Secret of the Wolf (21 page)

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He stood up behind her, close enough that his breath teased her hair. "I never doubted

that you've given love. I only wonder if you have kept enough for yourself.”

His words had the unexpected effect of thrusting her into the past—her past. In an

instant she was back in the parlor of the house in Philadelphia, and Rolf was the one

standing behind her
.

You must choose, Johanna: lock yourself away in this unwomanly profession or become

what you were meant to be." His hands settled on her hips, molded themselves to her

breasts. "This body was meant to be loved and bear children. Don't deny what you

are—”

She turned to face him. "I cannot abandon what it is in me to be. Of course I wish to

marry you, and to have children. But I am good at what I do. I can help others who

desperately need it." She met his gaze steadily. "Why must I be the one to choose?

Would you give up being a physician for my sake ?”

He laughed. "Always so rational. You pretend to be a man. Do you have a heart like a

normal woman, or is it a machine within your breast?”

His accusation hurt as little had done since Mama's death. She'd never believed it

would come to this—that he, a doctor like herself, who'd once encouraged her in her

studies, should betray her now and demand such a sacrifice
.

"I wish only to be your equal, Rolf. Your partner—”

He pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her: a hard, punishing kiss that bruised

her mouth. It left her cold and dead inside. This was not the Rolf she knew
.

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Or had she simply been wrong from the start? Her skill was a threat to him. He did not

want her to succeed. If she had used her vaunted intelligence, she should have seen

the signs, the symptoms that had led to this moment
.

"You will never be my equal, Johanna," Rolf said, pushing away from her, "or any

man's, though you pretend to be one. And no other man will want what you are

becoming. You'll be lonely the rest of your life, old and barren and dried up inside.”

She understood then that he was right. She'd run into many obstacles during her years

of study, confronted many men who thought she defied the very role God had intended

for all of her sex
.

Rolf had changed

and so had she
.

So be it
.

Her face felt stiff, a mask of marble without life. "If you and the world ask me to choose

between my heart and my intellect, then I shall do so, Rolf. I will become the very thing

you believe me to be. And I will live quite happily without the kind of love you offer.”

"Johanna.”

She jerked back to herself. Not Rolf's voice, but Quentin's. His hands rested on her

shoulders
.

"You were very far away," he said. "Who was he?"

Had she spoken aloud? "I don't know what you mean."

"You were thinking of a man. I can tell."

"It is unimportant." She tried to step free, but his grip tightened
.

"Who was he?”

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"The subject cannot matter to you, Quentin. You are my patient—”

"Did you love him?”

"Let me go.”

He did so, but only after a long hesitation. His unwillingness was palpable
.

A shiver of alarm raced down Johanna's spine. Even so small a change in Quentin—the

tiniest hint of possessiveness—reminded her that she didn't truly know him
.

"I am responsible for helping you," she said. "You are not responsible for me." She

raised her voice. "We're returning to the house, everyone.”

They answered with various degrees of enthusiasm and trooped back the way they'd

come. Quentin had nothing to say, but kept to himself in a kind of brooding silence
.

Once back home, Johanna bathed her father, prepared a light dinner for the group, and

carried trays to Harper and Papa. Harper continued to exhibit more alertness than he

had in the months before, but he was still very quiet. She resolved to set aside several

uninterrupted hours tomorrow to spend with him
.

After dinner the patients assembled in the parlor. Johanna opened the windows to let in

the cooler evening air and made sure everyone was settled. She encouraged the

evening gatherings, as she did the walks, so that none of the residents of the Haven lost

touch with their own humanity
.

Tonight Quentin would join them. Irene was dressed in her gaudiest gown and waiting

impatiently for his appearance. Lewis hunched in his corner, whispering to himself.

Oscar kept busy with his puzzle. May, much to Johanna's satisfaction, came all the way

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into the kitchen and hunkered down beside the door, watching for Quentin as attentively

as Irene did
.

He entered the room, every inch the genuine aristocrat in his brushed and mended suit,

supplemented by a waistcoat borrowed from Papa. All eyes were drawn to him, even

Johanna's. She couldn't help herself
.

Irene sprang to her feet, collected her dignity, and sauntered over to take possession of

his arm. "I'm so glad you could come to my little farewell party," she said. "I do

apologize for the

mixed nature of the guest list.”

"You look charming," he said with a slight bow. "As does everyone." He stared at

Johanna, and behind his smile was an intensity reminiscent of his odd behavior during

the walk
.

"Come sit by me," Irene said, tugging him toward the old horsehair sofa. "We have so

much to talk about.”

Quentin allowed himself to be persuaded, but he continued to gaze at Johanna until he

could no longer comfortably do so
.

Johanna got up, too restless to continue with her medical journal. Oscar gave her a

toothy welcome when she sat on the floor beside him
.

"You wanna play, too?" he said, sliding the half-finished puzzle toward her
.

"I'm glad you like the puzzle so much," she said. She fit a piece into its slot. He followed

with another, pushing his tongue out as he struggled to make the edges match, and

clapped his big hands when it slid into place
.

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Johanna beckoned May to join them, but she only sank down closer to the floor.

Nonetheless, the very fact that she was in view was an excellent sign
.

Irene alone was incorrigible. As tolerant as Quentin was with her, she couldn't be

allowed to monopolize him and ignore the others
.

"Irene," Johanna said, "I believe we need a little music. Would you sing for us, please?”

An opportunity to perform was something Irene could not pass up, but she cast Johanna

a scornful glance. "Who'll play the piano? You are certainly no hand at it, Johanna—if

you can bring yourself to get up off the floor.”

"Don't be mean to Doc Jo," Oscar scolded. "It's not nice.”

Irene laughed. "What would you know of 'nice,' you—”

Quentin clasped her hand. "Allow me to accompany you, Miss DuBois. My poor abilities

may not do justice to your vocal talents, but I hope not to shame you.”

She simpered. "You could not do anything badly, my lord.”

He shared a conspiratorial look with Johanna. "You do me too much honor, Miss

DuBois." He stood up and walked her to the old piano. It bore a fine coat of dust from

long disuse. He had just pulled out the bench when Lewis sprang up, produced a

handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, and began to dust the piano with furious

diligence. Finished with his work, he sidled past May into the kitchen to wash his hands
.

"Thank you, Mr. Andersen," Quentin called after him. He sat down and ran his fingers

gently over the keys. "Only a trifle out of tune," he remarked. "It's a fine old instrument."

He leafed through the brown-edged sheet music moldering in a basket beside the

piano
.

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Irene plucked a sheet from his hand. " 'Lilly Dale,'" she said. "It's frightfully old, but I

shall do what I can." She returned the music to Quentin and assumed a theatrical air,

more for his benefit than that of her audience
.

"One moment." Quentin turned toward the kitchen door, where May waited so quietly,

and held out his hand. "I'll need someone to turn the pages. Will you help me, May?”

The girl ducked her head, on the verge of flight. Then, slowly, she rose and crept into

the room, hesitating every few steps like a nervous fawn. She laid her hand in his
.

He positioned her on the other side of the piano, away from Irene, who was far from

pleased. "I'll let you know when to turn the pages.”

But May surprised everyone. "I can read music," she whispered. Even Lewis, returning

to the parlor, paused at the rarely heard sound of her voice
.

Johanna resumed her seat, puzzled but gratified. May's behavior was truly exceptional,

and all due to Quentin. She must actually regard him as a protector, to venture in

among the others
.

"Well, then," Quentin said. "Shall we begin?" Anxious to reclaim his attention, Irene

hardly waited for him to play the introduction
.

" 'Twas a calm still night, and the moon's pale light,

Shone soft o 'er hill and vale;

When friends mute with grief stood around the deathbed

Of my poor lost Lilly Dale
.

Oh! Lilly, sweet Lilly,

Dear Lilly Dale,

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Now the wild rose blossoms o'er her little green grave,

'Neath the trees in the flow'ry vale.”

Irene's voice cracked on the high notes, but she was heedless of her own imperfections
.

"Her cheeks, that once glowed with the rose tint of health
.

By the hand of disease had turned pale,

And the death damp was on the pure white brow

Of my poor lost Lilly Dale
.

Oh! Lilly, sweet—”

"Stop!”

She broke off, staring at Lewis. He stood before his chair, fists clenched, face drained of

color
.

"What's wrong with you?" Irene snapped. "How dare you interrupt my performance. I'll

have you thrown out.”

Her painted lips curled, and her eyes narrowed with crude cunning. "Or does my song

remind you of someone, Reverend dear? Is that why you don't like it?”

Lewis didn't move. May pressed back against the nearest wall
.

"I think we should try a different song," Johanna said firmly. "Something more cheerful,

perhaps.”

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"As you wish." Irene began to sing again without accompaniment
.

"Forth from my dark and dismal cell,

Or from the dark abyss of Hell,

Mad Tom is come to view the world again,

To see if he can cure his distempered brain
.

Fears and cares oppress my soul,

Hark how the angry furies howl,

Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad,

To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam mad.”

Quentin rose from the piano bench. "Miss DuBois—" She marched into the center of the

room and sang directly to Johanna, no longer making any attempt to stay on key
.

" 'Will you walk into my parlour?' said a spider to a fly,

' 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

You've only got to pop your head within side of the door,

You'll see so many curious things you never saw before! '“

"That is quite enough, Irene," Johanna said. "You may retire to your room.”

"Just so you can have him to yourself!" Irene shrieked. "You are the spider, weaving

your treacherous webs, but I can weave webs of my own. Soon you won't be able to

stop me from doing whatever I want to do. Just wait and see!”

Johanna stepped forward to grasp Irene's wrist. Irene raised her free hand and struck

Johanna viciously. Johanna slapped her in return
.

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The room became a tableau, frozen in time. Johanna regarded her own treacherous

hand with horror
.

"You bitch," Irene hissed, holding her palm to her reddened cheek. "I'll make you sorry

you did that. See if I don't.”

Quentin took her arm. "I think you should lie down, Miss DuBois," he said. He was

deadly serious, brooking no argument. "I'll escort you—”

"You whore—you harlot!" Lewis shouted. "Leave this house!”