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Ingram was propped up on the pillows. At first glance nothing seemed any different, as if she had been here only yesterday, when in fact it was weeks ago.
r /> Then as she came closer to the bed, she saw his eyes. They were hollower around the sockets than before, and cloudy, as if he could not see through them.
“Hello, Ingram,” she said gently. “How are you?”
He did not reply. Had he not heard her? Looking at him, she was almost certain he was conscious. Could he see her?
She touched the thick-fingered white hand on the covers. She half expected it to be cold, but it was warmer than her own.
“How are you?” she repeated a little more loudly.
Suddenly his hand closed on hers, gripping her. She gasped, and for an instant thought of pulling away. Then with immense effort she relaxed her arm and let it be.
“You look a little better,” she lied. He looked terrible, as if something inside him had perished.
He was still staring at her with cloudy eyes. It was as if there were a window between them, of frosted glass that neither of them could see through.
“Come again, have you, Beata?” His voice was no more than a whisper, but the anger was there in it, almost a gloating. “Got to, haven’t you, as long as I’m still alive? And I am! You’re not free yet….”
“I know that, Ingram,” she answered, staring at him. “And neither are you.” The moment the words were across her lips she regretted them. It was her fault as well as his. How could she have been blind enough to have married him all those years ago? No one had forced her. She had been married before, for several years, and her first husband had died. It had been time she chose again. She had seen what she wished to see, as perhaps he had also. They were neither of them very young anymore. Except that she had cared for him. He had never cared for her, or perhaps for anyone. It was advisable for his career that he be married. And she brought with her a dowry, gathered for her by her friends, after her father’s disgrace. San Francisco was far enough away for word of that not to have traveled here.
Ingram’s face twisted very slightly. Was it an attempt at a smile, a moment of warmth, even regret? Or was it a sneer because she was as imprisoned as he was, at least for the moment? Perhaps that was why he hung on to life, even like this—to keep her trapped as well.
She had something to make up for. She would give him the benefit of the doubt, however small it was. She smiled back at him, and very slightly increased the pressure of her fingers around his.
His hand closed tight, hurting her.
“Bitch!” he said distinctly, then seemed to choke on his own breath. He gasped and the air rattled and caught in his throat. Then the grip slackened a little on her hand, but not enough to let her go.
She turned to pull away, but she was not strong enough, and she was very aware of the doctor watching her, no doubt imagining some kind of devotion and grief. She must behave with decorum. She let her hand rest easily.
Ingram’s nails bit into her hand. He was still strong enough to hurt her.
He opened his eyes again and stared at her, suddenly lucid.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” he hissed. “I know you did, for all your sniveling. Whore! Cheap, dirty whore!”
She wanted to reply, to curse him back, but she would not do it with the doctor present. His pity was terrible, but his disgust would be worse. She kept her back to him as much as possible and forced herself to smile at Ingram.
She measured each word. “It seems it was all you could manage,” she said deliberately. She could say it now, at last. He was helpless to beat her.
He understood—perfectly. His face suffused with rage and he tried to reach for her. His eyes bulged and he choked, gasped, and choked again, more deeply. His arms tried to thrash; his body went rigid and shook even more violently. He bit his tongue and his mouth drooled foam and blood.
Then just as suddenly it was over. He lay perfectly still and his hand slipped off hers at last.
She let out a sigh of relief and pulled away, gently, forcing herself not to flinch.
The doctor moved forward beside her. He put out his fingers and touched York’s neck.
Beata looked at the cloudy eyes and knew that he saw nothing, not her, not the room. They were completely blind.
“Lady York,” the doctor said quietly, “he is gone. I’m…I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’ve been…very good.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “It must be terrible for you. He was such a fine man.”
The doctor stared at her, afraid she was going to become hysterical. She could have. He was so wildly wrong she wanted to laugh, long, crazily, on and on. Ingram was dead! She was free!
