Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 10

  The maître d’hotel reappeared with a glass, and Margot held it to Allison’s white lips. The girl’s eyes opened, moving from side to side as she took in the scene, and an involuntary sound escaped her. “Drink this, please, Allison,” Margot said. She used the matter-of-fact tone she employed with most of her patients, and Allison, obedient to the authority in her voice, drank. In fact, once she tasted the orange juice, she drank it thirstily, draining the glass. Her cheeks pinked up almost immediately, Margot noticed with satisfaction. She took Allison’s wrist again and felt the pulse begin to steady under her fingers.

  Allison blinked and brought her free hand to her forehead. “Oh,” she said softly, her voice that of a child. “Oh, oh.”

  “You’ll feel better in a moment,” Margot said. She released the girl’s wrist and moved the damp napkin away to the arm of the chaise. When Allison tried to move her legs, to stand up, Margot said, “Wait a bit, Allison. Give yourself some time.”

  “What happened?” It was little more than a whisper, full of confusion and fear.

  “You fainted, that’s all.”

  “Did I—did I—” Allison turned her eyes up to Margot, the pupils expanded, the lashes damp with sudden tears. “Was I sick?”

  Margot’s own eyes narrowed, trying to think what this meant. She said carefully, “I don’t think so. No one has said that, only that you fainted.”

  Allison’s eyelids fell, and she drew a shaky breath. “Oh,” she said again, but her voice was stronger now. “Oh.”

  Edith, from the foot of the chaise, said, “Is she all right, Margot? Can we go home?”

  “Yes,” Margot said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I shouldn’t have come out,” Edith fretted, as if it were all her fault. “I told Ramona I didn’t want to come.”

  Ramona ignored this, saying calmly, “Shall I go call a taxi, Margot?”

  Margot cast her a quick, appreciative glance. Ramona was proving, through the hardships of the past year, to be more level-headed and pragmatic than she would ever have suspected. “Thank you, Ramona. That’s an excellent idea. If you could take Mother down with you in the elevator, Allison and I will come along shortly.”

  The maître d’ said, “Thank you for coming, Dr. Benedict.”

  “Not at all,” Margot said. “Is there a bill to settle?”

  “Not today,” he said. “There’s no charge for the juice. And no one’s eaten a thing.”

  CHAPTER 8

  He huddled in the cold shadows cast by the water tower in Volunteer Park and watched Benedict Hall. He had done this for days, so many he had lost count. The more days that passed, the more his resentment grew. He wasn’t sure, at first, why he came here, what he was looking for, but his thoughts and his need were at last beginning to come together, setting his purpose and focusing his mind.

  When he saw the taxicab pull up on Fourteenth Avenue, he briefly wondered why they weren’t in the Essex. He concentrated, pulling his scarred eyebrows together until the memory came to him. It was hazy, muddled by months of pain, but he remembered.

  The Essex was smashed. He had driven it into the tree himself, and then—yes, even after that, he had gone on driving it, wrecked though it was. He had driven it into the city, inexpertly operating the pedals and the wheel, running it up onto the curb in front of Seattle General. Shouldn’t have happened, of course. He was never meant to drive the damn thing. That was Blake’s job. He was meant to ride in the back, properly, while Blake the butler drove the motorcar.

  Blake had betrayed him. Turned on him. It was Blake’s fault, really, almost as much as it was hers, but he didn’t know where Blake was, and she was still taking up space in the family digs. He felt the grimace on his face, and he knew it was an expression that made him look like something out of a nightmare.

  His laugh was rough, as ugly as he had become. He was even more wrecked than the Essex, and it was she who had brought him to this. She had taken his life and twisted it into something so macabre he could barely comprehend it, even after all these months.

  He had to release the grimace. It still hurt too much, sometimes maddeningly. Something about the nerves, he supposed, though he was only guessing. She would know, blast her to hell. He could almost believe she had deliberately set those oxygen bottles in his path, but even in his pain-racked brain, that was a stretch.

  No, it was just her customary obstinacy and arrogance that had destroyed him. If she had only gotten out of his way—better yet, if she had never been born—he wouldn’t have to hide himself like this, pull his hat brim down so low he could barely see, pull his muffler up so it hid his twisted mouth and ravaged cheeks.

  Yes, she bore the blame, there was no doubt about that. He had had everything, family, position, a job that brought him respect and even a small measure of renown. It was all gone now. Vanished. She was probably happy about that.

  He straightened suddenly, wincing at the twinge that ran down his back as he did so. Who was in that taxicab? Oh, for God’s sake, Margot, mannish as always. She was wearing last year’s coat, with that moth-eaten fox collar! Why couldn’t she make an effort to dress better?

  Not that he cared. His column was ended, dead and buried, just like he was. Margot couldn’t embarrass him anymore.

  As he watched, she turned back to the cab and held out her hand to someone. There was a girl, slender, fair-haired. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t get a good look. Margot encircled the girl with one arm and led her through the front gate as Mother climbed out of the taxicab. Ramona got out the other side, paid the cabbie, then hurried to take Mother’s arm.

  Since when did Edith need Ramona’s arm to walk up the few steps to the porch of Benedict Hall? She moved so slowly, as if she’d been ill. Her hair had turned the most repulsive shade, yellow and gray all mixed together. Surely she knew there were things you could do about that!

  But perhaps he was being unfair. Mother had always put him first, at least to the best of her ability. She could have done more, done something about Margot, but then, Mother wasn’t the sort to stand up to people. Still, despite how unhappy she must be now, there was no point in letting herself go. She couldn’t be much above fifty.

  Why the devil didn’t Margot make herself useful and do something to help her?

  He watched as the group of women made a slow progress up the walk and onto the porch. Hattie appeared, wearing her apron, holding the door and fussing as they passed. Hattie looked much the same. She, it seemed, had recovered from the tragedy awfully quickly. Maybe she hadn’t cared as much about him as she’d pretended.

  He faded back into deeper shadows and started to make his way around to the far side of the water tower. The rest of it didn’t matter. Who that girl was, the one who looked as if she could barely support her own weight, didn’t matter. Blake didn’t matter, because he had gotten what was coming to him. Father and Dick and Ramona were all right, even if they were fools to allow themselves to be taken in by the magnificent Margot. Even Mother didn’t matter, not really. Seeing her so frail was troubling, but, sadly, she was an innocent but unfortunate bystander. Such things happened, and they couldn’t be helped.

  No, all that mattered—and his only reason for being alive, now—was Margot. The rest of it could take care of itself.

  Allison could still taste the orange juice in her mouth. Its tart sweetness had thrilled her tongue and tingled in her throat, making her want to beg for more.

  Now, in her bedroom at Benedict Hall, undressed by Ruby and tucked under a quilt, she rolled on her side to escape Margot’s searching gaze.

  She heard the murmur of a few words and the swish and click of the door as it closed. A chair grated on the floor, then made a softer sound as its legs settled into the rug beside the bed.

  “Allison,” Margot said. Her voice was low and clear, in a tone that meant she expected an answer. “I need to know what’s going on with you.”

  Allison closed her eyes, crushing her lids together as if
that would keep out the sound of Margot’s voice.

  “Your blood pressure got very low. That’s why you fainted, and that’s why the juice made you feel better.”

  Allison said resentfully, “I don’t feel better.”

  “All right, you don’t feel better,” Margot said. She sounded as pragmatic as if they were discussing fabric colors or motorcar models. “But you’re conscious,” she added. “I think you would agree that’s an improvement.”

  Allison opened her eyes to glare at the primrose wallpaper so near her face. A familiar bubble of resentment rose in her throat and choked off her voice. Usually, it was her mother who provoked this feeling. Now it was Margot, sounding so reasonable and concerned and . . . it was all too confusing. She wished she would just go away and leave her alone.

  “Can you tell me what’s bothering you?” Margot asked.

  Allison narrowed her eyes, and the primrose pattern blurred into a mix of pink and green and brown. It made her head spin.

  “Allison, if you won’t talk to me, and explain what’s wrong, I’m going to have to telephone your parents.”

  Allison whispered, “Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Tears of anxiety suddenly pricked Allison’s eyes and ached in her throat. She could feel the argument building, the explosion that invariably followed if she didn’t think before she spoke. Hastily, her words tumbling over one another, she said, “Never mind. Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” But she had. She couldn’t think how to explain it.

  Margot waited for her to finish her answer, and when she didn’t go on, she said, “Allison, I’m sure your family would want you to see your family physician.”

  Dr. Kinney! Hair in his ears and rotten breath and the threat of a sanitorium! Allison groaned, “No, no, please. I’ll be all right now, I promise.”

  “You’re not all right,” Margot said. Her voice softened, gentled into the one she used with Aunt Edith in the dining room. “You have to understand that I can’t just ignore what happened.”

  Allison gazed at the blurred primroses, willing them to stop their mad whirling.

  “Allison, we’re family. We’re living under the same roof, and we need to speak openly with each other. Are you angry with me about something?”

  Allison rolled onto her back to get away from the primroses, and she stared up at the molded ceiling in an agony of confusion. She had never had such a conversation. She didn’t trust it. Adults didn’t ask her to speak her mind. This was like walking on quicksand, when the wrong answer would sink her straight to the bottom of the quagmire. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop her tears from falling, and she struggled to think of what to say, how to end this.

  A strong hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Please explain to me,” Margot said. “If I’m to help you, I need to understand.”

  Allison wanted to protest that she didn’t need help, but it was obvious Margot wouldn’t accept that. She said finally, resignedly, “Coming here—to Seattle—it’s my punishment.”

  “Punishment?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t do anything!”

  “All right. Let’s posit that you didn’t do anything. But why should that make you angry with me?”

  “Papa said this was your idea. Me coming to Seattle.”

  “Oh, but, Allison—no one said anything about punishment to me! Uncle Henry was upset, and I gather something went wrong on your trip. I suggested you spend a few weeks with us when Uncle Henry said your mother was having difficulty coping—”

  “Coping?” Allison cried. She knew her voice was rising, going thin and shrill so she sounded like a wounded child. Papa hated that voice, but she couldn’t help it. She rolled to her left to face Margot. “My mother can’t cope with anything!”

  Margot lifted her hands and pushed her fingers through her hair so it stood out in little ruffles over her ears. When she spoke again, her voice sounded different. Less confident. “Oh, Allison,” she sighed. “I know a thing or two about mothers. You’ve seen how mine is. If it weren’t for your cousin Ramona—” She dropped her hands to her lap. The gesture, with her shoulders hunched and her eyes downcast, made her look more like a girl and less like a doctor. She looked sad. Hurt.

  Allison didn’t know what to do. Had she been wrong? Everyone told her something different, and it was bewildering. She was tempted, for one mad instant, to tell Cousin Margot everything, about Dr. Kinney, the sanitorium, explain what really happened on Berengaria, even tell her about the spoon—

  No. She could never tell her about the spoon.

  Margot lifted her head, but slowly, as if it were too heavy to hold upright. She avoided Allison’s eyes as she rose, and replaced the chair beside the wardrobe. Her doctor’s voice returned. “I do see why Uncle Henry was concerned about you, Allison. I can even understand why Aunt Adelaide felt she didn’t know how to manage.” She came back to the bed, and now she stood looking down at Allison with a composed expression that was impossible to read. Allison gazed up at her with apprehension.

  Margot said, “It’s not normal for a girl to be so thin. Along with everything else, I’m concerned about anemia. Are you fatigued? Are you often dizzy? I haven’t been present at all your meals here, but you don’t seem to have a strong appetite.”

  Even hearing the word appetite made Allison’s stomach cramp with hunger.

  “And I would guess,” Margot went on, “that you have amenorrhoea. No menstrual periods.”

  Allison shivered with sudden anxiety and shame. It was true. She hadn’t been getting her monthlies for some time. She hadn’t told her mother that, of course. She knew such things weren’t nice to mention. Ruby hadn’t noticed, and Dr. Kinney hadn’t asked. She had never thought it was a problem. Maybe even Cousin Margot would want to send her to the sanitorium!

  After a moment, Margot said briskly, “You understand, I can’t let this go on. Not as a physician, nor as a family member.”

  Cautiously, Allison pushed herself to a sitting position and found that her head didn’t spin even a little bit. It occurred to her that the juice she’d drunk had actually made her feel a good bit stronger. She linked her hands, hoping to look demure, and said, “I feel much better now, thank you.”

  She looked up and saw the skeptical set of Margot’s brows. “Really,” she said.

  “Yes,” Allison said, and attempted a smile. “Yes, I do. Thank you for coming to help me today.”

  “You’re welcome.” Margot reached for her wrist, and Allison allowed her to hold it for a few seconds while she measured her pulse. “I’d like to see you eat something now. Will you come down to the dining room and let Hattie fix you a sandwich?”

  Allison nodded. She didn’t think there was much else she could do.

  “I’ll speak to Hattie,” Margot said. “And I’ll wait for you,” she added.

  Allison, her eyes on her hands, felt the faint brush of Margot’s long fingers over her hair. Startled, she glanced up, but her cousin had already turned away and was crossing the room to the door. She reached it in two strides, opened it, and went out, leaving Allison staring after her. Why had she done that? No one really touched Allison except Ruby, and that was only because it was her job. When was the last time her mother had caressed her hair that way? Or her father? So long ago she couldn’t remember. If ever.

  She got up and crossed to the mirror to comb her hair. It was mussed from the pillow, and the plaid dress was creased on one side. She tried to smooth the dress, peering at herself in the glass. Only this morning she had been sure she was getting fat again. She had heard, in her memory, her mother saying she wasn’t trying hard enough. That it was a matter of discipline. That she should follow her example.

  But Margot said she was too thin, that it wasn’t normal. And her monthlies . . .

  She stared forlornly at her reflection, trying to see herself through Margot’s eyes. Maybe it was true. Her wrists looked like sticks, and her collarbones
stuck out like chicken wings. Yet, despite those things, the plaid frock was too tight, and even in her absence, Adelaide’s critical eyes seemed to peer over Allison’s shoulder, pointing out her flaws.

  She swallowed fresh tears and turned away from the mirror, feeling as lost as a child in a dark wood. How could she know whose judgment to trust? She didn’t know which Allison was real. Was it the fat one? Was it the thin one?

  She couldn’t tell, and that meant she couldn’t trust herself, either.

  “I’ve got two people starving to death under my nose,” Margot said. Blake was stretched out in his Morris chair, his chin on one hand, listening with his usual patience as she paced his room, restless and out of sorts. “Mother looks like she’d blow away in a stiff breeze. And Cousin Allison! I know girls think it’s smart to be thin, with styles so boyish these days, but she’s nothing but bones. Hattie does her best—” At Blake’s sudden wry expression, she chuckled. “Well, she does, Blake. It’s hard to go wrong with a sandwich, isn’t it? It was just a sandwich, fresh bread and butter and cheese. The child hardly touched it.”

  He smiled up at her. “Now, Dr. Margot, you stop that striding around here and sit down for a moment. You’re looking a bit poorly yourself, you know.”

  “Nonsense.” She pulled the straight chair close to him and perched on it, grinning at Blake. “You always say that, but I’m just the same as always. I was never a Gibson Girl anyway.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re just you. Just as you should be.”

  “There’s a book I need to get my hands on, something about girls who don’t eat. I’ve forgotten the title, but I read an extract somewhere. There might be other cases like Allison.”

  “You’ll find the answer,” Blake said with confidence. “You always do.”

  Margot exhaled a long, slow sigh. “You place such faith in me! I’m not so sure. There’s something odd about her. She’s nineteen, an adult, really, but in many ways she’s like a child, as if . . .”