Cate Campbell (39 page)

This won a wheezy laugh from her father.

“In short, I have my privileges restored. And some surgical privileges, under supervision.”

“Good for you, Margot.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you seen Whitely?”

“No.” She lifted one shoulder. “He’s never going to forgive me. I embarrassed him.”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe not.”

“I don’t think so. Peretti’s the one who counts at that silly place.” Dickson ground his cigar into the ashtray, and got to his feet again. “I’d better go up to your mother, I think. See if she wants anything.”

Margot rose, too, and walked with him to the door. He held it for her to pass through, and as she walked by him, he said, “I want to help you rebuild your clinic, Margot. The people down there need a doctor.”

She paused, the automatic refusal poised on her lips, but she didn’t speak it. She saw that her father was sincere in his wish to help. And, she thought, he
needed
to help. He needed to help her, and she needed his assistance. She could put aside her pride this once.

She leaned forward to kiss his whiskered cheek. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “I appreciate it. And you’ve helped me make up my mind.”

“Hattie, don’t climb the stairs,” Margot protested. “Just set everything there at the foot. I’ll get it.”

“No, ma’am, Miss Margot,” Hattie said stoutly. “You got nobody else to help you, and I’m right here to do it.” She shifted the linens and towels to her other arm, and grasped the banister as she huffed up the narrow staircase into Blake’s apartment.

Margot followed, her own arms full of clothes from her wardrobe. The air was stuffy and stale in the apartment. Margot saw that the marble-topped cane had been replaced beneath the peg rack, stains and all. Her father must have been here. It seemed right that the cane was back in its proper place, though it would never look the same.

She went into the bedroom and threw the clothes on the bed, then hurried to open the window. She went back into the kitchen to find Hattie straining to open the little window over the sink. Perspiration dripped from her neck and cheeks.

Gently, Margot moved her aside. “I’ll get this,” she said. “You can put those towels in the bathroom.”

“I don’t like this much,” Hattie said. She picked up the towels and stepped into the little bathroom just off the kitchen. “It don’t seem right, you living in this little place, and nobody to look after you.”

“You’ll be looking after me, Hattie,” Margot said. “I’ll still be having all my meals in the house—most of them, anyway. And Leona and Loena will do my laundry and dust once in a while.” She unlatched the window, and pushed it open. Air began to stir through the apartment, and she turned and surveyed with satisfaction the three little rooms that were now hers. “I should have thought of this before.”

Hattie came out of the bathroom, and picked up a set of sheets. “What if Mr. Dickson finds a new butler?”

“I believe he’s decided against that. We’re all hoping for Blake’s return one day.”

“How is Blake, Miss Margot? I mean, truly?”

Margot turned to look into Hattie’s sweet, plump face. “I’ll take you to see him, Hattie. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I would!”

“You’ll find he doesn’t speak very well. Not yet, in any case. But there are some good signs, and I think a visit from you would lift his spirits.”

“Thank you, Miss Margot. Oh, thank you!”

Margot preceded Hattie into the bedroom to move her clothes out of the way. Hattie snapped out a sheet, and Margot went to the other side of the bed to help. “Father’s going to learn to drive the car himself, he says.” Margot began arranging her clothes on the peg rack behind the bedroom door. She had never noticed before that Blake had no wardrobe. The whole apartment, in fact, was only sparsely furnished. But then, Blake’s personal possessions were sparse.

Hattie shook her head as she smoothed the linen over the ticking. “I just wish they’d get rid of that motorcar,” she said. “Mrs. Edith won’t never ride in it again.”

“No. I don’t suppose she will.” Thinking of her mother made Margot pause, a lawn shirtwaist in her hands. “Hattie—does she talk to you?”

Hattie straightened with a little grunt, and reached for a pillowcase. She didn’t meet Margot’s gaze. “A little, Miss Margot. Just a little.”

“About Preston?”

“No. She don’t talk about him at all.”

“I know she blames me.”

“Now, you just stop that.” Hattie plumped the pillow and settled it at the head of the bed. “She gonna come to her senses one of these days. It was an accident, that’s all. Can’t go back and undo it.” Hattie bent for another pillowcase, and as she straightened, Margot saw that her eyes had reddened, and they glistened with tears. “He was such a sweet little boy,” Hattie said, half under her breath. “Such a pretty smile, he had.”

Margot turned back to the kitchen without responding. Surely it was better to let them remember Preston the way they wanted to. What good would it do now to dredge up old hurts? She went to the sink to run a glass of water, and as she drank it, she gazed out across the yard just as Blake always did, one last look to be certain everything was in order before he went to bed.

She paused, and lowered her glass. Her mother was at the window of her upstairs bedroom, lifting the lace curtain to peer at the garage. She looked like a ghost of herself, pale, thin, ephemeral. Why was she looking out here? She avoided Margot whenever she could, closing doors or stepping into other rooms when Margot was near. It had seemed the best thing to simply remove herself from her mother’s presence. Edith had not roused herself to make any comment or any objection.

“There,” said Hattie behind her. “Your bed’s all ready. What else do you need?”

Margot set her glass in the sink, and turned. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You come over for lunch now, you hear?”

“Just a sandwich, thanks, Hattie. I’m due at the hospital this afternoon.”

“Best come soon, then.”

“I will.”

There wasn’t much left to do. Margot put her lingerie in the little chest of drawers. Hattie had sent one of the twins to clear out Blake’s things and store them in the attic. She had hung towels and washcloths in the tiny bathroom. Margot put her hairbrush and other toiletries in the cabinet over the sink, and checked to see that there was soap in the little wire basket hanging from the edge of the claw-foot tub. Margot touched the soap, wondering if Blake had used it, but it was a new cake of Ivory, the letters still prominent on its surface. Hattie must have set it there.

In fact, there seemed to be nothing of Blake left in the apartment except the cane. There had been books, but they had disappeared. She hoped the twins had decided to take them to their own room, but she wouldn’t ask. She intended not to frighten Loena and Leona anymore, and quizzing them about some old books might do just that.

She took one last look around before she started down the stairs and walked across the yard. She let herself in through the screened porch, and came in the back door to the kitchen. Hattie had left her a sandwich on a plate, wrapped in a cloth napkin. Margot pulled out a chair, and was ready to sit down, but Edith startled her, stepping inside the door, leaning against the wall.

“Mother?” Margot said.

Her mother was so pale and colorless that she looked oddly transparent, like a creature made of glass. She wore no powder, no lipstick. Margot wondered if she had had her hair done since Preston’s death. It looked ragged, even dirty. Her eyes had an unfocused look, and Margot thought she had better speak to someone about the laudanum.

“Mother?” she said again. “Do you need something?”

Edith crossed to the table, and sat down next to Margot. It was the closest they had been to each other in weeks. Margot was shocked to find that her mother smelled bad, as if she wasn’t bathing regularly, or cleaning her teeth. “I keep hearing him,” Edith said in a hoarse whisper. “You have to take it away so I won’t hear him.”

“What do you hear, Mother?”

“It’s—it’s Preston—” Edith’s eyes swam with tears, and her lips trembled. “Screaming! He keeps screaming, and he won’t stop!”

Horror made Margot’s belly crawl. She felt the blood rush from her face until she feared she had gone as pale as her mother.

“Please,” Edith said again. “Take it away! If you take it away, it will stop!”

“Mother—take what away? I don’t know what—”

“That sapphire! The jewel—I can’t stand it in the house!”

Margot stood up abruptly, scraping the legs of her chair on the linoleum. She put a hand under her mother’s arm. It felt as thin and brittle as a twig. “Mother, you need food, and a bath. You need to stop taking so much laudanum. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, and then—”

Her mother tried to twist away. “No, no, Margot! I don’t want coffee. I want you to take that—that
thing—
” Her voice rose to a wail. “Take that
thing
away!” She clamped both hands over her ears, and burst into hysterical sobs.

Margot stared at her, open mouthed. In seconds Hattie was there, bundling Edith into her arms like a weeping child, urging her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Loena and Leona came in, shoulder to shoulder, looking at Margot with wide eyes. “What is it? What happened?”

Margot said, inadequately, “Mother’s upset. Hattie’s taking care of her.” She wrapped her sandwich up again in its napkin, and left Leona and Loena staring after her as she went out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom.

Her room looked bereft without her toiletries and books and the little oddments of daily life. The dressing table was bare, its lace-draped stool tucked beneath it. Nothing was left but a few winter clothes in the wardrobe, and some bits of lingerie and jewelry she rarely wore abandoned in her bureau. She crouched, and opened the bottom drawer.

She had wrapped it in a chemise and left it there, hoping— hoping what? That she would forget about it? That someone would take it?

She unfolded the chemise, a lacy thing her mother had given her for Christmas, and which she had never worn. The sapphire lay innocently in its folds of silk, a stone as long as the first joint of her thumb. She knew nothing of jewelry, but it looked like a museum piece, with its heavy silver chain and filigree setting. Why hadn’t Preston had it reset?

She picked up the stone and cradled it in her palm. It reminded her of a time when she was small, when she and the family had picnicked on Alki Beach, on the shores of Puget Sound. Blake had laid a starfish in her hand, and though the creature didn’t move, she felt the potency of its life through her fingers. She had held it gently before laying it reverently back in the tide pool.

Margot clicked her tongue at her own fanciful thinking. It was nothing but superstition. If she allowed this silly thing to continue to haunt her, it would be as if Preston were still here, badgering her, lying in wait to trip her up. She twisted the chain around the sapphire, and thrust the thing into her pocket. She carried the chemise over her arm as she went out of her room. Perhaps she would find a time to wear it when Frank returned.

As she went down the stairs, she heard Hattie in her mother’s bedroom, speaking soothing words. Margot paused on the landing, listening, wondering. Edith couldn’t know that Preston had screamed as he was dying the night of the fire. She had told no one. Edith had never met Thea. Frank would never have mentioned it, and certainly not to her mother. So where did Edith get an idea that she heard Preston screaming? And why did she turn to Margot to make it stop?

Margot walked slowly down the stairs. Her brother’s story was a tragedy, but it had come to an end. She could not allow him to go on tormenting her—or anyone else—from his grave.

She went out through the back door and across to the garage apartment, where she found an empty coffee can under the sink. She stowed the sapphire in it, and shoved it into the back of the cupboard.

She spent a quiet afternoon at the hospital. She saw a child with a high fever, and settled him in the children’s ward with plenty of hydration and a nurse to give him sponge baths. The little boy’s color was good, and he was talkative, so she wasn’t worried about him. His mother stayed in the ward with him, and Margot promised to see them again in the morning. She saw a case of alcohol poisoning, which meant she had to pump the man’s stomach. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was routine. Afterward, she sent him up to a public ward with orders to restrain him if he became violent, and to give him as much water as he could drink. She stopped by to visit two other patients, both of whom were resting comfortably.

At the very end of the day, she was called down to the reception area, where she found a slender, freckled girl in a school uniform waiting on one of the straight wooden chairs. The girl jumped up when she saw her. “Dr. Benedict,” she said. “Do you remember me? Colleen O’Reilly?”

“Yes,” Margot said, hesitant at first, then smiling. “Of course I do. You’ve had your baby.”

Colleen’s eyes were bright and clear, her freckled cheeks rosy. “Oh, yes, that was weeks ago. I went to your clinic to see you, but—it’s all burned up.”

“We had a fire.” Margot tipped her head, assessing the girl’s appearance. “You look very well, Colleen. And you’re back in school.”

Colleen smoothed her dark vest and pleated skirt. “Well, yes. I’m a year behind my class, though.”

“I’m glad to see you,” Margot said. “Are you here to see your doctor?”

The blue eyes, still fresh and innocent despite everything, lifted to hers. “I want you to be my doctor again,” she said. “I didn’t like the Good Shepherd doctor very much. But now your clinic is burned up.”

“We’re going to rebuild it. There will be a new one in the same place,” Margot told her. “Do you need to see me now? Is there anything troubling you?”

“No. I’m fine. I just don’t want to see that doctor anymore. I don’t think he liked us much—us girls at the Good Shepherd.”

“Well. If you need care before my new clinic is ready, you can come to me here.”