Virgin Star (25 page)

Once she saw him turn, with little hesitation she untied her belt and let the silk robe slide from her shoulders. She sat poised on the edge of the bed with her eyes lowered.

She wore no corset, chemise or underclothes!

The doctor overcame his surprise. He pretended nothing was amiss. He examined the faint bruises on her upper arms, then—

"What is this?"

His eyeglass fell out. He put it back to see the tattoo. "My dear, do you know what this is?"

She shook her head, blushing now.

The doctor looked closer, making out the strange shapes and figures done in pink and blue. "Most extraordinary. Well, yes, yes. We are quite through." He helped her pull up the robe and said, "My dear, you are apparently in good health, despite all. Save for your memory loss." He pulled up a chair to face her. "Now, is there no memory at all? Nothing?"

"No." Sensing a sympathetic ear, she suddenly rushed forward: "Except, except—"

"Yes?"

"I remember places, but no people."

"No other memory?"

She nodded slowly, the emotion springing into her eyes as she unconsciously scanned the room for a source of danger. "I feel as if ..."

"Yes?";

"I am in danger, someone—" Distress crossed her brow, her hands tightened on the folds of her robe. "Someone is trying to catch me, they are looking now, as I speak, and if... if ..."

"Yes? What do you imagine happens when they find you?"

"They will kill me!"

"Oh my. You do not know who this is or could be?"

"No!"

"Easy, my dear, easy. You are safe here. Come now, draw a deep breath. Good. Now tell me, do you hear a voice in your mind?"

"No."

"Are you quite certain?"

After a contemplative pause, "Well, sometimes, twice now, I did hear, I heard a man's voice."

"Did it frighten you?"

"The opposite! It was comforting somehow because, because it was familiar."

"Oh." A brow rose. "What did this voice say?"

"That gratitude was a most valued emotion. Oh, and last night I remember this voice told me that I should not feel sympathy or pity for the suffering of children, that they are suffering now for sins of a past life, the Oriental philosophies again ..."

"Hmm," This was not what the doctor expected; he seemed taken aback. "Let’s try a little experiment: when I say mother, what comes into your mind?"

Mother, mother ... She closed her eyes and said, "Kindness, gaiety, and tenderness ..." The dark brows crossed and she whispered, "Longing ..."

"Father?"

She heard the Chinese voice say, "Someday he will return with our riches ..."

What could that mean? Where had she heard it? "I do not know." She shook her head. "Nothing really."

The doctor sensed something more. "Anything else?"

She shook her head before asking urgently, "What of my memory?"

"It could come back."

"Yes?"

"It's very difficult to say with any degree of certainty, my dear. 'Tis rare indeed to lose one's total memory. In all my practice, I have known only four cases. I must warn you, however: it does not always come back. Many times it is gone for good. I had one case a number of years ago where the patient's memory returned, but only part of it. It seemed he could remember everything up until about the age of ten and four, then--" He snapped his fingers like a magician."Nothing. The rest of his life was a blank. He would not have recognized his wife of fifteen years had he met her on the street."

The information sent a chill through her. Panicked, she cried out, "But I must remember! I must!"

"Now, now, dear," he cautioned, "Violent emotions, I can assure you, do not help. If anything, they shall hinder your progress. You must get rest. Your memory has no chance of recovering if you tax yourself."

"So she should rest," Seanessy repeated, it making perfect sense. He often felt that doctors were little more than distributors of common sense, and if you had your own, you never needed to consult a doctor. No doctor had ever helped his bloody headaches.

She was hardly listening to the kind doctor's continued list of his prescription: bed rest, quiet walks, perhaps some reading, but then as he thought of what books she might find in the captain's library, he added, "Though do be careful not to select any, ah, licentious novels. None of those modern novels they write these days." He shook his head disparagingly at the thought of the risqué turn of the newer novels. Mary Shelley's, for instance. Horrifying stuff. "And refrain from indulging in any red meats or cheeses, noted to stimulate the biles ..."

The long list went on but she hardly heard. She felt suddenly dizzy. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding her head. It was as if a dark, dangerous, and deadly monster didn't just wait in the darkness for her, but was already moving closer.

She had to remember, she had to.

It was all his fault. At least since last night, when he was around, all she could think was how much she wanted to kill him, instead of who wanted to kill her. Not that she could confess to actually hating him. No, her sentiments went deeper. She would just very much like to see him tortured and in excruciating pain.

Except when he had sung\that sweet sonnet...

After promising to return in a week's time, Dr. Rush rose and motioned for Seanessy. "Captain Seanessy, if you will."

Seanessy followed the doctor out. He closed the door behind him. "Yes? Is there more, Doctor?"

"This is a very serious condition she is suffering. The prognosis is not good, Captain. Not good at all."

"You mean you do not believe her memory will return?"

"I would be surprised if it did."

"Yet as the blow to her head heals, and if she rests—"

"The blow probably had nothing to do with her memory loss."

Seanessy stared, comprehension dawning. Still he had to have it spelled out. "I'm afraid I do not understand?"

Dr. Rush's keen eyes held a sudden sadness. "Captain Seanessy," he said solemnly, "that poor young lady had been beaten and dropped naked on your doorstep. I refuse—absolutely!—to imagine any of a dozen barbarous situations that might have ended in such a scenario. She is seriously marked, suggesting the abuse has gone on for any number of years, perhaps even the whole of her lifetime in those heathen hovels of the Orient, a place where no Christian woman should ever be. We know this. She has obviously endured unconscionable treatment there and now lives in a state of terror."

With growing alarm, Seanessy asked slowly, "Exactly what are you saying, my good man?"

"That young woman, sir, is insane."

*****

Chapter 7

He was going to kill her. She made him furious; not since he was ten and three had a woman ever gotten under his skin like Shalyn. He wanted to—

No! Do not think of that!

Yet it seemed all he did think about, all through the meeting with the cagey band of thieves better known as London's premier tea merchants, Bowser and Thackery. Seanessy sighed as he finally managed to see the old goats and their voracious agents through the door. He stood in the hall with Butcher, watching as Tilly ushered out the small dark-haired man who was clutching etching paper and a box of chalk.

"Now who the hell is that?"

"Get a grip, Seanessy." Butcher sighed, setting down the knives he sharpened. "You are losing your mind. That's the artist you just sent Taylor out to find. Had to pay him triple what was already an outrageous price to get him here."

Seanessy stared a moment. "Well, he'd better be good."

"A half-decent picture of Shalyn's comeliness be worth a fortune if you think about it."

Seanessy grunted. The crew waited at the docks for

him. Kyler and Paterson waited in the study with the log books. A horse doctor waited in the stables. The Wind Muse would be sailing soon and thank God for that. He needed a thousand miles at least between him and the girl.

He headed to the stables. "Butcher, go out and try to distract her."

"Me? Why me?"

"Well, she likes you."

"Aye! And I care for the lass. She's got more pluck than a Michaelmas goose. She's been hurt enough; I won't help you do anything to hurt her."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I am not asking you to string up that pretty neck! Just distract her while our very expensive artist sketches that comely face for the papers."

"You're provin' to be the real distraction for the lass. Why don't you go out there?"

"Me?" Sean pointed, incredulous. "Because as soon as I get close enough to that girl I get one of two overwhelming urges. One—-especially after this latest stunt of hers!—is to throttle her good, and the other—"'

"Ah." Butcher waved his hand as he reluctantly followed the artist out to the garden. "I have no mind to hear about your personal problems."

Butcher found Shalyn in the garden. He hated this. He took one look at the lass and hated it more. He first dismissed Bryce and Tompkins nearby watching over her as she stood in the shade of the willow near the edge of the pond, cloaked in shadows and pressed against the tree trunk as if for support. The two men left quietly as he moved to her. The artist stood to the right, behind a clump of bushes.

The blue sky filled with billowing gray and white clouds. The air felt rich with moisture and the tantalizing scents of the garden. Her back was to him. The gold hair made a thick braid that was lifted into a crown atop her head, but she still wore the boy's rough breeches, a one of the captain's oversized shirts, and a vest.

Get the bloody business over, he thought.

She lost her thoughts to the afternoon stillness of the garden. Not a perfect stillness, with the distant chatter of the monkeys;—unbelievably, there was a monkey tree in Seanessy's garden—chirps of robins on a branch above her, and the quiet intermittent whisper of the ambivalent breeze. She thought the garden would be beautiful in any season, but it seemed especially so now, with colorful blooming of fall blossoms and the darkening of tender green leaves. Statuesque trees and pockets of flowers interrupted the smooth carpet of grass: clusters of white lilies stood in proud sheaves, alcoves filled with blue and white lances of tall delphiniums and columbines, and nearby, lovely masses of blue forget-me-nots grew in profusion along the edge of the pond. The branches of the apple trees in the orchard bent, heavy with unpicked fruit, while the cherry trees still held their velvety color. Tall ivy-laden walls enclosed the whole. The shade of the tree felt like a cool hand on her feverish cheek, and she closed her eyes, breathing the scents.

A memory emerged in her solitude. How strange! It was a sunrise. She remembered a magical moment when a pale sky slowly changed and flushed with vibrant color. She stood on a white sand beach, watching this, the pink glow of color spreading across the sky, and in that moment, she remembered her heart stood still with silent awe; she knew transcendence: she knew she would survive.

A moment when she knew she would escape...

From what? What was it? Where was she?

Butcher did not try to conceal his approach, his

boots crunching loudly in the crisp grass. He stopped a good six feet from her. "Shalyn darlin'," he said, "Sean sent me out to see if you were all right."

Shalyn had turned with a startled jump, and as she turned, her arms lifted in readiness to fight the phantoms in her mind. A brow rose but Butcher otherwise remained impassive to the demonstration of the depth of her fear that Dr. Rush named as madness.

Shalyn grabbed her heart and felt a sweet relief. Butcher. It was only Butcher.

Dark circles underlined the hot and feverish anxiety in her eyes. "Oh, you poor lass," he whispered, suddenly feeling her pain, its depth and poignancy, as he stepped close to her. "Who the devil did this to you? Sean's right, you know, 'tis probably a bit of mercy that you can't remember what has happened to you.

"The boys were thinkin' to change your name to Marcella, you know." His tone changed with the subject. "The feminine form of Mars. Or perhaps Taima, which Sean says means the crash of thunder. Fitting after the little scene you created, lass: shimmying down knotted bedclothes from the second-story window like the bad beginning of a wretched penny novel. And by the way," he added as he pointed a finger like a schoolmaster, "Reese's arm is not broken after all, but we all wondered why it was necessary to break poor Thayer's nose? 'Tis the third time this year that I know of, and while he swears he's used to no longer breathing through it—-"