The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(49)

“I’m sure he’ll find you if it’s urgent.”

“Well, fine. I wanted to talk to you, anyway.”

“About?”

She sat up properly, indicating the couch with a movement of her fan and making space for him, should he wish to sit next to her. He did.

“I suppose you haven’t talked to your father about the hybrids.”

“You mean if I’ve asked him about the formula.”

“That’s right.”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” he muttered. “Not with the young master around to distract you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I was thinking about you and Eduardo, but it’s not for me to meddle with.”

“That isn’t ‘nothing.’ Speak up, sir.”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“You will answer me,” she said and slapped him on the arm with the fan.

When she was with Eduardo, she brandished the painted fan like the weapon of a coquette; it quivered in her hands in salutation, its movement punctuated her laughter. But with Montgomery, the fan was used to administer a punishment. And she had such a petulant look on her face, her chin up and airy, that he could not contain himself even though he knew, by the blush on her cheeks, that she was embarrassed and that was why she had reacted in such a way.

“Rather than doing something useful you’re wasting your time with that Eduardo. No wonder you don’t talk to your father, all your words are spent on someone else, that’s what I think,” he said bitterly and when she stared at him, wide-eyed, he pressed on, wanting to provoke her into further anger. “Or are you scared of the doctor? Is that why you won’t talk to him?”

“You could talk to my father, Montgomery, if you wish it,” she said.

“But I wasn’t the one who said I would. You promised Cachito and Lupe you’d assist them. Fine, then. If you’ll be a coward, then I’ll stick my neck out.”

“You have no right to call me a coward. You’re as cruel as Lupe!”

Incensed, she threatened to slap him again with the closed fan, but he caught it and her hand. When he felt that hand beneath his and the quivering pulse under his fingertips he also felt the bitterness bleeding out.

“Carlota, I don’t know what Lupe has told you, but I didn’t say it to be cruel. It’s just that Eduardo is no good for you,” he explained, softening his tone.

“Have you any other suitors you’d present to me?”

“No. But there will come someone worthier. Another boy.”

“My father would have me…What’s wrong with him?” she asked, and she’d softened, too, and had not drawn her hand away. Instead she looked at him curiously.

“I know his type. It’s the type of man who only takes. I don’t think he’d love you properly, and you, Carlota…well, I know you. You share my same malady.”

“A malady?” she asked, now more curious than irritated.

“Yes, of the heart. You are in love with love, Carlota,” he said, gripping her hand tighter. “With the mere idea of it, I see it on your face. You yearn for everything and you are about to tumble into an abyss. Some people, they give a fraction of themselves, but there are others who give themselves completely. And you will. You’ll give yourself utterly. I’ve been where you’ve been. I’ve been young and I chose badly and it broke me.”

He thought of pretty Fanny Owen and the brief moments of his happiness that were obliterated by pain and sorrow. It was something that was impossible to explain. Most people would find it ridiculous that one could be so harmed by a single person. But he’d always been a romantic, and maybe he’d also been lonesome and scarred and he’d wanted to be saved, even back then. And Fanny had been the scent of a green forest and spring and hope, until it all wilted into nothing.

“I don’t want the same to happen to you,” he said, and he slid his hand away.

It was all true, too. He knew well she’d find a young boy to care about one day, and he’d never begrudge her that. But to end up in the arms of Eduardo Lizalde struck him as almost obscene. Why not another man? Any man. He’d happily dance at her wedding as long as the groom was not that tiresome toad.

Carlota frowned, as if thinking it through carefully. “But he might give me Yaxaktun,” she said. “Otherwise what would we do for money?”

“A woman shouldn’t marry solely for money,” he said, and now he thought of his poor sister and her terrible, early death. He understood what a bad marriage did to a woman.

If he could go back! But he’d lost Elizabeth. He’d lost everything. Now he felt as though Carlota might face a similar, terrible end, and he could not allow that to happen, no matter how much Moreau salivated after the Lizalde fortune. He must speak up. But she didn’t seem to be listening.

“Easy enough for you to say,” she told him, shaking her head. “If Mr. Lizalde takes away this place from us you can work somewhere else. You can return to British Honduras, to Cuba or even England. But what would we do? What would I do?”

Then come with me, he thought suddenly. She might not have romantic notions about him, but he could whisk her away if she wished it, and if she liked him, even a little, then that would be enough for him. It was a foolish idea, and yet he thought to utter it. But then she spoke, quick, nervous.