Then a miracle happened. May reached out to brush Quentin’s fingers with hers, withdrew her hand, repeated the gesture. Quentin spoke again, and her piquant, heart-shaped face broke out in a tremulous smile. She answered him, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
The magical moment passed, as it must. May remembered her fear and backed away. Quentin didn’t try to hold her. He watched her run off, a faint frown between his brows. Concern. Why should he care about a girl who was a stranger to him?
Why should he not, if he were a decent man? Inebriety, even insanity, did not always destroy what was fundamentally good in a human being.
She strode along the graveled path to join him on the other side of the garden. His engaging smile was back in place by the time she reached him.
“I’ve finally met your May,” he said.
“So I see.” She looked him over severely. “You ought to have remained in bed.”
“But I had so little incentive. I’ve always felt that sleeping was a very poor use for a good bed.”
This time she managed to control her blush. “A return of your illness will be incentive enough.” But he hardly looked as though he needed more time to rest. He’d thrown off his debilitation as if it had never existed. “You have no lingering weakness, no distress?”
“Nothing that a dose of your healing touch wouldn’t cure.”
“I am surprised, Mr.—Quentin.” She must not treat him differently than any of the others. Using first rather than surnames and formal address helped build trust, and she could not abandon the practice simply because it smacked of a greater intimacy when used with this man. “May generally refuses to go anywhere near strangers. She seldom even approaches any of the other patients, except for Oscar. What did you say to her?”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I told her a secret.”
What sort of secret? she almost blurted out. Instead, she considered how much she was prepared to trust him with May’s well-being.
“I have no objection to you speaking with her… if you are very careful. It might help her to realize that not all men are—” She stopped herself from revealing too much. “Just remember that she is fragile, and cannot be pushed.”
He glanced the way she’d gone. “Poor child. But you are helping her.”
“I do what I can,” she said coolly. Within the unconstraint and surprising rapport of their conversation lay a trap—that of treating Quentin more like a colleague or sympathetic friend than a patient.
“Breakfast should be ready soon,” she said, starting for the house. “Let us go in.”
He raised his head to sniff the air. “I thought I smelled cooking.” His stomach rumbled audibly.
“I see that you have a healthy appetite,” she said dryly. “Mrs. Daugherty arrives early five days a week to cook breakfast, so we shall have something substantial this morning.”
Together they went in the back door of the house, passing the patients’ rooms. Johanna sent Quentin ahead to the kitchen and looked in on Harper. He sat by the window, staring at the drawn curtains. No change.
If she could succeed in helping Quentin, there might be hope for Harper as well.
The others, with the exception of May, were already gathered about the large oak table in the center of the kitchen. Laid out on the cheerful gingham tablecloth were plates of sliced bread, a crock of fresh butter, a pitcher of milk, and a wedge of cheese.
Irene, at the head of the table, was dressed in a gown Johanna hadn’t seen before, smelling of crisp, new fabric and cut along much more fashionable lines than most of the actresses’s years-old wardrobe. The dress was somewhat vulgar and far more suitable for an evening at the theater than a country breakfast, but Johanna was most interested in its origin. Irene had no income to afford such a gown, nor had she any source for purchasing it.
Unless she had gone into Silverado Springs. Johanna had felt safe in assuming that Irene wouldn’t do so, after the first time when she’d crept out to town one night only to be mocked and reviled as a woman both soiled and mad. She had too much pride to risk humiliation again.