Mittman, Stephanie (34 page)

"If
you're implying that I've been out pleasure seeking—" the brother—Davis
thought he was real nice, and surely liked the man's parrot—started to say.

The
mister took in a big breath and acted like he hadn't said what Davis was pretty
sure he had. "Never!" he said, shaking his head slowly back and
forth. "But you don't mind the carriage house, then, do you?"

The
brother said he didn't, and then told Maria he didn't want any more food.

"Good,
good," the mister said, and winked at his brother real big so everyone
else at the table could see. "Maybe we can slay two birds with the same
stone. Give you a bit of the privacy you must be craving after all those years
at sea and all."

"Well,
Liberty ought to appreciate the chance to spread his wings," Ash said,
smiling right at Davis when he said the bird's name.

"Not
to mention you as well," the mister added, then looked at the missus and
smiled real private, like it was just the two of them in the room. "And
then, Charlotte, you'll be able to get up there every now and then like you
used to. Tend your animals and such."

"My
animals?" The missus tilted her head and leaned around the doc and Davis
to get a better look at her husband. "What animals?" she demanded,
just like he was the one hiding them.

"Oh,
the little one-eared fellow, and the blind one, and the rodents you can't bear
to catch in traps. Need I go on?" Davis had figured that the man had to
know at least about that stupid rabbit who was always getting loose. The mister
seemed real pleased with himself for having kept the secret so long, but the
missus didn't seem to appreciate it at all.

"The
blind one is dead," she said through gritted teeth. "He died about a
year ago in the cellar. How long have you known about them?"

The
mister shrugged and winked at Davis. "I'm no idiot, Charlotte. Not blind,
not deaf. The first one I can remember is that squirrel you called Bristles.
Not counting the cat I agreed could stay in the cellar after our urn-filler got
to him."

He
waved at the peacock feathers filling the jug on the sideboard. It was too bad
that bird had died. The missus was all broke up about it, which surprised Davis
because he didn't think anyone liked the mean old buzzard all that much.

"Not
counting the cat you
relegated
to the cellar," the missus said with
her eyes all squinty. "Where the poor thing died. If you've known all
along, why didn't you say anything? Do you have any idea how hard it's been for
me to take care of them surreptitiously? Getting up in the middle of the night
to feed them just to accommodate your edict of no pets in this house—do you
have any idea how many stairs I've climbed, trips to warm things up and back
again, all after you've gone to bed. Do you—"

The
mister threw back his head and laughed. "You make it sound like it was my
fault that you were a sneak and a liar. As if you could sneak anything past me,
Charlotte! As if I don't know everything that goes on under my roof. And here I
was all this time letting you get away with your little deception."

"Why?"
she asked, her fists so tight up, they were turning white. "What was the
point of making my life so hard?"

"Nobody
made you take in those animals, Charlotte, so don't go blaming me for the work
of them," the mister said.

"Vas
she supposed to just let them die?" the doc asked. "Come on, now, Mr.
Vhittier. You know your vife better than that. She didn't have no choice but
the one you left her—to hide them."

It
seemed to Davis that the doc had a point. Even in the little time he'd known
the missus, he'd seen that she couldn't even turn on a spider. She sure looked
silly chasing the hairy little thing under the sofa and warning it to stay
there cause Maria was on her way and would be sure to step on it.

"It's
my fault?" the mister asked, his eyes real big like it was the silliest
thing he'd ever heard. "She sneaks these things into the house against my
express wishes and I'm the one guilty of something?"

"She
asked you why, Cabot," the other mister said. If Davis didn't know better
he'd swear that man was sweet on the missus, the way he kept looking at her
like she'd just baked him a birthday cake with three layers and a whole lot of
candles. "And I'd like to hear the answer. We know why she tricked you—her
nature wouldn't let her do anything else. Why did you trick her?"

It
seemed like everyone was ganging up on the mister, but Davis figured the man
could take care of himself, so he rested his head in his hand and just watched
the man wheel that chair of his back away from the table a little.

"I
should have expected you would leap to her cause," the mister said to his
brother. "For all the good it'll do you. You can look at me and ask why I
don't want animals around here, Ashford? It's just one of the many little
annoyances this chair has caused in our life. Seems you were right about how
much I'm forced to disappoint her. Not that it's your fault in any way, Ash,
but I'd expect you to at least be aware of the limitations imposed on me
by—"

"You
want to get into this in front of our guests?" Ashford asked. Davis was
beginning to think of him by his first name, since that was all most people
called him. "Because I doubt she does."

"No,
he does not," the old lady said, stomping that cane of hers against the
floor.

Then
I'll just be moving my stuff on out to the carriage house, if anyone needs
me," Ashford said, getting up from the table and throwing down his napkin.
"And we can finish this later."

"Just
wait until our guests leave," the missus said, signaling him to sit back
down. "And I'll give you a hand. I've a few things up there that—"

"I
think not, Charlotte," the mister said, rolling his chair back up against
the table and waving for Maria to take away their plates. "We have a great
deal of work to do if we hope to win Ash's case. If you really want to be of
help to him, I think it would be best if you and I did some work together
tonight. And left Ash to himself and your various other animals."

It
made sense to Davis, but there must have been something he was missing, because
Mr. Ash stormed across the room while the mister yelled at Maria for more wine.
And Davis saw the old lady pat the missus's hand gently, giving the mister the
evil eye like he'd done something she was real ashamed of.

"I
was just wondering, Cabot," Ash said before he left the room, "what
made you tell her now?"

She'd
helped settle Davis into the high room, which consisted of little more than
introducing him to a few more animals Ash had been willing to put up with, and
pointing out some books he might enjoy leafing through. And then she'd gone
down to her office, only to find the lights turned out and no sign of Cabot at
all.

Twice
today she'd felt that he was threatening her. Of course, looking at it
rationally, she was being ridiculous. All he'd said was that she could take her
cases with her if she left. How could that possibly be construed as a threat?
Especially since she wasn't going anywhere. Or putting Davis in the high room
and suggesting they needed to do some work on his brother's case. What kind of
threat was that?

Still,
something was afoot. They had become adversaries suddenly, on opposite sides of
a nameless case.

Her
head was just poking through the neck of her nightgown when she heard three
short taps. Davis? She lowered her gown, and clutching it around her neck, she
opened her door to an empty hall. Again she heard the rapping and like an idiot
she ran to the window to look out at the dark night.

"Charlotte?"

She
heard the low voice, but saw nothing.

"Charlotte,
can you hear me?" It was Cabot's voice. She poked her head out the window
and looked in the direction of his room.

"Cabot?"
she said out into the night.

"Charlotte?"
He tapped again and she realized he was knocking on the wall that separated
their rooms. "Are you in there?"

She
put her head against the wall. "Cabot? Are you all right? Do you need
something?" She was reaching for her robe and trying to remember where it
was that Arthur slept, when Cabot answered her.

"Come
next door. Please."

A
chill went through her and she pulled the wrapper tighter around her. "Is
something wrong? Should I get Arthur?"

"God,
no! Just come in. I can't talk to you through the damn wall."

"I'm
not dressed," she mumbled, looking down at herself and realizing she was
as covered from her neck to her toes as ever he'd seen her.

Sneaking
out her door, looking both ways like an errant child, she hurried to his door
and knocked so quietly, she suspected he wouldn't even hear her.

"Come
in," he whispered like some coconspirator.

He
lay in his bed. To the best of her recollection she had never seen him ready
for sleep before. He was propped up with several pillows behind his head and
lay on the left side of the bed, leaving the right empty. He had on a blue
dressing gown and white nightclothes, which peeked out from beneath it.

"Close
the door. If you don't mind, that is." And then he cleared his throat and
smoothed out the empty side of the bed.

With
one hand on the knob and the other near the edge, as if that would make it any
quieter, she closed the door and then stood inches from it, fighting to
swallow. "Is something wrong?" she asked when he just lay in the bed
staring at her.

He
opened his mouth to speak and then shut it.

She
bit at her lip and waited.

He
opened his mouth again and, once more managed to clear his throat.

She
pulled at the ties of her robe until she nearly severed her top half from her
bottom and made it almost impossible to breathe, which she wasn't doing anyway.
She took a step back and hit the door with her heel.

"What
are you doing way over there?" he asked. "This is hard enough."

"What
is?" She felt her legs getting rubbery.

"Maybe
it would be easier if you came and sat here," he said, pointing to the
chair at his bedside. "Or on the bed."

"Are
you going to fire me?" she asked. "Because I'd just as soon hear that
from over here."

His
eyes widened and his jaw dropped and then he threw his head back against the
pillows and laughed. "Is that what you thought? You poor child! No, no,
I'm not going to fire you. Now come and sit."

She
did as she was told, taking in her surroundings as she did. It was a Spartan
room. She supposed he needed a great deal of space to maneuver around up here,
what with the difficulties involved in getting him dressed and undressed and
all. It wasn't easy to move his heavy legs, shift his uncooperative torso, lug
him from his chair into his bed.

There
was a notebook and pen on his nightstand and she reached for it.

Again
he laughed, this time nervously. "You won't need to take notes."

"Cabot,
what is this all about?" It was late and she was tired, and being in
Cabot's room gave her the willies.

"I
think there's something going on between you and my brother."

Just
like that he said it. No preamble, no leading up to it or letting her see it
coming.

"And
I want you to know that I don't blame you. You don't know Ashford all that
well, but he's been a ladies' man since he was in knickers. No doubt he told
you that he loves you, and no doubt you think that you are in love with
him."

She
studied the small checks on her dressing gown and fiddled with her belt but
said nothing. Cabot had been the one to teach her never to show her hand until
she knew just what the opposition held.

"You
know, of course, that you weren't his first, and that you won't be his last.
You're no fool, but neither are you an expert when it comes to love. Neither am
I, of course. But I do understand human nature and I do have compassion for
your needs."

"Cabot,
I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at. Are you forgiving me my
trespasses? Because I don't think there was anything to forgive." She
corrected herself. "Not what you think, apparently, anyway."

He
sighed deeply. "I'm glad to hear it. My brother is not a bad man, Charlotte,
but he has bad habits. Using women is one of them. If he ever hurt you, I think
our vows would override my blood ties to him. Do you understand what I'm
saying?"

Of
all the scenarios she could have imagined, this was the worst. She could have
faced his anger, his outrage, even his indifference. Not his caring, his
kindness, his protectiveness.

"Are
we finished, then?" she asked, beginning to rise. "It's very late and
I—"

"Would
you stoke the fire for me?" he asked, handing her the poker and explaining
that he had rapped on the wall for her with its end.

She
took the poker and awkwardly moved the screen from the fireplace.