The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(53)

“I thought she might die. I was frightened. I realize Carlota has an illness—”

“An illness of the blood. My wife had it…She died. I couldn’t stop her bleeding. And the child…” Moreau trailed off, and his eyes fixed on a distant point. “For all my knowledge, it was impossible to stop the bleeding.”

“I didn’t realize you were married to Carlota’s mother,” Montgomery said. It had always been his understanding that Carlota was the doctor’s natural daughter. As such, she could not enjoy all the rights of legitimate children. The doctor might not have a great deal of money, but there might be some pesos in his bank account back in Mérida. If Carlota was not an illegitimate child but his rightful heir, then upon his passing Carlota would surely be the recipient of this account. It gave the girl more leverage and social standing than he’d thought she had.

The doctor blinked, as if waking from a dream. He stepped away from the parrot’s cage. “Carlota? No, I didn’t marry her mother. I suppose I feel it was a situation similar to a marriage. You’ll forgive me, I don’t like to talk about her.”

“I understand,” he said assuming that in Moreau’s aging mind both his first wife and his subsequent lover had merged and become one.

“Carlota said you were fighting when the attack came upon her.”

“We had a difference of opinion.”

“She’s not supposed to make herself anxious.”

“But is that all it was? She felt anxious and that generated such a violent reaction?”

He couldn’t believe it. Carlota, for all her charm, was likely to argue with him about a number of topics. To argue with Lupe, too. She didn’t go into a paroxysm over that.

“She’s grown up. She’s changed and changing.” The doctor’s voice had a dull edge, not quite irritation, closer perhaps to doubt. “I had a perfect handle on her when she was a child. I knew exactly the dose of her medication and how to keep her illness in check. But a living organism isn’t stable. It’s not carved in stone. I am using all my scientific knowledge of the laws of growth. But it’s not enough.”

“Then this is serious. She must be very ill, and it can’t be an arbitrary episode as you’ve said.”

“I can control it,” Moreau insisted, banishing whatever doubt had strained his voice seconds earlier, like a magician performing an effortless trick. “Carlota has always been a work in progress. A project. That is what a child is, Laughton: one great project.”

As usual, Moreau was grandiloquent, and Montgomery expected him to launch into a never-ending speech, but instead the man shot him a suspicious glance.

“I want you to be careful around Carlota. Please don’t trouble her.”

“Sir, I wouldn’t. I don’t.”

Moreau did not seem terribly convinced. He leaned a hand on his cane and frowned. Eduardo and Isidro walked into the sitting room, both looking so healthy and in good spirits that Montgomery immediately felt irritated by their smiling faces and their loud voices.

“Gentlemen, where has Miss Moreau gone? We’ve been looking for her,” Eduardo said.

“My cousin wants to invite the lady to go riding. Of course, with your permission, sir,” Isidro added.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait until tomorrow. Carlota is feeling tired,” Moreau said, but he had a cordial smile on his face for the sake of the young men.

“Is everything well?” Eduardo asked. He sounded solicitous, but his mere voice was grating. There were leeches and vampire bats Montgomery would have liked better.

“Perfectly fine. It’s that minor malady that sometimes affects my daughter. But she’s had her medication. There’s nothing else she needs.”

“Doctor, perhaps we should send tea to her room,” Montgomery suggested, wishing to make a retreat into the kitchen, away from these men. “I can ask Ramona to prepare it.”

“A good idea. And I would be happy to sit with her, too,” Eduardo said. “It’s rather depressing to have tea alone, after all.”

“Sit in a lady’s room, sir? It doesn’t sound proper to me.”

“I’m surprised you’re so concerned with what is proper, Mr. Laughton. You strike me as a bit…unconventional,” Eduardo said with a smile.

You strike me as an idiot, Montgomery thought.

“Why don’t we find another way to entertain you,” Moreau said, rising from his seat. “Perhaps you’d play a game of chess with me?”

“Gladly.”

The men walked out of the room, to his great relief. Unfortunately, Isidro remained. He ran a hand by the mantelpiece, humming to himself, before heading to the piano and tapping a couple of keys.

“You don’t play chess?” Montgomery asked, wishing the man would disappear.

“I can’t say it’s my favorite pastime. And you?”

“Cards,” he said simply.

“That must mean you’re a betting man.”

“Sometimes.”

“And someone who balances the odds.”

“Do you have a point, sir?”

Isidro moved away from the piano to sit directly in front of Montgomery, leaning back in a chair with a practiced indolence. “I know my cousin, and if I were a betting man I’d say Carlota’s odds are very good.”