Her Defiant Heart (8 page)

"You don't have to tell me the story. I
read
it, remember? She was committed to the state insane asylum in Jacksonville, Illinois while perfectly sane. Her husband, a minister, if you recall, managed the thing quite easily. She spent three years there, Christian.
Three years.
Is it really so difficult to believe that the same thing could happen here, under our very noses?"

"Frankly? Yes, it is. It sounds as melodramatic as one of those penny dreadfuls Harris Press is always trying to foist on the public." Christian shook his head. "This must be one of the oldest contrivances in literature."

"But we are not writing a novel. This is real." Frustrated, Scott ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the matter with you, Christian? I thought you used to tilt at windmills, champion unpopular causes. What the hell happened?" Scott caught himself, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry. That wasn't called for. I know what happened almost as well as you do. Damn, but you try my patience. I never expected that you would require so much in the way of convincing, certainly not after you saw firsthand what Jane was going through."

Christian shrugged. He removed the towel from Jane's head and indicated that Scott should examine her ears again. "Would it be all right if I comb out her hair?"

"You amaze me," Scott said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're arguing with me every step of the way, yet you care enough to want to untangle that rat's nest?"

"My arguments have nothing to do with whether or not I care." Christian picked through the contents of a chest of drawers and came up with a boar's-hair brush. He tested the bristles against the palm of his hand, concerned that they would not be soft enough for Jane. It was not quite what he wanted, but he thought it would do. He held it up and looked at Scott inquiringly.

"Go ahead. Just don't touch her ears with it."

Christian sat down cautiously at the head of the bed and eased Jane's mass of matted hair from beneath her head. He fanned out her hair on the pillow, tugging on it gently with his fingers, separating the strands as best he could before he used a brush on them. Her hair was the color of dark semi-sweet chocolate, a deep, rich brown that could almost be mistaken for ebony in the dim lamplight.

"I was appalled by what I saw today," he said after a moment. "Nothing you told me going into this prepared me for what I experienced in the treatment room. I cannot even be sorry that Jane tricked me into helping her escape. Getting her out of there was our plan after all, and she merely took matters into her own hands. No one deserves what was being done to her. What I'm having difficulty understanding is your conviction that Jane is quite sane and that she was brought to Jennings Memorial against her will. There's not enough proof to support that view."

"There is one more piece of evidence," Scott said, "but I hesitated to bring it up. No doubt you'll think it's as farfetched and fanciful as everything else I've told you."

Christian smoothed back Jane's hair at the temples and continued brushing with light, rhythmic strokes. Her hair was like chocolate lace against the stark white pillow sham. "Let me make up my own mind," he said. "Alcohol hasn't dulled all my faculties for judgment. Just now I am feeling revoltingly sober."

Mrs. Brandywine picked that moment to return with the warming pan. Scott took it from her and directed her to have some broth and tea prepared in the event Jane woke. She hurried off again, but not before she had taken in the sight of her employer's careful attentions to Jane. As she retraced her steps back to the kitchen, happy tears smarted her eyes. She made no attempt to wipe them away. They felt exactly right.

Scott wrapped the warming pan in a towel to protect Jane's skin and slid it under the covers. She moved slightly but did not wake. Scott gathered the cool, damp towels and took them back to the hearth. He stoked the fire under the kettle and started the process of warming them again. "You've heard Jane called the princess, haven't you?"

Christian nodded. "You've used it once or twice before, though I really didn't think much about it. It caught my attention today when one of the attendants called her that."

"Did you ask about it?"

"You know me too well. Yes, I asked the one called Billy. He said that Alice Vanderstell gave Jane that title. That was something of a surprise. I thought Mrs. Vanderstell was dead."

"Her family probably wishes it were so. She's been at Jennings quite a while, and there's really no hope that she'll ever be allowed to return home."

"You're not going to tell me she is also there against her will, are you?"

"I'm sure she's there against her will," Scott replied. "If she had a choice in the matter, she would choose to be in her own home. However, she can't take care of herself there, and her family finds her a social embarrassment. She's disrupted parties they've given and invited complete strangers into the home. She still enjoys an occasional cigar." Scott gave a short laugh. "That would not be a problem except that she's started a number of fires as a result of her habit. Her unpredictable behavior and forgetfulness make her something of a danger to herself and others."

"I'm not certain where this is leading."

"Alice has moments of complete lucidity," Scott explained. "But it seems they are all connected, one way or the other, with her past. She recalls events of years ago with startling clarity and accuracy."

"That's not so unusual, is it?"

"No, not really. But it's important."

"How so?"

"Because she called Jane Doe the princess after only seeing her one time."

"So? Jane reminded her of someone she knew from her past."

Scott shook his head impatiently. A lock of hair fell forward, and he brushed it back with the heel of his hand. "It wasn't like that. It was more definite. I was there when it happened, and Alice seemed so certain. Don't you see? What if Jane
is
someone from Alice's past... someone she actually knew?"

"Farfetched and fanciful. You were right on both counts." Christian put down the brush on the bedside table and eased off the bed. He sat down in the rocker and absently massaged his leg. "It's difficult to credit that Jane and Alice Vanderstell ever walked in the same social circles."

"Why? The Marshalls and the Vanderstells could have easily shared a rung on the social ladder. And look at you now. Who would believe it?"

Christian's jaw sagged a little and his eyes widened at Scott's plain speaking. "You're not pulling any punches, are you?"

"I can't afford to. This is important to me."

"Well, to give your theory a bit of credit, my parents knew the Vanderstells. The family was a touch too high in the instep for my tastes, although it seems I missed something by never making Alice's acquaintance. She really smokes cigars, eh?"

"Yes, she really does."

"Imagine that." He slipped the flask out of his breast pocket and unscrewed the cap with his thumb. He ignored Scott's dark look. "You know what's even harder to believe?" he asked, raising the flask to his lips.

"What's that?"

"That Jane over there could ever come by a nickname like the princess. I can't think of anyone less suited to the title."

"I am not so sure you should judge Jane on the way you've seen her thus far. When she's feeling more the thing, I think she'll be rather pretty."

Christian's mouth pulled to one side. Pretty? It was an insipid description. Her delicate, elegant bone structure was a framework for features that were defined by their exquisite symmetry. When Jane was well she would easily transcend being merely pretty. She would be striking.

"I was thinking of her demeanor," Christian said, "not her appearance."

"I think it would be rather hard to affect the manner of a princess when one is being brutalized," Scott said dryly.

"I suppose so." Christian capped his flask and put it away.

Scott made a short, mocking bow. "How kind you are to concede that one small point."

Christian sighed. "I am not saying I won't help. I'm in this up to my neck, and I'm not complaining about that, am I? I simply think your theories are without adequate foundation. That doesn't mean I am going to abandon you or Jane. I have no intention of forcing her out. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. Just don't ask me to involve the paper again. I want as little to do with the
Chronicle
as possible, and that includes pretending I write stories for it."

"Am I missing something here? For God's sake, Christian, you own the damn paper. You're the publisher."

"A set of circumstances that I would remedy if I could legally do so. My father and brothers cared about
the
Chronicle.
I never did. I don't know why you expect their deaths should make a difference in the position I take with the paper. I do what I have to do because people depend on it for their livelihood."

Scott dropped the subject. "Help me with the towels again. This should be the last time we have to change them." He carried them over to the bed. "I had considered taking Jane to my home, but if you're serious about letting her stay, then this room should be prepared. I think she'll be safer here. As long as I can see her frequently, your staff can provide better care than Susan can by herself. She has plenty enough to do with Beth being underfoot most of the day."

"You should hire someone to help. More than just the cook you have now."

Scott laughed. "I'm a doctor, not the beneficiary of more inherited wealth than I know what to do with." He lifted Jane's right hand, unwrapped the towel, and examined it closely. "This is much better. She's making good progress. Once she's conscious she'll have to exercise her fingers. Just some mild movements, nothing strenuous. Under no circumstances is she to be allowed to walk. She could do serious damage to her feet at this point."

"Does that mean we'll have to strap her down?"

"God," he said feelingly, "I hope not. That wasn't what I was thinking when I said the room had to be prepared."

"What did you mean?"

"Basically that we remove sharp objects and reduce the number of corners in the room. Get rid of that chest for instance. The mirror, too. The figurines on the mantel should be taken out. I would prefer she didn't have anything to throw. It would be a good idea to wrap the brass posts of this bed with blankets. Does the door to this guest room lock from the outside?"

Christian was prepared to do what Scott suggested until it came to this last request. "Yes, it locks. But I am not keeping her prisoner. She can go anytime she wants."

"Didn't you hear what I said less than a minute ago? She can't be allowed to walk. And even when she's ready to walk, she may not be ready to leave our care. I have to satisfy myself that she's well enough physically and mentally to do that. It was never part of my plan to release her from Jennings and permit her to make her own way. Nothing's that simple."

Christian bit off his reply as Jane stirred. "I'll ring for some help. It appears we may not have to wait much longer."

"There's no great hurry. She'll be as weak as a newborn kitten for a few days."

"Don't you believe it. I have personal experience with her recuperative powers that tell me differently. Moreover,"—he grimaced—"she fights dirty." Christian went to the fringed bell pull and gave it two yanks. "That should bring Mrs. B. on a run," he said with a devilish smile.

Scott had to laugh. "You're cruel to her."

"Me?" Christian held up his hands innocently. "That woman stays awake nights thinking of some new way to get under my skin."

"Then you take shameless advantage of her. I wonder why she puts up with you."

Christian turned away and stared at the fire for a long moment. An ember popped, fizzled, and then died. "We are the only family each of us has," he said finally. When he turned back to Scott he managed a rueful smile. "I didn't mean to get maudlin. Next thing you know I'll be turning to drink. Come on, help me with this chest."

Scott did not know what to make of Christian's changeable moods or his black humor, but he was too weary to dwell on it now. He could not help asking himself if he had done the right thing by involving Christian in his personal crusade. He had thought his friend needed a direction, some purpose, but what the hell did he know about anything? His wife had warned him Christian might not fall in easily with his plans. Susan had also pointed out that Christian Marshall, unlike Jane Doe, might not be worth saving. There were moments when Scott found himself considering the possibility that Susan was right.

They finished moving the chest into the hallway just as Mrs. Brandywine topped the stairs. She did not appreciate their efforts, not when it meant that her floors were scratched because of their clumsiness. "I'll have Sam and Eddy take it from here," she said. "Is this why you rang for me?"

"In part," Christian said. "Dr. Turner wants a few things done to the room to accommodate his patient." He cast a sidelong glance at his friend to underscore the fact that he was not taking responsibility if Mrs. Brandywine had something to say about it, but his housekeeper was immediately all smiles.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Turner?"

Scott outlined the changes that needed to be made, still expecting Mrs. Brandywine to formulate some objections at any time. When she listened carefully, nodded occasionally, and said that everything would be done to his satisfaction, he realized that this was her subtle way of needling Christian. Odd, he thought, but they both seemed to enjoy it. "Do you have that broth ready, Mrs. Brandywine?" Scott asked.