A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [183]
Or he might be angry and tell her to mind her own business, order her to get out. It might be a quarrel she could never heal—perhaps never really want to. That would be horrible—but better than either of the other two. It would be violent, ugly, but at least there would be a certain kind of honestly in it.
Or there was a last possibility: that he would give her some explanation of what she had seen which was not abortion at all but some other operation—perhaps trying to save Marianne after a back-street butchery? That would be the best of all and he would have kept it secret for her sake.
But was that really possible? Was she not deluding herself? And if he did tell her such a thing, would she believe it? Or would it simply return her to where she was now—full of doubt and fear, and with the awful suspicion of a crime far worse.
She bent her head to her knees and sat crumpled without knowledge of time.
Gradually she came to an understanding that was inescapable. She must face him and live with whatever followed. There was no other course which was tolerable.
“Come in.”
She pushed the door open firmly and entered. She was shaking, and there was no strength in her limbs, but neither was there indecision, that had been resolved and there was no thought of escape now.
Kristian was sitting at his desk. He rose as soon as he saw her, a smile of pleasure on his face in spite of very obvious tiredness. Was that the sleeplessness of guilt? She swallowed, and her breath caught in her throat, almost choking her.
“Callandra? Are you all right?” He pulled out the other chair for her and held it while she sat down. She had intended to stand, but found herself accepting, perhaps because it put off the moment fractionally.
“No.” She launched into the attack without prevarication as he returned to his own seat. “I am extremely worried, and I have decided to consult you about it at last. I cannot evade it any longer.”
The blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen. The dark circles around his eyes stood out like bruises. His voice when he spoke was very quiet and the strain was naked in it.
“Tell me.”
This was even worse than she had thought. He looked so stricken, like a man facing sentence.
“You look very tired …” she began, then was furious with herself. It was a stupid observation, and pointless.
The sad ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Sir Herbert has been absent some time. I am doing what I can to care for his patients, but with them as well as my own it is hard.” He shook his head minutely. “But that is unimportant. Tell me what you can of your health. What pain do you have? What signs that disturb you?”
How stupid of her. Of course he was tired—he must be exhausted, trying to do Sir Herbert’s job as well as his own. She had not even thought of that. Neither had any of the other governors, so far as she knew. What a group of incompetents they were! All they had spoken of when they met was the hospital’s reputation.
And he had assumed she was ill—naturally. Why else would she consult him with trembling body and husky voice?
“I am not ill,” she said, meeting his eyes with apology and pain. “I am troubled by fear and conscience.” At last it was said, and it was the truth, no evasions. She loved him. It eased her to admit it in words, without evasion at last. She stared at his face with all its intelligence, passion, humor, and sensuality. Whatever he had done, that could not suddenly be torn out. If it came out at all, it would leave a raw wound, like the roots of a giant tree ripping out of the soil, upheaving all the land around it.
“By what?” he asked, staring at her. “Do you know something about Prudence Barrymore’s death?”
“I don’t think so—I hope not….”
“Then what?”
This was the moment.
“A short while ago,” she began, “I accidentally intruded on you while you were performing an operation. You did not see or hear me, and I left without speaking.” He was watching her with a small pucker of concern between his brows. “I recognized