“No. I know what it was.”
“A dog—”
“No!” He lifted his chin and met her gaze. “I know I have not always been well. But this was no hallucination. We are all in terrible danger.”
Johanna found herself bereft of answers. Lewis was not one to fabricate tales, like Irene. Had Quentin indeed been running naked in the woods? Had he gone down on all fours and howled and behaved in such a way to persuade Lewis that he had turned into a wolf? If so, she had seriously failed in her work on behalf of both men.
A werewolf would be an unmistakable symbol of the demonic to one such as Lewis. Sin—his own and the world’s—was one of his great obsessions. One she’d hoped was diminishing.
As she’d hoped the worst of Quentin’s illness had been revealed.
“If there is evil, we will deal with it,” she said, summoning all her calm. “You must trust me, Lewis. Wickedness has no power over us if we keep our minds clear.”
His bony, austere face was filled with the desire to believe her. “I had to tell you. To warn you. We can still cast him out.”
“Give me a little time to observe and determine the safest course. I am not without resources. Do you think you can go to your room and rest, now that you’ve shared this with me?”
He wrung his gloved hands. “You will call me if you need my help? I know of the greatest iniquities—” She saw the start of tears in his eyes. “Do not trust him, Miss Schell.”
“I promise to take no chances.” She walked ahead of him and opened the door. He went meekly enough to his room, though his gaze darted about the hall until he was safely behind the door.
Alone, Johanna loosened the tight rein on her emotions. She paced the length of her office and back again several times, consulting her father’s pocket watch at the final turn. Bridget should have been here hours ago; it was already after lunch. The patients must be fed.
And she’d have to call for Quentin again, no matter how much he’d so recently suffered.
The kitchen door swung open, its creaking audible across the house. Mrs. Daugherty, at last. Johanna went to meet her.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mrs. Daugherty said. “M’ grandson had the colic and my daughter needed a bit of help.” She squinted at Johanna. “You seem a might peaked. That Irene been givin’ you trouble?”
“No, not at all.” Irene, in fact, had been exceptionally furtive over the past few days. “Thank you for your concern. Can you prepare luncheon? I am behind today.”
“‘Course. Just send ’em all out and I’ll take care of ’em.” She began to roll up her sleeves and paused, pursing her lips. “Before I forget, I have a message for you.” She rummaged in her skirt pocket. “Here you are.”
Johanna took the slightly damp envelope from Mrs. Daugherty’s blunt fingers. “A message? From whom?”
“Young feller in town—a doctor, like you.” She winked. “A right handsome one, at that.”
A doctor? Johanna turned the envelope over. Her name was written out in an elegant hand, but the sender remained anonymous. “Did he give his name?”
“I can’t rightly recall. It was some foreign name, at that. Something with a ‘B.’ But he was quite the gentleman. Said he’d heard of you and wanted to… ‘consult with you.’ Yes, that was the word.” She grinned. “I’d best get to work while you go read your letter.”
A doctor. A foreign doctor, who wished to consult with her. She hadn’t realized that anyone outside the valley knew of her work; she hadn’t had time to write papers or attend more than a handful of lectures, let alone speak at length with her peers—if any of them would regard her as such. Few would likely remember her father after three years and a move across the country, in spite of his controversial papers and reputation as an eccentric.
Her mind crowded with speculation, Johanna hurried back to her office and opened the envelope. The stationery was lightly scented, but the writing was indubitably masculine, it was addressed to Doctor Johanna Schell.