, Molly spared him the lecture he rightly deserved. “You'll be changing nothing by torturing yourself, Griffin Fletcher. You've got your hands full enough with an epidemic and you the only real doctor for miles around.”

Griffin took another sip of the strong coffee steaming in his cup. “Field wired John O'Riley last night.”

“Aye, and it's a good thing, then. You'll be getting some sleep at last.”

“No. Even with John's help, there won't be time. And Rachel—”

“I'll take care of Rachel,” Molly said. “It's rest she's needing now, and the comfort of another woman staying near. I—”

Griffin broke in rudely, with a muttered swear word, as he caught sight of the carriage rolling to a stop on the road below. The passenger, who scrambled out and marched furiously up the front walk, was Athena.

He closed his eyes, let his forehead rest against the cool, damp windowpane. But there was no respite—Athena knocked, got past Billy without apparent difficulty, and came up the stairs in an audible, tangible rage.

Turning slowly, Griffin was prepared when she loomed in the doorway. “Get out,” he said.

But her eyes were on Rachel, who slept fitfully in the big bed. “Griffin. you
monster
,” she breathed. “You're not going to get away with this—I'll ruin you.”

Griffin shrugged. “Ruin me.”

Athena paled, and her dark blue eyes widened with disbelief. “You didn't—Griffin, tell me you didn't abort—”

“Abort?”
the word exploded from Griffin's tongue. “Do you really think I would
abort
my own child?”

Athena raised her chin, and Griffin saw a kind of vicious relief in her face. “No,” she said evenly. “I don't. But I think Judge Sheridan can be convinced that you did. And that means you'll be in jail by sundown, Griffin.”

The indifference Griffin had so prized deserted him; his hands tensed, straining to close around Athena's haughty neck and crush everything within it. “You wouldn't dare,” he breathed, seething.

Incredibly, Athena laughed. “Why wouldn't I? You destroyed me—now I'll destroy you. Gladly.”

Trembling, Molly stepped into the short, dangerous space
between them. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Both of you. I can testify that there was no abortion—I was there.”

“No one would believe you, Molly,” Athena said sweetly. “Everyone in Providence thinks you're really Griffin's little Irish bedwarmer. And that would prejudice you, wouldn't it?”

The words Griffin spoke would never be retracted, never be denied. “Do it, Athena. Have me arrested. But remember this: if it takes the rest of my life, I'll find you. And when I do, I'll kill you.”

“You don't mean that,” she replied blithely. Then she pulled the pearls and bracelet he'd given Rachel from her handbag and flung them at him. “Here. She'll have these to remember you by!”

A moment later, Athena was gone, in a flurry of scorn and white eyelet.

Jonas opened his eyes—realized that he was lying in his own bed. The room was darkened, and at first, he couldn't be certain whether or not the night had come—it would be like Hammond to draw the drapes.

A dull ache pounded beneath the rounding of his skull, reminding him. Athena. Griffin. Rage scalded its way from his stomach to his throat, erupted in a burst of energy.

Jonas flung back the covers and sat up—only to find the motion costly. He groaned, and nausea swept through him. The pain in the top of his head was infinitely worse—what had that slut hit him with, anyway?

With slow, deliberate movements, he found trousers, a shirt, boots. The room spun around him as he struggled into them.

Rising from the edge of the bed brought on another rush of crushing pain, another wave of nausea, but Jonas's fury sustained him. He staggered to the window, thrust back the drapes, and saw that he had lost most, if not all, of the day. The rain had slackened to a misty drizzle, and twilight was settling in.

Jonas thought again of Athena, of Griffin. And he felt such hatred that he had to grasp the windowframe in both hands just to keep his footing. Rachel came into his mind, and a soft, grievous cry boiled into his throat and echoed in the stillness of the room.

Rachel
. They were lying about her, they had to be lying. There had been no baby, no miscarriage, no curettage. Jonas closed his eyes, saw her rising out of the churchyard pond that day of the picnic, her silk blouse wet and translucent, leaves clinging in her hair. He'd seen her so clearly that she might as well have bared herself to him; he'd seen the fullness of her breasts, their rosy centers, even a small, diamond-shaped mark beside her nipple. And then there had been the night in Seattle, the night she'd fallen sick, and he'd undressed her tenderly, stricken by the beauty of her—

He drew a deep breath, opened his eyes. He would not, could not lose her, no matter what he had to do.

There was liquor on his bureau, and Jonas made his way to it, poured a double shot, and downed it in one scalding gulp. It braced him a little; he followed it up with another equal portion.

The bedroom door creaked on its hinges, and Hammond's shadowy bulk appeared in the opening. “Jonas, that woman is downstairs. I tried to keep her out—”

“What woman?” Jonas snapped, pouring more brandy into his glass.

“Mrs. Bordeau,” replied the housekeeper. “She's bursting with some crazy idea about you and her having Griffin Fletcher arrested.”

Arrested. Jonas considered that, tilted his head back, and expelled his breath in an impatient rush. “Did she happen to say for what?”

“Aborting that McKinnon girl's baby,” answered Mrs. Hammond, sadly.

Jonas tensed. If that happened, the lie would be perpetuated—everyone would believe that Rachel had been pregnant. “No,” he rasped. “Damn it, no! Send that—Send her up here.”

“I don't think she'd come, Jonas. She's nervous as a cat as it is. Little wonder—she's the one who should be arrested, if you ask me. Why, when I found you on the floor—”

Jonas broke in crisply. “Just tell her I'll be right down.”

Athena was nervous, all right. She was pacing the parlor floor like some exotic animal fresh from the wilds, and her skin was
pale. She was careful, Jonas noticed, to keep a wide distance between them.

“I'm not going to let you have Griffin arrested,” he said flatly.

Athena's ink-blue eyes flashed, and she came to a dead stop. “Why not? He'd be out of your way, once and for all—”

“I said no. Let it pass.”

She was gaping now, her face bright with outraged color. “Jonas, that girl is lying in his house right now—in his
bed
—recovering from an illegal abortion!”

Jonas closed his eyes. He could feel the liquor mingling with the rage in his bloodstream, dulling the ceaseless ache in his skull. “No,” he said, in a gruff whisper. “No.”

“I can't believe you're going to let Griffin get away with this!”

Jonas's tongue was suddenly independent of his brain; he was babbling something about Griffin, something about Rachel's father, Ezra McKinnon. It was an odd feeling, not being able to comprehend his own words—something like trying to listen at a thick door.

But Athena's eyes were wide, and she was backing away from him, holding out her hands, shaking her head, muttering his name over and over again.

Steadily, slowly, Jonas walked toward her.

•   •   •

John O'Riley arrived aboard the
Statehood
in the early afternoon, bringing what quinine he'd been able to gamer in a still-chaotic Seattle. Together, he and Griffin battled the ever-rising epidemic, seldom speaking, never looking each other squarely in the face. Griffin supposed that John didn't want to see the futility of the situation mirrored in the eyes of another doctor, anymore that he did.

There was a lull early that evening, and they ventured into the deserted mess tent, where only Chang was in evidence, to help themselves to mugs of stale, bitter coffee.

Even as they sat across from each other, in the semi-darkness of that sodden tent, John was careful not to look directly at Griffin.