The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,6

again, glanced sharply at Lord Elsingham.

“To her reason?” supplied the tall man.

The doctor nodded reluctantly. “This continued confusion as to her identity . . . It may be—must be— a symptom of some infection. I shall be in again to see her ladyship tomorrow morning. And if her condition worsens, send someone for me at once. Meanwhile, a competent woman must be in attendance upon your wife every moment.”

Kathryn’s mind was reeling. These men thought her delirious—or crazy! But this was a dream, wasn’t it? An unusually vivid nightmare? Dredged up from her subconscious by the pain and humiliation of Don’s rejection of her. A sort of wish-fulfillment fantasy? The golden-haired man was speaking again. Kathryn fought the sedative the doctor had given her to hear and understand what was being said. It seemed prosaic enough.

“I’ll see that your instructions are carried out,” Lord Elsingham said. “And my thanks, Dr. Anders.”

The doctor was at the bedroom door. He turned. “The woman attendant should not, I think, be my lady’s dresser. The woman seemed to put her into a frenzy.” He went out, closing the door behind him.

Lord Elsingham was frowning as his eyes met Kathryn’s. He appeared to be moved by the pleading, the raw fear, which she could not control. He said, searching her face wearily with his eyes, “Is this another one of your ploys, Nadine? A trick to avoid being sent to Ireland?”

Wordlessly, Kathryn shook her head.

“I promise you,” the man said, “I shall not change my mind. The documents of which I told you exist in my safe. You have no bargaining power. Your choice is the same: an ugly scandal, which will result in a public bill of divorcement, or your immediate removal to your home in Ireland, with a guaranteed allowance from my lawyers as long as you stay out of England. We’ve been over this so often—”

“Lord Elsingham,” Kathryn said urgently. “You are a man of education—an intelligent man. I think you are an enlightened man for—for your time. I must appeal to you as such . . .”

He was staring at her, surprise and perplexity in his expression. “Why do you persist in playing this new role? And who has schooled you to speak so differently?”

Kathryn took heart. At least she had caught his real attention, broken through the polite mask which he donned when he dealt with his wife. She paused, reaching frantically for the right words, the words which might hold his attention and convince him of the reality of this fantastic, incredible situation. She took a deep breath.

“This is literally, for me, a matter of life and sanity. May I ask for the favor of five minutes of your time—and an unbiased attitude of mind? I swear to you that this is not some trick played by a woman you have obviously come to dislike and distrust, probably with justice.” She hesitated, suddenly terrified by the unbelievable situation in which she found herself. Was she insane? Was this whole nightmare the delusion of an unbalanced mind? No! She had to believe there was some other explanation. Perhaps this man could help her—even though it was clear to her that he regarded her as his enemy.

“As one human being to another—five minutes, Lord Elsingham? With your mind open and unprejudiced by whatever has been at issue between you and—Lady Elsingham?”

He was really puzzled now. The frown which had drawn his eyebrows together had deepened, but he came toward the bed, drawing a chair close, and sat down.

“As one human being to another. I cannot deny such an appeal.”

Kathryn felt a surge of relief. At least the look of dislike had left his face momentarily, to be replaced by an expression of guarded interest. Kathryn clenched her hands together in a gesture of intense concentration. “Let me begin by asking you to listen to—a story.” Ignoring his small movement of protest, she went on quietly. “A woman had just received a painful blow to her self-image. The man she had confidently expected would propose marriage to her had revealed his lack of interest in the most humiliating way possible. The woman, blind with pain, wanders down an unfamiliar street in the rain. She takes shelter from the storm in the only available haven, a small art gallery. The woman enters. She sees a portrait. It depicts a woman, very beautiful but arrogant and—evil. The woman who has been rejected is . . . plain and without glamor. She is fascinated by