By this time Eugenie’s mother had worked herself into a state of hysterics, which the doctor—with familiar impatience for her ways—treated with firm language and a sedative. Mr. Belmont escaped to his study and closed the door, and Terry vanished to the stables with Jack. That left Eugenie and two wide-eyed servants, one of them the new cook, who was yet to serve any meal that wasn’t slightly singed.
“Do you think you will be able to cope with nursing these two young rascals?” the doctor asked, with a sympathetic smile.
“I usually do. Cope, I mean,” Eugenie said wryly.
The doctor, who had known her since she was born, rested his gaze on her pale face for a thoughtful moment. “You do not look well yourself, my dear.”
“A lingering headache, that’s all,” she reassured him.
“You should take care of your own health, Eugenie. Your family depends upon you a great deal. Too much, perhaps.”
When the doctor had gone, reminding her to send a message to him if anything further developed, Eugenie set about her tasks. She didn’t really mind. Besides, keeping busy took her mind off her own troubles, and she was certainly busy with two sick little boys. They, and the running of the household and the instructing of the new cook, took up most of her days. Several times she was also called up in the night to give out doses of the doctor’s medicine and comfort the children back to sleep. Finally the twins’ fevers broke, and when no rashes or other symptoms developed, the doctor declared them on the mend.
This didn’t mean Eugenie could escape her duties. The twins were still inside, kept warm and as quiet as possible, and she spent lots of time playing games and putting together jigsaws and making up silly stories that had them in fits of giggles.
“You have done a remarkable job, Eugenie,” the doctor complimented her, when he visited for a final time. “The boys are fully recovered and it is all down to your care and competence.”
Eugenie couldn’t help but wish Sinclair were here to hear the compliment. Perhaps he would think better of her then. Although, she reminded herself, she was not supposed to care what he thought of her.
It seemed incredible that a fortnight had passed since her night of passion and the horrors of the following morning. Most of the time she managed to put those memories out of her head, but occasionally a word or a scene would pop into her head before she could stop it. She could only hope that soon she would be so recovered that she would cease to think of him altogether.
One afternoon Terry found her in the garden and informed her that he’d sold the filly he and Jack had been training. “Don’t tell Father,” he warned her. “I’m using the blunt for a surprise for someone.”
“A surprise for whom?” Eugenie said, putting down the book she’d been reading.
He dug his hands into his pockets and looked away. “I can’t say. But don’t worry,” he added quickly. “It’s for something good, Genie.”
Normally she would have teased him into telling her the whole story but she didn’t feel like making the effort.
“Do you think any deed is acceptable, even a bad one, if it is done for a good reason?” Terry asked her, his face serious, as if she held all the answers to such tricky questions.
“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. “Sometimes. But if you do something bad, even if it’s for a g
ood reason, then it usually comes home to roost.”
She was thinking of her own situation. She’d begun to make a list of suitable husbands, but so far it was rather sparse. She didn’t know many and those she did know did not compare to Sinclair.
When Eugenie glanced up at last, she saw that Terry had left her and she was all alone again in the garden. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t asked him what deed he was speaking of.
I’ll ask him later, she told herself.
But she never did.
Sinclair had planned to break his latest canvas in two. He’d begun the painting the night after he made love to Eugenie—and before he read the letter—representing her as she had looked when she lay on the divan, her hair wild about her, her green eyes full of passion and trust, as if all that was good in her shone out. But after one glance into her eyes, at her smiling lips, the strength to destroy her image deserted him.
Angrily he strode from the attic room and locked the door, telling himself he would never paint again. And that was her fault, too. Everything was her fault.
But the next evening he was back up there again. A prisoner to his own desires. Without a word he began work on the portrait, losing himself in the world of color and texture, and it wasn’t until the dawn light made him blink that he realized he’d been there all night. It was a madness that would have to stop, but he didn’t know how else to drive her from his mind. He told himself that the painting was a form of exorcism, and he was certain that when it was finished he would have rid himself of her once and for all.
And then there was Annabelle and the filly.
He blamed his lack of sleep—and ultimately Eugenie—for that as well. His sister had been pestering him for days to look at the animal and finally he gave in. He hadn’t realized it was owned by the elder Belmont boy until he reached the stables and found them waiting, Jack and Terry, the filly between them, and Annabelle in raptures over the creature.
Sinclair wouldn’t put it past that particular family to trick his sister into buying a horse that was lame, but after looking thoroughly over the filly he found no fault with her. The price was exorbitant, but with Annabelle looking at him with tears in her eyes, as if she sensed his current weakness. . .
“Please, Sinclair? I want something of my own to love. Perhaps I might even race her one day.”
“You don’t like horses, Annabelle.”