Her Defiant Heart (31 page)

"Are you going to repeat this?" she asked.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't. I can't get over the fact that you thought you could turn a fortune on my grief."

"Hah!" Amalie threw her head back in a scornful gesture. "I don't believe for a moment that you felt grief at her passing. Neither you, nor Stephen. Especially not Stephen. He told more than one of my girls that she was a family embarrassment. To hear him talk, she was quite out of her head at the end."

William had always suspected his son had a loose tongue. He'd confirmed it earlier when he witnessed Stephen's confrontation with Christian Marshall, and Amalie had confirmed it again. "Believe what you like, Amalie. I don't know who you saw here this evening, but I assure you it wasn't my daughter."

Amalie laughed. "Oh, that's rich."

"If you're splitting hairs, she was my stepdaughter."

"I'd think you'd be happy about that. If she was as mad as Stephen said she was, then you don't have to worry that the same thing might befall your..." She broke off as the door opened a crack. "What is it, Mr. Todd?"

"I just wanted to know if Mr. Bennington would like me to get a cab for him."

William set his glass on Amalie's desk and stood. "Do that. I am I done here." When Todd slipped back into the hallway, William braced his arms against the desk and leaned forward threateningly. "If I ever hear that you are trying to stir trouble like this again, I'll make certain you're shut down. Don't think you're so powerful that you can cross me and get away with it. No one likes the stink of blackmail, especially not the people whose favor you court. Keep out of things that don't concern you, Mrs. Chatham, and after the holiday, come around to the bank and close your account."

"Are you serious?" she asked incredulously. "You don't want my money in your bank? I know there's been trouble since Caroline Van Dyke's death was made public, and since she died without a husband, you need—"

"You didn't let me finish. Take everything except one hundred thousand dollars." He ignored Amalie's gasp. "That's what your erroneous assumptions and greed have cost you this evening. Just a word—
one word
—from you about this to anyone and I'll have your business as well." He straightened, watching her closely while he combed his beard with his fingertips. "I can find my own way out." He smiled pleasantly. "Happy New Year."

Amalie held herself stiffly until he was gone, and then she sank back in her chair, thoroughly exhausted by the night's events. She had been so
sure.
How could she have made such an error, shown such poor judgment? Plucking the headache powder from where she had stuffed it in her bodice, Amalie tore the packet open slowly.

"Get me a glass of water, will you, Mr. Todd?" she asked when he let himself into her office.

Todd brought the water in from her private kitchen and held it out to her. "You don't look well. Would you like a massage?"

She nodded. "Just my neck and shoulders." She dropped the powder into the water, made a grimace, and drank it down in one long swallow. Setting the glass down, Amalie leaned forward so Todd could reach the back of her shoulders. His massive hands could have crushed her neck, yet his touch was infinitely gentle, probing her tension spots with just the right amount of pressure.

"William swears that girl was not his stepdaughter," she said at last.

"Do you believe him?"

Amalie felt as if Todd had just taken a weight from her shoulders. Trust him to be the one person who would not make her doubt herself. "Do you know, John Todd," she said quietly, her expression hardening as she considered her next move, "I don't think I do."

* * *

The cab ride home was silent. Except for Christian's terse instructions to tuck her feet under his thigh to keep her toes warm, he and Jenny did not exchange a word. He helped her down from the carriage, paid the cab driver, and then hurried up the walk alone, leaving Jenny to follow in his wake.

Mary Margaret opened the front door to them, taking Christian's coat as he shrugged out of it. "Dr. Turner's with her now," she said. "She won't let anyone but you help him set her leg. You'd better go up right away." Mary Margaret's heart went out to him as he turned from her, his face ashen, and began mounting the stairs two at a time. "Poor man," she said as Jenny stepped inside. "What a time he's had of it. Him and Mrs. B., just like this, they are." She held up two crossed fingers to show Jenny. "And what took you so long? Sure, and we've been waiting on pins and needles for you to return. Dr. Turner was ready to go to Amalie's himself after the pair of you. I thought of sending Liam to get you, but he's not on duty this evening."

Thank God for that. "It's a long story," Jenny said wearily, still looking at where Christian had disappeared in the upper hallway. She unhooked the frog clasp at the throat of her cloak and slipped it off her shoulders. It wasn't until she heard Mary Margaret's gasp that she remembered the gaping neckline of her gown.

"Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," the maid said, eyes bulging. She crossed herself quickly. "What happened to you?"

"It's nothing," Jenny said, drawing the cloak around her again.

"Nothing! Were you accosted at the parlor—"

"Something like that."

"Oh, my!"

"I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. In fact, I'd like to go to bed. Now that Mr. Marshall's with Mrs. Brandywine I suppose that will be all right, don't you?"

Mary Margaret nodded. She stepped past Jenny and locked the front door. "Go on with you. Just a quick check with Dr. Turner and I'm soon for bed myself. I wonder if I should turn down the bed in Mr. Marshall's room? Add coals to the fire?" She turned around and saw she was talking to herself. Jenny was already climbing the stairs. Her progress was slow, almost painful, and her hand didn't glide along the polished banister as it normally might. Instead, Jenny held it in the manner of someone needing its support. Mary Margaret turned back the lamps in the entrance hall and followed a few minutes later, her fiery brows drawn together in a thoughtful pose.

Chapter 9

"Would you like anything else?" Jenny asked her patient. "Another cup of tea? Mrs. Morrisey made crullers this morning."

Mrs. Brandywine snorted, pursing her lips. The expression was at odds with her round, cherubic features. "Stop trying to coax a better humor from me with food and drink. I am heartily sick of this bed, this room, and Mrs. Morrisey's crullers. Feed them to Liam O'Shea or that stray dog everyone thinks I don't know you've taken in." She wrinkled her nose sourly. "And if I have one more cup of tea, I will float away."

"Oh my. You
are
determined to be cranky today." Jenny bent over the bed and adjusted the pillows behind Mrs. B.'s back and head, not letting the housekeeper see her amused smile. It was easy enough to understand Mrs. Brandywine's ill humor. Being a virtual prisoner in one's bed for three weeks, and knowing there were at least three weeks yet to come, was bound to try a person's patience. Jenny gave Mrs. Brandywine's splinted leg a cursory glance and saw her ankle was swollen. Dr. Turner had cautioned Jenny to look for signs of edema and correct them immediately. "Let's elevate that leg, shall we?"

"You
elevate it," Mrs. B. grumbled.
"I
can't move it."

"Are the splints as heavy as they look?"

"Heavier." Mrs. B. glanced down at her injured leg. It was resting outside the covers that were tucked around her everywhere else. The wooden splints went from her ankle to just above the knee, and they were kept in place by a bandage that spiraled up her leg. The thing was stiff and cumbersome, but it did exactly what it was meant to do—keep her leg immobile. "Damn plaguey thing! I thought Dr. Turner was building a house around my leg."

Jenny smiled as she gently nudged a pillow under Mrs. B.'s foot. She readjusted the housekeeper's nightgown so the ruffled hem covered part of the splint. "You sound just like Mr. Marshall when you talk that way."

Mrs. B. affected an injured air. "There's no cause to insult me. Where is he anyway? I haven't seen him at all today."

"He's gone to his office at
the
Chronicle.'"

"Again? That's every day this week."

"I think so." Jenny shrugged. She kept her hands busy rearranging items on the luncheon tray she had set across the housekeeper's lap. "He does not confide his plans to me, you know. Nor should he. What he does is no concern of mine. And, frankly, even if it were, I don't have the interest nor the time to inquire." Christian and she had never spoken again about what had transpired at Amalie's. She had asked no questions about the confrontations in the hallway outside Maggie's room, and Christian had offered no information. It seemed to her that everything else had been said when they were still in bed. Except for the occasional watchful glance that he cast in her direction, Christian seemed to have put New Year's Eve out of his mind.

"Stop that," Mrs. B. said, pointing to Jenny's fluttering hands. "And take the tray away. I am not hungry."

Jenny put the tray on the nightstand and picked up the book that was lying there. "Would you like me to read to you?" she asked, thumbing through the pages to find where they had stopped the day before.

"Put that down and stop trying to change the subject."

"I was not aware that's what I was doing," she said, replacing the book.

Mrs. Brandywine harrumphed. "It's my leg that was injured, not my brain. I see how things are between the two of you. Perhaps I see it more clearly than I did before, now that I have nothing to do but speculate."

"Then allow me to suggest knitting or letter writing or needlepoint."

A glimmer of a smile crossed Mrs. B.'s lips. She touched her forefinger to the dimple in her chin, striking a thoughtful pose. "Mr. Marshall's never taken this much interest in
the
Chronicle
before. Once or twice a week is usually all he would devote to going down to Printing House Square. Of course he always did a lot for the paper in other ways, but I've never known him to be so active in its daily operation."

"You don't know that's what he's doing now," Jenny said. "Just because he goes there doesn't mean that he's necessarily doing anything. He could be sitting behind his desk with his feet up and passing time twiddling his thumbs."

"That's what speculation is, m'dear. I'm merely
supposing
what he might be doing." She raised her eyes innocently. "For all I know, his interest in the paper is secondary to his interest in getting out of this house."

Jenny fought a battle with herself not to respond to that comment—and lost. "What makes you say that?"

"Because—and this is fact, not my overworked imagination—the two of you were avoiding one another before my accident, and it has only gotten worse since. With your new responsibilities because of my injury, it is inevitable that you would see more of Mr. Marshall. He's corrected the situation by spending most of his time away. You tell me, Jenny. Fact or fancy?"

"You'll have to ask Mr. Marshall," she said. "I'm sure I don't know why he does the things he does."

"What happened the night you went to the parlor house?" she asked. "Mary Margaret told me what you looked like when you came—"

"Mary Margaret had no business mentioning that to you."

"Did something happen that—"

"That's enough" she said, agitated. There was silence for a long moment. Jenny's shoulders slumped, and her eyes fell away from Mrs. B.'s startled countenance. "I'm sorry," she said, and sighed. "I should not have spoken to you like that. Can we talk about something else?"

"I should be begging your pardon."

Jenny shook her head. "No, I understand that you're concerned about him."

"About you as well. But that doesn't excuse my prying."

Jenny walked to the window and parted the drapes. She cleared a small circle on one of the frosted panes with her fingertips. Her warm breath clouded the spot almost immediately. "I worry about him, too," she said finally, her voice little more than a whisper. "Do you know he rarely laughs? Or smiles? He seems so strong, as if nothing touches him, but I've seen such pain in his eyes. I think he must always be hurting." She turned a little, resting her shoulder against the window. "I don't mean his leg. That wound doesn't bother him overmuch. But here,"—she touched her heart—"here he has a hole in his soul." Jenny's smile mocked her own wandering thoughts. "Fact or fancy?"