The following day Finnea hurried out the front door, nearly calling her greeting to Mary in anticipation of seeing her. But the steps were empty. Disappointment hit her square in the chest, catching her off guard.
How had it happened?
She turned her face into the winter wind that blew in from the Charles River, the air cold and biting. She really hadn’t needed to go out. They had enough garlic in the house to last for weeks, along with a good assortment of the many other herbs Janji had kept on hand.
Beyond that, Mr. Quincy and his small, discreet staff took care of the household’s every need. There was no need to run errands. But somewhere along the line Finnea had gotten used to going out with Mary and working with her in the kitchen afterward as they made some new remedy for the staff.
Finnea started to return inside, the thought of walking through the cold streets alone unappealing. But just then the door flew back on its hinges and Mary dashed out, her gloved hands cramming her hat on her head.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, out of breath.
Finnea just stood for a moment, seared by the flash of unexpected joy.
“What’s wrong?” Mary asked worriedly. “Are you mad that I’m late?”
“No,” Finnea said softly, a heartfelt smile twisting on her lips. “Not mad at all.”
“Good! Let’s go.”
And when Mary reached out and took Finnea’s hand as if she had done it a thousand times before, Finnea didn’t pull away.
They went to the marketplace at Faneuil Hall, then to the docks to see what fresh herbs and whatnots had just arrived, before finally searching tiny, cramped shops that catered to Chinese immigrants. They found long, knobby ginseng roots, along with giant green plantain leaves. They haggled over a half-dozen lemons imported from the south, and secured a fresh batch of yarrow leaves from a kind man from China who was a healer himself.
The day was glorious despite the bitter cold. A warmth surrounded them. But everything changed hours later as they made their way home, exhausted but euphoric over all of their finds. Not a block from Marlborough Street a small cluster of boys and girls were throwing snowballs. At the sight of the children, Finnea felt Mary tense, then try to veer off in another direction, but it was too late.
“There’s Mary,” called a young boy with sandy hair and freckles.
Mary froze and Finnea looked down at her in concern. “What is it?”
Mary jumped a bit as if she had forgotten Finnea was there. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Seeming to brace herself, Mary dropped Finnea’s hand and went forward. She kept her head upright and walked steadily down the street toward Dove’s Way.
Mary was a bit ahead of Finnea, and when the children started whispering things to the child, she couldn’t hear what they said. She could only see that Mary looked straight ahead and continued on stoically.
Finnea remembered Mary saying she was very popular. Her brow furrowed in confusion as she followed along. It wasn’t until Mary came to the granite steps leading to the front door that Finnea could make sense of the words.
“Mary Mary, Monster Mary,” they chanted.
“What are you talking about?” Finnea demanded.
The children shrieked and wheeled around. At the sight of her they scattered, their daring laughter fluttering back in their wake as they raced away so fast that the long tails of their woolen mufflers flew out behind them.
She watched them go without seeing, trying to understand what had just happened. When she turned back, Mary dashed into the house.
Without thinking about shoulds or shouldn’ts, Finnea strode into Dove’s Way, tossed her hat and coat aside, then hurried to the child’s bedroom and knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again, the sound reverberating through the long hallway. “Mary, it’s me, Finnea. Can I come in?”
Still no answer, but she could hear rustling inside. She opened the door and found Mary lying on the bed, facing the window, her doll pulled close.
“I’m sorry about what happened with those children,” Finnea said, coming further into the room without closing the door.
Mary didn’t reply.
“I’m sure they were just teasing.”
“But they weren’t!” she cried, rolling over in a tangle of skirts and petticoats. “They meant every word.”
Then she started to cry, great gasping sobs.
Finnea went to her without thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to comfort this child. She came around the bed and sat down, pulling Mary into her arms, stroking her hair as if she were her daughter. “Shhh, shhh, it’s going to be all right.”
“But it isn’t!” she said in a choking gasp. “It will never be all right again. My mama’s gone and everyone hates me.”
“No one hates you, Mary.”
“Of course they do. You heard what they said. ‘Mary, Mary, Monster Mary.’ “
“You’re not a monster!”
“I’m not a monster,” she stated, pushing up. “But my father is! That’s why they say it!”
It wasn’t until then that they realized they weren’t alone. A strange strangled sound erupted behind them. They turned quickly and found Matthew in the doorway, standing as still as stone. Once again he looked like Mzungu Kichaa mwenye Kovu. The Wild Man with the Scar. He looked fierce, his face chiseled, his gaze burning.
Mary gasped, then started to weep. She curled up on the bed. Finnea watched Matthew, who looked at Mary. Most of the time he hid his emotions well. But in that moment his feelings were etched on his face as clearly as his scar. For one startling moment Finnea saw the longing, the hurt—just as his daughter was hurting.
When he noticed that she was studying him, his face turned hard, as if a shield slipped over him. Without a word he turned and walked away.
She wanted to race after him, but first she had to focus on Mary.
For a moment, she was too afraid to move, too afraid to say the wrong thing. She stroked the child’s hair as she cried into the pillow.
“Your father may be scarred, Mary, but he’s not a monster.”
Mary wrenched herself up. “But he’s mean and angry! He acts different now.”
Finnea let out a sigh. She couldn’t deny Mary’s words. She had thought before that Matthew must have once been a very happy man.
“Maybe so, but he’s not angry with you,” she said.
“That’s not true! He is angry with me. Every time he sees me he is mad and angry.”
Finnea didn’t know how to counter the child’s claim. But she knew then that she had to go to Matthew and demand once and for all that they talk about his anger. Talk about his daughter.
Finnea stroked Mary’s hair until the child finally calmed.
Mary found her doll and pulled it close. “I guess now you know that I’m really not so popular.”
Finnea felt the smile that trembled on her lips. “What do you mean, silly? You are hugely popular with me.”
Mary looked up at her with tear-soaked eyes. “Really?” she whispered.
Finnea leaned close until their noses touched. “Really.”
Flinging her arms around Finnea, Mary held tight. “Please don’t ever leave me.”
Finnea couldn’t answer over the lump in her throat. She simply held the child for a few cherished moments before she cupped Mary’s cheek. “We’ve had a full day. Why don’t you rest before dinner.”
Finnea left Mary and went in search of Matthew. Her stomach fluttered and the tingle of anticipation settled low.
She went straight to his suite of rooms and knocked. He didn’t answer and there was no sound beyond the door.
As she headed downstairs, her footsteps were muffled by the yards-long oriental runner that stretched down the hall. She followed the design down the steps, concentrating on the tangle of vines that flowed to the first floor. The house was as silent as a tomb. The library was empty, as was Matthew’s study. The west gallery stood quiet. But she stopped in her tracks when she came to the garden room.
He sat in front of his easel, long slanting rays of fading winter sun casting him in light as he stared, a paintbrush held forgotten in his hand. Not realizing that someone watched him, his defenses were down, and her brow furrowed at the sight of him. She realized then that he didn’t look like a fierce warrior, as she had thought earlier. Rather, he looked haggard and drawn. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. She wondered if he had been sick and that was why she hadn’t seen him.
Or could what he’d overheard cause this seemingly bone-deep weariness? It seemed like more than that. Something deeper, more complex.
Guilt plagued her. While she had asked Mr. Quincy where Matthew was, she had never pressed for a definite answer.
“Have you been ill?” she asked.
Matthew stood abruptly, spinning back to face her, and she saw the wildness. His height always surprised her, his massive shoulders and his golden hair, overlong, swept back from his forehead as if he had dragged his hands roughly through the strands. No, she thought without warning, it wasn’t wildness in his eyes, it was panic. She straightened in confusion.
“I’m fine,” he said forcefully.
“You don’t look fine.”
Instinctively, she started forward, intent on feeling his forehead for fever. But when she extended her hand, he grabbed it. They both froze, his blue eyes boring into her, until at length, he set her arm aside.
“I’ m fine,” he repeated.
She debated for a moment, then purposefully turned her attention to the easel, the momentum that had brought her here faltering. What did she truly know about this man? What did she know about his feelings for his daughter?
His drawing pad was turned to a blank sheet of paper. Charcoal pencils were lined up to the side. He yearned for his art— she knew it—but not once had she seen him attempt to draw or paint.
When she looked back from his supplies, she found him staring at her, studying her, and she grew uneasy.
“I wish I could paint you,” he said, his voice gruff and low.
He watched her flinch, then grow wary. Her spine stiffened, her shoulders went back, and he would have smiled if the simple gesture didn’t take such effort.
With each day that he tried to work he only got worse. It was getting more impossible to hide his affliction. He felt as if his carefully constructed facade were drifting apart like sawdust in water. All too frequently he woke up on his bad side, causing pain to shoot through him, his hand, his shoulder, his head.
Shame filled him, followed by rage. And fear.
She grew flustered. “Paint me? We’ve been over that, in the jungle. And the answer is still no.”
He hadn’t meant he would. He had only meant that he wished he could.
Frustration overwhelmed him, and when he turned away, he wasn’t concentrating and he knocked into the easel clumsily. The pad wobbled, then tipped over, crashing into the neat line of pencils, which fell to the floor with a clatter. He reached out quickly in hopes of catching something, anything, but the fast movement sent pain searing up his arm.
He froze, trying to control his breath. His heart beat fast and his head pounded. With effort he focused on her.
“Did you interrupt me for a reason?” he asked tightly, wanting her gone.
He felt a flash of regret when her cheeks stained with embarrassment. But she didn’t back down.
“Yes, I did. I want to speak to you about your daughter.”
If possible, the pain intensified. He concentrated on the pencils lying like scattered play sticks on the floor. “I don’t need you to talk to me about Mary.”
She marched closer, whatever embarrassment she had felt clearly forgotten. “Don’t you understand your daughter needs you?”
He opened his hand and closed it slowly, trying to ease the pain. “I’m providing for her.”
“She needs your love, not your money!”
“No matter what I do, I can’t erase the scar that scares her so much.”
“Just try!” She pulled a deep breath. “You can start by loving her.”
“I do love her!”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do! More than anything!”
“Then go to her. She has nightmares. She’s scared. You could help her so much by going to her at night when she has those bad dreams.”
“I cause the dreams!” he bellowed. “Don’t you understand that?”
He started for the door, but she stormed after him. “Stop avoiding me!”
He turned back and looked at her, his head pounding furiously. “I thought that was what you wanted.”
It was, but she didn’t like hearing him say it. “I was talking about… this situation with Mary. Stop hiding.”
“Now I’m hiding? Which is it, Finnea?”
“Both. You’re avoiding the problems by hiding away.”
“Is that so?” he asked, his tone lowering ominously.
“Yes! You hide from your daughter, from your family.” She swept her arm toward his easel. “From your painting.”
She saw the violence flare in his eyes, but she was too far gone to care.
“What would you have me do?” he asked murderously, his voice low and barely controlled.
“Spend time with Mary. And paint.”
“I can’t paint!” he suddenly burst out.
“You can’t? Or you won’t?”
His countenance was fierce, but for reasons that weren’t clear, she couldn’t let it go.
She raised her chin. “Are you afraid?”
He didn’t respond.
“You said you wanted to paint me. Then do it,” she challenged, posing in front of him. “Paint me.”
He didn’t move.
“Not enough inspiration after all?” she demanded with a relentless scoff. “Does this help?” She pulled the scarf away from her neck, showing a delicate V of skin.
His eyes trailed low, the blue darkening, but still he didn’t move.
“Still not good enough?” she bit out. “Then how about this?” She unbuttoned her shirt, then ripped it off her back, standing before him in the hunter’s pants she had donned that morning and a thin cotton chemise, her hair a wild red tumbling down her shoulders.
She could see his tension, but he stood like granite, only his hand opening and closing slowly at his side.
But she was too angry to care. “Should I take off more?”
When he didn’t say a word, she started to jerk the chemise from the waist of her pants.
“Get out,” he said, the words shaking with fury.