Jane Bonander (13 page)

She didn’t know what she had expected to find. Her imagination had dredged up aberrations, perhaps even the ghost of Zelda Fletcher. That thought was only fleeting, of course, because she wasn’t a child and she didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really.

What she found was a storage trunk, thick with dust, crouched beneath the eaves. A rocking chair with a missing arm sat beside it. Closer examination revealed a porcelain doll with a cracked face sitting on the cushion.

She moved the lamp over the doll. Its haunting blue eyes stared at her. She picked it up and blew on the dusty ruffle that circled its neck, sneezing when the dust tickled her nose. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

With the doll resting in the crook of her arm, she turned the lamp on the opposite wall and gasped in surprise. She stepped closer, shifting the lamp over the artwork. There were dozens of paintings of all shapes and sizes.

She put the doll on the floor and as she studied the first painting, her heart nearly broke. The background was made up of a series of wavy lines, and in the center was a young girl, one looking suspiciously like Emily, with her eyes wide, her mouth open, and her hands over her ears. Her clothes were torn away and there was an ugly incision painted on her stomach.

Dinah touched the canvas, pulling away in surprise when she discovered it was wet.

Others were wet, too, as if they’d all been recently worked on. Each was as disturbing as the first.

Dinah covered her mouth, so distressed by her discovery that she felt a ridge of panic. Emily. The noises had to have been Emily, sneaking into the attic to paint. But why? Everyone had encouraged her to paint openly. Why would she find it necessary to paint up here?

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a canvas lying apart from the others. She moved the lamp to it and found long slashes torn through the figure of a woman with a long, sallow face and yellow eyes. Her lips were mere slits on the canvas, and her neck was scrawny and bony.

Distressed, Dinah spun to leave, wondering what had prompted Emily to begin painting such pictures now. Her mood had been less depressed. Perhaps these particular paintings were a catharsis for her, a purging of the feelings she was unable to express any other way.

Dinah vowed to find out.

Tristan knocked at the adjoining bedroom door. He’d forgotten to remind Dinah that they were due at the dressmaker’s in the morning.

When she didn’t answer, he opened the door, expecting to find her asleep. Frowning, he stepped into the room. It was empty. He turned to leave, but something caught his eye.

“What the—” He crossed to the bed and flipped the covers, exposing a stuffed bear. A tattered, stuffed bear. Mumbling a curse, he sank to the bed, his stomach hollow. The image of Dinah huddled in a dirty asylum corner, her big eyes wide with frightened tears, alone in the world save for a ragged toy bear, was like a fist to his gut.

How many times would he forget who she was and where she’d come from? He was to blame for everything, of course, even for what had happened last night. He might have remembered the reason she’d turned to him in the first place, but once he’d touched her soft, warm flesh, he was lost.

Her peppery, lively, enthusiastic behavior was an act. Until last night, she’d given the impression of being defiant and independent. There had been nothing about her that reminded him of weakness. The first day, when she was obviously talking about herself, she appeared to be grieving for other women who had other struggles, different from her own.

He’d been too busy playing games with her. Not just with her body, but with her mind. He’d treated her like any normal woman who attracted him. No, that wasn’t true. He’d never treated a woman like this before. Always before, he’d thought he was quite genteel. In Boston, he’d never had trouble getting a woman. He’d been a curiosity, a half blood attending one of the finest colleges in the east, and he’d had his pick of women. Married ones found him intriguing. He’d bedded a few, not thinking about the fact that he was participating in cuckoldry, or caring, for that matter.

As he studied the ratty bear, he wondered how hard Dinah had had to work to keep him from seeing her pain. He hadn’t remembered that no matter how spirited she was on the outside, she was damaged on the inside.

From the beginning, he hadn’t let himself think about it. To think about what she’d been through would have meant he’d begun to care, and God forbid he should do that, he thought with a disparaging lift of his brow.

If he’d been the gentleman he professed to be, he would have announced his discovery to her after Alice found the letter or after he’d uncovered who she was and where she’d been and why she was trying to hide. He’d have found a nice safe place for her to stay, far away from him, obviously, for even now, she wasn’t safe anywhere near him. Maybe with his brother’s family. Some place where there were children to love and women to laugh with.

She had all that here, but he’d used emotional blackmail to talk her out of leaving him, knowing that she wouldn’t walk away from Emily, not if he made it clear how much Emily needed her.

He should have acted like a responsible adult, not like the damned fool he was. He thought he could protect her from her past by marrying her, when even as he was doing it, he’d known, deep inside, that it was neither fair nor reasonable.

His thumbs moved over the stuffed bear’s face. The animal no longer had eyes or a nose, and the stitching that formed its mouth was ragged and torn.

He tucked the bear under the covers the way he’d found it, wondering if Dinah was as tattered on the inside as the bear was on the outside. As he went to his own room, Tristan felt another chink in his armor.

Dinah hadn’t slept. Her mind had been filled with thoughts of Emily. At dawn, she finally gave up and dressed, turning her attention to the doll.

The crack on its face was disturbing, she didn’t know why. It wasn’t so unusual. Some of her own dolls had been damaged merely because she’d played with them.

The doll wore a long satin dress that had once been a brilliant blue, the color now preserved only in the creases of the fabric. The rest of the dress was crusted with dust and dirt. Dinah shook it out, brushed it off, and put the doll on her bed.

She sighed, feeling a strangled rush of memories. She and Charlotte had had so many things as children. Their room had been filled with expensive toys, frills, and luxuries. Dinah’s most cherished possession had been a doll house Papa had built them. He had made miniature furniture to go into every room. Dinah smiled sadly at the warm memory.

Her favorite room had been the kitchen, with its wee stove, butter churn, standing cupboards, and table with the most exquisite chairs. The floor even had a cellar lid, with a tiny rug to cover it. Charlotte’s favorite had been the salon with its little grand piano and minuscule bench. The windows in the house opened out, onto what Dinah had pretended was a vivid flower garden.

Once she and Charlotte had Papa’s valet carry the dollhouse out to the garden, but Mama scolded them, explaining that to have it outside would ruin it. Dinah had never tried to take it outside again. She’d wanted it to stay beautiful forever. Now, with Uncle Martin at the helm, it had probably become fireplace kindling.

There had been a crystal mobile that hung near the window by her bed, where it caught the light and exploded into color.

How frivolous she’d been in those days, she thought. A twist of nostalgia threatened to make her cry, but she stopped herself. All she did was bawl lately. It did no good to think about the past. The past was gone and no amount of wishing or crying would bring it back.

She was blowing her nose when Alice stepped into the room.

“Aren’t you ready?”

Dinah stuffed her handkerchief into her pocket. “Ready? For what?”

Alice sniffed and thumped her hips with her fists. “He was supposed to tell you to be ready to go into Hatter’s Horn to the dressmaker this morning.”

“Dressmaker? Whatever for?”

Alice frowned at Dinah’s dull gown. “We’ll be having a party to build the addition onto the house for the children. You can’t be the hostess of this ranch in a getup like that.
Uff dah.
It’s uglier than a Norwegian’s lumpy behind.”

Dinah swallowed a smile. “He didn’t mention anything to me yesterday.”

“He don’t treat you near like he should.”

Dinah dreaded having the neighbors over, especially if she had to paste on a smile. She didn’t know how long she could act as if everything were fine when it wasn’t.

“Alice, did you know that Emily has been painting in the attic?”

Alice pinched her pale eyebrows together and frowned. “She has? Why?”

Dinah shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve been hearing strange noises from there since I arrived. Truthfully, I was a bit cowardly about going up there, but last night I couldn’t sleep and thought I heard someone cry out. When I arrived, there was no one there, but some of the canvases were wet. The paintings that are up there are quite disturbing.”

“Well, she don’t talk much about the time she spent in the hospital. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever talked about it. Maybe those paintings are her way of—”

Tristan stepped into the room through the dressing room door, his presence stopping Alice mid sentence. He glared at Dinah. “Are you ready to go, or are you going to stand there all day gossiping about my sister?”

“I wasn’t gossiping,” she said defensively, “and you neglected to tell me we were going anywhere.”

“Alice, don’t you have work to do?” It sounded like a threat, not a question.

Despite the color that crept into Alice’s plump cheeks, she scolded him. “You might try a little sweet cream for that sour temper of yours, Tristan Fletcher.”

After Alice had gone, Dinah turned to her husband. “Don’t scold her, Tristan. She didn’t offer me any information I didn’t ask for.”

His face was hard. “Emily’s youth is best left alone.” He lifted Dinah’s shawl from the chair by the desk, stopped, then picked up the doll off the bed. “Where did you find this?”

He didn’t sound angry anymore, but she couldn’t determine what was going through his head.

“In the attic.”

His fingers moved over the doll but he didn’t turn toward her. “What were you doing in the attic?”

“I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you’re implying.”

He made a soundless laugh. “What would take you to the attic unless you were snooping?”

Her face burned. She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been frightened by the noises for weeks. “I heard a noise up there last night and went to investigate.”

She noticed he hadn’t returned the doll to the bed. “Was that Emily’s?”

He flung it away. “Well, it wasn’t mine.”

“Tristan, I found some disturbing paintings upstairs.”

“The attic should have been gutted years ago.”

“These are freshly painted.”

He turned slowly and she caught his concerned expression. “That’s not possible.”

“The proof is upstairs. If I’m going to help Emily, I have to know why she painted these specific paintings and why she felt she had to do it in secret.”

He rolled his shoulders, then massaged his neck. “I have no idea what’s up there.”

Dinah lit the peg lamp and went to the door. “Then it’s about time you did.” She held out her hand, half hoping he’d take it. He didn’t. “What time are we expected at the dressmaker’s?”

“Not until ten.”

“Then we have time to look at the paintings. Perhaps you can explain them to me.”

He sighed and dove his fingers through his hair. “It’s against my better judgment.”

Her smile was wry. “Naturally.”

He lifted a black eyebrow. “You’re getting cheeky again, Dinah.”

She started for the door with the lamp. “I’d apologize, but it’s not in my nature.”

“As if I had to be reminded,” he grumbled, following her.

They stepped into the attic, Tristan holding the lamp.

Dinah went to the paintings that leaned against the wall. “This one particularly disturbs me.”

She watched Tristan’s features nearly crumble as he gazed at the painful pictures. “Mother of God.” The words were mere choking sounds in his throat.

His expression was so tortured she ached for him. “I’m sorry, so very sorry, if they disturb you, Tristan, but can you explain why Emily would have painted them?”

“This one,” he offered with a shuddering sigh, indicating the one of Emily screaming, with the gash painted on her abdomen, “this one is probably about something that happened when she was hospitalized.”

Hospitalized. Such a civilized term for something so completely and utterly uncivilized, Dinah thought.

“Mother told them to perform surgery on her.”

Alarmed, Dinah clutched at her throat. “Why?”

“So she wouldn’t have children.”

Dinah’s stomach churned and her hand went to her mouth. Tristan’s jaw was so tight she saw the knots in his muscles. No further explanation was necessary; having been in the same surroundings herself, she understood. She’d known of women who had gone through similar traumas at their family’s request, but only after they’d been impregnated by one of the vile guards.

“If my father had lived, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have sent her away. He hadn’t been ashamed of what she was. As Emily grew into a young woman, she became an embarrassment to Zelda. The other ranch wives talked and bragged about their children. Their grandchildren. Zelda couldn’t. Her only daughter wasn’t right in the head, and her son, well, he was a dirty little savage.

“Sending Emily off to ‘school’ to get rid of her made Zelda’s life easier. Much less painful. She wasn’t constantly reminded of her failure to produce a normal child. I wasn’t as easy to dismiss. I think at times she was tempted to drop me down a well, but Father made certain he wrote me into his will in such a way that she couldn’t get rid of me if he died first. Unfortunately, he did.”

Dinah had yet to learn all of Tristan’s history, but she detected the hidden anguish in his voice. She was certain it was in her own, too, when she spoke of those she’d loved and lost. It was also telling that Tristan would use his mother’s given name. To her it said the woman hadn’t filled her role with much affection or satisfaction.

“She exposed Emily to butchery.” His voice was tight with emotion. “For that, I’ll never forgive her. Never.”

He was silent for a long time. “When you first told me about normal women who had been put into asylums for no reason at all, I didn’t want to believe it. You see, Zelda was a domineering woman, not likely to have been forced to do anything she didn’t want to do. I didn’t stop to think that all women weren’t like her.

“When she finally died and I brought Emily home from that contemptible place, I didn’t want to know anything about her past. Not until you talked of your hatred for Trenway did I begin to even think about what Emily might have gone through. Until then, all I knew was that she was home where she belonged and was getting good care. Now I can see that although Emily has never spoken of her years in the hospital, she hasn’t been able to resolve them, either. I know she isn’t normal, Dinah. What concerns me is that she’s unable to express what happened to her.”

Dinah, gazed at the paintings, nibbling on the end of her thumb. “I think she’s expressing her feelings right here. It isn’t pretty, but I think it’s healthy.”

He nodded. “It’s a start.”

A man she hadn’t believed existed was emerging from within the body of Tristan Fletcher. A compassionate man. A caring man. A man worthy of her love.

The ride to the dressmaker’s was endless, for neither she nor Tristan spoke. Her thoughts were wrapped around the picture of a mutilated Emily. From the angry expression on Tristan’s face, Dinah guessed his thoughts were focused on the woman responsible.

“Tristan, are you certain you want to do this today?” Dinah wasn’t. She had the urge to go home, find Emily, and cradle her in her arms. Knowing Emily, though, it wouldn’t be an easy task.

Oddly enough, he turned to her and smiled. “What’s done is done, Dinah. I allow the past to eat at me often enough, but I don’t want you to let it eat at you. Emily needs your help, not your pity. We have to go forward now. I’ve been letting myself stagnate where she’s concerned.

“At any rate, Belle is expecting us.” His searching gaze moved over her. “She’s anxious to work with a woman who doesn’t require camouflage.”

Dinah warmed at the compliment. And truth to tell, she was anxious to have some nice things of her own to wear.

Belle Harvey was an attractive woman who looked as if she should be running a fancy New York dress salon, creating gowns for the rich. Instead, she ran an out-of-the-way shop in bucolic Hatter’s Horn, making gowns for ranchers’ dowdy wives. Dinah figured there was a story there, but couldn’t imagine what it might be.

The minute they came through the door, Belle took Dinah by the hand, pulled her toward a dressing cubicle and stripped her. Dinah wasn’t surprised that the first thing to go into the trash bin was her binder. Belle uttered a colorful string of cuss words at the idea that any woman with Dinah’s beauty would wear such a thing at all. Dinah didn’t argue; it was easy enough to make herself another if she chose to.

Now, she studied herself in the mirror. Belle, who stood behind her, had pinned in the waist of a linen camisole with a scooped neckline. It was quite revealing, for her breasts plumped out over the top.

“Lord, a strong wind would blow you off your feet.”

Dinah glanced at Belle in the glass. She had a figure any woman would envy: a full, round bosom, a small waist, and rounded hips. She was very beautiful, too, with rich mahogany hair swept up and caught with a comb. Women with her class and sophistication didn’t spend the best years of their lives in Hatter’s Horn. Not without a darned good reason.

“I’m not as small as you might think.” Dinah turned sideways, automatically hunching her shoulders when she saw her curves.

Belle snorted. “With that binder strangling your chest, it was hard to tell. Why in the devil would you wear such a thing? I thought binders were for women who wanted to dry up their milk supply.”

Dinah felt herself color. “I had a … position that required that I be around rather unsavory men. I thought it best to cover myself.”

“But your hair, alone, would draw an appreciative male crowd.”

Dinah released a sly smile, recalling Daisy’s doodle threat. “I found ways to discourage them.”

“You know that every single woman within a twenty-mile radius envies you. Even some married ones. Tristan Fletcher has eluded them since he turned fifteen.”

Dinah tugged at the camisole’s neckline, trying to hitch it higher to hide her cleavage and her feelings. Despite the circumstances of her marriage, she felt foolishly possessive of her husband.

Guilt ate at her, too. She should have told Tristan who she was weeks ago. Considering the hell both he and Emily had been through because of Zelda, they deserved someone who could actually help them. Not an inept runaway who was such a coward that she found it easier to assume someone else’s identity and hide than to face her uncle. She had to tell Tristan the truth soon. Very soon.

“So I’ve been told.” She attempted a smile. “Tristan himself never neglects to tell me how much in demand he is.” She glanced at the mirror and caught Belle staring at her. “Do you envy me?”

It dawned on her that Belle would be the perfect mistress for Tristan. She felt sick about it too, because Belle wasn’t a painted harlot, but a beautiful, pleasant, and undoubtedly warm woman.

Belle laughed, rich and deep, the sound lusty and uninhibited. “Damned right I do. I’d be a fool not to. You’re a lucky woman.”

The chime over the door sounded, and Belle excused herself, leaving Dinah alone to mull over her answer.