Part 11 (1/2)
Wary of flattery, she glanced down at herself. The blouse was forest green. Jerusha's. Deep purple fabric swathed her lower half. From Mrs. Preble. Gold slippers peeped out from beneath the hem. Mrs. Grosgrain's contribution.
”Is that what they call rational dress?”
She nodded. The skirt was split, turning it into wide-legged trousers.
”My mother would approve of such a sensible garment.”
Encouraged by the personal nature of his comment, she perched on the arm of his chair, ignoring the interested looks from members of Todd's company and Mrs. Wainflete's censorious glare. ”Is she an active woman?”
”More than you'll ever know.”
”Which of your careers is she more proud of, writer or doctor?”
The flash of anger in his eyes was frightening to behold. ”You never stop, do you?” The words were harsh, guttural.
”It's obvious you're a physician.” She'd suspected when she'd watched him set Sam's collarbone and had become convinced when he'd given his opinion of Jerusha's condition.
”You're an expert, are you?” He looked like a grumpy bear, disturbed in mid-winter, but she thought she detected the hint of a smile in his voice.
”Have I stumbled upon one of your deep, dark secrets?” she teased, hoping to lighten the mood. ”Are you really Dr. Bathory, mad scientist?”
He closed his eyes and ignored her.
No amount of coaxing would get him to resume their conversation.
In the end, frustrated, Diana gave up. She'd try again in the morning, she decided. Wrapping Bathory's cloak around her, she left the parlor car.
A blast of cold air buffeted her as she stepped outside. The surface was icy beneath the slippery soles of her shoes. She should never have worn the frivolous things. Fumbling for handholds, she inched across the open s.p.a.ce towards the door to the drawing-room car.
Behind her, she heard a faint snick, but did not look back. It required all her concentration to manage each tiny step forward.
A sharp tug at the back of the black cloak caught her off guard. It felt as if the hem had snagged on something, but Diana had no time to discover what or how. As she was jerked off balance, one foot slipped sideways. At the same moment, her other ankle twisted with an audible pop and she lost what remained of her balance. Flailing wildly, she tried to catch hold of something, anything, that would help her stay on the narrow, slippery walkway.
The futile effort came to an abrupt, calamitous end when the back of her head made sharp contact with something blunt. A shower of stars and a burst of pain sent her reeling. Dazed, she saw the world go black around her even as she felt herself pitch headlong into a drift of cold, unforgiving snow.
Chapter Nine.
Diana bolted upright with a cry and opened her eyes.
Damon Bathory sat beside her on her bed in the drawing-room car. When he put his hands on her shoulders and tried to force her to lie down again she instinctively fought him.
”Be still,” he ordered.
”Diana, do as he says. You're hurt.”
It was the second voice, Jerusha's, that she obeyed. Her head hurt too much to go on struggling.
”What happened?” Her voice sounded weak and raspy.
”You fell crossing to the drawing-room car,” Jerusha said.
”There's a lump on your head.” Bathory looked puzzled. ”The snow you landed in was deep and relatively soft. I don't understand how you managed to knock yourself out.”
”My cousin Chloe was caught out in bad weather once.”
Diana turned towards Mrs. Wainflete's strident voice, then wished she hadn't. Even the smallest movement sent shards of pain reverberating through her skull.
”She was unconscious and cold as a corpse when they found her,” Mrs. Wainflete continued. She crowded into the cubicle with Diana, Jerusha, and Damon Bathory. ”My great-aunt f.a.n.n.y saved her life by wrapping her in a sheet smeared with mola.s.ses.”
”A bath in tepid water would have been as effective,” Bathory murmured distractedly, ”and Mrs. Spaulding was not out there long enough to need such radical treatment.”
”She's not badly chilled?” That was Jerusha.
”The cloak kept her relatively warm.”
His cloak, Diana thought, and s.h.i.+vered.
”We need to get her out of these wet garments and into something dry.” He started to unb.u.t.ton her blouse.
”Mr. Bathory!” Mrs. Wainflete sounded scandalized and Diana felt her bat his hands away.
She wanted to tell the old battle ax to mind her own business, but the pounding in her head confused her. Had she fallen? Or had she been pushed? And if she'd been pushed, had it been Bathory who'd pushed her? Was he savior or enemy? Friend or fiend? She had no way of telling.
”Who found me?” she asked.
”I did,” Jerusha said. ”We all decided to retire shortly after you left the parlor car, but neither Patsy nor Lavinia noticed you there in the snow. I did.”
Bathory's voice was all gentleness now. ”Do you hurt anywhere else? Ribs? Back? Neck?”
Diana closed her eyes to the concerned faces hovering above her and forced herself to concentrate. Only then did she realize that the throbbing in her ankle was more intense than that in her head.
”When I slipped,” she said slowly, emphasizing the word as she opened her eyes to watch Bathory's face, ”I twisted my ankle.”
She saw concern in his expression, and something more. It was as if he felt her pain. That impression was so strong that it temporarily banished her doubts.
”I slipped on the ice,” she murmured.
This time she almost believed her own story. After all, wouldn't someone have noticed if Bathory had followed her out of the parlor car? Mrs. Wainflete certainly noticed, and bleated in protest, when he reached beneath the divided skirt of Diana's rationals, shoving aside one leg of the red flannel union suit she'd borrowed from Jerusha to run deft fingers over her injury. Holding her foot in one hand, he kneaded her calf with the other, his fingers warm on her cold skin and strong enough to rub away the cramps that had come from tensing her muscles against the pain.
As soon as she relaxed, he stripped off a bright pink stocking to get a better look at her injured ankle. Diana wondered what had happened to the little gold slippers but she didn't ask. She was too preoccupied with what he was doing to her. In stoic silence, she bore his poking and prodding.
Mrs. Wainflete was not so obliging. ”Mr. Bathory! You cannot handle a young woman's limbs that way! It isn't decent.”
”I am a doctor, Mrs. Wainflete. It is quite all right for me to examine her.”
”He is a physician,” Diana said through gritted teeth, but by the look on the woman's face, she did not believe either of them.