Authors: Jo Goodman
Scott hesitated. He envisioned Christian drinking himself under another table if his only motive for leaving was the paper. It was clear from Christian's tone that what he felt for the
Chronicle
was best described as an obligation, a sense of duty to the memory of those who had cared for it. Part of what Christian did for the paper—and what he neglected, perhaps purposely, to mention—was to make it visible in certain fashionable circles. Christian lent his formidable presence and power to the
Chronicle.
He made people think of the paper, gave it a high profile, and did not object if society thought his opinions and the paper's were one and the same. He subscribed to a stall at Wallack's Theater and a box at the Academy of Music, each for the season. Christian could be seen there, as well as at the elite social gatherings, the races out on Harlem Lane, and at the New York Yachting Club. He promoted the
Chronicle,
suppressing his own views and pretending an interest he did not feel. The facade was taking a steady toll. Scott was very much afraid that if Christian did not bury the
Chronicle
, the paper would bury him.
"We'll see," he said finally. "Why not wait until after the holidays? Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Let the paper rest until the New Year."
Christian threw up his hands. "Who in the hell appointed you my guardian? Don't you think this is absurd?" He threw his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and began pacing the floor. "I should have you brought up on charges, that's what I should do."
"If only it weren't so embarrassing," Scott said.
Christian shot his friend a wry look. "My thoughts exactly. I'd be the laughingstock of the avenue. Probably of the entire city." He paused a beat. "I have social obligations, Scott. There must be twenty or more invitations downstairs waiting to be answered."
"There were twenty-eight," Scott said. "And they're all taken care of. You sent your regrets."
"You dared," he said softly.
"I did. Miss Holland has a fine writing hand. She's been taking care of all your correspondence. You could do a lot worse than to keep her on as your secretary."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this. You're completely taking over my life, and my own employees are helping you. God, spare me from humanitarians."
Unperturbed by Christian's helpless frustration, Scott went on. "Susan and I would like you to share Christmas dinner with us."
"What?" he asked mockingly, giving his friend an arch look. "You didn't send my regrets?"
"We didn't send round an invitation. I didn't think one was necessary since we'll be eating here."
That brought Christian up short. "No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. I forbid it. I will not have you and Susan up here. My dining room is downstairs. We'll eat there."
"Very well," Scott said amiably. "We'll see you on Christmas Day. Say seven? I assume my daughter's included."
"Why do I feel as if I've been completely outmaneuvered?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
Christian stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and pressing his thumbs together. His nightshirt caught around his knees. "I don't know what to do to convince you that I'm not about to drink myself senseless if you let me leave this room. You can't keep me here forever, Scott. I think I've showed admirable patience and considerable tolerance for your high-handed methods thus far. That's about to end. If you're going to permit me downstairs on Christmas Day, then you can damn well give me the key now."
"Promise me you'll stay away from Printing House Square. Forget about the paper and social obligations. Do something you
want
to do."
Christian's eyes narrowed on his friend's nose, imagining what it would look like if it were knocked slightly askew. "Don't tempt me."
Scott could almost feel the pressure of Christian's fist. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and smiled sheepishly. "What about painting? You could open up the studio and—"
"You're about to get thrown out of here. I don't need the door to do it either. The window will serve my purpose just as well."
"I see."
"I hope you do."
"What about the paper?"
Christian swore softly. "All right," he said, exasperated. "I'll pretend the paper doesn't exist. It's obviously managed this long without me. It can manage a while longer."
Scott nodded, pulled the key to Christian's room out of his vest pocket, and tossed it to him. "You can check it if you wish."
"I will. I've been tricked once already."
"I know. Miss Holland told me."
Christian was at the door, inserting the key before he answered. "You approved, of course."
"Of course."
The door opened and Christian poked his head into the hallway. It was almost as good as being outside. After a moment he withdrew. "You're leaving?" he asked when he saw Scott had moved to the table and was picking up his bag.
"I've worn out my welcome for today, and I am satisfied with what I've seen and most of what I've heard."
Christian opened the door a little wider so Scott could pass.
"If you need me... just to listen... don't hesitate to send for me." He ducked his fair head slightly, avoiding Christian's probing eyes. "I couldn't just do nothing, Chris. Watching you... what you were doing to yourself... I couldn't."
"You don't have to apologize for being the man you are," Christian said. "I might even thank you one day." He paused and revealed a narrow smile. "But don't hold your breath."
* * *
"You asked to see me, sir?" Jenny crossed the threshold into Christian's room and then stood there, rooted. So this was how he was getting some of his own back, she thought when she saw him sitting in a copper tub in front of the fireplace. He was not going to let her off lightly for the trick she had played him with the keys. Jenny had not seen him since then, and she believed that she was seeing too much of him now.
His naked shoulders and chest were tawny in the firelight. Droplets of water glistened on his arms, and his muscles bunched as he groped for the towel that lay on the floor. His aquamarine eyes studied Jenny's face.
For a moment she thought he was going to stand and dry himself. She tensed, closing her eyes tightly, and stayed that way until she heard his deep, throaty chuckle. Risking a peek, she saw that he had only used the towel to dry his hair. The streaks of copper were visible now. In the mere seconds she had stood in the doorway she had noticed too many things to pretend indifference. Jenny swallowed hard, made a small quarter turn, and let her eyes rest elsewhere. She reached blindly behind her for the door handle and grasped it like a lifeline. "I'll return when you're finished," she said. "You only have to ring once. I'll know it's me you want."
"I want you now," he said, watching her carefully. She was wary and it showed. The hint of peaches in her cheeks deepened a little, and she tugged unconsciously at her lower lip with her teeth. She wore the same severe dress she had worn the last time he saw her, the same type of dress all female employees wore, yet Christian couldn't remember ever thinking the dresses were particularly becoming to their wearers. The effect was otherwise on Jenny Holland. The delicate structure of her face was highlighted. The line of her neck seemed longer, slimmer. For all her uncertainty her carriage was regal. She held her shoulders stiffly; her spine might well have been steel. Christian's eyes dropped away from the high curve of her breasts to the papers she carried under one arm. His temperature was becoming warmer than the water. "Is that the correspondence I asked for?"
"Yes."
"Well?" he drawled, raising one eyebrow.
"Well what, sir?"
"Put it on the desk. I can't very well review the stuff while it's a parasitic growth on your hip."
Avoiding his gaze, Jenny quickly crossed the room to the window, dropped Christian's letters on the writing desk, and made certain she stayed beyond his arm's length. "You're not very kind, Mr. Marshall," she said when she reached the door again.
"Oh?"
"This..." She made a gesture with her hand to indicate the room, the tub, and Christian's presence in the tub. "I lied to you about the keys for your own good. I can't help but think that this is your revenge. This could have waited until you were more appropriately prepared to receive me." She bowed her head slightly. "I'm going now."
Christian sat up straighter in the tub and held up his hand. "No, wait," he said, dropping the towel around his shoulders when she stopped her retreat and looked at him. "You may as well hear it from me as from any of my staff. Dr. Turner is kind. Mrs. Brandywine is kind. Joe Means is kind. I am not. And yes, I suppose part of my purpose in asking for you now was to make you uncomfortable. You may call it revenge if you wish. It seems small enough repayment for what you did to me."
"What I did? But—"
"What you did," he repeated, his features implacable, giving no quarter. "You were my guest here, now my employee. Neither of those positions give you the right to mother or coddle me as if I were an infant. I do not need you to determine what is for my own good. I may not be a kind man, but I am a man. You would do well to remember that the next time you find yourself under me."
The back of Jenny's hand covered her mouth and smothered the strangled sound that rose in her throat. Color vanished from her cheeks. Her dark eyes were wide and wounded. "You're like the others," she whispered. "No different at all... I thought..."
"What?" Christian leaned forward. A frown puckered his brow. "What did you say? I couldn't hear—"
Jenny's hand dropped away. She shook her head, denying that she had said anything.
Christian did not press. He had heard more than he'd admitted, but until her denial, he thought he must have been mistaken. "You may remain in my employ, but it would be prudent of you not to take on tasks which are none of your concern." He pointed to the stack of letters. "Contrary to what you might think, Dr. Turner is not the one who pays your wages." He pointed to the drapes, the sitting area, and the freshly washed walls. "In spite of what I said to Scott, I don't believe for a moment that Mrs. B. was entirely responsible for this. I permitted the changes because I wanted the company of the people who did the work. In other circumstances I would have told everyone to go to hell. Am I making myself clear?"
She nodded.
"What?"
"Yes, Mr. Marshall," she said dutifully. "You've made yourself clear."
"Then one more thing," he said. His eyes did not leave hers. "Stay out of my way, Jenny Holland. I prefer not to know you're here. Convey my wishes to Mrs. Brandywine. She will give you appropriate duties."
"Yes, sir," she said softly. "May I go?"
"With my blessing." When she was gone, Christian drew the towel off his neck and sank lower into the tub. He stared at the fire in the grate, frowning. He reviewed his conversation with her, wondering if he had inadvertently sent her packing. Not that she had anything to take or anywhere to go. Still, his purpose had been to remove her from his immediate sight, not push her back to the streets. Out of his sight, out of his mind. He chuckled humorlessly. Out of his mind, indeed.
* * *
That night Jenny's sleep was troubled. Except for the intensity of her fear and confusion it was not a new experience for her. She had known sleepless nights before she went to Jennings, had known them throughout her stay in the hospital, and had come to expect that she would always suffer them, even in Marshall House. When she had confided as much to Dr. Turner, he had assured her that the distressing nights would eventually become less frequent. Time, he told her. She required time, and peace of mind would follow.
Jenny was not so certain. Outside the sky opened up and icy shards of rain pelted her window. Wind swirled violently, rising and falling, battering the house and pressing its cold cheek to each pane of glass. The snow that had brightened New York was driven away and sidewalks and streets were frosted with a thin layer of ice. Just beyond Jenny's room the spindle-fingered tips of an oak tree scratched at her window. The ends of the branches were covered with diamond chips of ice, and in combination with the wind, became the equal of any glasscutter's tool.
Jenny buried her head beneath a pillow to shut out the drumming and the pinging and the scratching. Blotting out Christian Marshall's image was not so easily accomplished. When she closed her eyes he was there, at the back of her lids, staring at her with his own ice chip eyes and giving her a faint smile that was both derisive and cruel. When she opened her weary eyes and focused on the opposite wall, she saw his image projected there as well. His profile was hard, his mouth grim, and a muscle worked in his cheek as he ground his teeth together.
He wanted her gone, Jenny thought despairingly. Somehow she had offended him. He regretted everything he had done for her, she was sure of it. She told herself she shouldn't have badgered him. And she wished she hadn't asked Mrs. Brandywine to approach Christian about the alterations to his room. Better he should have rotted in his dreary bedchamber. She should have followed her instincts and kept well clear of Christian Marshall. His callous comments notwithstanding, the last thing Jenny thought she needed was yet another man dictating to her. That he should purposely set out to embarrass her still raised hackles at the nape of her neck. His biting reminder that he was a man was unnecessary and unseemly. She had been deliberately provocative with him only once, and Jenny believed anything she did in order to leave Jennings Memorial had been justified. She had no wish to find herself beneath Christian Marshall ever again.