Harper’s left eyelid twitched. It was acknowledgment of a sort—more than she often received. His thin fingers stretched on the arm of his chair.
“We have a new guest staying with us,” she said. “Quentin Forster. He’d very much like to meet you.”
Harper turned his head. He looked at the tray, at Johanna, and at last toward Quentin.
“I am pleased to meet you,” Quentin said, extending his hand.
Unmoving, Harper gazed at the offered hand while his own fingers continued to twitch. Then, slowly, he lifted his arm from the chair. His hand reached halfway to Quentin’s and seemed to lose its purpose. But his gaze rose to meet the stranger’s, clearing to lucidity for the first time in many days.
“Sol-jer,” he said, his voice rough with disuse.
Quentin glanced at Johanna in surprise. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Years ago.”
Harper shuddered. When the shivers passed he sat still for a long moment, until Johanna was sure any further chance of communication was gone. But he surprised her. He reached clumsily for the spoon on the tray—she never left him any sharp implements, even for eating—and scooped up a helping of egg. Most of it made it to his mouth. He continued to eat, without Johanna’s help.
She touched Quentin’s arm and led him from the room, amazed and gratified. It appeared that his affinity with May was not a singular occurrence.
“How did you do it?” she asked when the door was closed again. “He has not responded so well in weeks. I have not seen him show such interest in anything since I brought a neighbor’s dog to visit—he seems to have a great affection for dogs. But he seldom responds to people.” She realized that her hand was still on his arm and let him go, striving to modulate her tone. “He actually acknowledged you, and spoke.”
“I’m afraid I can’t claim any miraculous technique,” Quentin said. “I’m no doctor.”
“I wonder how he knew that you were a soldier.” She shook her head. “You have a way with people, Quentin—with those who are troubled. It is no small gift.”
He half turned away. “Perhaps it’s because I am one of them.”
She had an almost overwhelming desire to touch him again, to embrace him as… yes, as a kindred spirit, like her father had been. More—as a man who desperately needed human companionship and affection.
Was that what she felt for him? Affection?
The truth stole into her heart as if it had been there all along. She liked Quentin Forster. She wasn’t merely intrigued by him and willing to treat him—not simply attracted to his charm and good looks on a purely physical level.
She liked him, and wanted him to like her.
It had never been vital, in the past, that a patient should like her. Indeed, such expectations were detrimental to treatment; her own feelings were quite unimportant. Quentin’s appreciative behavior might not even survive what she had in mind for him. He might hate her in the end, if she made him relive what he wished to forget.
Better that he should hate her than the rest of the world.
“I believe that your insight will help our work together,” she said, recovering herself. “I planned to begin this morning, if you feel ready.”
He shrugged. “Why not? I am rather curious.”
“It’s no subject for levity,” she said. “The treatment may not always be pleasant.”
“Thank you for the warning.” He caught her gaze. “And for your honesty, Johanna.”
She backed away. “I shall take in my father’s breakfast, and make sure the others are settled. Shall we meet in my office in one hour?”
“I’ll count the minutes.” At first she thought he was going to take her hand and kiss it as he had Mrs. Daugherty’s, but he only gave her a shallow bow and turned for his room.
Well, then. It was all proceeding as smoothly as she could hope. Her judgment had proved sound. She had matters—and her own emotions—under firm control.
She took the tray to her father, and readied her mind for the battle ahead.
Chapter 7
If ever Quentin had doubted his cowardice, he was absolutely sure of it now.