Deadlier Than the Pen (8 page)

After a moment, the brakie nodded.
A short time later, using the padded lid of a tobacco tin to add pressure directly over the break, Bathory had set Sam's collarbone with a skill that spoke of a suspicious degree of practice. He wound a long bandage, crossed and recrossed at the point of the fracture, over and around the brakeman's shoulders in a figure eight to hold everything tight.
"Can you still breathe?" he asked.
Sam managed a grin. "Well enough. You do good work, mister. Better than some sawbones I've met."
Bathory helped him to one of the caboose's built-in bunks. Together with the personal possessions of the trainmen, and supplies for cooking and heating, the beds took up most of the room in the small, snug crummy.
"Rest," he ordered, and turned to go back to the parlor car. For the first time, he saw that Diana had been watching him.
"Will he be all right?" she asked.
"He'll do."
Before his advance, she retreated. Mr. Brown remained behind in the crummy. She walked faster, but Bathory caught up with her in the now-deserted baggage car.
"We need to talk."
"Not here."
"Where better? Fewer interruptions."
This close to him, her heart rate speeded up and she had to remind herself to breathe. She itched to move nearer even as what was left of her common sense warned her that she must get away, that it wasn't wise to be alone with him.
He smiled, but there was something menacing in his expression.
In sudden panic, Diana turned and ran.
Bathory was too quick for her. He circled her waist with one arm and a moment later they were face to face, her bosom pressed tightly against his chest, her arms pinned to her sides. His grip tightened until she could feel each of his fingers through the fabric of cloak, shawl, and Modjeska jacket.
"What am I going to do about you?"
"Let me go." It sounded as if she were begging. Diana closed her eyes, mortified.
"I don't think so."
First she felt his rough palms, warm against her cold face as he held her still. Then his beard tickled her cheek, just before his lips brushed hers.
The kiss she'd imagined in New York had aroused her. The real thing was devastating. He seduced her with firm lips, the soft rub of his beard, the gentle caress of his hands on her upper arms.
His touch shifted to her back, eliciting an immediate response she felt powerless to control. Craving. Hunger. A clenching deep inside. Her body longed to welcome him even as her mind struggled against the attraction.
"No," she protested, shocked at how close she was to yielding and by her sudden suspicion that, with this man, she might learn to appreciate all the earthy pleasures her late husband had only begun to teach her.
Her objection came out so softly that, at first, Diana did not think he'd heard. Then, slowly and with obvious reluctance, he lifted his head to stare down at her.
The primitive hunger in his dark brown eyes made her stomach jitter and her bones melt. Her skin tingled. She could feel her cheeks burn.
"This ... we ... we cannot..." A shudder ran through her, fear and longing mixed together so that one blended into the other and neither could be separated out.
"No," he agreed.
Just that fast, the fires she'd seen in his eyes were carefully banked, if not completely doused. He set her away from him.
"Go back to the parlor car," he said, "before I change my mind. Keep the cloak. I have no further need of it."
Bereft, she could not contain a tiny cry of dismay. At that, more horrified than before, she managed one wobbly step, then two. Turning, using all her willpower to hold back a sob, she bolted for the door.

*Chapter Eight*
"Eat up," said Mrs. Grosgrain, a sea-captain's widow from Rhode Island. She was a round, red-faced, cheerful little person. Diana remembered her as the woman who'd been fascinated by Lavinia and Jerusha when she'd watched their entrance into the train shed. She and Mrs. Wainflete had set out a modest repast for luncheon.
"Go easy," Mrs. Wainflete warned. "Remember that we must ration what we eat." Having accepted Bathory's dire predictions, she was now prepared to enforce rationing with a heavy hand.
The inventory of food supplies had been disheartening. In addition to the fruit, dried beef, cold chicken, and jelly in Jerusha's satchel, and similar supplies one of the other women carried, they had only a dozen eggs, two cans of Borden's condensed milk, and the cakes and sinkers from the buffet in the Pullman.
"Once the snow stops falling, we'll be able to reach nearby farms. They'll have food we can buy." This reasonable assumption was voiced by Mrs. Preble, the third woman from Grand Central Station. The look in her eyes, as she'd watched Jerusha and Lavinia with avid interest, had been envy.
"We don't know where we are or how far from civilization," Diana pointed out. They might be just on the outskirts of some town or miles from any habitation. There was no way to tell.
After they ate, Todd's Touring Thespians helped them pass what was left of the afternoon by performing a light comedy called _The Cheerful Wives of Chatham_. In this farce, Lavinia Ross and Jerusha Fildale played rivals for the affections of the character played by Nathan Todd. It was not much of a stretch for any of them and as a result the production was far more enjoyable than _The Duchess of Calabria_.
A light supper that much resembled luncheon followed, and after that Mrs. Wainflete made her next attempt to take command. "The womenfolk," she announced, "will sleep in the drawing-room car, while you gentlemen remain here in the parlor car." The other Pullman contained small, private drawing rooms whose sofas and armchairs converted into beds.
"Better than being jammed in like canned sardines," Jerusha whispered in Diana's ear.
Lavinia looked rebellious and clung to Toddy, but Mrs. Wainflete wasn't having any of that. With a quelling look, she began a lecture on morals and propriety.
Once they got on their high horse, people like Mrs. Wainflete could not be swayed. In the end, it was easier to give in.
* * * *
Diana awoke on Tuesday morning to a lull in the storm, but it did not last long. They'd only just sent out scouting parties, in the hope of finding a farm or village not too far from the tracks, before the snow began to fall again.
Several hours later, it was the team of Bathory and Todd that rode back in triumph on the seat of a farm wagon on runners. They brought with them a good supply of ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, and coffee. Hot, fresh coffee. Just a sip of the dark brew made Diana's spirits soar, but she could not help noticing that Nathan Todd did not share in the general jubilation.
"What's wrong, Toddy?" she asked, drawing him apart from the others to stand by the handrail in front of the parlor car windows. He'd flicked the curtains aside to stare bleakly out at the continuing snow.
"That Bathory fellow's most unreasonable."
"In what way?"
"While we were out hunting for a farmhouse, I took the opportunity to tell him I'd heard that those stories he writes are deuced popular."
Diana said nothing, but she had an inkling of what was coming.
"Told him that fellow Mansfield's making a fortune touring in _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. I offered Bathory the chance to see one of his tales adapted for the stage. Do you know what he said?"
Diana could imagine. Mansfield had more talent in his little finger than the entire company of Todd's Touring Thespians put together.
"He turned me down flat." Clearly hurt by the rejection, Toddy huffed and fumed, then gestured impatiently at the scene beyond the window. "And look at that! Thunderation, Diana! Every flake that falls is costing me money."
She murmured sympathetic words. This time they were sincere. Todd's Touring Thespians had been scheduled to play five nights in Hartford. If they were stuck here much longer, Toddy stood to lose not only the box office receipts from that stand, but also his profits for the entire tour.
"Talk to him for me?" he suggested. "I've a feeling he'd listen to you."
"I have no influence over Mr. Bathory, Toddy."
"Could if you wanted."
The taunting words haunted her the rest of the day. She'd been avoiding Bathory since their kiss. The coward's way. How was she to continue their interview if she didn't talk to him?
Jerusha's sniffles gave her the excuse she was looking for. "Do you have any remedies for a catarrh?" she asked, sidling up to Bathory as he stood by the window. The curtains were pulled back a scant inch to allow him to look out at the night sky.
"Why do you think I'd know?"
"You knew how to help Sam."
"Common sense."
"Well, then, what does common sense recommend for Jerusha?"
"Rest. Liquids. The patent medicine she's taking won't do her any harm." His penetrating gaze made her uneasy. "She's on the mend. I can hear it in her cough and so can you. What do you really want from me, Diana?"
"The same thing I've always wanted. To interview you."
"That's all?"
"That's enough."
An awkward silence descended. Before either of them could break it, Lavinia Ross minced up to them, seizing Bathory's arm and simpering. "Oh, Mr. Bathory," she said, batting her eyelashes and running one fingertip along his sleeve. "You mustn't disappoint me. Toddy says you've written the role that will make my career."
Diana stared at her, trying to imagine her as "the Blood Countess." In some respects, it would be type casting. In others, more important to the success of a play, she'd be a disaster in the part.
He was more patient with Lavinia than the ingenue deserved, but his answer was still no. Thwarted, she flounced off to be consoled by Toddy.
Bathory took Diana's arm and escorted her to the table where the coffee had been dispensed. Only the dregs were left, but for once Diana did not feel hungry. "Did you act, too, when you were married to a player?" It was a bit more private where they stood. Although people pressed in on every side, they were separated from the other actors by the length of the parlor car.
"I have no talent on the stage, but I traveled with the troupe and made myself useful sewing costumes and cooking."
And while she'd been thus occupied, Evan had frequently gone off on his own. She had not realized for months that he'd kept secrets from her before they wed. He'd been a compulsive gambler. Worse, he'd gambled on her family being willing to buy him off. They'd disowned her instead.
Bathory caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What makes you so sad?"
But she shook her head. "Your turn. Tell me something you like to do."
"Climb mountains," came the prompt reply. "I've been up Katahdin in the east and Pike's Peak in the west."
She shivered.
"What?"
"I had a bad experience on a mountain once."
He waited.
"My husband wanted to branch out on his own. He and Toddy didn't always see eye to eye on who got what role. So we left the troupe in Denver one year and set off towards Leadville. Leadville has a fine opera house and Evan had made arrangements to meet several other actors there and form a new company."
She fell silent, seeing that long ago day in her mind's eye. It had been a lovely autumn morning when they'd set out, but by the time they'd reached the mountains in their open buggy, winter had descended. Not a blizzard like this one, but bad enough.
"The horses knew how to keep to the road, so we plodded on even after the weather got so bad we couldn't see where we were going. Evan was determined to get through." They'd been near the Continental Divide, about as high as a person could get. "Just before we were to begin the steep descent from Mosquito Pass, the brake on the buggy broke."
His hand closed over hers in a gesture of comfort. Affected by her memories, she did not immediately pull free. She saw again the moment when the open vehicle plunged downward, out of control.
"It careened on two wheels, then crashed into a boulder. I don't remember many details after that, except for the moment when I peered over the splinters that were all that remained of the seat and saw that we were precariously perched at the edge of an abyss. What appeared to be a bottomless crevasse threatened to swallow us, buggy, horses, and all. After we overturned, Evan was able to pull me free of the wreckage, but we lost all our possessions. And the horses." The memory of the animals' dying screams had kept her awake for weeks afterward.
"And when you reached Leadville?"
"More disasters. Some of the actors never arrived. Evan quarreled with the others."
They'd lived in a tiny room above a tobacco shop and been close to starving to death before Evan got a job as a Faro dealer in one of the gambling houses. At five dollars a day for a six day week, they might have saved enough to rejoin Todd's troupe, if Evan hadn't been convinced he could win even more. He'd lost instead. Repeatedly.
Once he'd even tried to bet her.
She pulled free of Bathory's grip and hugged herself, suddenly cold.
"Evan died. I managed to scrape together enough money to take the train to San Francisco, where a friend of mine took me in."
Rowena would have been happy to keep Diana with her as a companion, but her husband had frowned on the idea. A wife who'd associate with someone who traveled with a troupe of actors risked society's censure.
"Your turn again," she said with a too-bright smile.
"I've nothing of that caliber. I've never been married."
"Cheat!" Her voice sounded gay but she wanted to curl up and have a good cry. She was not certain which man was the cause of her tears, Evan or Damon Bathory. She only knew she was close to an emotional edge.
"We're not private enough here for my secrets," Bathory said. "Your friends already know your life's story, but when I tell you mine for the first time, I'd just as soon you were the only one to hear it."
His words had the ring of sincerity, but she found them difficult to swallow. He'd lied to her before. Why should she trust him now?
When Toddy interrupted them to make another bid to buy Bathory's stories, Diana used the excuse to put some distance between them. She stayed away from him the rest of the evening, and went early to bed, the first to brave the trek to the drawing-room car.
A few of her fellow passengers, wrapped up in extra clothing, were already asleep on the floor as she made her way towards the door. Others passed the time playing cards. All three actresses, accustomed to late nights, were still wide awake and talking among themselves.
The storm showed no sign of abating. Not only was it intensely cold, but the stinging, wind-driven snow lowered visibility to the point that it was impossible to see her hand in front of her face. Anyone foolish enough to step down from the platform and take a few steps away from the train risked being lost till spring thaw.
With relief, Diana entered the drawing-room car and hurried down the narrow aisle past the other drawing rooms, each set off by a combination of partitions and heavy drapes, until she reached the cubicle she'd been assigned. The curtain that hung across the entry to form a door fell back into place as she passed through.
The interior was dark. The silence around her seemed as penetrating as the cold. Shivering, she crawled under the covers, still fully clothed, but it was a long time before she slept. When she did, she dreamed of Damon Bathory.
* * * *
The storm passed for good around ten o'clock that night. On Wednesday morning, the farmer returned, this time bringing pork sandwiches, cake, and milk.
Refueled by the food, the passengers organized work parties. Every able-bodied male pitched in to help with the digging out. They had no idea how long it would be before help came, but each foot of snow they could clear on their own put them that much closer to breaking free.
By evening, everyone was exhausted. Nathan Todd looked more harried than he had the night before. He even snapped at Lavinia Ross. When he later changed tactics and exerted himself to appear cheerful, that false jocularity grated as badly as Underly's constant whining.
Mrs. Wainflete continued to complain and was outraged when Billy Sims amused himself by flirting outrageously with her. Lavinia sulked. Jerusha Fildale brooded. And sneezed. And coughed. Damon Bathory, looking physically done in, appropriated one of the reclining chairs for himself.
Diana steeled herself to approach him again. It might be some time yet before the train could be freed from its icy prison, or the end of their ordeal might already be in sight. Either way, she had an obligation to talk to him.
He appeared to be half asleep, but when he caught sight of her through lowered lashes, his eyes snapped open. "What in God's name are you wearing?"
"Whatever I could beg, borrow, or steal. I wasn't prepared to set off on a journey when I followed you onto this train."
"Why did you?"
"I was angry. You lied to me."
"Diana -- "
"I suppose I understand why."
"You had enough for your story." Before she could agree, he apparently decided it was safer to return to the subject of her attire than to pursue a discussion of the plans they'd made to go to the circus together. "That outfit is unusual, but it suits you."

Wary of flattery, she glanced down at herself. The blouse was forest green. Jerusha's. Deep purple fabric swathed her lower half. From Mrs. Preble. Gold slippers peeped out from beneath the hem. Mrs. Grosgrain's contribution.
"Is that what they call rational dress?"
She nodded. The skirt was split, turning it into wide-legged trousers.
"My mother would approve of such a sensible garment."
Encouraged by the personal nature of his comment, she perched on the arm of his chair, ignoring the interested looks from members of Todd's company and Mrs. Wainflete's censorious glare. "Is she an active woman?"
"More than you'll ever know."
"Which of your careers is she more proud of, writer or doctor?"
The flash of anger in his eyes was frightening to behold. "You never stop, do you?" The words were harsh, guttural.
"It's obvious you're a physician." She'd suspected when she'd watched him set Sam's collarbone and had become convinced when he'd given his opinion of Jerusha's condition.
"You're an expert, are you?" He looked like a grumpy bear, disturbed in mid-winter, but she thought she detected the hint of a smile in his voice.
"Have I stumbled upon one of your deep, dark secrets?" she teased, hoping to lighten the mood. "Are you really Dr. Bathory, mad scientist?"
He closed his eyes and ignored her.
No amount of coaxing would get him to resume their conversation.
In the end, frustrated, Diana gave up. She'd try again in the morning, she decided. Wrapping Bathory's cloak around her, she left the parlor car.
A blast of cold air buffeted her as she stepped outside. The surface was icy beneath the slippery soles of her shoes. She should never have worn the frivolous things. Fumbling for handholds, she inched across the open space towards the door to the drawing-room car.
Behind her, she heard a faint snick, but did not look back. It required all her concentration to manage each tiny step forward.
A sharp tug at the back of the black cloak caught her off guard. It felt as if the hem had snagged on something, but Diana had no time to discover what or how. As she was jerked off balance, one foot slipped sideways. At the same moment, her other ankle twisted with an audible pop and she lost what remained of her balance. Flailing wildly, she tried to catch hold of something, anything, that would help her stay on the narrow, slippery walkway.
The futile effort came to an abrupt, calamitous end when the back of her head made sharp contact with something blunt. A shower of stars and a burst of pain sent her reeling. Dazed, she saw the world go black around her even as she felt herself pitch headlong into a drift of cold, unforgiving snow.