Dove's Way (30 page)

Finnea was reluctant, but he shooed her away. “We’ll leave after that,” he promised.

Mary instructed Finnea in the fine art of falling back in a fresh patch of snow, then flapping arms and legs to form an angel. They dashed from new patch to new patch, covering the field with angels. It wasn’t until they heard the not-quite-muffled groan that they snapped their heads up.

Matthew sat on the bench, his face transforming into a horrifying mask. Mary was confused. But Finnea could tell he was in terrible pain. She had come to recognize the look, though she didn’t yet understand the cause.

Tripping over herself, Finnea raced toward Matthew, fear pushing her on. But just before she got to his side, she saw a rock fly out from the trees, catching Matthew in the neck. His face became ravaged with emotion. Impotent despair filled her as she glanced between Matthew and Mary, who hadn’t moved.

The sound of laughter wafted over the snow and Mary’s head swiveled. There, beyond the path in the distance, stood two little boys, still chuckling, still holding rocks in their hands. Finnea felt her stomach knot. How much did two people have to endure?

“Monster,” the boys hissed.

Mary’s face contorted and her lips began to tremble. She started walking, much as she had that day when the children had taunted her. Then she started to run, tears streaming down her cheeks. But instead of passing Matthew by, she stopped in front of him and whirled toward the attackers.

“My father isn’t a monster!” she cried out, her tiny voice echoing. “And I know that’s you over there, Thaddeus Penhurst!”

Caught, Thaddeus’s eyes went wide, and he and his friend dropped their ammunition and ran.

Mary turned to her father, her heart-shaped face grave and much too old for her years. “You aren’t a monster, Daddy.”

Daddy. Not Father.

“And I won’t let them say another mean thing to you again.”

Matthew sat very still, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He didn’t speak, and Finnea knew that in that second he couldn’t.

Chapter Nineteen

He went to her that night.

He found her standing beside her bed, wild red hair tumbling over her soft, white flannel nightdress, her hands pulling the sheet and covers back. She had dragged them all the way to the end of the mattress as if pulling them off. But at the sound of the door clicking open, she stopped, her full lips rounding in a silent O when she saw him.

What did she see? he wondered fleetingly. But he knew. She saw him, for whatever that was. She saw inside him, not the scar, not the anger. Had from the beginning.

How had he ever let her get away from him even for a second? Why hadn’t he torn Matadi apart when he found her gone from the thatch-roofed hospital?

Perhaps because he was afraid, as she had accused him of being. Perhaps he was afraid of the person she saw in him. Afraid that he didn’t want to be who he was—or who he had become. Once the layers of the onion are peeled back, they can’t be put back on. Change is irreversible. And he hadn’t wanted to change, hadn’t wanted a new life—regardless of the fact that on the night he was scarred he had learned that his life had been shallow and worthless. But still, standing on a train in Africa, he would have given anything to have had that old life back. And what had that said about him?

He realized in that moment, standing at the connecting door to her bedroom, that she never would have given him a second glance had she met him before he was scarred—would have found him lacking.

The thought made him smile.

He gave little thought to the pillow that lay on the floor in the moonlight that streamed through the window. He walked toward her, his eyes never leaving hers.

He had waited. He had given her time. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Taking her hand, he guided her back toward the doorway, a slice of his own room showing through. She walked a few steps, her bare feet padding on the carpet, before she let go of the covers she still held, the muslin and wool falling half on, half off the bed, looking like a spill of downy white.

He could feel her tremble, could see her green eyes darken when she saw his bed, and he wondered if she was remembering the day he had brought her to orgasm. Was she remembering the way her body had quivered with feeling? Could she still remember the feel of the blush of pleasure that had spread across her breasts when her body had shattered?

He guided her to the mattress and gently but firmly pressed her back when she tried to resist. Almost reluctantly, she lay back, then curled up on her side. He followed, stretching out next to her, pulling the covers over them, molding his body to hers, spooning her.

He could feel how tense she was in his arms, knew she was waiting, wondering, wanting, but telling herself she shouldn’t. Wanting to flee. Wanting to stay.

Burying his face in her hair, breathing deeply, he pulled her close, his hand brushing over her body until he gently cupped her breast in the palm of his hand.

“Matthew?” she whispered, her voice a tremor.

“Shhh, Finn. Go to sleep.”

She lay there for a moment, confused. Minutes ticked by until she finally must have realized that he wanted nothing of her other than her by his side. He felt when she relaxed then, felt when her body melded back into his.

And he slept.

Chapter Twenty

Two weeks later Finnea entered Matthew’s room and found him staring at his face.

They had been working each day, soaking and stretching. Mary had been working tirelessly at Finnea’s side downstairs, helping to make oils and teas, but the little girl was still hesitant around her father. There were no hugs or kisses. But occasionally she gave him a smile.

During those days Matthew never let out a word of pain or discouragement—about his injuries or Mary. He accepted her few smiles as if they were gifts from the gods, and he underwent every ministration to his wounds with nothing more than the bulge of cords on his neck or beads of sweat on his forehead. He endured the pain as he had endured the pain all this time. Stoically.

But this morning was different. When Finnea found him in front of the mirror, she knew he’d had a bad night.

“Good morning,” she said.

He didn’t speak. He sat carefully, staring at his reflection.

She came up behind him and looked at him in the mirror. “You are still such a striking man. The scar only makes you look fierce and ruggedly handsome,” she whispered.

He drew a deep breath. “The loss of my looks has never bothered me.”

“Then what?” she asked, wanting to know, needing to understand.

The expression on his face grew closed.

“Matthew, tell me, please.”

“It was the loss of myself,” he said finally.

He said the words slowly, and she knew each syllable cost him.

“When the glass exploded and that wooden beam crashed down on me, I didn’t just lose the way I looked. I lost my identity.” He scoffed. “Shallow, you say. Of course. But it had nothing to do with vanity. If I wasn’t the handsome man with good humor and charm, who was I? If I wasn’t my father’s favorite or the one who made everyone laugh, who was I? And now, if I can’t paint, what do I have left?”

“You have Mary.”

He met her eyes in the mirror. “What about you, Finnea? Do I have you?”

Every night Matthew had taken her to his bed, pulling her into his arms as he curled up behind her, holding her tight until she could feel his breathing grow even and shallow. She relished the feel of him holding her. His large, solid body offered refuge at a time when she had given up on the possibility of such a thing.

But old habits die hard, and still she hadn’t been able to sleep unless she was on the floor. Once he was asleep, she slipped out of bed and found peace in the moonlight, then slipped back before he woke in the morning.

Not once during those nights did he try to make love to her, only held her, as if keeping some unspoken promise that he wouldn’t make her feel again until she was ready.

Each day all she could think about was Matthew, his daughter, and herself. The three of them together. Like a family. Could life be different? Was it possible they all were being offered a second chance?

Slowly she was bringing him back to his daughter. If she healed him also, could she be forgiven? Would her slate be wiped clean?

Could she ever forgive herself?

“What did all those doctors say about the scar on your face?” she asked instead, unable to answer his question. She didn’t know the answer.

She watched as his jaw went hard. He jerked his head around to look at her. She could tell he wanted to demand an answer from her, but in the end he stopped himself.

“They said that unfortunately some scars don’t heal as well as others. They said that there is a lot of scar tissue. That probably causes some of the pain, but…”

The words trailed off.

“But what?”

“But the searing pain must be caused by the blow to my head. They see no reason why a wound to my face would cause my head to ache and my vision to blur at times.”

A shiver of doubt crept through her. Was she fooling herself? she wondered. Could it be that he had sustained damage to the brain, as the doctors believed?

But then his gaze caught hers in the mirror. She took in the clearness of his blue eyes, the knowledge. The sanity. And she refused to believe that there was anything wrong with his mind. It had to be something else.

“Sit down,” she instructed.

He glanced at her wryly. “You get bossier all the time.”

She smiled at him. “Please.”

“Only if you sit with me.” He took her hand, but she pulled away.

“Matthew, stop. You want to get better, don’t you?”

“Holding you will make me feel better,” he responded, reaching for her.

But she was too quick. “Sit still and behave.”

His eyes changed when she pressed her fingers to the scar on his face. He sucked in his breath when she pressed deeply.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but she didn’t let up.

She moved along the red line, pressing, probing. Sweat began to drip down his face, down his back. And when she pressed again, she thought he would black out.

She gave him a second to steady himself, but when she tried to continue, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. His breathing was labored, and he didn’t say a word as she studied him.

“I think you should rest,” she said finally.

Finnea left him then, her mind spinning with questions.

Something was not right, and she had a sneaking suspicion she knew what it was.

But before she did anything, she had to talk to his doctor, though she knew she couldn’t utter a word about it to Matthew. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

“Just who do you think you are to question my diagnosis?”

Finnea stared at Dr. Watson Phelps across the broad expanse of his neatly ordered desk. She had gotten his name from Mr. Quincy, and as soon as she had dressed in a respectable gown, she had slipped out of the house in search of the doctor.

He stood before her now, his face dangerously set.

“I am the wife of a man whom I believe has been misdiagnosed.”

He scoffed. “And what credentials, pray tell, do you have that qualify you to make such a judgment?”

She raised her chin. What could she say? She had learned enough in America to know that the mention of neither Janji nor Africa would get her very far. But she had a hunch, and she wasn’t willing to let it go.

“I take it you have none,” he sneered. “I am the professional, madam. My opinion is sought by the most prominent of citizens.” He looked down his nose at her, clearly angry that she had wasted his time. “Matthew Hawthorne has sustained an injury that is progressive and debilitating. The worst thing you can do is give the man false hope.” He ushered her to the door. “Leave medical matters to men of medicine, madam, before you do more harm than good.”

Outside on the crowded streets of Boston, the air was frigid. She had been told by no less than half a dozen people that spring was just around the corner, but she was having trouble believing it. It was as cold as ever, and the possibility that warmer weather would suddenly leap out at them seemed highly unlikely. But when she had expressed her disbelief, they had only chuckled and said she’d see.

She headed toward the Back Bay, giving little thought to the cold, her mind troubled and spinning over her conversation with the doctor. Dr. Phelps had been too quick to dismiss her theory, and why wouldn’t he be? she realized. His reputation was at stake. He was the man who had tended Matthew after the accident.

Teeth set, Finnea went to Winslet Ironworks. It was the only place she could think to go to find the names of other doctors. She couldn’t go to Matthew’s parents and certainly not to her mother. And she couldn’t imagine Nester would care enough to question her. But when she entered, she found Jeffrey instead.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised.

He shrugged. “Who else was going to run this place? And at my age, what else am I going to do?”

Their conversation was tense and awkward, but she got a list of names. Just as she was leaving, he stopped her. “I’m sorry, Finnea. I really never meant to hurt you.”

She could tell that he was sincere, and she nodded her head, wishing that the rest of life’s troubles could be solved as easily.

Starting the next day, she set out to see each and every one on the list, in the afternoons, when Matthew locked himself away with his paints. But each doctor only looked at her as if she had gone mad. No one was willing to concede the possibility. No one was willing to get involved.

Doubt began to creep through her, trying to find a foothold in her determination. But just as she left the office of the last doctor on her list, the man’s nurse nervously followed her out into the empty hallway and furtively handed her a slip of paper before she hurried back inside without a word.

Finnea stood dumbfounded, then slowly opened the note. The words were hastily scrawled.

Dr. Ethan Sanderling 301 Huntington Ave.