Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (4 page)
Her muscles were rigid, her breathing shallow. Matthew’s fingers eased her eyelids open. Dilated, no reaction to the lamp. He picked up his long-blade knife, cut away her clothes quickly, precisely, as if he were skinning an animal. The hooks of her corset tried his patience. He growled low and tore open the last of them, then pitched the contraption into the fire, cursing the fashion that decreed her breasts be so vulnerable to the storm.Direct contact. It had worked with Klondike miners whose skin had taken on the same waxy sheen. It had worked for some of them, at least. A sickening fear made Matthew shiver as he slipped off his clothes and lay beside her, drawing the soft flannel sheet, then the red wool blanket, then the deer and elk skins over them both.
The woman moaned softly, pressed closer against his chest. He tried to concentrate on counting her heartbeats, but found himself thinking of the others — of Lottie’s teaching fingers guiding his awkward ones, of Seal Woman’s ebony braids glistening in the moonlight. It had been so long since he’d decided to make himself content with his trees, that his rushing, powerful physical reaction to her was a surprise. He winced, then sighed into her hair. “Well, my proper Miss Whittaker …
I’m
alive,” he told her.
I’m
alive,” he told her.
His care had not kept his women beside him. Why had this one come, with her proud eyes masking the part of her that attracted him, that troubled innocence behind her airs? Was it his desire alone now? Was that all it took to kill? Cold. He was suddenly, unbearably cold.
He pulled himself out of the bed and stumbled to the hearth. There he took up the pile of her cut clothing and added it to the flames. The lace of her blouse caught first. It spread the fire through the burnished orange silk of her skirt, her coat. But the steel stays of her corset were glowing coals beneath it all. Mocking him, defying burning.
When he turned back she was shivering, her body working on its own to warm itself. Matthew dressed, and allowed himself a measure of hope.
But the woman’s fingers, feet, and breasts remained ashen and swollen. Matthew wrapped them in gauze. How bad were they? He knew they mustn’t turn black. He stared at the blade of his skinning knife, wondering if he could cut off a piece of her. He saw the reflection of her terrified eyes trapped in the knife’s steel.
Olana’s first memory was so dim, she wasn’t sure it was real. The sound of the wind, incessant, tinged blue. The smell of pine, leather, breaking through, holding her, taking on the blue. Then crackling flames, a hearthfire, a man standing naked before it, his hands opened out, absorbing the radiant heat. Under the mound of animal skins, Olana realized she was naked, too.
Was it real? It couldn’t have been, for the next instant he was clothed and sitting in a chair by her side, staring at a silver blade. He put it down, spoke softly. “I’ll look after you. Sleep.” Olana was a little girl again, turning away from her brother, stamping her foot the way he hated most. “You couldn’t even take care of yourself,” she told him. “A sore throat, you told me. When I came back, you’d be better, you’d have a surprise for me. But you were gone, the house draped in black crepe and after that I could never do anything right!”
She forced herself to turn around, because seeing him angry would be better than not seeing him at all. Weary, red-rimmed eyes, the startling color of robin’s eggs. Leland’s were brown, like hers.
“Mr. Hart?”
“Yes.”
“My hands hurt.”
He smiled as if she’d told him the next dance was his. Irritating man. “They have to heal,” he said. “It will take time.”
Time meant nothing to her. She was so confused. What was this dark place of red wood, stone hearth, spare furniture? A white glare came from the one high window. But the noise she thought would forever lash at her ears had stopped.
“The storm —”
“It’s over. You’re at my quarters. Safe.”
It began to come back. “A cave.”
“Yes, that’s right. That’s where I found you.” His drawn face was relieved by a smile again. “You’ve made a new discovery. Accessible and deep, from what I could see, too. Come spring I’ll chart it and —”
“I’m suffering and you’re charting caves!”
His eyes turned fierce. “A more constructive activity than your attempt to come up here.”
“I had no intention of coming up here. I was on a morning ride. I’m an experienced horsewoman. If it weren’t for that unruly nag —”
“That unruly nag had the sense to get out of a storm. She and the cave you found helped save your life.” He heaved a sigh and poured a large spoonful of amber liquid. He held her head and put it to her lips. “Swallow.”
It was honey mixed with something else, something that dulled the edges of her pain. He set up bandages and tinctures on the small table beside the bed.
Olana looked down at herself. “Whose clothes are these?”
“Mine.”
Then he had undressed her. She’d been naked. Was the rest
of it real? How long had she been here? What else had he done? “I should like mine returned.”
of it real? How long had she been here? What else had he done? “I should like mine returned.”
“I burned them.”
“Why?”
“Had to cut them off you. And I’m no seamstress.”
“But I could have —”
“They didn’t protect you the way they should have!” His sudden anger startled her. He looked away again.
“Mr. Hart, I shall have to ask you to take me home.”
“Home?”
“At your earliest convenience.”
He shook his head and laughed without humor. “At the moment, it’s no way in hell convenient.”
No man had ever blasphemed in her presence. It frightened her, but as when most things frightened her, she became even more imperious.
“My father will absorb any expense for your time and trouble.”
“Oh, will he? And from where do you think you’re asking to be returned? A formal cotillion?”
“Mr. Hart, I insist —”
“Insist all you want, but look out there, woman!” He motioned to the room’s one window. The snow had drifted past the middle of its pane. “That was a full-scale October blizzard, Miss Whittaker, and you are currently at over eight thousand feet of altitude in one of the most remote regions of the Sierra Nevada range. A few days ago your heart had slowed down to —”
“Days? I’ve been here days?”
“Three. No, four,” he corrected himself. Good heavens, the man couldn’t even count. “And you’ve got frostbite of the hands, feet, and breasts of a severity I’ve yet to determine.”
Breasts? That accounted for her absence of feeling there. But how could he even mention them? He reached for the buttons of the worn woolen shirt. Yes. She remembered. He’d done this before, invaded the privacy of her bosom. Before. But not while she’d had her wits about her.
“Avert your eyes, sir!”
“Avert —”
“I forbid you to look.”
“Now, how am I going to care for you without looking?”
Olana planted her gaze on his shoulder. “My mother’s physician had such respect that he didn’t even … look … when I was born.”
“Only thing that idiot had respect for was his inflated fee. Birthing doctors!” came out of him, a sigh of contempt.
“Oh? And I suppose you possess a vastly superior education to be so cognizant of their deficiencies?”
“I have eyes.” He slipped the nightshirt off her shoulders, leaving her bare but for the swaddling gauze wrap. He took up a pair of bent but gleaming clean scissors. “Which I intend to use in determining —” He stopped cutting through the thick gauze and took in a deep, even, breath. His voice became the comforting one of her dreams. “Can you feel there yet?”
So. He knew of her disembodied sensibility. Olana concentrated harder on looking at his shoulder. “No, for which I am quite thankful. My hands and feet are painful enough.”
Olana’s thoughts scattered as she finally followed his gaze to her breasts. Blisters — large, horrible, drove even modesty away. It took all the control she had to keep from screaming.
“Break them,” she whispered.
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
A wail escaped her throat.
“Listen to me,” he called. “Look at me, damnit!” She found him through the blur of her tears. “They’ll go down on their own,” he said softly. “They’ll help heal you.”
Olana surrendered, exhausted as he cut, wrapped, issued his curt, gruff commands.
“Will I feel there again?” Olana whispered when he was finished.
His hands stopped, then resumed dressing her, all in silence. A sob erupted, unwanted, from her throat. When he touched her shoulder, the nightshirt was on again, covering the monster she
now was — half woman, half biblical plague.
now was — half woman, half biblical plague.
He took up her hand. A sharp spasm of pain made her wince. He glanced toward the amber bottle. “Are you sure you don’t want —”
“Yes. Go away.”
“I can’t do that. I need to treat —”
“I hate you! I hate this place!” she shouted.
“Tell me about some place you like then,” he said, lifting his scissors. “Tell me about your home.”
“It’s not like here. It’s bright. Mr. Hart! That hurts!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Breathe deeply. Talk to me. What makes your place bright?”
“Glass. European glass. Glass etched in the windows, the doors, the chandeliers. And we have electric light — all through the house. That was my father’s idea.” A throbbing pain rode up her arm, but she made herself see her house on the hill in San Francisco. “It’s a different sort of light, electric.”
“How’s that?”
“Have you never seen — even a demonstration?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s white, instead of yellow like gas or oil. The servants love it because it leaves no dust. My mother swears it’s brighter than daylight. I wish I could tell you how it works. Men like to know how things work, don’t they?”
He pressed the cool cloth to her forehead. She’d endured it. He’d wrapped her hands again. But it wasn’t over, she could tell from his face. “Feet now?” she whispered.
“Yes. The last. Promise.”
She concentrated on the wild, partless, spiraling crown of his light hair as he positioned himself at her feet. He began to cut. More blisters. Terrible pain. She closed her eyes and thought of herself dancing in a new gown, a Worth gown, from Paris. “Oh, Mr. Hart, even you would like —” Purple spots burst behind her eyelids.
“What would I like?” his calm voice brought her back.
“All the wood in our house. The floors are a different parquet
in each room — mahogany, walnut, cedar, ash. My father loves trees, too, you see? And the ballroom! Polished wood and mirrors. Skylights too, so it never overheats no matter how many guests are danc —” Her right leg jerked involuntarily. She covered her mouth with her forearm and allowed the tears to ease down her cheeks. “ … are dancing,” she breathed out. No more cries, no more complaints, she chided herself; he was doing his best.
in each room — mahogany, walnut, cedar, ash. My father loves trees, too, you see? And the ballroom! Polished wood and mirrors. Skylights too, so it never overheats no matter how many guests are danc —” Her right leg jerked involuntarily. She covered her mouth with her forearm and allowed the tears to ease down her cheeks. “ … are dancing,” she breathed out. No more cries, no more complaints, she chided herself; he was doing his best.
“Over,” he called softly. “All finished now, hear?”
She opened her eyes to see his. Exhausted. And pained. His left cheek, above his beard, was swelling. “Mr. Hart. Did I kick you?”
“I believe you were dancing. And I was busy studying your ballroom floor. Served me right.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“No matter.” He smiled. Even that seemed an effort, she realized. The man was dead tired. His hand cradled the back of her head. The other took her arm down gently, held the glass to her lips. “It’s water. Promise,” he assured her.
She swallowed. “Mr. Hart, why didn’t I feel … the area of the first bandaging at all? Why did my hands and feet hurt so much?”
“It’s a good sign, the hurting. Means you’re healing.” He drew the covers up to her waist again. Then what did the numbness signify? Why didn’t he tell her that? Well, at least his hands were clean, even under the fingernails.
“I didn’t mean to be so difficult.”
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