Secret of the Wolf (8 page)

Quentin Forster didn't condescend. Except for his one inquiry about her father, he

seemed completely unruffled at being attended to by a woman
.

If anything, he seemed to relish the prospect
.

And that was the challenge he presented. She must keep a professional distance from

him, remain unmoved by his teasing and flirtation—something she could do easily

enough with other men. Not so easy, perhaps, with him
.

You are a woman, she told herself—something Papa had reminded her of on occasion,

in the old days. It is quite logical that you should find a man attractive, sooner or later. In

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spite of what some male physicians and social arbiters claimed, she had always

believed that women were sexual creatures. Even Johanna Schell
.

Simple physical attraction explained much of her sense of discomposure. But why this

man? Why now?

She shrugged and closed the notebook. There would be a day or two to decide; she

certainly wouldn't turn him out so soon after his initial recovery. She'd make the correct

decision

"Well, what's he like?" Irene came into the office—dramatically, as she always did,

floating through the door in her silk dressing gown. Her faded red hair was loose in

practiced disarray, and she wore enough face paint to be seen from the farthest rows of

a large theater. She planted herself in front of Johanna and struck a provocative pose.

"Come, now," she said in theatrical tones. "Don't even think of keeping him all to

yourself.”

"I suppose you mean the new patient," Johanna said dryly
.

"Who else, in this dreadfully boring place?" Irene said with a sniff. "He's the most

interesting thing to happen here in ages. Such a handsome one, too." Her eyes

narrowed. "But you wouldn't notice that, with your withered spinsterish ways. You never

notice anything important.”

Johanna was used to Irene's narcissism and occasional vindictiveness. One didn't have

a conversation with Irene unless it was entirely about Irene. "I noticed," she said. "But I

have been somewhat more concerned with the state of his health.”

"But he's better now, isn't he?" She stroked her hand—its delicacy marred by bitten

fingernails—down her thigh. "You must introduce me to him as soon as possible. I can

speed up his recovery.”

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"I'll introduce him to everyone once he's ready," Johanna said, her voice calm and

authoritative. "For now, he needs rest.”

"Don't try to fool me, Johanna," Irene said, tossing her head. "You just want to keep him

away from me. You're afraid that when he sees me, he won't even notice you. Who

would?" Her ravaged face took on a faraway look. "When I was on the stage, no man

could take his eyes off me. I was the toast of New York and every city I visited. My

dressing room was always filled with flowers and suitors on their knees." Her gaze

sharpened and focused on Johanna. "It will be so again. Soon I'll have all the money I

need to get me back, and then—" She broke off in confusion and hurried on. "But you

want to keep me here, a prisoner, because you're jealous." She hissed for emphasis.

"You're plain and dull and dried up as an

an old prune. You want to make me the

same way—”

"I don't want to make you anything, Irene, but happy," Johanna said. Irene's delusion

was such that she could not look in a mirror without seeing the promising young actress

she'd been at twenty—the girl she'd left behind thirty years ago, sexually exploited and

abandoned by a former "protector," lost to the stage and left to make her living through

prostitution. She'd been declared mad and eventually found her way into the Schell's

private asylum as a charity case. Now she was a part of the "family," if an occasionally

difficult one
.

Johanna opened another notebook and consulted the week's schedule. "I think we

should have another session soon.”

Irene primped and preened. "No time for that," she said. "I must go back to rehearsals.

I'm to play Juliet, you know, with Edwin Booth himself.”

She turned to go, swirling her dressing gown in a clumsy arc that was meant to be

elegant. "Send the gentleman to me when he's rested. You'll rue the day if you deprive

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him of the opportunity to worship at my feet." She laughed girlishly and swept back out

of the room
.

Cherishing the renewed quiet, Johanna closed her eyes. Irene had relapsed over the

past several weeks, convinced that she was in the midst of rehearsals for a play that

would never open except in her own mind
.

Though it might require many more months, Johanna intended to help Irene become

capable of living in the world on her own, even if it was as something of an eccentric.

Irene was a gifted seamstress. If she could be made to leave some of her delusions

behind, she could put her skills to good use and earn a respectable living. And she

could rediscover some measure of happiness in herself
.

But that meant facing what she didn't want to face—the fact that she was fifty years old

and completely forgotten by her supposed hordes of one-time admirers. If she could

only see that there was a different kind of worth that did not depend upon the transience

of the flesh

Johanna rose and went back into the hall. She paused to look in on Harper, who sat in

his chair, unmoving and unaware of her fleeting presence. Then she continued on to

Papa's room. He was awake now, and had pulled himself up into a half-sitting position,

propped up on the layers of pillows at the head of his bed. Thank God he had regained

some use of his left arm and leg, though they were still extremely unsteady
.

Oscar had helped Johanna build the special bed rails that kept him from tumbling out at

night. It looked like a cage—a cage such as his own body and brain had become
.

"Papa," she said softly, closing the door behind her. "How are you feeling?”

He peered at her, his left eyelid slightly sagging over once-bright blue eyes. "Johanna?”

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"I'm here." She sat on the stool beside the bed and took his left hand. It shook a little,

the tendons and veins carved in sharp relief under the fragile, spotted skin. "Did you

sleep well?”

"Hmmm," he said. He patted her hand with his right one. "You look tired, mein

Walkürchen. Working too hard." His words were slurred, but comprehensible. That, too,

had improved over time. "What day is it?”

"Wednesday, Papa.”

"Good. Good." His bushy white brows drew together. "Where is my schedule, Johanna?

I can't remember now if it's my day to see Andersen.”

"Don't worry about that, Papa. I'll see to it.”

"Ja. You always do." He chuckled hoarsely. "Where would I be without my girl

" His

chin sank onto his chest. Johanna rose to adjust his pillows
.

"Are you hungry, Papa? Some nice fresh eggs for breakfast?”

"I don't know." He moved his good hand irritably. "Have you any strudel?”

She smiled, swallowing. He'd always had a terrible sweet tooth. "Not today, Papa. But I

can have Mrs. Daugherty bring some from town, perhaps, tomorrow morning.”

"Don't bother. I can get it myself—" He struggled to rise, found the bed rails in his way,

and tried to move them. The effort exhausted him. "Where are my clothes?”

She fetched the loose, comfortable clothing she'd had made for him, removed the bed

rail, and helped him dress. It was a slow process, though not as slow as the bathing,

which would wait until this evening. She encouraged him to do as much dressing as he

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could on his own, but the buttons always defeated him. While his feet were still bare,

she checked them for sores or swelling, then pulled on his stockings and his soft shoes
.

Such painstaking care took several hours each day, time taken from the patients, but

she could not pass it on to Mrs. Daugherty. Except for the housekeeping and cooking,

which took all of Bridget's considerable energy, Johanna could trust no one but herself

to do that which must be done at the Haven
.

When she was finished with Papa's feet, she worked his left arm gently through a series

of exercises, and did the same for his leg. He bore it passively, adrift in his own world
.

"Send in my next patient, Johanna," he said. "It's Dieter Roth, isn't it? He's a difficult

one, but we're coming along." He patted her arm. "We're coming along.”

Dieter Roth was one of their former patients at the asylum, who had been helped

enormously by Papa's techniques and gone home before their move to California. But

Papa often lost track of time, confusing the past with the present
.

"We've a new patient, Papa," she said, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher on the

washstand. "He's a dipsomaniac, by all appearances. I haven't treated one like him

before.”

"There is no reason why inebriety can't be treated as well as any other form of insanity,"

he said with sudden clarity. "The influences that drive a man to drink are not as simple

as some would have us think. I have never believed it is merely a weakness of

character.”

"Nor do I," Johanna said, her heart lightening. "I haven't taken on a new patient in some

time, however. I'm not sure how much he can pay, or if we can afford another charity

case.”

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"We are doctors. We can't turn away those who need our help." The old fire lit his eyes.

"And our methods work, Johanna.”

"Your methods, Papa," she said, holding the glass to his lips
.

"They all laughed at me in Vienna," he said. "But I've proven them wrong—" He choked,

and Johanna rubbed his back until he was breathing normally again. His face was very

pale
.

"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

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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