SECRET OF THE WOLF Page 6

  "I just heard quite an interesting lecture in San Francisco," Johanna said quickly. "The speaker presented some rather controversial theories, not unlike your own. Would you like to hear them?"

  But her father wasn't listening. He'd drifted away, lost in some memory that, for him, might be taking place at this very moment.

  "Papa?" He didn't respond. She rose and replaced the glass on the washstand, blinking dry eyes.

  He couldn't advise her. The decisions were all hers now. She knelt by the bed and rested her head on his lap. He touched her hair, tenderly, as if she were a child again.

  "Don't cry, Johanna," he murmured. "Your mother will get well. You'll see."

  "Yes, Papa." His hand stroked her head and went still. He had fallen asleep again, as he so often did.

  "You're right, Papa," she whispered. "We can't turn away those who need our help. But things… are not as they once were." She paused to listen to his steady breathing. Yes, he was asleep, and wouldn't be disturbed by her worry. "We are coming near the end of our funds, Papa. I've sold all the land we can spare; I can't sell the orchard or the last acre of grapevines; they make this place what it is. I don't want the world too close—and it isn't what Uncle Rutger would have wished." She sighed. "I must have Mrs. Daugherty's help with the washing and cooking, and she must be paid a fair wage."

  Her father shifted and gave a soft snore.

  "We must have medicine, and clothing, the necessities of life—" She smiled wryly to herself. "I can do well enough without luxuries. You know I don't much care for fripperies in any case. I remember when it used to worry you, that I never sought such things. But I would be happy, Papa, if I can continue to carry on in your footsteps."

  She raised her head and gazed at his placid face. "Ach, Papa. I'll complain no longer. I will find a way to continue, you can rest assured of that."

  "I hope you'll allow me to help, Dr. Schell."

  For just an instant she thought Papa had spoken. But no, the voice was wrong—the timbre a little deeper, the tone lighter, the accent English rather than German.

  She spun about to face the door. Quentin Forster stood there, leaning against the doorframe with arms folded and one ankle crossing the other. Except for the faint circles under his eyes, he showed no evidence of his recent ordeal. Oscar's shirt and trousers did not look as oversized on his lanky frame as she'd expected, nor did they detract from his naturally elegant bearing.

  Or his handsomeness—though he was in need of a good shave. And a haircut. But the longer hair and the reddish beard starting on his chin only gave his features a more roguish appeal. That slight roughness, combined with his aristocratic air, created a most intriguing combination…

  She cleared her throat sharply.

  "What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded. "I do not remember giving you permission to wander about the house."

  He uncrossed his arms and stepped into the room. "You never did arrive with my breakfast."

  "I am sorry. I shall see to it shortly."

  "I can manage it myself, if you'll point the way to the kitchen." He glanced at her father. "I didn't mean to intrude, but I couldn't help overhearing… This is the elder Dr. Schell, I presume?"

  Positioning herself to block his view, Johanna stood protectively by Papa's bedside. "Yes. Now, if you will kindly go back to your room—"

  With flagrant disobedience he came closer, gazing at her father's face. "I'm very sorry," he said. His expression was serious, as if he truly meant it. "It must have been a terrible loss for you."

  Was it possible that he had experienced such losses? Something had driven him to drink. Every one of their patients had suffered; such suffering could lead to madness, or make a mild case of insanity worse.

  "He is not dead," she said stiffly.

  "But he needs care, and you have the other patients." Quentin looked past the bed to the window, with its view of the small vineyard. "This place has a certain serenity that must benefit your residents a great deal. It would be a pity if you had to sell any more of it."

  He'd come just a bit too close—close enough for the small hairs to rise on the back of her neck. She moved nearer to the bed.

  "Eavesdropping is not the act of a gentleman, Mr. Forster." She lifted her chin. "How much did you overhear?"

  "Enough to know that you could benefit by an influx of capital." He looked about for a chair and, finding none, leaned against the wall. "Earlier, we were discussing the possibility of your treating my… propensity for excessive drinking. As it happens, I can pay you well for such treatment. Enough, I believe, to help in your current circumstances."

  Johanna's skin grew hot. So he had overheard something she'd meant no one, not even her father, to know. And he spoke with such… such presumption, as if he couldn't imagine her refusing his offer.

  "We are doctors. We can't turn away those who need our help." Papa had been completely lucid when he spoke those words. He'd lived by them, and she believed in them as much as he did. Even if Forster had been unable to pay, she would have considered attempting treatment. But she hadn't decided. Now he was forcing her hand.

  "If you've any doubts," Quentin Forster said, "the money is in my room. Over one thousand dollars in cash and coin."

  So much? She'd never counted it, of course. The sum was considerable from her current perspective.

  "I won it quite honestly, in a game of cards." He looked up at her from beneath his auburn lashes, unconsciously—or consciously—seductive.

  She turned her back on him and gazed out the window. He had made it extraordinarily difficult for her to say no. The need for money was very real, for the sake of the Haven's residents. With such an incentive, she could think of only one reason to turn him down.

  A personal reason. He made her uncomfortable, uncertain. In his presence, she felt a little of her normally unshakable confidence waver. And, at the same time, she was drawn to him, woman to man. He unsettled her, and nothing was nearly so dangerous to a woman of science.

  It would not do, not if she was to be his doctor. That would have to be made very clear.

  "I could not charge you so much," she said, "nor promise a cure without further consultation."

  "You haven't dealt with my particular brand of insanity."

  She glanced over her shoulder. "Inebriety is not always equivalent to insanity," she said. "Do you claim another affliction?"

  His face closed up, all the easy poise vanished. She'd seen that look before: Panic. Denial. Fear. The sudden realization that he did not wish to uncover the secrets in his own mind and heart—secrets he was not even aware existed.

  But no one was forcing him to stay. He was not, like the other residents, incapable of living in the world. He might be at considerable risk to his health—even of death—but if he chose to leave, she could not stop him.

  "I have treated many forms of insanity," she said. "Very seldom have we failed to see some improvement. But the rules of conduct here are strict. No alcohol. You must get along with the others. And you must also contribute to the daily work of the farm."

  You make it easy on yourself, Johanna, she thought. He's not the sort to remain steadfast in the face of a challenge. Frighten him enough, and he will leave. He will not be able to unsettle you any longer.

  Repulsed by her own cowardice, she faced him again. "Do you understand, Mr. Forster? I will do my best to help you, but I can make no guarantees. I must retain the right to decide if the treatment is not working. But I will not demand an unreasonable fee—no matter how much I may be in need of funds. I do not ask for charity."

  The pinched look on his face cleared, and the tension of his mouth eased into a wry smile. "You wouldn't. But you nearly have me fleeing in terror, Dr. Johanna. I wonder if I'd rather face a herd of charging elephants."

  She found herself relaxing as well. "Have you ever faced a herd of elephants, Mr. Forster?"

  "Quentin," he corrected. "I've seen my share of elephants. Some were even real." He
stood up straight. "Are you afraid of me, Johanna?"

  The question was startlingly direct and perfectly sober. He'd sensed her unease. Or perhaps it was another warning…

  "Aside from the fact that you are a stranger, which in itself calls for caution, I've seen nothing to fear in you."

  She didn't think she'd ever seen eyes so compelling. Beneath their veneer of laughter was layer upon layer of ambiguity, a guardedness that might conceal any number of darker emotions, just as he hid his fear.

  Finding and healing the source of that fear would be further proof of the Schell technique's validity—possibly even substantiation of her own theory, if the opportunity to test it presented itself in the course of his treatment. She could finally complete the paper she and Papa had begun… and the payment she received from Quentin would keep the Haven going for another few months, at least.

  "Well?" he asked. "Will you take on my case, Johanna?"

  She folded her hands at the level of her waist and nodded briskly, as much to convince herself as to answer him. "We shall begin work as soon as you've been introduced to the others and it's been established that you will—"

  "Fit in?" He grinned. "You'd be surprised just how adaptable I am."

  Somehow she wasn't in the least surprised. He seemed so at ease, in spite of his obvious problems and the way he'd raved in the throes of his delirium tremens. It was sometimes difficult to remember how very ill he'd been.

  He was a mystery, and like all scientists she could not resist such a paradox.

  "I would introduce you to my father, but as you see he is sleeping. He will not be very communicative; it is a result of his attack."

  "I understand." Quentin came to the side of the bed and looked down at her father. His mobile expression changed again—to one of real compassion. Of knowing.

  "I lost my own parents when I was fairly young," he said. "My grandfather raised me, my twin sister, and my elder brother." His mouth twitched. "He was something of a tyrant. Very strict."

  Johanna hadn't grown up under such conditions, but she'd seen the damage that could be done to children in such households. "I'm sorry," she said.

  He shrugged. "Long ago. And I gave Grandfather as good as I got."

  "Were you often in trouble?"

  "I'm that transparent, am I?" He chuckled. "Frequently. I was incorrigible, in fact. I doubt that any figure in authority would be tempted to spare the rod in my case."

  Had he been beaten, then? "You were not… unloved."

  "I had my brother and my sister. They could be jolly good companions—but they were a little more conventional. Braden often lectured me to be more upright and dependable." He pulled a face. "Elder brothers, you know."

  She didn't; she'd been an only child, and often wondered what it would be like to have siblings. But Quentin didn't speak as though his childhood experiences had contributed to his drinking. That was something she wouldn't be able to determine until she put him under hypnosis.

  Yes. She wanted quite urgently to know more about Quentin Forster, childhood and all.

  "Well," she said, "the others should be coming in from the garden and vineyard in an hour or so. We generally do outside work in the mornings and early evenings." She examined him critically. "Since you seem steady enough, I'll give you a brief tour of the house, and then introduce you all around."

  "I look forward to it," he said. But the twinkle in his cinnamon eyes suggested that he was much less interested in the other patients than he was in her.

  That was very likely to change soon enough.

  Chapter 5

  Whatever possessed you? Quentin had asked himself that question several times since he'd made the impulsive and reckless decision to remain at the Haven.

  The deed was done now. And when he looked at Johanna, with that serious and oddly attractive face that hid so much from the world, he remembered what had driven him to it.

  Yes, driven. It certainly hadn't been an act of logic. But then again, so little of what he did could be attributed to anything remotely like common sense.

  He'd told himself he should leave. He still could, none the worse for wear, if things became complicated. But he believed that Johanna, alone of all people in the world, had the ability to keep him away from the bottle—and from the consequences that he feared came with it. As long as he didn't drink, he was in control.

  At the very least, Johanna would have his money for her good works. She deserved it far more than he did.

  He sat on one of the two ancient horsehair armchairs in the room Johanna called the parlor. It was the largest chamber in the house, scattered with mismatched chairs of every size and design, a large central table and several smaller ones, shelves of books, ancient daguerreotypes, an antique mirror that might have survived from better times, and well-worn rugs on the wooden floor. He'd noticed at once that there were no real breakables or fragile items on the shelves or tables—no china figurines, nor decorative plates and delicate china—nothing that a patient of uncertain temperament might smash or use as a weapon. The house, as embodied in this room, was worn, snug, and well lived-in, with nothing of luxury but much of safety.

  The house matched Johanna herself. She was not beautiful, and her clothes were plain and much-mended, but no one could doubt her sincerity or her complete acceptance of herself and the world around her.

  He'd already toured the roomy kitchen, where he'd been offered a late breakfast of coffee, bread, and eggs, left by the housekeeper, Mrs. Daugherty. After the meal, Johanna had shown him the smaller room she called her office. The remaining rooms were the patients' chambers, and Johanna respected their privacy. She did, indeed, seem to regard them more as family than men and women afflicted with madness.

  "You've met Oscar," Johanna said from her chair opposite his across the parlor. "He is what many call an idiot—his level of intelligence is that of a young child. He is prone to a child's outbursts, but in general he is a gentle soul who asks only to be treated kindly."

  "But he cannot be cured of such an affliction, surely," Quentin said.

  "No." She leaned forward, her hands clasped at her knees in a posture completely free of feminine self-consciousness. "You see, he was born to a family in which his mother contracted a serious illness during her pregnancy. She died soon after his birth. I know little of his early life, but he was left much on his own as a child, and suffered for it. His father was himself a dying man, and begged my father to take the boy in." She smiled with a touch of sadness. "Oscar has been with us since the age of twelve. The world is not kind to those with his defect."

  "As it isn't kind to any who are different," Quentin said. Johanna looked at him with such unexpected warmth that he found his heart beating faster. Good God, was he so much in need of approval, of any meager sign of esteem?

  Or was it just Johanna herself?

  She blinked, as if she'd caught him staring. Perhaps he had been. "I'm glad you understand," she said, and lapsed into silence.

  He was trying to find something intelligent to say—something that might impress her with his wit and breadth of knowledge—when a woman flounced into the room from the hallway.

  Never had Quentin seen a more vivid contrast to Johanna, except among the prostitutes who so often became his unsought companions. The woman was near fifty but dressed several decades younger, in flowing clothes that hinted of Bohemian affectation. She wore as much paint as any lady of the evening, but she carried herself like a queen. Once, she might have been pretty. She clearly believed she still was.

  Quentin rose. The woman came to stand directly before his chair and assumed a pose. "At last," she said. Her dyed red hair was piled fashionably on top of her head, but a few stray wisps gave her an air of slight dishabille. Her colorless eyes glinted with predatory intent. "Johanna, introduce us at once."

  Johanna sighed, so softly that none but Quentin could hear. "Irene—"

  "Miss DuBois." The woman sniffed.

  "—I would like you t
o meet Mr. Forster—"

  "Quentin," he put in.

  Johanna's mouth stiffened. "Quentin, please be acquainted with Miss Irene DuBois, one of our residents." She pronounced the name in the English way, vocalizing the final "e." "Irene, Quentin will be staying with us for a time."

  Miss DuBois batted her eyelashes at Quentin. "Delighted, Mr. Forster. I am so glad you have come to see me. I had almost feared that all my admirers had forgotten about me." She extended a beringed hand.

  Quentin did the expected and kissed the air above her knuckles. "How could anyone forget you, Miss DuBois?"

  "Of course." She laughed, and the sound, much like her face, might once have been beautiful. "I knew at once that you were a man of taste and discretion. You could not have failed to see my performances on the stage on Broadway. I acted at the National Theater, Niblo's Garden, and the Winter Garden; everyone who was anyone came to watch me. When I trod the boards, no other actress was worth seeing."

  Careful not to allow the slightest trace of amusement to cross his face, Quentin released her hand. He was beginning to guess what her particular form of madness might be. "The stage lost a great talent when you left it."

  "Yes. You see, my doctors told me that I had worked much too hard, out of love for my devotees and my dedication to my art. They insisted that I sit out a season to rest. But I shall be returning very soon, and then the New York stage will be restored to its former glory."

  "I'm certain that you shall dazzle your audiences," Quentin said. He glanced beyond her to Johanna, whose expression was unreadable. Did she approve of his playing along? He couldn't tell. "You haven't been here long, I gather?"

  "Just for this season," she said. She threw Johanna a disdainful look. "Johanna would like to confine me here forever. This place is so drab without me, and the others simply couldn't get along without a little beauty and culture in their lives. Of course she didn't want you to see me. She knew what would happen."

  Quentin recognized another cue when he heard it. He felt a profound pity for this woman, who lived in a past that might or might not have been as glorious as she painted it—a past that could never be restored. But he wouldn't be the one to shatter her illusions, even if Johanna's ultimate intent was to do so.