Forever in My Heart Page 4

  "I'd be happy to, but we'll have to walk a bit from here. Hansoms don't generally come this way. Perhaps it's obvious to you now, but this is not the most savory section of the city."

  She fell into step beside Harlan Porter, grateful for his protection. The thoroughfare did not seem quite so sinister in the presence of her companion; the music and laughter from the dance halls was less raucous. They walked for several blocks and she noticed a gradual improvement in the area. Structurally the houses went from clapboard to brownstone, the street was less rutted, the signs indicating businesses were in good repair, and the pedestrians were no longer staggering. Red lights still dotted the occasional window, but the establishments appeared to cater to the uptown crowd.

  "Cabs frequent the street just beyond here," Harlan Porter told her. "If you want to wait, I can go ahead and get one to come here."

  Not wanting to be left alone, she shook her head furiously.

  "Very well, but you're tiring. May I suggest a shortcut through here?" He pointed to a passage between two homes similar to the one where the sailor had accosted her.

  Her first instinct was to run. When rational thought asserted itself, she realized it was better to face her fear. After all, she couldn't avoid dark, narrow passages the rest of her life. That described most of the aisles in the library that she loved to frequent. Besides, she reasoned, it had been the sailor who had posed the threat, not the space, and it was small of her to generalize his behavior to all men. Harlan Porter had extended himself to her generously.

  "Or perhaps you'd rather walk around," he suggested.

  She shook her head, touching her throat to indicate the ache. "I'm tired," she said.

  "Don't try talking. I understand. We'll take the shortcut."

  She smiled, thankful for her guardian angel. Linking arms again, she allowed Harlan Porter to lead her into the darkest shadows between the buildings.

  "As far as I can tell," he said casually as they walked, "the only thing wrong with you is that you're a tad too trusting."

  With no more warning than that he pushed her hard against the brick wall of one of the houses and pressed his forearm equally hard against her throat. She slumped almost immediately.

  * * *

  Consciousness seemed to come slowly. First there was the sweet sensation of breathing, then the sting of something cold and wet on her face. She heard voices next, and moments later light began to sift through the veil of her heavy, dark lashes. It was as if her senses were coming alive in layers. She groaned softly and brushed ineffectually at the wetness on her face.

  Harlan Porter wiped her cheeks and brows once more with the damp handkerchief. He considered her efforts to push him away as a good sign. She was of no value to him if she was out cold.

  They were no longer in the passageway. It was the first thing that registered when she opened her eyes. Neither were they alone. Harlan Porter was holding her steady with one arm and using the other to gesture wildly as he spoke to the man who had joined them. They were standing at the servants' entrance at the rear of a large brownstone and it appeared to her that the stranger had come outside because he didn't want Harlan Porter in the home.

  "I'm telling you, Wicken," Harlan said again, "he's going to want to see what I've got here. She's a near perfect match to what he described to me."

  She saw Mr. Wicken's square jaw harden and his eyes narrow as he assessed her skeptically from head to toe. She doubted her efforts to return the stare were nearly as threatening.

  "It may be as you say, Porter, but you have to get past me first, don't you?"

  Harlan frowned. "You want to use her first, is that it?" When his question was met with stony silence, he finally shrugged. "It's your neck," he said. "As for myself, I don't care, and it makes no difference to her, but if he ever finds out that you're sampling his goods, he'll put you out in the street."

  "Is that a threat?" Wicken asked.

  "He won't find out from me," Harlan said. "I can't speak for the lady."

  Wicken's eyes returned to her. Without warning his hand shot out and encircled her neck. His fingers squeezed hard enough to bruise her skin while his eyes slid insolently over her face. "Well?" he asked. "Will you be saying anything?"

  The pressure and pain in her throat was so great that she thought she would simply faint with it. She clawed at Wicken's forearm, but he didn't remove his hand. She closed her eyes. Only Harlan Porter's arm at her waist kept her upright.

  "Let her go, Wicken," Porter said.

  Wicken released his hand slowly, smiling as she sucked in air. "I think I can count on her keeping quiet."

  Porter propped her against the wall and put out his hand, palm up, to Wicken. "I'll take my finder's fee now, thank you."

  "Not until I've had my sample. She may not be worth anything; then Mr. Beale won't pay."

  "He's always paid because I've always found him what he's wanted."

  She seized her opportunity as Porter and Wicken argued. She pushed away from the wall and hurtled herself over the porch rail, sprinting across the backyard and into the alley behind the house. Ignoring Wicken's shout and Porter's demand that she stop, she skirted the edge of a picket fence until she found the gate. She fumbled with the closure, forced it open, and ran into the yard of another brownstone. Heading straight for the back porch, she took both steps in a single leap and threw herself against the screen door, pounding on the frame with the last of her strength.

  Harlan caught up to her just as the door was flung open. She was pushed into the dark corner of the porch where she doubled over, catching her breath.

  The proprietress of the house stepped outside. Lisa Antonia Hall's voice was strident and her tone no nonsense. "What's going on out here?" she demanded. She peered into the darkness. "Harlan? Is that you?"

  For a moment Porter hovered on the lip of the first step before he backed down onto the flagstone walk.

  "It is you," Mrs. Hall said, disgust rife in her tone. "I can't say I like you skulking around my tulip bed." She glanced over her shoulder and called to one of the woman standing in the kitchen. "Beth, bring a broom. We've got vermin."

  Harlan held up his hands. "Now, Mrs. Hall, there's no need for name calling."

  The madam came to the edge of the porch and looked down on Harlan. "I'm not name calling," she said, hands on her hips. She smiled sweetly. "If I recall my Shakespeare... a rat by any other name."

  The sound of choked laughter in the corner of the porch drew Mrs. Hall's attention. She looked over the cowering figure of the young woman and shook her finger at Harlan.

  "I suppose you have an explanation?"

  "She's part of my stable," he said.

  Mrs. Hall snorted, revolted by his comment. "That's the problem with you, Harlan, you keep confusing horses and women."

  Harlan looked past Mrs. Hall's shoulder to where Beth stood militantly holding her broom. "Both of you need to stay out of this. It's between me and the girl."

  "It doesn't seem to me that she wants any part of you," Mrs. Hall said. "Is that right, honey?" Her question received a quick, emphatic nod. "That's enough for me, Harlan. Now get off my property or I'll send Samuel for the police."

  Harlan didn't move as he weighed his choices. "That's going to take a while."

  "About two minutes," she snapped. "Our local cop is taking his leisure upstairs, and he's not going to feel kindly toward you for disturbing his rest." Her smile hardened as she saw the impact her statement had on Harlan. "Remove yourself now."

  He took another step backward but it was too tentative for Beth. She came rushing past Mrs. Hall, broom raised, and went tearing after Harlan, poking and flailing until he was through the gate and on the other side of the picket fence.

  In short order Mrs. Hall hustled her guest into the house and seated her at the kitchen table. Beth came in shortly and put down the broom and began boiling water for tea.

  "What has she got to say for herself?" Beth asked, reaching for mugs out of t
he cupboard. Her short stature prevented her from getting them the first time. She gave a little hop and nudged two mugs toward the edge of the shelf. When she turned around she saw the young woman was smiling weakly at her antics. Beth's plain, round face was animated by her own encouraging smile. "Well, at least you haven't lost your sense of humor."

  Mrs. Hall rubbed her temple with one hand, wondering what she had come upon this time. "I believe, Beth, that our guest has lost her voice."

  "Really?" Beth looked at her, her brows raised questioningly.

  She touched her throat self-consciously and nodded.

  Mrs. Hall pointed to her neck above the collar of her gown and coat. "She has bruises."

  Beth looked more closely. "So she does. I should have used a gun on him, not a broom." She sighed. "I suppose there's no way of knowing how she got mixed up with the likes of him."

  "Not now," Mrs. Hall said dispiritedly. It seemed her role in tonight's disturbance would not be ended quickly. "I can't let her just leave, not in her condition, and not with Harlan likely to be lurking around the corner. I think I better send for Morrison." She turned to her guest. "That's a doctor friend of mine. I think it would be best for him to see you."

  She protested by shaking her head violently. The motion made her dizzy and undermined her purpose.

  Mrs. Hall rapped out her orders briskly. "Beth, tell Samuel I want him to find Dr. James and bring him here, then finish making the tea and bring it to the room across from Megan's. I'll put this young lady in there and find her some dry clothes. I don't think a hot bath would be amiss. Get Jane to help you make one ready." Feeling like something less than the Good Samaritan, she helped her guest to her feet. "I think there's some laudanum in the medicine cupboard in my apartment. Bring the bottle when you bring the tea."

  Beth saluted smartly which brought a glimmer of a smile from the madam. Mrs. Hall linked arms with her patient, supporting her. "This way, dear heart, we're going to take care of you."

  She was given no choice but to follow and was actually very relieved that decisions were completely taken out of her hands. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. Clear thinking was quite simply beyond her.

  Mrs. Hall chatted the entire time she hovered, helping her out of her damp clothes and into a clean night shift, turning down the bed, then brushing out her hair. She commented on her appearance, the quality of her clothes, the fine stitching of her gown, and the tailored cut of her coat. She remarked on the oddity of her being in the company of Harlan Porter—she called him a procurer of young women in deference to what she thought were her guest's finer sensibilities—then chastised her roundly for being where she had no business being in the first place.

  There was neither denial nor confirmation of any of Mrs. Hall's suspicions, leaving the madam to wonder if she had correctly surmised anything about her guest. When Mrs. Hall held up the laudanum to be taken it was accepted without demur. Lassitude was like a comfortably warm blanket and it was accepted, even reveled in. She understood the nature of Mrs. Hall's business, understood the position of Mrs. Hall within the house, but none of it mattered. The coddling was reassuring. It was only a matter of time before she would be strong enough to go home. She would rest for a few hours and then leave, and think of a way to reward Mrs. Hall for her kindness. It was her last thought before she drifted off to sleep.

  Mrs. Hall ordered Beth and Jane to leave the bath they had drawn. She tucked the covers around her patient and tiptoed out of the room. As an afterthought, she returned long enough to remove all the liquor from the sideboard cabinet, then went to see to her other guests while she waited for Morrison.

  * * *

  She woke suddenly, frightened and disoriented. The single lamp on the bedside table didn't afford much light. She squinted at the clock on the mantel and made it out to be just past midnight. Her heartbeat slowed as she recalled the events of the evening and recognized the strange surroundings as a safe haven. She pulled the comforter around her shoulders and snuggled more deeply into the soft mattress.

  The door handle turned. She sat up suddenly and stared at the imposing figure silhouetted in the doorway. Her immediate thought was to run as he stepped inside, then she saw him drop a leather bag on the table just inside the door and her breathing came easier. The doctor! It was all she could do not to laugh hysterically with relief.

  She watched him look around the room and finally walk over to the dressing screen. He moved a panel aside and dipped his finger in the bath Beth and Jane had prepared. As soon as he turned his attention toward her she looked away.

  "I've interrupted your bath," he said.

  She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that the sleep had done her as well, but the aching tightness in her throat was still there. She shrugged instead. The wide strap of her nightshift slipped over her shoulder and she hurriedly put it back in place. To her embarrassment it fell again. This time she let it go. Feeling unaccountably shy in front of the physician, she lowered her head so her hair fell forward, shielding her.

  "Your display of modesty is duly noted," he said. "Affecting, but quite unnecessary."

  She wanted to crawl under the covers at his dry, cynical observation. He must be aware of his own good looks, she thought, and probably just as aware of his female patients assuming, or hoping, his interest in them might be personal, not professional. She vowed to do better.

  "Don't let me stop you," he said, pointing to the bath. "I have time."

  In spite of her vow, she hesitated. If he had been on the wrong side of fifty with kind eyes and a gentle smile, she knew her response would have been different. It would have helped if he had a slight paunch or spindle legs. He had none of those things.

  The man who had walked into her room was straight and tall, slender-hipped with a way of moving that reminded her of a sleek black cat staking out its territory. His eyes were very nearly black, reserved and watchful as they took in everything about his surroundings. Though it seemed he had paid her scant attention, she felt as if it were otherwise.

  He was still in his evening clothes, which supported her first impression that anger was simmering just below the surface of his bored and weary look. There was a tightness to his mouth that did not invite a smile and the hollows just beneath his cheekbones were pronounced. Obviously, she thought, he had been called away from some social function to tend her and was taking little trouble to hide how he felt about the inconvenience.

  There was nothing about this man that made her comfortable.

  "Go on," he said more firmly, indicating the bath. "It won't do you any harm and it may even relax you."

  He was the doctor. She crawled across the bed while he sat down in the wing chair on the opposite side of the room. Apparently she wasn't moving quickly enough for his purposes because he added in a weary tone, "I'm not going to join you." She moved so quickly then that she bumped the dressing screen as she slipped behind it.

  She was miserably disappointed in herself. It was not like her to be skittish. She blamed it on the laudanum that Mrs. Hall had given her, the lateness of the hour, and the doctor's less-than-encouraging bedside manner. She got rid of her nightshift and found pins in a drawer in the wardrobe. Once she pinned her hair so it wouldn't get wet, she eased herself into the tub. She had just closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth, when she heard him call to her.

  "I was told you wouldn't talk much," he said, "but I didn't expect complete silence."

  She swallowed and tried to say something, but nothing came out.

  "Suits me."

  She thought it was an odd thing for him to say. She hoped he had something in that black bag of his that would give her back her voice. She had a few things she wanted to tell him about how he dealt with his patients. She slipped lower in the tub and let the mist touch her face and throat. She remained that way for several minutes, liking the experience too much to rush it.

  "Fetching," he drawled.

  She was so astonished by his in
trusion that she sank even lower. He was holding a towel above her, an indication, she supposed, that it was time to get out.

  "There's no reason to act like a shy maiden in front of me," he said. "This is professional, not personal." He paused, watching her closely. "Isn't it?"

  She blinked, returned his stare, and then nodded shortly. She was thoroughly humiliated that he may have sensed some personal interest on her part. It was probably the very reason he affected such remoteness. Caught in her thoughts, she barely managed to catch the towel when he dropped it.

  "Red," he said.

  She couldn't imagine that she had heard him correctly. "Hmm?" Grimacing, she touched her throat lightly with her fingertips. She forced herself to speak no matter the pain. "Pardon?"

  "Your hair's red. There's not much light in here. I wasn't sure." He paused. "May I?"

  She looked at his raised hand, the fingertips just inches from her ear, and nodded. His hand brushed her cheek and she knew he must be getting a sense of her temperature. He did not miss the bruises on her neck either. He touched one of them lightly and said, "You've been treated roughly this evening."

  She nodded, wondering how much Mrs. Hall had been able to tell him.

  "Good thing I'm here then. We'll see what we can do about that. You're warm. Out of the bath—now."

  She was happy to see that he stood and turned away. She got out of the tub quickly, dried off, and put on the nightshift. When she came around the screen she noted he had removed his vest and tossed it next to his evening jacket. He was looking at her bare feet.

  "You'd better get back in bed. Even on the rug, the floor's cold. Do you want me to light a fire?"

  She did, but she didn't want to put him to the trouble. He seemed to sense that because he laughed softly as she crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter around her shoulders.

  "Just the same," he said. "I think I'll do it."

  She watched him work silently and efficiently. When he was done his hands were gray with ash. He went to the porcelain basin and washed them.