"Ain't that the truth," the hostler agreed. "I've a cousin in Virginia. You from that part of the colonies?"
The two men continued in that vein while Maxie fidgeted, restless but realizing that Robin was right. They would learn far more from the friendly hostler than the hostile landlord.
Eventually Robin said, "A friend of mine, Max Collins, came here for a visit a few months back. Right before I sailed over myself, I heard he'd died, but no one knew exactly what had happened. I remembered he was staying at the Abingdon Inn, so I thought since I was in town I'd stop by to see what I could learn to tell his family." He pursed his lips. "We hear stories about how dangerous London is. Did thieves set on him?"
" 'Twas no such thing. Mr. Collins died right here in his bed." Jenkins shook his grizzled head. "A sorry thing, that. He was a fine gent, very pleasant to everyone, even that mawworm Watson. It was a real shock when he killed himself."
The words hit Maxie like a cannonball, the impact so shattering that it was beyond pain. He killed himself.
He killed himself. As Robin inhaled sharply, she gasped, "No. Max wouldn't do that."
Jenkins said compassionately, "Sorry to be the one to tell you if he was a friend of yours, miss, but there ain't much doubt. The gent tried to arrange it so's no one would know, but he wasn't careful enough. Musta been upset about somethin' and decided he couldn't take it no more. Most everyone feels that way sometimes. Mr. Collins was one who did somethin' about it."
As a child, Maxie had once ventured onto a frozen pond during a January thaw. Even twenty years later she had not forgotten her terror when ice she had believed solid began breaking up beneath her. Desperately she had tried to retreat to the shore, but there had been no hope or safety anywhere as the ice splintered in all directions. She had plunged into the frigid water and nearly drowned before her father heard her screams and rescued her.
Her feelings now were similar to when the ice broke under her, but a thousand times worse. What Jenkins said was impossible, unbearable, and it was not water engulfing her but unbearable anguish.
"No," she repeated, burying her face in her hands. "Papa would never kill himself. He wouldn't!" Yet the pieces fit together with horrible precision. This explained everything that she had been unable to understand.
Mindlessly she whirled away, up the alley to Long Acre. She heard Robin call her name, but his voice was distant, of no importance.
When she bolted out of the alley, she collided with a man who smelled of onions. She lost her bonnet and almost fell, but managed to regain her balance. Blindly she raced into the street, heedless of the heavy traffic.
A hoarse shout sounded in her ear. Someone grabbed her arm, jerking her from the path of a horse that reared into the air, its pawing ironclad hooves barely missing her skull.
Ignoring her rescuer, she broke away and resumed running, as if somewhere there were a place where the past was different, where she would not have to believe that her father could have killed himself. She tripped and fell full length on the filthy pavement. The breath was knocked out of her, yet she felt nothing when her knees and palms smashed into the cobblestones.
Scrambling to her feet, she was about to resume her flight when strong hands seized her. Robin's familiar voice said urgenyly, "Stop, Maxie! For God's sake, stop before you get yourself killed."
She tried to escape, but he wouldn't release her. As he hauled her out of the street, she clenched her hands into fists and struck him. "My father would never have killed himself and left me!" she cried, wild tears pouring down her face. "He loved life and he loved me. He would never have done that!"
Robin guessed that it was herself that she was trying to convince. He tried to immobilize her flailing fists by pinning her arms to her sides with an iron embrace. She continued to struggle frantically.
He gasped when one of her elbows smashed him in the stomach, knocking him breathless. She was a dangerous woman to hold against her will, but he dared not use more force. Desperate to calm her before she injured herself, he said sharply, "We don't know for sure what happened, Kanawiosta. Perhaps Jenkins was wrong. We need to know more."
She gave an agonized gasp and became still, her small body trembling in his arms. Somehow he knew that his words had produced the opposite effect of what he had intended: Rather than convincing her that the hostler might have been wrong, they had made it impossible for her to deny the truth.
He ached for her misery, knowing she was in some private hell that he could not share, not unless she would let him. Ignoring the curious onlookers, he continued speaking to her in a low voice, his lips near her ear, hoping the sound would soothe her even though she was beyond absorbing the words.
Then the instinct developed in his dangerous years on the Continent made Robin look up. Half a block away, on the far side of the stream of traffic, stood Simmons, his expression black.
Christ, why did the bastard have to show up now, of all times? Robin hailed a passing hackney. When it stopped, he swept Maxie up in his arms and pushed ruthlessly past a merchant who was trying to claim the same vehicle. To the driver, he snapped, "Mayfair as fast as you can. There will be an extra five quid if you can halve the usual time."
As the hackney lurched wildly into traffic, Robin settled on the seat and enfolded Maxie in his arms. Then he prayed for the wisdom to help her as she had helped him.
Simmons watched with a scowl as the hired carriage departed. Obviously the girl had learned the truth, and taken it even more badly than her uncle had feared. He beckoned to a scrawny urchin who worked for him regularly. "Find out where they go."
The lad darted after the hackney. When he reached it, he leaped up and grabbed a bracket on the back, then squirmed into a comfortable position for the rest of the ride.
When the lad returned, Simmons thought, at least he would be able to tell Collingwood where his niece was staying. It wasn't much, but it was all he could salvage from a job that had otherwise been a disaster from beginning to end.
Though Maxie was conscious, she was deep in shock, her body chilled and shaking. She seemed oblivious to Robin's presence. He cradled her on his lap through the ride back to Candover House, trying without success to infuse her with his own warmth.
When she first mentioned her father's death, Robin had considered the possibility of suicide, because it provided a plausible explanation for Collingwood's secrecy. What had Maxie said at Ruxton when talking about how she could not project her future? Something about a possibility that was literally unthinkable. Knowing her father better than anyone else did, it had never occurred to her that he was capable of taking his own life. Yet he had, and the knowledge had devastated her.
Back at Candover House, Robin carried Maxie inside past the startled butler, throwing orders over his shoulder for hot water, towels, bandages, and salve to be sent to her bedchamber. Then he carried her upstairs, laid her on her bed, and removed her ruined muslin dress and stockings. At the moment he didn't give a bloody damn about propriety.
When the supplies arrived, he dismissed the maid, then gently washed the blood and grit from the abrasions on Maxie's knees and palms. None of the injuries was deep enough to warrant bandaging, though the lacerations must have stung like the very devil when he spread salve on her raw flesh.
She didn't resist, cooperate, or show any discomfort during Robin's ministrations. She simply lay passively, eyes never meeting his. When he was done, she rolled away and buried her head in the pillows.
He wondered if her total withdrawal was an aspect of her Mohawk heritage. Not that the reason was important; what mattered was that she was shutting him out. He would never have guessed how much that would hurt.