Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(59)

Madeline had kept silent after that, knowing that there must indeed be something very wrong with her…because what tormented her was not the disgrace she had brought on her family, but the pain she had caused Logan. The memory of his face the morning they had parted—so blank, so controlled—sent her into fresh agony every time she thought of it.

If she had it to do all over again, she would behave so differently. She would have trusted Logan enough to be honest with him, and perhaps he might have listened. She longed to comfort him, a ridiculous notion since she was the one who had caused him grief. If only she could see him one more time, to assure herself that he was all right—but common sense told her such ideas were useless. She must let him go, and salvage what she could of her own life.

Unfortunately, that was becoming increasingly difficult.

The front door opened, and Mrs. Florence's maid, Cathy, peered out. “Yes?” Her eyes widened as she beheld Madeline. “Oh, Miss Maddy!”

“Hello, Cathy,” Madeline said hesitantly. “I know it's an odd hour to call, but I've traveled a long way. Do you think Mrs. Florence will receive me?”

“I'll run and ask her, Miss Maddy. She's just finishing her supper.”

Standing inside the door, Madeline breathed in the musty vanilla scent of the house, the aroma familiar and comforting. The panicked rhythm of her heart eased as soon as she saw Mrs. Florence approach, her silvery-peach hair arranged in a twist, her hazel eyes soft in her lined face. One of her hands was wrapped around an engraved silver and mahogany cane. It thumped gently on the carpet as she walked toward Madeline.

“Maddy,” she said in a kindly way.

“Have you been injured, Mrs. Florence?” Madeline asked in concern.

“No, my dear. It's only that the cold weather sinks into my bones sometimes.” She reached Madeline and took her hand, enclosing Madeline's cold fingers in her warm ones. “Have you run away again, child?”

Madeline felt a rush of gratitude. It seemed that Mrs. Florence's face was the only friendly one she had seen in two months. “I had to see you. I need someone to confide in. I felt that you wouldn't turn me away…or condemn me for what I wish to talk to you about.”

“Have you no grandmother of your own to turn to?”

“Only one, on my mother's side.” Madeline thought of her stern, religious grandmother, and winced. “She wouldn't be of any help, I'm afraid.”

“Will your family be alarmed to find you missing, Maddy?”

Madeline shook her head. “I told my parents that I was going to visit my sister Justine. I think they were happy to have me out of the house for a while. I've caused them quite a bit of trouble, and no end of embarrassment.” She paused and added in a strained tone, “With more to come, I'm afraid.”

Mrs. Florence held her gaze, her alert eyes missing nothing. She reached out to pat Madeline's tense shoulder. “I believe I understand why you're here, my dear. You were right to come to me—more right than you know. Go to the parlor, child, while I tell the footman to bring in your bags. You may stay as long as you wish.”

“I have a maid and driver—”

“Yes, we'll put them up as well.” She turned to the maid who waited nearby. “Cathy, fetch a supper tray for our guest and bring it to the parlor.”

“I'm not hungry,” Madeline protested.

“You've lost weight, Maddy…and that isn't healthy for a girl in your predicament.”

They shared a gaze of mutual understanding. “How did you know?” Madeline asked.

“How could I not know?” Mrs. Florence rejoined with a touch of wry sadness. “Nothing else could put that look in your eyes. I gather your family isn't yet aware?”

“No,” Madeline said, her voice strained. “And I don't think I'm strong enough to tell them. I feel…very much alone, Mrs. Florence.”

“Come inside, my dear, and we'll talk.”

Enthusiastic cries and applause followed Logan as he strode offstage. It had been a successful performance, though he hadn't played the part to his satisfaction. He had tried to summon the depths of feeling required for the part, but all he had been able to dredge up was a halfhearted effort.

Scowling, Logan ignored the cast and crew members who tried to gain his attention. He entered his dressing room and pulled off his damp open-necked shirt, dropping it to the floor. As he headed to the washstand, a flicker in the mirrored dressing table caught his attention. He turned quickly, startled to see an old woman seated in the corner.

She regarded him calmly, as if she had every right to be there. Although she was a small woman, she had an outsized presence and wore her age with regal pride. One veined hand, laden with jeweled rings, was clasped around an elaborate silver cane. Although her hair was a soft shade of peach, it was clear that at one time it had been a flamboyant red. Her hazel eyes gleamed with keen interest as she stared at him.

“They told me I could wait for you in here,” she said.

“I don't receive visitors in my dressing room.”

“An adequate performance,” she commented, ignoring his brusque statement. “Polished and fairly well-paced.”

Logan smiled ruefully, wondering who the hell she was. “This isn't the first time of late that I've been damned with faint praise.”