Part 10 (1/2)
”What am I going to do about you?”
”Let me go.” It sounded as if she were begging. Diana closed her eyes, mortified.
”I don't think so.”
First she felt his rough palms, warm against her cold face as he held her still. Then his beard tickled her cheek, just before his lips brushed hers.
The kiss she'd imagined in New York had aroused her. The real thing was devastating. He seduced her with firm lips, the soft rub of his beard, the gentle caress of his hands on her upper arms.
His touch s.h.i.+fted to her back, eliciting an immediate response she felt powerless to control. Craving. Hunger. A clenching deep inside. Her body longed to welcome him even as her mind struggled against the attraction.
”No,” she protested, shocked at how close she was to yielding and by her sudden suspicion that, with this man, she might learn to appreciate all the earthy pleasures her late husband had only begun to teach her.
Her objection came out so softly that, at first, Diana did not think he'd heard. Then, slowly and with obvious reluctance, he lifted his head to stare down at her.
The primitive hunger in his dark brown eyes made her stomach jitter and her bones melt. Her skin tingled. She could feel her cheeks burn.
”This ... we ... we cannot...” A shudder ran through her, fear and longing mixed together so that one blended into the other and neither could be separated out.
”No,” he agreed.
Just that fast, the fires she'd seen in his eyes were carefully banked, if not completely doused. He set her away from him.
”Go back to the parlor car,” he said, ”before I change my mind. Keep the cloak. I have no further need of it.”
Bereft, she could not contain a tiny cry of dismay. At that, more horrified than before, she managed one wobbly step, then two. Turning, using all her willpower to hold back a sob, she bolted for the door.
Chapter Eight.
”Eat up,” said Mrs. Grosgrain, a sea-captain's widow from Rhode Island. She was a round, red-faced, cheerful little person. Diana remembered her as the woman who'd been fascinated by Lavinia and Jerusha when she'd watched their entrance into the train shed. She and Mrs. Wainflete had set out a modest repast for luncheon.
”Go easy,” Mrs. Wainflete warned. ”Remember that we must ration what we eat.” Having accepted Bathory's dire predictions, she was now prepared to enforce rationing with a heavy hand.
The inventory of food supplies had been disheartening. In addition to the fruit, dried beef, cold chicken, and jelly in Jerusha's satchel, and similar supplies one of the other women carried, they had only a dozen eggs, two cans of Borden's condensed milk, and the cakes and sinkers from the buffet in the Pullman.
”Once the snow stops falling, we'll be able to reach nearby farms. They'll have food we can buy.” This reasonable a.s.sumption was voiced by Mrs. Preble, the third woman from Grand Central Station. The look in her eyes, as she'd watched Jerusha and Lavinia with avid interest, had been envy.
”We don't know where we are or how far from civilization,” Diana pointed out. They might be just on the outskirts of some town or miles from any habitation. There was no way to tell.
After they ate, Todd's Touring Thespians helped them pa.s.s what was left of the afternoon by performing a light comedy called The Cheerful Wives of Chatham. In this farce, Lavinia Ross and Jerusha Fildale played rivals for the affections of the character played by Nathan Todd. It was not much of a stretch for any of them and as a result the production was far more enjoyable than The d.u.c.h.ess of Calabria.
A light supper that much resembled luncheon followed, and after that Mrs. Wainflete made her next attempt to take command. ”The womenfolk,” she announced, ”will sleep in the drawing-room car, while you gentlemen remain here in the parlor car.” The other Pullman contained small, private drawing rooms whose sofas and armchairs converted into beds.
”Better than being jammed in like canned sardines,” Jerusha whispered in Diana's ear.
Lavinia looked rebellious and clung to Toddy, but Mrs. Wainflete wasn't having any of that. With a quelling look, she began a lecture on morals and propriety.
Once they got on their high horse, people like Mrs. Wainflete could not be swayed. In the end, it was easier to give in.
Diana awoke on Tuesday morning to a lull in the storm, but it did not last long. They'd only just sent out scouting parties, in the hope of finding a farm or village not too far from the tracks, before the snow began to fall again.
Several hours later, it was the team of Bathory and Todd that rode back in triumph on the seat of a farm wagon on runners. They brought with them a good supply of ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, and coffee. Hot, fresh coffee. Just a sip of the dark brew made Diana's spirits soar, but she could not help noticing that Nathan Todd did not share in the general jubilation.
”What's wrong, Toddy?” she asked, drawing him apart from the others to stand by the handrail in front of the parlor car windows. He'd flicked the curtains aside to stare bleakly out at the continuing snow.
”That Bathory fellow's most unreasonable.”
”In what way?”
”While we were out hunting for a farmhouse, I took the opportunity to tell him I'd heard that those stories he writes are deuced popular.”
Diana said nothing, but she had an inkling of what was coming.
”Told him that fellow Mansfield's making a fortune touring in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I offered Bathory the chance to see one of his tales adapted for the stage. Do you know what he said?”
Diana could imagine. Mansfield had more talent in his little finger than the entire company of Todd's Touring Thespians put together.
”He turned me down flat.” Clearly hurt by the rejection, Toddy huffed and fumed, then gestured impatiently at the scene beyond the window. ”And look at that! Thunderation, Diana! Every flake that falls is costing me money.”
She murmured sympathetic words. This time they were sincere. Todd's Touring Thespians had been scheduled to play five nights in Hartford. If they were stuck here much longer, Toddy stood to lose not only the box office receipts from that stand, but also his profits for the entire tour.
”Talk to him for me?” he suggested. ”I've a feeling he'd listen to you.”
”I have no influence over Mr. Bathory, Toddy.”
”Could if you wanted.”
The taunting words haunted her the rest of the day. She'd been avoiding Bathory since their kiss. The coward's way. How was she to continue their interview if she didn't talk to him?
Jerusha's sniffles gave her the excuse she was looking for. ”Do you have any remedies for a catarrh?” she asked, sidling up to Bathory as he stood by the window. The curtains were pulled back a scant inch to allow him to look out at the night sky.
”Why do you think I'd know?”
”You knew how to help Sam.”
”Common sense.”
”Well, then, what does common sense recommend for Jerusha?”
”Rest. Liquids. The patent medicine she's taking won't do her any harm.” His penetrating gaze made her uneasy. ”She's on the mend. I can hear it in her cough and so can you. What do you really want from me, Diana?”
”The same thing I've always wanted. To interview you.”
”That's all?”
”That's enough.”