Mariel (29 page)

“It must feel good to be back home.”

“I miss you, Ian.”

Squeezing her hand gently, he said, “I told you, I will come every morning to read the newspaper to you if you wish.”

She leaned her head back against the headboard. Tears balanced on her dark lashes as she fought the rage within her. Every kindness done for her was only out of pity. She did not want Ian to come to Foxbridge Cloister to read to her. She wanted him to hold her, to feel his mouth sliding along her skin, but that was impossible.

“That would be very nice,” she replied quietly.

“I just attended the school-board meeting.”

“Did you?”

He longed to take her and shake that dull sound from her voice. Even as he thought that, he saw the spasm fleeing across her blank features. Mariel continued to try to hide the truth from him, but when she had offered him her heart, she had opened her soul to him. He could sense the horror she struggled with each waking hour.

“Honey, they voted to appropriate the money for the books you wanted. Mr. Jones is ecstatic.”

“I'm glad.”

Ian put his hand on the side of her face and turned it to meet his eyes. “Glad? Is that all you have to say after the hard battle you have waged to get this?”

“Why should I be happy about books I will never see?” Sobs ripped from her as she buried her bandaged face in her hands.

He fought his longing to comfort her. Instead, he snapped, “You have every reason to be happy. You have done what I would have said was impossible. That tightfisted board has parted with some of its money for a most worthy project. Not only that, but they agreed to give the old texts to the orphanage as you requested.” When she did not reply, he grasped her shoulders and shouted, “Dammit, Mariel! Don't give up on yourself when everyone else wishes you only success!”

“Let me go!” she screamed.

“No.”

“I said let me go!” She enunciated each word as she struggled to escape him. When he took her hand and dragged her out of her bed, she shrieked again. Fearfully she clung to him as he led her rapidly across the room. “No! Ian, don't! Let me go back to bed.”

He released her. “All right. Go back to bed.”

“Where is it?”

Sitting down in one of the chairs, he smiled coldly. “That, my dear Mariel, is something you must find for yourself.”

“Ian!” she moaned. “Help me.”

“I am.” He folded his arms across his chest to keep from taking her outstretched hands. Although he wanted to assist her back to the bed, only this way could he truly help her.

Mariel spat a curse at him and heard his outrageous chuckle. He wanted her to become so angry that she would bounce off the furniture in the room until she bumped into the bed. That, he thought, would help her. Determined not to play his games, she dropped to the floor to sit cross legged. She glared in the direction she thought he was.

Hands under her arms lifted her roughly to her feet. When she was about to fold up, he said sharply, “Do it, Mariel! Or are you scared?”

“Yes!” she cried. “If it satisfies your sadism, I am scared.”

“Of what?”

She started to reply, then realized she had no answer. For the past week, she had huddled in bed, afraid to move, afraid to think. Slowly she turned and put her hands on Ian's chest. Her fingers moved along the front of his shirt, past the clerical collar and to his face.

He was not smiling. That comforted her. In the midst of her mind numbing terror, she had forgotten the most important thing. Ian loved her. He would do nothing to harm her, but would force her to help herself.

“I am afraid of failing,” she whispered as his arm slid around her waist to hold her close.

“You never have been in the past. Each time someone told you that you could not do something, you struggled even harder. Now it is Mariel Wythe saying you cannot be reasonably independent anymore. Are you going to listen to her, or are you going to do what you know you must?”

“I don't know.”

He held her tightly as he felt her tears wet against his shirt. Perhaps this was enough for today. He had pushed her to recognize her fears. It might be too much to expect her to conquer them in the same day. Recalling his long months of convalescence, he relented.

Mariel said nothing as he turned her to walk the few steps to the bed. It startled her how close she had been standing to it. If she had extended her arms, she might have been able to touch it. When she stubbed her toe against the steps of the bed, she climbed up onto its high surface. Pulling the covers over her, she sighed in relief.

As much as she hated being confined to this bed, it was safe. She knew the dimensions of it and did not have to fear being confronted with something she could not handle. Stroking the chenille bedspread, she waited for Ian to speak.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow what?”

“Tomorrow you will do it by yourself.” He took her hand and pressed it to his weakened leg. “I had to learn to walk again. So will you.”

The sound of a throat clearing by the doorway made him look up in what he was sure appeared to be guilt. Mariel's hand against his thigh clenched as she heard Phipps's steps entering the room. Moving away from the bed, Ian waved aside the offer of tea.

“No, thank you, Miss Phipps. I must return to the parsonage. I will be back tomorrow, Mariel. You will try again.”

“I don't know if I can!” she cried.

He smiled grimly. “Of course you don't know. You haven't tried yet. Good night, ladies.” With the determination he had shown Mariel, he walked out of the suite. He could not allow his heart to soften to Mariel's plight.

Mariel leaned back against the pillows. Of all the people in her life, she would have thought that Ian would understand how helpless her situation was now. He had had to struggle to regain his ability to walk. That had been minor in comparison to what faced her.

She took the cup Phipps placed in her hands, but left it on its saucer. She said nothing. All she wanted was to wake from this horror and be well again. To try to live with this handicap would be to admit she expected to be like this forever.

That she could not do!

The days passed slowly. Ian kept his promise to come each day to read to her. Mariel enjoyed his company until he pressed her to try to regain her independence. Every visit ended in recriminating tears and frustrated words. Their shouts resounded through the Cloister until Phipps hinted to Ian it might be better if he relented. He refused, sure that only this way could he help Mariel.

Then one day he did not come. Although they had exchanged heated words the previous day, Mariel had been sure Ian would not forsake her. As the morning ended and the afternoon sun burned into the room, she wondered if he grew tired of the battle, which she showed by loud words and uncooperation that she wanted no part of.

If he did not come to visit her, the last bright light from beyond the Cloister would die. With the slow ticking of the clock reminding her of the time, she wondered if he would return. In the weeks since the accident, she had not once told him aloud what she felt in her heart. Her love for him had grown while he tried to be patient with her.

Suddenly, she felt a yearning for the escape that had always comforted her in the past. The piano in the drawing room could fill her with music and wash away some of the pain. Before she realized what she was doing, she tucked her loosened shirt into her skirt and slid to the edge of the bed.

She could reconstruct the room easily in her mind. The location of the chairs, the tables, where the door opened to the sitting room, and the hallway beyond. Her feet moved confidently down the steps of her bed and sank into the thick carpet.

Afraid to move quickly, she scuffed her feet along the floor. She smiled as she found the chair exactly where she remembered it. That discovery encouraged her enough to keep her going on this strange journey. Her fingers groped for the doorway.

The carved wood of the molding was smooth and cool. She walked through the door. When the floor went from stone to carpet, she knew she stood in the center of the antechamber. Walking with more assurance, she swore vehemently as she impacted harshly against a stand. She rubbed her shin, but did not turn around. She had come this far. If she returned to her bed, she did not know if she would dare this again.

Opening the door to the hallway, she heard the muffled sound of voices from the first floor. The scent of dinner cooking drifted lazily along the corridor. She smiled as she recognized the scent of roast beef. Mrs. Puhle had been preparing all her favorite meals in the hopes of easing the sorrow of being confined to her room.

“No more,” Mariel whispered to herself.

She touched the banister on the staircase. The warmth of its patina, worn by many hands over the centuries, welcomed her. She ran her fingers along its silken texture, and a flare of frustration flew through her. The feeling was too familiar. Although she could discern more through her fingertips with each passing day, it only reminded her that she would be dependent on this for the rest of her life.

Fiercely, she shook off such depressing thoughts. She might not be able to do what she could before the accident, but she was determined to discover what she could do. With care, she dropped her foot to the first riser. Her fingers tightened on the banister as she put her weight on that foot and stepped to the next stair. Fear boiled in her stomach while she sightlessly descended the stairs she once had taken at a run.

At the bottom, she silently congratulated herself. She waited to hear if anyone else had noticed her performance, but it seemed that the foyer was empty. That surprised her. At this time of day, it usually was busy. She smiled. This was perfect. She did not need an audience.

Again she closed her eyes to recreate the scene burned into her memory. The door to the drawing room waited—only a few paces to her right. Trying to walk normally, she stepped toward the room. Her smile faded when she could not find the door, then she chuckled. Of course. She could not touch the wall. She stood in the wide doorway.

Her questing fingers found the doors. She drew them together. The doors closed easily, but she did not latch them. Years ago, she and Georgie had tried to see how the lock worked. Ever since that failed experiment, the doors had not been secured because it was questionable whether they could be unlocked again.

From beyond the open windows, the fresh scent of newly cut grass surged through the room. Sunshine smelled warm on the stones closest to the ceiling-high windows. The room had been cleaned during the last few days. Mariel could discern the oil the maids used to dust the furniture. She wondered if these aromas had been in existence all along or if she was discovering something new.

A soft yip intruded into the silence. Involuntarily she turned toward the sound, which came from the doors opening onto the terrace. “Muffin?” she whispered.

The dog bumped against her leg, and she groped to find its head. With a laugh, she found its tail first. Holding out her hand, she ordered, “Here, Muffin.” Instantly she felt its head butt her palm.

She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Muffin's soft furry body. Pressing her face into the fur, she breathed in the rich aromas of the grass where the dog had been playing. Muffin's puff of breath struck her face seconds before the velvet-coated tongue touched her cheek. Slowly she stood, not wanting to let the tears in her useless eyes overflow in the midst of her excursion.

“Later, Muffin,” she whispered.

As the sound of the dog's paws on the floor disappeared into the distance, she sighed. She could not understand how everything had remained the same—everything but her eyes. The temptation for self-pity flooded her, but she tried to ignore it.

Crossing the room, she touched the smooth keys of the piano. Her longing to be lost in the complicated harmonies grew. She drew out the stool and gingerly sat on it. Although it made no difference in the darkness surrounding her, she closed her eyes. Instantly her memory supplied the scene her eyes were unable to show her.

Her fingers settled on the keys. The melody flowed from her head through her fingers to the piano. A cascade of music filled the room. Soaring chords crashed into the ceiling to resound back through her. Her hands chased the piece as she became immersed in the beauty of the sound.

When the final notes faded into silence, she placed her head on her folded arms on the music platform over the keys. She felt sapped and somehow rejuvenated. It was her favorite piece. For more than a year, she had worked to perfect it. Today she had played it through with no mistakes.

“I should have guessed you would choose Bach.”

“Ian!” She rose to turn to the door. Her smile brightened as she raised her hands to him. The sound of his uneven steps warmed her heart. “Where have you been?”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Quickly, he examined her. As the doctor had said, there had been no permanent damage from the superficial wounds she had suffered. Mariel remained as lovely as ever. He admired the lacy blouse tucked into her black sateen skirt. Despite his intentions, his hands slipped around her slender waist and drew her to him.

Instantly, her smile faded. She turned her face from his. Putting her fingers on his arms, she pushed him away. He took a step toward her, but she whirled to flee. Her escape was halted abruptly when she bumped into a marble-topped lyre table. It rocked violently as she fought to keep the statue on top of it from crashing to the floor.

Other hands helped hers right the sculpture. She felt Ian's eyes on her and knew exactly how his face turned down with displeasure. When she stood next to him, it did not seem she could not see him. So often in the past months they had spoken lovingly and in anger. Those strong emotions were imprinted in her heart to be recalled with ease.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. She did not want to argue with him. Since the accident, all they had done was disagree. It would be pleasant to speak kindly again to each other.