Her Defiant Heart (11 page)

The housekeeper was clearly affronted by the suggestion. "He's threatened to fire each and every one of us," she said with quiet dignity, "but that's the drink talking and we don't pay it no mind. Anyone giving him a drop of the stuff is to be let go without a reference, and those are
my
instructions. But Mr. Marshall was always a clever one, and when he wants something, he has his own ways of getting it. He stood out on the front stoop not two days ago, barefoot and shirtless, and called to a rag picker out on the avenue. Offered the man a handsome sum to deliver a case to the house. There was no intercepting it." She shuddered. "I can't imagine what the neighbors are thinking. The avenue's not seen the likes of this decadence since Mrs. Stevens began giving musicales on the Sabbath."

With some difficulty, Scott bit back a smile. "Perhaps no one noticed Mr. Marshall," he said solicitously, then brought the subject around to what was important. "Is he eating anything?"

"Mrs. Morrissey fixes regular meals and they are delivered in there. The dishes come back empty."

"Then for all you know he could be feeding them to the rag picker through the study window."

She nodded firmly. "Precisely. To the rag picker, to Mrs. Astor's pet horse, or to Liam O'Shea on his beat."

"What do you think he's doing?"

"I think he's feeding every dog in the neighborhood and drinking himself to death."

Scott sighed again and made a sweeping gesture through his hair with his fingers. "All right, Mrs. Brandywine, we are going to have to help Christian in spite of himself. Why don't you choose three or four men among the employees who won't be intimidated by Christian's threats or his size? Have them meet me in the kitchen. We'll plan our strategy after I've examined our other patient." He changed his black case from one hand to the other and retraced his steps to the stairs. "How is she doing?"

Mrs. Brandywine smiled for the first time since she opened the door. "That one's going to be just fine. Her voice still isn't what it should be so she doesn't say much. Hears just about everything, though, and pays attention to it. She's anxious to be out of bed."

"We'll see," he said, carefully noncommittal.

"If it's a question about what to do with her when she's well, then I may have an answer."

"Oh?" Scott was glad to hear the housekeeper had given the problem some thought. With Christian being at his most unapproachable, Scott didn't know what to do with his patient.

"She can work right here. I'm permitted to hire staff, and I choose to hire her."

Scott had some doubts and they showed. "I don't know, Mrs. Brandywine. I don't think Christian would necessarily approve. The last time I spoke with him he still believed she was deranged."

"Then it would serve him right for not inquiring these last fourteen days," she said firmly. "That young woman has more sense than he does." She rolled her eyes as she realized how little that accolade meant at the moment. "She has as much sense as
I
do. I'm not afraid to have her here. Neither is anyone else on my staff. No one's breathed a word to the doctors who came around here, and no one has any intention to do so."

Dr. Turner smiled gently. "That was the least of my worries. I knew I could depend on you to keep her safe. The search was called off as of Monday. The hospital believes she died of exposure the same night she escaped. Dr. Glenn even identified a body the police discovered in the Five Points as our Jane Doe."

"This all happened Monday?"

"It did. There was a small item tucked in
the
Chronicle
's obituaries about finding a frozen body in a drift in Paradise Square. It mentioned the woman was identified as an escaped lunatic patient from Jennings."

"How could they make a mistake like that? People knew she was wearing Mr. Marshall's clothes when she left. This other poor woman couldn't have been dressed the same way."

"She, er, wasn't dressed at all. She'd been, um, ill-used before she was left to die. The body was not in good condition for identification, but I think Dr. Glenn really believes it was his Jane Doe. I thought you might have read the article."

"No, I missed it. What a world it's become. I did see that heiress's obituary in yesterday's paper, though. There's another poor thing. Her sick for so long and all." She shook her head slowly in a gesture of empathetic sadness. "How she must have suffered, and nothing to be done about it. The Van Dykes had more money than God, excuse the expression, and little good it did them. That family's had its own share of tragedy, what with Mr. Van Dyke killed in that train accident back a spell. Then him not even cold in the grave and his wife taking up with—" She ground to a halt when Scott held up his hand.

"Some other time, Mrs. Brandywine," he promised. "Let me look in on our patient first. You go see about those strong bodies we'll be needing."

Realizing she had gotten carried away, Mrs. Brandywine flushed. Dr. Turner was not the same rapt audience she had had yesterday. His patient, however, had had the good manners to listen to the
Chronicle's
account of the death of Caroline Van Dyke, and had even been moved to ask a few questions. There was a certain sensitivity about the girl that warmed the housekeeper's heart. Mrs. Brandywine had ended up reading the account to her charge twice, then relating gossip about the Van Dykes to which only the hired help were privy.

"I'll see to the matter at once," she said.

"Very good." Scott climbed the stairs with a light step. Visiting this patient was a pleasant task in any circumstances. When he compared it to the upcoming confrontation with Christian Marshall, it was like having an interview at heaven's door. Below stairs, however, the devil was waiting to have his due.

* * *

Mrs. Brandywine picked up the breakfast tray that had been prepared for Christian. There was a short stack of pancakes slathered with butter and maple syrup, two soft-cooked eggs, three bacon strips, orange slices, and a pot of weak tea. "You take this up to Mr. Marshall," she said, turning to the newest member of the household staff.

Jenny Holland looked at the contents of the tray and raised dark doe eyes to the housekeeper, her expression doubtful. Dr. Turner had only given her his cautious assent to get out of bed and begin light duties two days ago—the same two days ago that he had forced her new employer from his sanctuary in the study and into the master bedroom. Jenny had not laid eyes on Christian Marshall since the eventful moment when he had wrestled her back into bed and she had passed out beneath him. She was not sure she was prepared to see him now.

Even though her room was in another wing of the house, Jenny had heard the commotion Christian had caused. She could only guess at the meaning of some of the words that had been exchanged. The battle had been heated and loudly contended. If colorful expressions and baldly phrased threats had been weapons, then Mr. Marshall would have won easily. From the accounts Jenny had heard since, it seemed he had almost won anyway. It had taken two grooms, the gardener, the cook's helper, and Dr. Turner to remove Christian from the study. Later that day, Jenny had heard the tale of Mrs. Brandywine breaking bottles and giving a piece of her mind to the hapless rag picker who came to the back door.

The only people to have cared for Mr. Marshall since he had been taken to his room were Mrs. Brandywine and Dr. Turner. Jenny did not know why she had suddenly been singled out. "I thought you were pleased with my work," she said huskily. Dr. Turner had warned her that she might never recover the full range that had been her voice. She hardly recognized herself when she spoke. "I thought you were pleased to have me here."

The housekeeper laughed. "Lord, Jenny, of course I am. I didn't mean it as a punishment. You've got such a calmness about you that I thought Mr. Marshall might take to it. He's made it clear he doesn't want anything to do with me."

"But that's not right," Jenny said. "You are only helping him."

"Oh, pooh. I don't take much mind of it, not really. He needs to lash out at someone, and I've made myself a fair target. There is no reason for him to feel the same about you."

Jenny worried the soft inner side of her lip. She could have said that she knew differently. Although the staff at Marshall House had been exceedingly kind to her, welcoming her into their fold, even protecting her, it was really no secret that Christian Marshall's seclusion and long drinking bout were in some way related to her presence in his home. There was a general consensus among the employees that she had inadvertently tipped the delicate balance Christian had struck between timely drinking and drinking all the time. The upcoming holiday had only given him another excuse.

"All right," she said. "I'll take it up to him." It was still early. There was a very good chance he would not be awake yet.

"There's a good girl." The housekeeper dropped the key to Christian's room in Jenny's apron pocket, and thought to herself how fine her young protégée was beginning to look. The plain black wool dress and crisp white linen apron, rather than diminishing her color, served to expose the becoming peach blush that caressed Jenny's cheeks. Her dark hair shone from a recent washing and was arranged in a soft chignon at the back of her head. There were small silky curls on her forehead and she had drawn the hair back to display her ears. The stylishness of Jenny's coiffure had surprised Mrs. Brandywine when she first saw it. It was more suited to a lady than a lady's maid, which is what Jenny explained had been her training. Further questions on the matter had added no helpful information, and the housekeeper had chosen to withdraw rather cause distress.

Dr. Turner had warned her to proceed cautiously. The glow in Jenny's complexion, her eagerness to be out of bed, and the desire to make herself useful were all encouraging to a point. There remained, he had told her, a number of questions unanswered and a certain aura of mental fragility that belied Jenny's physical strength.

Mrs. Brandywine made a little shooing gesture to prompt Jenny to move. "Go on with you. It'll be fine. You'll see."

Unconvinced but game, Jenny headed for the master bedroom. She balanced the tray on one hip while she fumbled for the key. Following Mrs. Brandywine's instructions, she locked the door upon entering the room and slipped the key back in her pocket. None of it sat well with her. In some ways this was worse than what was done to her at the hospital, she thought uneasily. The man snoring softly in the middle of the wide tester bed was a prisoner in his own home.

Jenny set the tray on the bedside table and stepped back, surveying the room. It was too dark and gloomy for her tastes. The wallpaper was beige, but an unappealing mushroom shade that looked as if it was supposed to be cream and hadn't been washed in an age. The flocking was a swirling pattern of rusty embellished curls that made Jenny think of a garden in need of weeding. The woodwork, the tester bed, the chiffonier, and the minor pieces of furniture were all dark walnut. The counterpane was hunter green, as was the canopy. Tassels the color of goldenrod fringed both the canopy and the drapes. The fireplace was a corner affair that might have been charming if it had had a sitting area nearby. No attempt had been made to make it the focal point of the room. It was purely functional and, at the moment, not doing even that very well. The kindest thing Jenny could think to say about the room was that it had considerable potential. The other words that sprang to mind were oppressive, cheerless, and dreary.

Something would have to be done. Clearly Mrs. Brandywine's influence had never been felt in this room. Jenny knew the housekeeper had been given free rein elsewhere in the house. This bedchamber reflected Christian Marshall's mood, Jenny thought, and oh, what a black mood it was.

The first thing Jenny did was to add coals to the fire and stoke it until she had a blaze that was capable of warming the room. Her next task should have been equally easy, but some things, she decided philosophically, were not meant to be.

The iron curtain rings had attracted some condensation from the frosted window and had actually rusted to the drapery rod. It appeared that natural light hadn't seen the inside of the master bedroom in weeks, if not months. Dust motes clung to the outer folds of the drapes, and when Jenny flicked at them with her fingers, a dry cloud choked her. She grimaced, trying to decide what to do. Mrs. Brandywine had obviously been wary of making changes. Jenny wondered if she should be as circumspect until she considered how Christian Marshall's entry into her life had changed it. She did not owe him undue caution. She owed him her best judgment, and at the moment he deserved better than waking up in a room that defined melancholy.

Jenny picked up the ladder-back chair that sat at the small writing desk and moved it to the window. She unhooked the tieback sashes that were hanging uselessly on either side of the window frame and snapped the dust out of them. More was required here than simply parting the drapes at the middle and securing them with the sashes. She wanted to pull back the drapes at the top. For want of anything better to do with the sashes, Jenny slipped them around her neck as she climbed onto the chair.

The drapery rings were not difficult to move once she could reach them properly, but she was disappointed with the effect once the drapes were parted. Even if the sun deigned to make an appearance on this wintry day, it was still too early for it to have much impact. She leaned toward the window and rubbed at the frosted panes with the heel of her hand, hoping to let in what light was available. When she tried to lean back to survey her work, she felt a tug at the nape of her neck. Belatedly she realized her chignon had been caught by one of the open drapery rings.