Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(66)

“I know. Why do you suppose I started laughing? Honestly, Gareth. Could you be any more helpless?”

“Helpless?” Gareth frowned. “I’m not helpless. I just can’t think of anything to say. And since you won’t tell me what the matter is, I can’t solve the problem.”

“If you could solve the problem, I wouldn’t be crying, would I?”

“What the devil am I supposed to do about a problem I can’t solve?”

Oh, if only Jenny knew the answer to that one. But her future loomed ahead of her with frightening blankness. There was no home for her to return to; no back to go back to.

“It would help,” Jenny said, her voice thick with tears, “if you would come over here.”

He pulled his chair next to hers and sat, somewhat awkwardly. “Like this?”

She nodded. “And you could put your arms around me.”

“Like this?”

She relaxed into his hold. “Almost like that,” she said, “but tighter. Right. Like that.”

It was an illusion, and one she’d browbeaten him into displaying. But for a moment, she could imagine that he cared.

The mirage lasted only a moment. “This isn’t a rational way to address a problem,” he complained.

“Hush. Listen. Sometimes answers flow without words, through touch.”

“Like completing an electric circuit?”

Jenny had heard only bits and pieces about the new theories of electric flow, and couldn’t answer that. After a space, she spoke again.

“As much as I may find to deplore in my past conduct, I can’t see what I would change. The life I rejected seemed very dreary to me, without possibility of reward or thanks. I know any God-fearing woman would not quail at such a thought, but God had never shown me particular favor. I felt as if I were being forced into a coffin, and told that if only I would lie rigidly enough, the screams of the damned would soon fade into gentle murmurs. I saw the teachers around me—cold, humorless women. They had no friends, no family. I couldn’t join their ranks. I was eighteen, Gareth. It was too young to die. But now here I am. I’m not sure how to go on.”

He ran his hand down her hair. “For now,” he said, and then stopped. He leaned down, his nose brushing against her forehead. “For now, I’d like you to go on with me.”

“See?” Jenny said. “That was good. A comforting gesture, and completely unprompted on my part. You’re a quick study. Even you will have to admit that, despite your appeal to logic, touch works. All the cold in me flows to you.”

“Cold can’t flow,” he said, pulling her closer. “Only heat. Thermodynamically speaking—”

“Gareth?”

He looked down.

“Don’t ruin this.”

He didn’t.

HOURS LATER, Jenny ducked her head inside the bank. There were three cashiers about. None of them, Jenny saw with some relief, was Mr. Sevin. She approached another man, one with whom she had made deposits before. He regarded her with attentive politeness. Thank God; Mr. Sevin had not spread tales about her.

“Perhaps you can help me,” Jenny said. “I seem to have, um, misplaced my passbook. And I had hoped to make a withdrawal.”

“Of course,” said the man. “I recognize you. Have you your account information?”

Jenny handed over a slip of paper. He scanned it and then disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he carried a sheaf of papers. His mouth contorted into a puzzled frown.

“Madame—Esmerelda, is it?”

Jenny thought about explaining further. But no. She’d learned last time not to admit to identifying herself under a false name until after she had her money in hand.

“Yes.”

“Well, this is very strange. Typically, we do not maintain accounts when the balance sinks so low.”

Jenny sighed. She’d heard this before. “I know. When I opened the account…” Well. She didn’t want to alert him to Mr. Sevin’s involvement. If he decided to talk to the man, goodness knows when she’d see her money.

“Exceptions were made,” she said carefully. “The account was opened.”

The man made a dismissive motion. “Yes, of course. We all make exceptions from time to time. Technically, we are not authorized to do so, but, well.” He shrugged sympathetically. “It is just that nobody ever wants to maintain an account with a balance this low. There are no benefits to storing such a small sum, as the fees will eat any paltry interest.”

Trepidation fluttered through Jenny. Bank cashiers were not usually wealthy fellows. They would not call the twelve or thirteen pounds she earned every year “paltry,” no matter how flush the pockets of their clients.

“What amount is it that you see?”

“A little over one pound,” the man said. “There was a withdrawal a few days ago. Would you like to see the entry?”

Jenny’s mind filled with white-hot brilliant light. It washed out all thought, all emotion. She heard the sound of rushing water, as if she were the center of a deluge. She swayed dizzily and grabbed the counter in front of her to keep her balance. Her mind was empty. Completely empty.

Not so coincidentally, so was her bank account.

She’d been staving off panic by telling herself that her money was inaccessible. Unavailable, but there. An ineradicable bulwark against starvation. Twelve years of savings, insulating her from the depredation of time. She’d felt so brave sloughing off the trappings of Madame Esmerelda without the prospect of future income. She’d forgotten the panic penury could induce.