Jane Bonander (12 page)

But this game they played regarding it could make her weary. Now that she understood that it aroused him to remove the cloth, she should quit wearing it altogether.

She hunched her shoulders, sensing the physical vulnerability she would experience if she went without the binder.

She wouldn’t be caught in this situation again. She would dress and undress in her room, in the dark if she had to, but she wasn’t ready to give up the security the binder gave her. She stood, removed his shirt, bound herself tightly, and dressed.

His shirt lay in a heap. She brought it to her face, breathing deeply. It smelled of him; it made her tremble. Before leaving her room, she tucked the shirt under her pillow.

After breakfast she discovered Leeta had come for Emily, and they were with the children.

Curious, she hurried outside to join them. Her steps slowed as she neared them, for they were urging Tristan to tell them a story.

“But Leeta is the storyteller.”

“Please, Tristan,” Leeta urged. “I’ll be happy to have you take my place. They are getting weary of Indian stories. Perhaps you have something different for them to hear. In the meantime, I’ll go help Alice prepare some lemonade.”

“Yes, Tristan,” Emily encouraged. “Tell the one about the sausage.”

Dinah watched as he glanced at each child, his expression and his stance relaxed. He looked different when he was with other people. He smiled. He was open. With her, he was guarded and often angry.

He shook his finger playfully at Emily, who blushed, lowering her head to her sketch pad.

“My big sister wants me to tell you the one about the sausage. Mrs. Linberg used to tell us many old Swedish folktales when we were unhappy, or when it was raining and we couldn’t be outside. Is anyone here unhappy?”

The children shook their heads.

One of the handsome young boys rested his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be unhappy if you don’t tell us a story, Tristan.”

“Little Hawk speaks for all of us,” another child added.

Dinah sat on the grass apart from the rest and hugged her knees, waiting for the story. This was a different Tristan from the one she’d come to know.

Tristan hunkered before them. “Once there was an old woman who was minding her business in her cottage one evening, when a stranger came by, asking to borrow her brewing pan because her daughter was getting married.

“The old woman was terribly impressed with this stranger, for she was dressed like a grand lady and appeared very important. She loaned the woman her brewing pan without even asking her name, and the grand lady told her she would pay her when she returned it.

“Two days later, the grand lady returned the pan and told the old woman she now had three wishes. Then the grand lady was gone. The old woman could hardly wait until her husband returned, for she didn’t know what to wish for. They needed a big barn and could use a box full of money. Oh, wouldn’t the neighbors be envious then?

“In the meantime, the supper she was preparing for her husband was made up of watered-down milk and dried bread. She remembered seeing a juicy sausage at her neighbor’s, and she said, ‘Ah, deary me, I wish I had that sausage here!’ The next moment, a big sausage lay on the table right in front of her.

“When her husband came home, she shouted, ‘Father! Father! all our troubles are over! I lent my brewing pan to a fine lady, and in return she gave us three wishes. See? The sausage is proof, for all I did was ask, and it appeared on the table.’

“‘What do you mean, you silly old woman?’ The husband was angry. ‘Why do you wish for such stupid things as sausage when you could wish for anything in the world? I wish the sausage was sticking to your nose, since you haven’t any better sense.’”

The children laughed, their eyes bright, their faces sweet and innocent. Dinah bit her bottom lip and smiled.

“What do you think happened?”

“The sausage stuck to his wife’s nose,” one of the children offered, still laughing.

Tristan nodded. “Absolutely. All at once the poor old woman gave a cry, for sure enough, there was the sausage, sticking to her nose. She tried to remove it, but the more she tugged and pulled, the firmer it stuck.

“The old woman cried and cried, and the old man tried to get rid of the sausage, but it wouldn’t budge.

“But they had one wish left. Ah, what to wish for. They could wish for something grand, but what good would it do them if the mistress of the house had a long sausage sticking to the end of her nose?

“It was a hard choice for the old man,” Tristan said, shaking his head sadly. “To be so close to having everything, yet not being able to enjoy anything because of the sausage hanging from his wife’s nose. What do you think he did?”

“If I were the old man, I’d wish for lots of money, then I’d buy a good knife and I’d cut the sausage from her nose. I’d still have the rest of the money to do what I pleased with,” the one called Little Hawk announced.

His arrogance added to his good looks. Dinah thought that one day he would be very handsome. He reminded her of Tristan, and she wondered how much like this boy Tristan had been as a child.

Tristan threw back his head and laughed. Dinah stared at him as longing washed through her. She remembered that he’d laughed with her like that, once.

“Good thinking, Little Hawk, but that would ruin the moral of the story.”

“What did they do, then?” asked another child.

“They wished to be rid of the sausage, of course. When it was gone, they danced around the room with glee, for a sausage might be a tasty thing to have in your mouth, but it’s quite different to have one sticking to your nose all of your life.”

The children applauded. All but Little Hawk. He shook his head. “I’d have wished for the money to buy a knife. It makes no sense to think they couldn’t have cut it off.”

Tristan reached over and rumpled the boy’s thick, black hair. “You have a practical mind, Little Hawk. I think one day when you’re older I’ll put you in charge of my stock.”

The boy’s cocky facade slid away and his eyes grew big. “You mean it? The horses, too?”

Tristan gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. “Of course, the horses, too.”

Tristan turned, and Dinah knew by his expression that he hadn’t known she’d been there, listening. “Come, Little Hawk, say good morning to Dinah.”

Dinah’s heart pounded as they drew near, but she forgot her own discomfort when she saw that the boy limped. How had she missed that yesterday? One of his legs appeared shorter than the other, and his foot was like a club, turned inward so that he walked on the outside of it. She felt a quick rush of sympathy.

They stopped in front of her, and Tristan rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, his gaze on Dinah.

“What do you think, Dinah? Does Little Hawk make sense, or does it ruin the moral of the story?”

“He has a point, of course.” She offered Little Hawk a smile. It was met with intense scrutiny.

“You’re very pretty for a White.”

She didn’t know why, but she blushed at the backhanded compliment. “Thank you. I think.”

The boy appeared puzzled. “You’re Miss Emily’s nurse, too?”

She nodded.

“I won’t have a wife when I grow up. They are nothing but a nuisance and a bother,” he proclaimed.

Intrigued, Dinah asked, “Who told you that?”

He gave her a guileless shrug. “Tristan, of course.”

She tossed Tristan a skeptical look. “Of course.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “Isn’t it time to do your chores, Little Hawk?”

“But, Tristan …”

“The young man who will one day be in charge of my stock doesn’t ask so many questions or make such comments in front of a woman.”

The boy studied Dinah. “One more question, Tristan.”

Though Tristan appeared impatient, Dinah knew he was not.

“One more, then.”

“When you have children, will they be half blood or White?”

Dinah’s cheeks flamed and Tristan coughed again as he turned the boy in the direction of the barn and gave him a gentle shove. “Get going or I’ll take a stick to you,” he threatened.

With a sharp laugh, Little Hawk limped toward the barn. “You wouldn’t, and we both know it.”

Tristan’s nearness was stifling Dinah. They exchanged glances.

“Irreverent urchin, isn’t he?”

She watched the boy disappear into the barn. “You encourage it.”

“Is that disapproval I hear in your voice?”

What Dinah had learned about Tristan in this brief interlude confused her; he had exhibited a side of himself she hadn’t known existed.

“Not really. I can tell that for some reason I don’t fully understand,” she began, tilting her head toward him, “the children find you quite fascinating.”

He merely grinned.

Dinah couldn’t help returning the smile. “You didn’t tell me about the children when I first arrived, Tristan. Was there some reason to keep it a secret? Are they, perhaps, products of your many indiscretions?”

“And, if they were, would that make me a bigger heel in your eyes, or a bigger hero, because I’m taking care of them?”

Leave it to him to twist her words. She hadn’t yet learned that he was a master at it.

Emily appeared at her side. “I should have asked that you tell them the story about the orphaned boy, Teddy. It reminds me of Little Hawk.”

He displayed a warm smile for his sister. “I’ll leave that for another day. Now, what have you been drawing while I’ve been telling tales?”

She showed him the sketch. Dinah craned her neck to see it. “Why, Emily, that’s beautiful.” It was of Little Hawk astride a horse, and he wore a grand feathered headdress.

“He’s on a horse because it pains me to watch him walk,” she explained, a sad catch in her voice.

Tristan said nothing, his tortured expression speaking volumes.

“Is there no way his leg can be fixed, Tristan?”

This was the first time Dinah had heard Emily express concern about anyone but herself.

“What do you think, Dinah?”

Surprised, she simply stared at him. “You’re asking me?”

His eyes were hooded. “You’re the nurse. Tell us what you think.”

She’d almost forgotten how she came to be there. Leave it to Tristan to remind her. “I… I really don’t know. Maybe you should ask your friend, Dr. Richards.”

He took Emily’s arm and started toward the house. “I already have.”

Dinah hurried to catch up. “What did he say? Can it be fixed?”

“It’s possible. I’m not sure I want to put Little Hawk through it, though. It’s very expensive, but that isn’t the problem. It’s a new procedure. I wouldn’t want the boy butchered.” He squeezed Emily’s arm, and they shared a private look, one that made Dinah feel more like an outsider than she already did.

Emily didn’t need Dinah for the rest of the day. All of the children were busy with chores, and Alice had chosen today to travel to Hatter’s Horn to get supplies, and she had taken one of the older boys with her.

As darkness fell upon the house, Dinah felt nervous and restless. On paper, she was mistress of this big, gloomy, dismal manse. In reality, she was an appendage. A useless one, at that. Today, the first full day of her marriage, had been the most depressing yet.

After dinner, she climbed the stairs to her room, the subtle noises around her growing more pronounced. She closed the door and stood in the darkness. Alice usually lit her lamp at dusk, but Dinah realized she shouldn’t expect such treatment. She was capable of lighting her own lamp, it was just that coming into a dark bedroom brought back too many ugly thoughts. Hugging herself, her gaze darted to the gloomy corners, where the ghosts of her imagination lurked.

Moonlight suddenly flooded the room, filtering through the leaves of the oaks and the boughs of the firs. It danced on the rug, a sad, funereal ballet that moved across the floor, up the sides of the bed to the painting that hung over the desk, making Emily’s work appear even more macabre.

Attempting to shake off her mood, Dinah lit her lamp and undressed. She freed her bear from its hiding place and slipped quickly beneath the covers. But as she lay there, attempting to sleep, the noises in the attic began again, causing her heart to stir with alarm.

The black room at the asylum loomed in her imagination. She could almost smell the stink of fear of the hundreds of women who had been locked in the room before she had.

She turned onto her stomach and pressed her face to her pillow. When would images of Trenway leave her? How long did she have to be away from the place before she could begin to forget?

A thud from the attic gave her a jolt. She slid to the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling. Another thud, then a cry echoed into her room, sending her heart further into her throat.

She could stand it no longer. Whatever was happening up there would drive her mad if she didn’t find out what it was. As eager as she was to discover the source, she had to work up her nerve to do it. She listened until she heard no more noise, hoping whatever it was would be gone before she investigated.

She tucked her bear under the covers, making certain his head was on the pillow, then left her room. She picked up the peg lamp off the table in the hallway before she started up the dark staircase. The light flickered before her, sending ghastly shadows over the old, flower-patterned wallpaper that lined the stairwell. As she approached the dark landing, a dusty, musty odor, one that reminded her of Trenway, penetrated the air. She attempted to swallow her fear; she wasn’t entirely successful.

She paused, trying to listen’ for the noises that had brought her there in the first place, but she heard nothing. Only the hammering of her heart against her ribs.
Oh, be brave, you foolish coward.
She took a deep breath, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes. How she hated the dark! But as tempted as she was to scurry back to her room and hide under the covers, she didn’t. She had to grow up sooner or later. Later would have been nice.

Taking another healthy breath, she stepped into the shadowy, windowless room and swung the lamp from side to side. Her hand shook, causing the light to flicker erratically.