24
The carriage arrived under cover of darkness and light snowfall at the gates of Bootham Hospital. They’d emerged from the house like a party of people on their way into town but if anyone had studied closer, they’d have heard only awkward instructions, muted voices and not a sound of revelry. Minerva was left behind with Norma and a pot of soothing tea in Alex’s private salon while Alex was seated next to her father in the carriage, and Matthew was sandwiched by Chetwin and the sergeant. A constable drove the carriage to ensure absolute discretion.
Alex peered out of the carriage window to see the pillars at the entrance of the hospital grounds that flanked the looming gate to the County Lunatic Asylum, whose reknown as an establishment of horror since the previous century was already well documented. Her body gave a fresh involuntary shiver and she noticed how Matthew hunched deeper into his overcoat and scarf. He suddenly looked like a helpless child – a runaway or a little thief, finally caught and having to face the consequences of his actions. She couldn’t help herself but feel immense pity for him as well as a determination to help. Alex knew she was likely still in shock but Matthew was a person she loved; if he was in pain, so was she. That’s what friends did, didn’t they? Forget husbands and wives, lovers or passing ships . . . friends looked after one another because friends chose one another. Her mind raced to all the tasks required to try to build a case for Matthew as they paused between the pillars topped by glass lamps that threw a ghastly, almost otherworldly glow onto the gatehouse.
‘We’re just waiting for the porter,’ Dickson explained to no one in particular as they all looked towards the pretty Victorian gatehouse, which she had passed often enough during her life and admired for its quaint proportions, like her old doll’s house. Right now its flint roof tiles were slick with melting snow but there was talk of sleet in the next few days. If that were true, she might not be able to even visit Matthew.
Alex threw a fresh worried glance at him. In the ghostly glow from the lamps he appeared ashen, trembling too, with all of his trademark bravado having deserted him. She felt lost for him, for if there was one constant with Matthew, it was his ever-reliable confidence that could entertain a roomful of people or just her. She realised only now that she was shaking too. Was this really Harry’s doing? She heard the sergeant exchanging a few hushed words with Chetwin and seized her chance to whisper to her father.
‘Dad, did you see Harry today?’
‘I did,’ he murmured and her heart felt as though it sank an inch. So Matthew had been right. ‘He came to the club. I’m afraid he was the one to tell me about —’
‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’
Alex looked over at Sergeant Dickson, not entirely annoyed to be interrupted for she had no desire to hear any more from her father of Harry’s revenge, as Matthew called it. Nevertheless, she was reserving her disgust for all the older men she shared this carriage with because each was now complicit in changing her life forever, it seemed. And there was one missing person who was part of this conspiracy; it was curious how she could love someone with so much desire and suddenly, with equal passion, hate him. Harry had let her down in the most spectacular of ways; in trying to prove his love for her, he was effectively dismantling her life, hurting people she cared for the most. ‘Erm, I just thought I’d mention that you won’t be allowed past the reception. Once your husband is admitted to the County Asyl . . . er, Bootham Hospital, he will be taken to the men’s ward.’
‘I understand. He won’t be there long, Sergeant, I assure you.’
Her father whispered again. ‘I was going to say that young Blake —’
‘I don’t wish to hear any more about Harry,’ she snapped.
Nothing further could be exchanged as they were interrupted by the arrival of others as their family solicitor emerged with the man from the gatehouse.
‘Ah, here’s Giles,’ Charles said into the frigid silence.
‘Good evening, sirs, madam,’ the porter said.
It was the policeman who took charge. ‘We’ve brought Matthew Britten-Jones. He’s being committed for assessment with Dr Ely, who is expecting us.’
‘Right you are, Sergeant. Dr Ely will meet you at the main entrance – I shall let him know you have arrived,’ the porter said, touching his cap as Giles clambered into the carriage, squashing Alex between him and her father.
‘Hello, Alex, Matthew, Mr Britten-Jones. I’m so sorry about all this.’
‘So am I, Giles,’ Alex said, for all of them.
‘I shall speak to you both in private once we go through the formalities,’ he offered to the husband and wife, his voice kind, but she was no longer listening as the carriage jerked on its way deeper into the grounds. They were travelling down a long avenue, tall trees like soldiers guarding the path that would lead them to the place she’d only heard about but never seen.
It loomed in the distance, lit sufficiently that she could make out a hulking red-brick block of a building in the late Georgian style. The carriage swept into the main drive and at the entrance stood a bearded gentleman and two male porters plus a nurse.
Alex no longer cared about protocol; she leaned forward and took her husband’s hand. ‘Be brave, Matthew.’
‘I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t wish to hurt you.’
She nodded to reassure him that she understood this. It didn’t take away the pain of being so deliberately deceived but it eased it to hear his contrition. ‘I promise to get you out of here.’
He gave her a smile that said he knew she would try to yet there was a look in his eyes that told her it was hopeless.
‘You’ve got to stay strong,’ she urged as the men began to climb out of the carriage.
Sergeant Dickson kept a firm grip on Matthew’s arm. ‘Now, son, I said I was going to and I should have handcuffed you but I didn’t, out of respect for the Frobisher family and your father. Don’t let me down now.’
Matthew allowed himself to be meekly handed over to the two burly porters while a man wearing a tweed three-piece suit and puffing a pipe greeted the party.
‘Good evening, Matthew. You must be Mrs Britten-Jones?’
Alex gave a forced polite nod.
‘Come on in, folks. Feels as though we may get that sleet tonight.’ The words were friendly enough but the tone didn’t match – he sounded brittle, matter-of-fact. Ely turned away and led the unhappy group beneath the portico and into the main entrance.
Alex heard her heels click softly on the tessellated floor where she focused her concentration as her mind rambled through guilt, horror, shame. She could swear a distant ringing had begun in her ears – alarms urging her to flee – but her feet felt leaden against the busy mosaic pattern that reminded her of chocolate and caramel, punctuated by sapphire squares. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Matthew right now or she was sure she might break. How cruel this felt. And she was a part of it – helpless or not, she was one of the people here to commit her husband.
‘Dr Ely?’ She was surprised it was her voice that sounded first in the soaring atrium where they were standing.
He denied her to continue. ‘Mrs Britten-Jones, could I ask you to give me a moment?’ He didn’t wait for her answer and her upbringing didn’t allow her to be rude enough to defy him. ‘Miles, Andrew, please escort Mr Britten-Jones to the ward. Matthew? I shall be with you very shortly. Please don’t be worried.’
‘I’d like to say goodbye to my wife,’ he replied, ignoring the doctor and finally finding his spine. He denied Ely the chance of giving him permission and shook off the two porters. ‘Unhand me. I’m capable of walking without being wrangled like a common prisoner.’
The two men glanced at Ely, who gave a small nod. Alex was aware of both fathers taking a step back and standing with the solicitor.
Matthew opened his arms and she moved into his familiar embrace, except this time it felt more real than she could remember. ‘I’ve always loved you in my own way,’ he whispered between them. ‘You’re
my favourite girl, always will be.’ And then in an even more hushed voice he spoke directly to her ear as he hugged her closer still. ‘Forgive me for loving someone more.’
The tears finally came, streaming down her cheeks to land on the shoulder of his coat, which was already damp from the snowfall. ‘I forgive you,’ she mouthed, unsure of how she meant that. Forgiving him what? His duplicity? His manipulations? His broken promises?
Matthew nodded once, then turned.
‘Matthew!’ He looked back. ‘We are not done here – be strong and I will get you out of this place.’
He blew her a kiss that nearly broke her heart before being escorted down the long corridor to where shadows finally claimed him and she could just make out the trio turning a corner. A distant door slammed.
Dr Ely cleared his throat. ‘Gentleman, we need to see to the formalities.’
Alex couldn’t care that she was being snubbed; all that mattered now was getting Matthew out of this heinous place. She looked up as a means to avoid eye contact with the men who shuffled uncomfortably around her.
‘Dr Ely?’ Her words echoed, bouncing off small squares of leadlight glass that made up myriad highly decorative banks of windows on each level of the atrium. The roof narrowed to a large cone of glass, so far above her that she could barely see the apex. Around each level moulded plasterwork added another layer of prettiness to a building that housed so much horror, if the stories she’d heard were true . . . and by the sounds of odd screams leaking from the back corridors, she suspected they were. She imagined that during the day the light coming through that cone and the tiny squares of pale multicoloured glass would be exquisite against the cool green paintwork. How strange that such dainty elegance smiled down into a pit of madness. She didn’t think she could bear to stand here another moment and imagine Matthew being swallowed up into the grim bowels of this asylum.
‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’ He sounded almost bored, like a housemaster welcoming his new charge and dealing with yet another anxious mother of a cosseted child.
She faced the hatefully obsequious Dr Ely. ‘Am I required for the admission?’
‘Matthew’s father and Sergeant Dickson can sign the necessary paperwork.’
‘Good, because I wouldn’t sign him over to you anyway.’
He drew a sighing breath that offended her.
‘Dr Ely, what exactly do you plan to do with Matthew?’
Small eyes glimmered for the first time behind his round glasses, as though she’d finally interested him. ‘We shall do a series of tests to ascertain the state of his mental health.’
‘Because you believe you can cure him?’ She couldn’t disguise her disdain.
‘We must ascertain the cause of his . . . how shall I say, um, immorality, if you’ll permit.’
‘I don’t permit!’ She felt the urge to stamp her foot. ‘And how do you propose to hunt down his immorality?’
The doctor glanced around at the others, hoping for a few words of assistance, but each was gazing away.
‘Well,’ he blustered, ‘we shall discuss his depraved behaviour with him, of course, and learn from where it stems.’
‘I see, and I gather you have certain treatments you perform?’
‘We do. But it is not for a gentlewoman’s —’
‘Dr Ely, we are discussing my husband here. I’m clearly not so gentle that it gave you pause in hurling around words like depravity or immorality, as though they don’t hurt, but suddenly I’m too fragile to hear about your proposed cures?’ She gave a snort of disdain. ‘I have every right to know what you are planning to inflict upon my husband in the name of treatment.’
The narrow line of his moustache twitched with vexation at being questioned so publicly but she suspected he wouldn’t dare be openly rude to a member of her family, given their standing in York. ‘We will likely begin with the use of hydrotherapy . . . er, water, to the layman.’
‘And that cures him, does it? Because, frankly, he could go to Harrogate for that!’
‘We have found this therapy to have a positive effect on the body’s system.’
‘In what way?’
‘Really, Mrs Britten-Jones, I don’t think here is the time or place to discuss the intricacies of the body’s immune system.’
‘He is not diseased, Dr Ely. He is simply a man who prefers his own sex.’
The two fathers gasped and poor Giles looked embarrassed for her. Her candour made her feel suddenly powerful. ‘And what else, Dr Ely? What other treatments did you have in mind, other than a lot of bathing?’ She couldn’t care any less than she did right now for any of the men around her.
‘If he does not respond to the first, we shall try some drugs. There is research to show that giving a patient small doses of infections such as malaria to induce fever can have a tremendous influence on their mental state, plus a good case could be argued for some new treatment I’ve been reading about called aversion therapy. Without getting too technical, it involves inducing the patient to sicken at certain images.’
She blinked with the horror-filled knowledge of what Matthew faced in coming days. She’d heard enough; she would not give this man a moment longer with Matthew than she could help. ‘I shall take my leave, Dr Ely,’ she said, without offering a hand. She moved to where the three conspirators stood. ‘Giles, I would like to see you tomorrow at the house please. Is that possible?’
‘Of course, Alex,’ he said. ‘Shall we say eleven?’
‘Make it nine, Giles.’ She shook his hand briefly, politely, before leaning in to give her father a light kiss. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Dad. I can’t promise it shall be pleasant. Mother can stay overnight if she wishes to.’ She didn’t wait for his reply and cast a sneering glance at Chetwin Britten-Jones over one shoulder. ‘Remember what I told you about how unwelcome you and your family are at our house, Chetwin. I recommend you don’t test me.’
And then she was gone, stepping out into the freezing night, glad of the cold pinching at her cheeks and stinging her tongue as she sucked in the air. It was Giles who ran after her.
‘Alex, at least permit me to call you a carriage?’
‘No, thank you, Giles. I won’t tolerate another moment in this place of horror. I know this is not your doing but please start thinking tonight about all the ways to get Matthew released from here.’
‘We can apply for you to have him transferred to a hospital of your choosing.’
‘Good. Be ready to put that into action with urgency tomorrow morning.’
‘A word of warning,’ he dared. ‘Chetwin Britten-Jones’s Reception Order is for one year. It can be renewed annually.’
She swallowed but the lump of fear didn’t shift. Alex breathed deeply. ‘First things first. He must be shifted from Bootham.’
Giles nodded that he agreed.
‘I shall leave you now. I’m happier walking home through the snow to cool my fury.’ She took pity on his fallen expression. Giles was a good man; the Frobishers had used his family legal practice for decades. He was younger than her father but had about fifteen years on her and he deserved more gracious behaviour from her. She blew out her cheeks. ‘I’ll get the porter at the gates to hail me a hackney.’
‘Thank you. If you haven’t already been told, Matthew is being brought in on the basis of moral imbecility.’ She shook her head with disgust. ‘The next option was prison and it was your father who convinced Chetwin to go down the path of psychiatric care as a way of getting around the public shame of imprisonment for Matthew. In Chetwin’s defence —’
‘He has none, Giles. Haven’t enough sons lost their lives these last few years? Do we really need my husband, a good man, spending who knows how long being prodded and poked, tested and humiliated, probably even hurt through their wretched treatments?’ Tears welled again but she swallowed hard. ‘I refuse to cry. What I’m going to do is fight this and everyone who stands in my way.’
‘I’m truly very sorry.’
&
nbsp; ‘I know you are, which is why I’m going to need your help to get Matthew away from here as soon as we can.’
Alex set off, her boots crunching loudly on the gravel against the frigid quiet surrounding this place of fear and madness, so that each footstep sounded like a protest . . . no, a warning, she hoped. And as she strode into the darkness her heart was feeling as chilled as the season towards Harry and his fellow conspirators, who she was sure were watching her lonely but determined figure disappear into the night.
25
When Alex arrived home, exhausted and mentally battered, a worried Norma greeted her.
‘Lady Frobisher wished to go home, Mrs Britten-Jones. I couldn’t persuade her to wait for you and Sir Frobisher to —’
‘No, that’s fine, Norma. Did you order a carriage?’
‘She wasn’t in any state so I telephoned Mr Potter and had him bring the car around. She was brighter for seeing him. I have since checked with him to ensure Lady Frobisher was safely home.’
‘Thank you, Norma. You’re an angel. I’m so sorry about this evening and I know you have questions but I am desperately fatigued and need some time to think everything through. I’m going to lean on your tolerance and your discretion.’ She eyed the housekeeper firmly to show there was to be no tittle-tattle.
‘That goes without saying, Mrs Britten-Jones. I know I shouldn’t but I regard you and your husband as family.’
Alex nodded tiredly but squeezed the woman’s hand in appreciation.
‘There’s one more thing; I’m sorry to tax you but he wouldn’t leave.’
‘He?’
‘Said he’d wait on the steps outside until you returned home. I couldn’t permit that, of course.’
‘Who?’ Her mind raced first to James Feeney.
‘Mr Blakeney, madam. He’s in your salon. I hope that was the right decision?’
‘I’ll speak with him; thank you, Norma,’ she said, her voice as cold as the winter night.
The Chocolate Tin Page 34
