The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(51)

“What do you think would have happened if our guests had witnessed this episode? Or if they had seen you throwing books at Laughton and fighting like a madwoman? Their opinion of you would be greatly diminished.”

“It was the two of us in the library.”

“Carlota, you know better. It’s not becoming.”

“I understand.”

“Fortunately for you Laughton got you to me quick. You’ll recover soon enough. Nevertheless, you need to sleep. The medication must do its work, and it can’t if you’re running around the house,” her father said, standing up, looking weary and perhaps eager to leave her side.

Carlota wished to close her eyes and sleep without another word. But it still rankled her, what Montgomery had said. Yes, that damnable man was right: she was a coward and she’d given her word. “Papa, I’d like to know the formula for my medication,” she said quickly, before her father had a chance to make his escape, before her courage deserted her.

Her father frowned. “Why are you asking for that?”

“Because…I suppose it would make me feel safer. And I’d like the formula for the medication the hybrids take, too.”

“Don’t you feel safe with me?”

“I do, but we are all dependent on you, and you’ve said yourself that I’m no longer a child. If I am to marry and leave Yaxaktun, how can I manage my affairs if I cannot even ensure my health? Will you come visit me every time I should have an attack?”

Her father’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. “You should not have an attack if you follow the rules I’ve set down. To go to bed at the same time each night and sleep soundly, to pray and read your Bible for comfort, to be gentle and serene and avoid exerting yourself physically.”

“But one cannot be gentle perpetually,” she said, her voice wavering.

“These are complicated medical matters.”

“You’ve said yourself I’m smart. And I’ve been helping you in the laboratory for these past few years. I could learn, I’m sure of it.”

“Not that smart,” her father said. He hadn’t raised his voice, but he was angry, his words were frost. “You and Laughton may be able to assist me with a small task here and there, but it is not the same as being a trained physician.”

“Papa—”

“No more of this. I need you to rest. Will you be a good girl?”

She lowered her eyes and nodded. Her voice was mild, delicate as the lace of her dress. “Yes, papa.”

“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Say it.”

“Blessed are the meek.”

“Take a nap and you’ll soon feel better,” he said and kissed her forehead before departing.

But she couldn’t rest because the paradox remained in her mind: that she must be a child to her father and also a grown woman. He wouldn’t let her grow, and yet he expected her to behave like a sophisticated, mature person.

Moreau’s daughter was forever supposed to remain a girl, like the dolls that watched her intently. But she was restless; she felt as if she’d overgrown her skin and must molt.

She lay in bed and closed her eyes but did not sleep.

Later, Lupe stopped by bearing a tray, a pot of tea and a cup, and a slice of bread with honey. The sun was setting, and the day’s burdensome heat had given way to the cooler comfort of the evening. The hour made her want to stretch languidly and stare at the stars.

“Montgomery thought tea might do you good. I think a cup of chocolate is better. But you know him, he can’t stand chocolate,” Lupe said, making a face. “British men. Tea, tea, tea.”

“That’s thoughtful of him, I suppose.”

“He’s feeling remorseful, I can tell. The two of you quarreled?”

Carlota nodded. The tea was chamomile. She poured herself a cup and grabbed the silver tongs, picking a sugar cube. Lupe lit two candles and placed them on the large table on the other side of the room. Above it rested her mirror, her hairbrush, and the wooden boxes containing necklaces, bracelets, and a rosary.

“What did you fight about this time?”

Carlota couldn’t tell her that Montgomery had called her a coward. She certainly didn’t want to repeat Montgomery’s talk about yearning. It almost made her head spin when she remembered the way he’d spoken. In love with love. Did he think her that foolish? And was he right? From what she knew, he’d loved but once. That wife of his who’d abandoned him long ago. If so, what wisdom could he offer her? Perhaps little, perhaps nothing.

Wasn’t Eduardo pretty? And pretty wasn’t everything, but it had been nice when he kissed her, and he was a great gentleman. Her father said so.

In love with love.

“We talked about this and that,” Carlota said, stirring the tea.

“Someone’s being evasive.”

“I’m not. It was several things, and I’m not sure he’d like me repeating our whole conversation.”

Lupe did not seem convinced. She went around the room, with the pretense of arranging a few things. She picked up a white shawl Carlota had left on a chair, placed a book back on its shelf. Carlota sipped her tea. It was too hot and scalded her tongue. She set the cup down.

“I asked my father about the formula. He wouldn’t share it with me,” she said as she resumed stirring her cup.