Uncle Dickson put two more small logs on the fire and stoked it a bit, then sat down in his chair near the divan where Allison was curled in her nest of blankets. He watched to see that Blake had left the room before he said over his shoulder, “Henry, sit down. Have some tea. Or would you prefer brandy? There’s nothing we can do now but wait for Margot and the major to telephone.”
“What about Adelaide?” Papa said fretfully. “Margot was going to arrange something for Adelaide today.”
“It’s a good hospital,” Uncle Dickson said. “They’ll take care of her.” He put his head back, staring at the flames in the fireplace beneath heavy eyelids.
“I just don’t understand,” Papa said, pacing again. “First Adelaide in the hospital, and Allison running around in the dark—how did all that add up to Margot and Preston—” He broke off and ran his hand through his hair again.
Allison, encouraged by the warmth of the brandy, said, “I wasn’t running around, Papa.” She was about to explain that Preston had seized her, forced her into the water tower, but the grief on Uncle Dickson’s face stopped her. She pressed her lips together and was silent.
Uncle Dickson’s eyes flicked over to her, then away. “Allison couldn’t have known.”
“She knew better than to strike her mother!” Papa exclaimed.
Allison hung her head. There was no answer to that. She shouldn’t have struck her mother, spoon or no spoon. In truth, it had been more of a collision than a blow, but Papa wouldn’t care for that excuse, she was sure.
“I’m sure Dr. Kinney will have a word to say about all this,” he pronounced. Allison clenched her teeth and stared at the folds of her blanket.
Uncle Dickson said, “Henry, we don’t know for sure what happened yet.”
“My wife’s in the hospital!” Papa exclaimed. “Her own daughter put her there!”
“No. My daughter, the physician, put her there, and not for her broken arm. She thinks she’s ill.” Uncle Dickson closed his eyes and spoke with infinite weariness. “But, Henry, my son’s in jail, and I have to find some way to tell his mother that he’s been alive all this past year, while she mourned him and took flowers to an empty grave. Keep some perspective.”
Allison said softly, “I’m so sorry, Uncle Dickson. About everything.”
He murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”
Her father shot her a furious glance, but she pretended not to see it.
She drank the cup of tea Blake had poured, then, feeling stronger, she unwrapped the blankets and stood up. Ramona and Dick were huddled in a corner, Dick with an arm around Ramona, Ramona with her head on his shoulder. Papa came to stand by the fire, his arms folded over his paunch. He stared down at her, unblinking.
“I’m going to take the tray into the kitchen,” Allison said quietly.
Papa said, “Call one of the maids.”
“All the servants were up half the night, Papa. Cousin Ramona said so.”
“So were you.”
“And you’re angry at me for that.”
“It doesn’t mean I want you doing servants’ work.”
“I don’t like being useless,” she answered pointedly, and was rewarded by seeing his cheeks redden. She picked up the tray with the teapot and unused cups without looking at him again. She carried the tray out of the small parlor and across the hall, backing through the swinging door into the kitchen. She found Hattie stirring something in the big stockpot. Ruby was seated at the enamel-topped table with a cup of tea and a plate of toast and jam.
“Oh, Miss Allison! Let me take that from you.” Hattie hurried across the kitchen to reach for the tray. “You shouldn’t oughtta do that sort of thing.”
Allison cast Ruby a reproachful glance, but Ruby only stared back at her as she put the last piece of toast in her mouth. She made no move to get up, but watched as Allison relinquished the tray into Hattie’s hands.
Hattie said, “You poor chile. You must be exhausted!”
“You must be, too, Hattie,” Allison said. “I think everyone is.” And then, with a touch of bitterness, “Except perhaps Papa.”
“Well, now,” Hattie said, not meeting her eyes. “I wouldn’t know about that. Did you have some tea? Maybe you should go up to your bed and get some rest.”
“I don’t think I could sleep, Hattie. I keep seeing Cousin Margot, and Cousin—” She broke off, remembering. Hattie had grieved for Cousin Preston, too, had wept over his empty place in the dining room. She didn’t know if Hattie had heard yet, if Blake would have explained—
When she looked up into Hattie’s face, she saw that the cook already knew. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, and her lips trembled as if she had only just managed to stop crying.
Hattie swiped at her eyes with the hem of her apron, and said, “I know, I know, Miss Allison. This is a terrible time. I thought, when Mr. Preston got burned up in the fire, that was the worst thing that could ever happen to Benedict Hall, but this—” Her voice broke on a fresh sob, and she turned back to the stove.
“Oh, Hattie,” Allison said. She stood awkwardly by the enamel-topped table, staring at Hattie’s rounded shoulders, her bent head. Hattie was right. It was terrible. It wasn’t just that Cousin Margot had gotten slashed with a straight razor. It was her
brother
who did it, and who had hidden himself all this past year while people who loved him grieved his death. It was stranger than any novel or film, and she had no idea what was going to happen next.
While she struggled to think of something she could say, some comfort she could offer, she became aware of Ruby’s gaze, bright with avid curiosity. “Ruby,” she said sharply. “Go see if Aunt Edith needs anything.”
“Leona’s up there, Miss Allison,” Ruby said.
Allison very nearly stamped her foot. “Leona is not a lady’s maid. Aunt Edith may need her hair dressed or something. This is going to be a hard day for her.”
“Why?”
“Ruby. Do as you’re told.” Allison lifted her chin and did her best to mimic the decisive tone Cousin Margot used when people were behaving badly. She turned her back as if she had no doubts about Ruby’s obedience. She heard the chair scrape, the teacup clatter in its saucer, and then the swish of the swinging door. She would remonstrate with Ruby later, she promised herself, about leaving her things on the table for Hattie to clean up.
When she was sure Ruby was gone, she walked across to the stove so she could look up into Hattie’s face. Big, shining tears rolled down Hattie’s cheeks, even as she stirred and stirred the pot. Allison, no longer caring whether it was appropriate or not, put out her hand and took the long wooden spoon from Hattie’s hand. She laid it on the spoon rest, put the lid back on the pot, and then, putting her arm around Hattie’s plump waist, she guided her to the table and pressed her into a chair.
The cook was shaking her head, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “No, no, Miss Allison, you shouldn’t—old Hattie will be all right, if I just take a minute—”
“Sit right there,” Allison said. She went to the counter, where the teapot rested on its tray, and poured a cup. She carried it back to the table and set it in front of Hattie, then pulled a chair up beside her. “Drink some tea, Hattie. It will make you feel better.”
Hattie sniffled, and reached for the cup. When she saw it was one of the good china ones, she hesitated, but Allison touched her shoulder, and said, “It’s not a day to worry about rules.” Hattie sniffled again, and drank, while Allison sat back and waited for her to calm herself.
When Hattie had drained the cup, she set it down, pulled a large handkerchief from her apron pocket, and blew her nose. “So kind to old Hattie, Miss Allison. I’m sorry I’m so weepy, but it’s a real sad day.”
“I know it is.”
“We all thought,” Hattie said in a trembling voice, “that Mr. Preston was gone. Mrs. Edith didn’t never get over it, you know, and now—I don’t know but what this is a whole lot worse.”
“Uncle Dickson is trying to think of how to tell her.”
“It was just—it was so
cruel
of Mr. Preston. He knew—he knows—” Her words died away, and she sat twisting the handkerchief in her hands. She drew a painful, uneven breath, and brought her eyes up to Allison’s face. In a voice tight with apprehension, she said, “Blake says Mr. Preston got burned. Does he look—is he very—” She gave a shake of her head and looked away, to the view of the garden stretching behind the house.
“He’s terribly scarred,” Allison said. “I’m so sorry, Hattie.”
“Oh,” Hattie said, keeping her gaze on the window. The fog had burned away at last, and the weak December sunlight picked out the bare stalks of the rosebushes. “That’s a sad thing. He was a handsome boy.”
“I remember.”
“He cut Miss Margot, Blake said.” Hattie’s voice was steady now, but weighed down with grief. It was the voice, Allison thought, of one who doesn’t see a way forward.
Allison knew she was too young, and too inexperienced, to offer anything that could ease Hattie’s sorrow. She could say only, “Yes. He’s so angry.”
“But he didn’t hurt you,” Hattie said.
“Not really,” Allison said. “He wouldn’t let me go, and he cut a hank of my hair, but he didn’t hurt me. Well, just a scratch on my cheek.” She touched it with her fingers. It hadn’t been deep enough even to bandage, and it was already nearly healed.
Hattie turned to look at her. Her voice shook as she said, “You musta been scared, you poor chile, but you know, I don’t think he ever meant it. It’s the fire. The scars. They’ve changed him, hurt his mind, maybe.”
“That makes sense,” Allison said gently. “Anyone would be changed.”
Hattie gave her a tremulous smile. “You’re the sweetest chile,” she said. “Sitting here and listening to me go on.”
“I like being here. I like being in your kitchen. And it’s one place I know Mother and Papa will never come.”
Hattie sighed, and wiped her eyes one final time. “I’m sure your mama and papa love you, Miss Allison.”
Allison shook her head. “No,” she said. She spoke with regret, but it was nothing like the grief Hattie was feeling, and she knew it. “No, I don’t think they do, Hattie. I guess mothers and fathers don’t always love their children.”
Hattie dropped her apron and smoothed it over her lap. “That’s a hard truth, and I can’t deny it. It was that way for me.”
Allison leaned forward, surprised by this confidence. “Was it, Hattie? Your mama, your papa—”
Hattie gave her head a shake. “I didn’t have no papa, Miss Allison. And my mama—well, I s’pose she did the best she could. We had some mighty hard times, but I s’pose my mama did the best she could.”
Allison put an impulsive hand over Hattie’s, finding her skin warm and slightly rough. “Do you think that’s it, Hattie? They do the best they can?”
“It’s the Christian thing to think, Miss Allison. I never had no babies, but I sure do know being a mama is hard.” Hattie removed her hand from beneath Allison’s, but gently. She put her hands on the table edge to push herself up.
“My mother didn’t want babies,” Allison said. “She never wanted to be a mother.”
“Oh, now. I expect she changed her mind once you came along.”
“No, she didn’t. She told me. She didn’t want
me
.”
Hattie sank back down in her chair. “Oh, poor chile. That must hurt your heart something fierce. I always thought, if you grow up with enough food and a safe place to live, that meant you were lucky.”
“You didn’t have enough food, Hattie?”
“No, Miss Allison. Not till I came here to work for the Benedicts. I surely didn’t.”
Allison stared at her empty hand lying on the table. “I did. There was plenty of food. I just wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.”
Hattie drew a sharp breath. “How’s that?”
Allison watched her fingers curl into a fist, then open again. “There was food. I was supposed to eat it, but then I was supposed to throw it up.”
“I don’t—that doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s what my mother’s done, for years. It’s how she stays so thin.”
“But you don’t do that, do you, Miss Allison? That can’t be good for a person.”
Allison’s laugh made a sad, hollow little sound. “No, I don’t do that, Hattie. I hate that. I just—I sort of stopped eating.”
“I thought you just didn’t like my cooking. I know I’m not too good at fancy cooking, but that’s what Mrs. Edith wants, so I—” She gave a shrug. “I’m glad to hear it wasn’t that, why you didn’t want to eat.”
“Mother says I’m too fat. She hates me to get fat.”
“She can’t mean it!” Hattie protested. “A pretty girl like you!”
Allison looked up into Hattie’s sympathetic face. “You can’t imagine, Hattie. You can’t imagine how twisted up it all is, with my mother and me.”
Hattie shook her head, and her dark eyes shone with fresh tears. “This is awful sad to hear,” she said. “I’m awful sorry.”
“I am, too.”
Hattie drew another, slower breath, and gave Allison another trembling smile. “Oh, now. We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
Allison smiled back, comforted. “I guess we are, Hattie. I guess we’re a pair, you and I.”
Hattie pushed herself up and crossed to the stove. “One thing I know, Miss Allison,” she said. “Everybody gotta eat. I’m gonna finish this soup. Everybody feels better after they have some soup.”
C
HAPTER
23
“I was lucky,” Margot told Frank, as the nurse finished bandaging her arm. “My sleeve caught the blade, prevented it from severing the tendons. That would have meant the end of my surgical practice—maybe all of my practice.” She looked up into his face, and saw that he was still angry, his jaw pulsing with tension, the blue of his eyes darkened to indigo. “Mostly, I was lucky you were there,” she added softly. “I don’t know what might have happened.”
The nurse, a woman she had never seen before, glanced up from beneath her cap, then quickly away again. They hadn’t spoken Preston’s name, but everyone in the accident room knew something terrible had happened in the Benedict family. Dr. Creedy had treated Margot’s arm and then told them he was going to the jail to treat—he had paused, and spoken in an undertone—her brother. There had been two nurses in the room at the time, and Margot’s cheeks burned under their curious glances. She knew hospitals. The nurses would have their heads together the moment she and Frank were gone. She couldn’t see how even her father could quash the rumors that would fly.
The other nurse came back into the room and crossed to her. “Dr. Benedict, your driver is here. He’s waiting with the car.”
“Thank you. We’re coming.” The bandaging process was finished, and Margot nodded to the nurse, then swung her legs off the bed. “We can go, Frank. Do you have my coat?”
“Wear mine,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. “Yours is gone.”
The nurse said, “We threw it away, Dr. Benedict. I hope that was all right. It looked—” She broke off, spreading her hands.
Margot nodded again. “Of course. I should have realized. I’m sure it’s ruined.”
The nurse supported her as she stood up, and Frank took her other arm as the three of them walked toward the door. “If there’s any sign of infection,” the nurse began, but Margot forestalled her instructions.
“I know,” she said. “Thank you, Nurse. I’ll come back if there is.”
As they crossed reception to the front doors of the hospital, Margot felt curious eyes on her, and kept her head down to avoid them. Frank kept his arm around her shoulder, which helped. Blake was waiting in the Essex, and he climbed out to open the rear door.
“Thank you, Blake,” Margot said. “When we get home, I want you to go straight to bed.”
“I’m fine, Dr. Margot,” he said. “I had a bit of a rest already.”
As Blake pressed the starter, Frank said, “You’re the one who needs to go to bed, Margot. I’ll go clean up the clinic.”
“Is it bad?” she asked. “The storeroom?”
“Not too bad. I’ll repair the lock on the door. Mop up the floor.”
“You’ll need hydrogen peroxide for that. And we’ll need to disinfect it.”
“Fortunately, there’s no carpet there.”
“I don’t know what to tell Angela.”
“Truth is best,” he said shortly.
She sighed, and let her head drop back against the plush seat. It was warm in the automobile, and she had allowed Dr. Creedy to give her an injection of scopolamine, which was now making her drowsy. Textbook reactions, she thought. First, shock. Second, a burst of nervous energy that had made it hard to sit still while Dr. Creedy made his sutures. Now, exhaustion.
“What’s going to happen to him?” she murmured to Frank.
He didn’t need to ask whom she meant. “It’s either jail or an insane asylum.”
“I don’t know which is worse.”
Frank shifted his shoulder to move closer to her. He didn’t answer, but she sensed his thought in the hardness of his muscles and the pressure of his hand on hers. Her brother had nearly succeeded in killing her. Frank didn’t care what happened to Preston.
They found Dick and Ramona alone in the dining room, seated at the table. The soup tureen waited on the sideboard, and Blake insisted on serving both Margot and Frank from it before he disappeared into the kitchen to have his own luncheon.
“Where’s Father?” Margot asked.
“Gone to the hospital with Uncle Henry,” Dick told her. He looked pale, but calm.
“You’ve heard everything, Dick?”
“I think so. It’s hard to believe that he—that Preston—” Involuntarily, he looked over his shoulder, as if Edith might be there.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I’m not sure I would have believed it myself,” Margot said. “He’s hidden himself, all this time. It’s astounding.”
“He was burned, Blake says. Badly scarred.”
“It’s awful, Dick. As bad as anything I’ve seen.”
Ramona said, with a shudder, “I can’t take it in, Margot. I just can’t take it in. And I don’t know what we’re going to do about Mother Benedict.”
“I don’t, either,” Margot said bleakly. “I have real concerns about what a shock like that could do to her. She’s in such a fragile state already.”
“How could he let her suffer that way? Couldn’t he have—at least he could have—I don’t know! Anything to let her know he was alive!” Ramona covered her face with her hands, and Dick put his arm around her shoulders.
“I can’t give you an answer,” Margot said sadly.
Frank said, “Margot, you need to eat something. There will be time to deal with this later.”
She cast him a grateful glance. It was true, despite everything, she was hungry, and the chicken soup, thick with homemade noodles, was rich and comforting. She was halfway through a bowlful when the dining room door swept open.
Allison, showered and dressed in a fresh frock but looking haggard, stood in the doorway gazing at Margot with desperate eyes. There was a chunk of her hair missing, just beside her right temple, which she had tried to disguise with pomade. “Cousin Margot! Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!”
Margot held out a hand in invitation, and Frank rose to pull out the chair closest to her. Allison hurried around the table, grasping Margot’s hand even as she settled into the chair. Margot squeezed the girl’s fingers. “I’m fine,” she said. “There was no permanent damage. Nothing at all for you to worry about.”
Allison’s cheeks were pink with emotion, though her eyes were hollow and shadowed. “It would have been my fault!” she whispered. “If I hadn’t gone out—that is, if Mother and I—”
“Hush,” Margot said. “We can talk about all of that later. Have a bit of soup, and you’ll feel better.”
Frank, without waiting to be asked, had gone to the sideboard, and returned now with a bowlful. He set it in front of Allison, and resumed his own seat.
Margot held up her arm so Allison could see the bandage. “See? A few stitches, probably not even necessary. You did very well with the gauze, and I’m as good as new. Now, please, Allison—eat Hattie’s good soup. It has magic powers.”
Allison’s eyes were fever-bright with unshed tears. She blinked, and pressed a forefinger to her trembling lips.
“I mean it,” Margot said, gently.
Ramona added, “Cousin Allison, Margot is right. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Allison picked up her spoon. Margot watched until she saw that she really was going to eat her soup, then winked at Ramona, and returned to her own serving with good appetite. Frank, on her other side, did the same. When Loena came in a few minutes later, the tureen was nearly empty.
It wasn’t until Loena had gone out with the tureen and the tray of soup bowls that Allison gasped, and put her hand to her mouth again. “Mother!” she said in a horrified whisper. “I forgot to ask about Mother!”
Dick made a small noise in his throat, one that sounded like disgust. Margot wondered what that was about. “Uncle Henry has gone down to the hospital,” Dick said. “With Father.”
Allison turned wide eyes to Margot. “She’s in the hospital?”
“Not because of her arm,” Margot said. “Her arm breaking may be because of some other illness. I thought she should be examined by our family physician.”
“Some other illness?”
“That’s right, Allison. Some other illness. Her arm shouldn’t have broken so easily.”
“You mean it wasn’t my fault?”
It was Ramona who answered this sad little question. She said, in the firmest tone Margot had ever heard her use, “Cousin Allison, you’re barely an adult, and your mother has been one for a long time. She’s the parent, and you’re the child. You’re not to blame for any of this. Not the smallest part.”
It was a strange day, and a long one, all the normal rhythms of life disrupted. After luncheon, Margot went to bed and slept for four hours without moving. When she woke, she pressed the bell for one of the maids, something she almost never did. It was the new one, Thelma, who appeared at her door, and Margot sent her to run a bath and to find out whether Major Parrish was still in the house. Word came that he had gone to his boardinghouse, but would return for dinner.
Margot glanced out the window as she made her way toward the bathroom, and saw that the last of the fog had burned away. No doubt Frank would be on his way back to March Field in the morning.
But for tonight, she meant to make herself as presentable as possible. She might even ask Ramona to help. She had things to say to Frank, and she wanted to look her best when she said them.
She had just finished dressing when someone knocked on her bedroom door. When she opened it, she found her father, looking so tired he could barely stand. She took his hand, and pressed him down to sit on the edge of her bed. “Have you rested at all?”
“Not yet. I went from the hospital to the jail. I had to see Preston, of course.”
“Oh, Father. That must have been hard.”
“Ghastly.” He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. “He’s in this hideous place. Bars everywhere. An open toilet in the corner.”
“Awful.”
“He just sat on the bunk—no mattress, just these rusty wires—and stared at the wall. He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t look at me. I could see, though, his scalp—his neck—he’s so badly burned, Margot.”
“Father, we could get him help for his scars. Plastic surgery is a fairly new field, but I’ve read of some good work being done in California.”
Her father dropped his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks sagged. “Did he really do those things, Margot? What they said he did?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“He tried to—to hurt you.”
This made her choke back a bitter laugh. “To hurt me. Yes, he did indeed try to hurt me.”
“Blake thinks he meant to hurt himself, too.”
“I believe that was his intent, Father. He said it was the end for both of us.”
Dickson’s sigh shook his whole body, and he covered his eyes again. From beneath his hand, he said brokenly, “This was behind us. Done with. Now, again . . . I don’t know how to face it.”
“I’ll talk to Mother, if you like.”
“I was thinking of not telling her, Margot.” He lowered his hand again and pushed himself up from the bed. “I was thinking of committing him to Western State Hospital. And keeping it quiet. Out of the papers.”
Margot frowned. “Can you do that? Will it work?”
“It will work. Nothing really happened, in the end. I’m not excusing him, you understand.” He gave her a worried glance, his eyes full of guilt and grief.
“I understand that, Father.”
“I know enough judges, and Creedy can make the recommendation. These weren’t the actions of a sane man.”
“No. That’s true.”
“Let’s go down to tell the family. We’ll have to get everyone to agree not to mention it to Edith.”
“Father, it’s a very big secret to keep. If the maids find out, or Hattie . . .”
“Hattie knows already.”
“Oh, Lord. Poor Hattie. Well, you know she’ll want to protect Mother, either way.”
“Without a doubt.”
“I’m not sure if this is a good idea or a spectacularly bad one.”
He gave a shaky laugh, and put his arm around her waist to escort her out into the hall. “I’m not either, daughter. But it’s the only one I have.”
Frank returned to Benedict Hall, dressed in his black dinner jacket and a dark silk tie, at eight o’clock. The house was resplendent with Christmas decorations, boughs of pine and cedar draped along the banisters of the porch, colored lights festooning the picture window. Blake greeted him at the door with his usual composure, as if the two of them had not just that morning been present at a scene of such melodrama it already seemed impossible.
“Major Parrish,” Blake said. “How good to see you again. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that’s a very handsome jacket.”
Frank grinned at Blake as he handed him his overcoat and his Stetson. “Don’t mind at all,” he said. “I hope Dr. Benedict feels the same.”
Blake’s eyes twinkled briefly. “I have no doubts about that, Major.” He hung the overcoat and hat on the mahogany coatrack before he led the way down the hall to the small parlor. He held the door, spoke Frank’s name to the family assembled there, then turned away toward the kitchen. The newest maid was just coming out, and she curtsied to Frank before following Blake.
The only person missing from the gathering was Allison’s mother. Frank shook hands with Dickson Benedict, thinking that he looked as if he had aged a decade since the night before. He greeted Dick and Ramona, who sat very close together, their hands entwined, as if they couldn’t bear to be apart. Allison came to take his hand in both of hers, and to murmur in an undertone, “Major Parrish! Thank you so much for what you did!”
She was the only person to acknowledge what had happened. Margot, looking slim and elegant in a narrow frock of some deep blue fabric, drew him to the little divan without saying anything. Her mother looked up in the vague way that had become her habit, and said, “Major Parrish. How nice to see you again.” She seemed unchanged from the night before, and when Frank raised his eyebrows to Margot, she gave a slight shake of her head.
After dinner, Margot drew Frank aside to stand near the window in the small parlor. Someone had arranged sprigs of pine in a wide glass bowl and sprinkled bright red cranberries among the greenery. The bowl rested on the sideboard, where Blake had set out glasses and two or three bottles from Dickson’s cellar. Dickson and the rest had settled themselves near the fire, Dickson with his cigar and cut-glass ashtray close at hand, Dick and Henry Benedict with tumblers of whisky. Allison had tucked her feet up under her, and rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the flames. She hadn’t spoken to her father at all throughout dinner. She had, however, eaten a good meal. Frank saw Margot give her an encouraging smile.