The Wild Child (Bride Trilogy)

by Mary Jo Putney

  “Which I might become,” Dominic said dryly. “Do you take my meaning?”

  The doctor did. Shaking his head, he said, “Such a sad case. Her paternal uncle, Lord Grahame, appreciates the benefits of modern treatment, but her other guardian has been obdurate. He simply refuses to see reason. It’s almost as if he doesn’t wish her….” He cut himself off. “Forgive me for saying that. Lord Amworth surely desires the best for his niece, but his attitude has been hopelessly old-fashioned.”

  “I’m aware of the disagreement between her ladyship’s uncles,” Dominic said in a neutral voice. “Since a marriage is being considered, I feel I should know as much as possible about her condition.”

  Craythorne’s expression brightened as he realized that a husband would have jurisdiction over his wife’s treatment, and could overrule an obstructive uncle. “I’ve examined the girl several times over the years, and I can say with absolute certainty that allowing her to run wild is the worst possible treatment. Regular habits are essential to establishing self-control. Without such discipline, her behavior has worsened.”

  Dominic frowned. “In what way?”

  “She grows increasingly irrational. The last time I paid a call, she led me up to the old castle, then staged a suicide attempt. I feared for her life.” His face darkened. “I was on the verge of sending riverboats to search for her body when she reappeared, looking bland as butter.”

  Dominic almost laughed. So he wasn’t the only one the little witch had played that trick on! But how could the doctor think her undisciplined after seeing her gardens? Keeping his expression grave, he said, “What type of treatment would you use with her?”

  “First and most important, she should be removed from whatever pernicious influences affect her at Warfield. We would immediately establish a structured routine for her. After that, it would vary. I employ a range of therapies, depending on how the patient responds.” Craythorne’s heavy brows drew together. “Let me take you on a tour of our facilities. That will answer your questions better than mere words.”

  Glad the doctor had anticipated his request, Dominic followed the other man from the office into a corridor that ran toward the west wing of the house. It stopped at a massive, iron-bound door. Craythorne opened it with a large key from a jangling ring.

  Fashionable furnishings vanished on the other side of the door. The corridor was starkly whitewashed, without decoration of any kind. “It’s important not to overstimulate the patients,” the doctor explained. “Most have far too much going on in their brains already, overheating their blood and imbalancing the humors.”

  They walked down the dim, echoing corridor. Despite impeccable cleanliness, a faint miasma of uncontrolled bodily functions permeated the air.

  Craythorne stopped by a door and indicated a small covered window for viewing inside. “Patients must learn self-control. This is one of two restraint rooms.”

  Dominic lifted the hinged cover and peered inside. The room was immaculately clean but utterly austere. A wooden chair was bolted to the floor, and a burly man in a straitjacket was tied to it. His head hung in an image of despair that chilled Dominic’s blood. “Are patients routinely tied up here?”

  “Mr. Enoch is one of our most difficult cases, and has spent a great deal of time in restraints. I believe, however, that he is beginning to understand that bad behavior is punished, while good behavior is rewarded. A salutary fear is a great aid to encouraging self-discipline. As his understanding improves, restraints will be needed less and less.”

  Dominic thought of Meriel tied to a chair like that one, and his stomach turned over. “Is such treatment suitable for a delicate female?”

  “Narcotics and tonics are usually effective in soothing agitated females, but occasionally the restraints are required,” the doctor said with regret. “But unlike most asylums, I will not allow patients to be put in chains, no matter how severe the case.”

  Dominic supposed that was a sign of enlightenment. If Bladenham was progressive, what in the name of heaven were other asylums like?

  Craythorne resumed walking along the corridor. “Down at the end we have the ice bath room. Ice is shipped down from Scotland every winter to ensure an adequate supply. It is not an insignificant cost, but I assure you, Lord Maxwell, we spare no expense when it comes to patient treatment.”

  A resounding crash shattered the silence, followed by a bellow of obscenities. Swearing under his breath, Craythorne quickened his pace. “Mr. Jones is having one of his spells. When you see him, you will understand the need for restraints.”

  Three large men dressed in gray came racing toward them from the other end of the hall. Their chief unlocked Mr. Jones’s room, and they rushed inside.

  Curious, Dominic wanted to follow, too, but Craythorne blocked him with an outstretched arm. “Don’t,” he said tersely. “It’s not safe.”

  Looking through the open door, Dominic saw a room so plain, it was more cell than bedchamber. The only furniture was a cot that had apparently been bolted to the floor. Mr. Jones, a surprisingly small man, had ripped the cot loose and was wielding it like a weapon as he shouted filthy words in a hoarse voice. He swung wildly at his keepers. Two of the attendants managed to dodge him, but the other was trapped against a wall. The cot smashed into his ribs, and he collapsed with a cry of pain.

  Before Jones could swing the cot again, the other two attendants tackled him to the floor. Even with the advantage of size and number, they could barely hold the frenzied patient down.

  During the struggle that followed, Craythorne slipped away for a moment, then returned with a coarse canvas straitjacket. With the skill of practice, the attendants forced the garment over the patient’s head and immobilized his arms. That done, the chief keeper shoved a handkerchief in Jones’s mouth, cutting off the ugly words. A gag was tied over the man’s mouth, and he was hauled to his feet.

  As Jones was taken away, Craythorne explained, “He’s going to the other restraint room. I’d thought the course of ice baths was helping him, but this is a serious relapse.”

  The attendant who’d been struck by the cot limped from the cell, pain in his face. “I think ’e cracked my ribs, sir.”

  “That was quite a blow you took,” Craythorne said with concern. “Go to the infirmary. I’ll examine you when I’ve finished showing Lord Maxwell around.”

  Sickened by the sight of such uncontrolled lunacy, Dominic fell in beside the doctor as they retraced their steps through the main block of the house. As Craythorne unlocked another door, he said, “Male patients are kept in the west wing, females in the east. They are always strictly segregated, and cared for by attendants of their own gender. Bladenham has never had the kind of revolting scandal that some asylums have experienced.”

  It took a moment for Dominic to realize that the doctor was alluding to several notorious cases where female lunatics had been ravished and impregnated by male patients. And worse, sometimes the assailants had been keepers. Dear God, to think that afflicted women like Meriel were subjected to such savage treatment!

  The first cell Dominic checked was empty, but sounds of hopeless sorrow came from the next. He looked in the peephole. A disheveled woman crouched in one corner of the cell, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her sobbing would make angels weep.

  Face rigid, he closed the hinged window plate. “What is her story?”

  “Mrs. Wicker had more than a dozen miscarriages,” the doctor said with compassion. “Only the first child was brought to term, and it died almost immediately. Last year, she descended into uncontrollable madness.”

  Dominic couldn’t blame her. What kind of husband would subject his wife to such a series of disastrous pregnancies? “How are you treating her?”

  “Leeches applied to the temples to draw off the evil humors have been the most effective,” Craythorne said. “Along with purging and weekly bloodletting. She hasn’t had a violent spell in weeks.”

  Ice baths.
Straitjackets. Leeches and purging. No wonder Amworth refused to consider sending Meriel here. Even if a cure was guaranteed, Dominic didn’t think he could subject her to such treatment. As the grim tour continued, he asked, “Do many patients become well enough to return to their normal lives?”

  “Some.” The doctor’s expression turned bleak. “I’ve had the best success with females suffering from melancholic complaints. In time, I believe that medicine will be able to cure all mental illness, but I don’t expect it to happen in my lifetime.”

  At least Craythorne was honest, but Dominic wouldn’t want Meriel in his care. She wasn’t melancholic—she was sunshine personified. Or sometimes like a swift squall, but never melancholic. “Are patients confined to their rooms at all times?”

  “Walking in the garden is one of the privileges extended for good behavior. Let me take you there.”

  Outdoor exercise sounded refreshing compared to the bleak misery of the rest of Bladenham. The garden was something of a disappointment, however. It consisted mostly of graveled paths and patches of lawn, with a few scattered shrubs and benches. Perhaps flower beds were considered overstimulating.

  The high stone walls were topped with inward curving spikes. If this was the most progressive mental asylum in Britain, Dominic quite sincerely hoped he would die rather than ever be struck by madness.

  Seeing the direction of Dominic’s glance, the doctor said, “We’ve never had a patient escape. The village considers us the best of neighbors.”

  On the far side of the garden, two burly, gray-clad women followed several steps behind a pair of female patients. As the group turned and headed toward the house, Dominic saw how the older woman, on the left, stared vacantly past him. Her watery gaze had a terrifying blankness.

  The other patient looked directly at Dominic, and he saw something swift and intense flicker in her eyes. A tall young woman with strong features and ragged dark hair, she might have been handsome under other circumstances.

  Craythorne said in a low voice, “The woman on the left, Mrs. Gill, may be going home soon. She was suicidal, but is now quite calm. Mineral tonics and narcotic potions have soothed her agitation.”

  Soothed the poor woman into near unconsciousness, from what Dominic could see. “And the other patient?”

  “Mrs. M—” He broke off without completing the name. “That patient is known as Mrs. Brown. Though her husband wishes the best care for her, he fears his neighbors learning of her condition. I believe he has told them that she is in Italy, for her lungs, while she is treated here. A pity that he feels he must spin a web of lies.”

  Her husband was not alone in his attitude; Dominic knew other families who denied cases of madness in their midst. “Is she improving?”

  “She’ll have long lucid spells, then go completely mad, particularly when her husband visits. I’ve had to ask him to come less often. I wish I could offer the poor devil more hope, but her behavior is so unpredictable that I cannot be sanguine.” Craythorne regarded the patients, expression brooding. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” With a nod, he went to speak to one of the attendants.

  Dominic strolled toward a wall, thinking how poor a place this was compared to Meriel’s vibrant, imaginative gardens. Then a shout echoed through the enclosure. He turned to see that Mrs. “Brown” had bolted and was running wild-eyed toward Dominic, her attendants pounding after her with all their might.

  Dominic hadn’t feared a woman since he left the nursery, but might a strong, healthy lunatic be a threat? Still, he’d be damned if he’d run from a female. He braced himself. But Mrs. Brown didn’t attack. Instead she caught his arm, saying desperately, “Please, sir, I’m not mad! I’m being held here for no reason. If you’ll take word to my father, he’ll see I’m released. General Ames of Holliwell Grange. Please, I beg of you….”

  Before she could say more, her keepers had caught up. Mrs. Brown dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Dominic’s legs. “Ames of Holliwell Grange! In the name of God, just a note, anything to let him know so he can come for me!”

  The attendants wrenched her away from Dominic as Dr. Craythorne arrived. “Your father knows you’re here, Mrs. Brown, but he is too distressed by your condition to visit,” he said in a gently implacable voice. “You know that—your husband has explained it to you over and over.”

  “My husband is a liar!” Her wild gaze went to Dominic again. “It was my husband who brought me here, and do you know why? Because I wasn’t a biddable wife. Because my blood was impure. Because I didn’t agree with him!”

  Before she could say more, one keeper gagged her while the other wrestled her arms behind her back, dragging them up painfully. The attendants took Mrs. Brown away, leaving Dominic shaken.

  “I think it is vital to always be honest with patients, but she is still prey to delusions as well as fits of violence,” Craythorne said quietly. “I’ve seen no signs of progress. Luckily her husband can afford to keep her here with the best possible care. Perhaps, God willing, someday…” His voice faded away.

  Knowing he would remember Mrs. Brown’s frantic eyes until the day he died, Dominic turned and followed Craythorne into the house. He didn’t doubt that the doctor was sincere and capable, and he ran his asylum well. But Dominic made a solemn oath that he would never let Meriel be sent to a place like this.

  Chapter 13

  Unable to shake his dark mood even after he left the asylum, Dominic rode back to Warfield more slowly than he’d taken the outward trip to Bladenham. Though vowing to protect Meriel from confinement was all very well, it was Kyle who would have authority over her person. Any decisions would be his.

  He reminded himself that his brother could be an arrogant bastard, but he was never cruel to women. Even if Meriel descended into hopeless madness, surely he would keep her safely at Warfield, where she could enjoy fresh air and flowers and kindness.

  But if he didn’t, what would Dominic be able to do about it?

  Arriving at the intersection of several roads, he glanced up at the half-dozen signs on the fingerpost. One said Holliwell.

  “Take word to my father…General Ames of Holliwell Grange. Please, I beg of you….” A shiver went down Dominic’s spine even though he told himself that a nearby Holliwell meant nothing, for the name was not uncommon. Mrs. Brown was mad, and nothing she said could be trusted. And yet….

  He turned Pegasus toward Holliwell. He’d ride into the village and find that there was no Grange, and no General Ames. Then he could return to Warfield with a clear conscience. Losing an hour was a small price to pay for banishing those frantic dark eyes.

  Within minutes, Dominic came abreast of a massive pair of stone gateposts. “Holliwell” was carved on the left post, and “Grange” on the right. He reined in his mount with a frown. This still proved nothing because every village in England had at least one house called a grange. Perhaps in better days Mrs. Brown had visited here.

  But Holliwell Grange might really be owned by a General Ames who was her father, and who was so distressed by his daughter’s madness that he couldn’t bear to visit her. An inquiry from Dominic might do nothing more than bring further sorrow to a grieving parent. He steeled himself for that, since he would not forgive himself if he turned back when he was so close to learning the truth.

  A few minutes’ ride up a pleasant drive brought the grange into view. As the name implied, the building had started life as a farmhouse, but additions over the years had produced a large, rambling stone structure. Though not elegant, it looked comfortable and spacious, and prosperous fields and pastures lay in all directions.

  Like many old farmsteads, the house comprised one side of a courtyard formed by outbuildings and a paddock. Dominic rode into the yard to tether his horse before trying the door. As he entered, a gentleman in country buckskins led a small, silvery gray mare from the stables.

  “What a beauty!” Dominic said involuntarily.

  The man glanced up. Tall and grizzled and ram
rod straight, he could easily be a retired general. “Moonbeam is as well behaved as she is pretty.” His admiring gaze went over Pegasus. “I see that you’ve a good eye for horseflesh.”

  “I like to think so, but what man doesn’t?” Dominic firmly restrained Pegasus, who showed signs of wanting to pursue too close an acquaintance with the mare.

  The older man turned Moonbeam into the paddock. After closing the gate, he turned to his visitor. His skin was dark and leathery, as if exposed to years of harsh sun. “I’m Ames, if you’re looking for me.”

  For a moment Dominic froze, caught between names. Reminding himself that he couldn’t be Dominic so close to Warfield, he dismounted from his horse. “My name is Maxwell. I’m staying at Warfield.”

  “Then you must know little Lady Meriel,” Ames said with interest. “How is the child doing?”

  “She’s not a child anymore.” Dominic tethered Pegasus, then joined Ames at the railing of the paddock. They contemplated the mare in respectful silence, bound together by the camaraderie of horsemen. Willing to postpone the purpose of his visit a little longer, Dominic added, “Lady Meriel is twenty-three now. You’ve met her?”

  Ames pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “How time passes. I haven’t seen the girl since she was a child in India, but our families have been Shropshire neighbors for centuries. I thought of calling on her when I returned from the East several years ago, but given the stories of her mental state, I thought it better not to risk reminding the girl of what happened there.” He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. I’ve always wondered if I could have done something to prevent her parents’ deaths.”

  Dominic fitted that information with what he already knew. “You look like a military man. Were you stationed in India when Lord and Lady Grahame were killed?”

  Ames nodded soberly. “Grahame was on a parliamentary mission that took him all over India. I commanded the army cantonment in Cambay, in the north. It was the last British outpost the Grahames visited before they were killed. From Cambay they traveled to Alwari, a minor residence of one of the local rulers. That’s where the raiders struck. The whole palace was burned down, and a hundred people or so died.” He sighed. “Very hard on Grahame’s brother—the present Lord Grahame, that is.”