Chapter 5
Whatever possessed you? Quentin had asked himself that question several times since he’d made the impulsive and reckless decision to remain at the Haven.
The deed was done now. And when he looked at Johanna, with that serious and oddly attractive face that hid so much from the world, he remembered what had driven him to it.
Yes, driven. It certainly hadn’t been an act of logic. But then again, so little of what he did could be attributed to anything remotely like common sense.
He’d told himself he should leave. He still could, none the worse for wear, if things became complicated. But he believed that Johanna, alone of all people in the world, had the ability to keep him away from the bottle—and from the consequences that he feared came with it. As long as he didn’t drink, he was in control.
At the very least, Johanna would have his money for her good works. She deserved it far more than he did.
He sat on one of the two ancient horsehair armchairs in the room Johanna called the parlor. It was the largest chamber in the house, scattered with mismatched chairs of every size and design, a large central table and several smaller ones, shelves of books, ancient daguerreotypes, an antique mirror that might have survived from better times, and well-worn rugs on the wooden floor. He’d noticed at once that there were no real breakables or fragile items on the shelves or tables—no china figurines, nor decorative plates and delicate china—nothing that a patient of uncertain temperament might smash or use as a weapon. The house, as embodied in this room, was worn, snug, and well lived-in, with nothing of luxury but much of safety.
The house matched Johanna herself. She was not beautiful, and her clothes were plain and much-mended, but no one could doubt her sincerity or her complete acceptance of herself and the world around her.
He’d already toured the roomy kitchen, where he’d been offered a late breakfast of coffee, bread, and eggs, left by the housekeeper, Mrs. Daugherty. After the meal, Johanna had shown him the smaller room she called her office. The remaining rooms were the patients’ chambers, and Johanna respected their privacy. She did, indeed, seem to regard them more as family than men and women afflicted with madness.
“You’ve met Oscar,” Johanna said from her chair opposite his across the parlor. “He is what many call an idiot—his level of intelligence is that of a young child. He is prone to a child’s outbursts, but in general he is a gentle soul who asks only to be treated kindly.”
“But he cannot be cured of such an affliction, surely,” Quentin said.
“No.” She leaned forward, her hands clasped at her knees in a posture completely free of feminine self-consciousness. “You see, he was born to a family in which his mother contracted a serious illness during her pregnancy. She died soon after his birth. I know little of his early life, but he was left much on his own as a child, and suffered for it. His father was himself a dying man, and begged my father to take the boy in.” She smiled with a touch of sadness. “Oscar has been with us since the age of twelve. The world is not kind to those with his defect.”
“As it isn’t kind to any who are different,” Quentin said. Johanna looked at him with such unexpected warmth that he found his heart beating faster. Good God, was he so much in need of approval, of any meager sign of esteem?
Or was it just Johanna herself?
She blinked, as if she’d caught him staring. Perhaps he had been. “I’m glad you understand,” she said, and lapsed into silence.
He was trying to find something intelligent to say—something that might impress her with his wit and breadth of knowledge—when a woman flounced into the room from the hallway.
Never had Quentin seen a more vivid contrast to Johanna, except among the prostitutes who so often became his unsought companions. The woman was near fifty but dressed several decades younger, in flowing clothes that hinted of Bohemian affectation. She wore as much paint as any lady of the evening, but she carried herself like a queen. Once, she might have been pretty. She clearly believed she still was.