by Lenora Bell
“I won’t go inside the asylum,” said Nick, his voice icy. “I can’t. Don’t ask me why. I just can’t.”
Why was he being so obstinate? If he visited the asylum in Bethnal Green, and wrote the report, he could help far more people than he did now. He could save hundreds of women like Jane.
She had to make him see that this would be even more effective than helping people one by one, under cover of darkness.
Bring the larger problem into the light. Illuminate its ugliness for all the world to see and abhor.
“Gentlemen,” Alice said. “Allow me to speak with my husband in private.”
Chapter 26
If she tries to prevent him doing this he should say to her, “What harm is there in doing it?” and should persuade her to let him do it.
The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana
“It’s no use, Alice. You won’t convince me.” Nick didn’t want her to think him a coward, but visiting the Yellow House was out of the question.
“I seem to recall saying those exact same words to you. And here I am. Married to your obstinate self.”
They were in his bedchamber. Alice had held out her hand and he’d followed.
They sat upon the bed but their bodies weren’t touching.
Nick heaved a sigh. “I won’t do it, Alice.”
The panic clawed at his chest. Darkness rolling in at the edges of his eyes. “I won’t enter that place. I can’t. Don’t ask me why.”
“Why?”
He should have learned these things by now: Alice never followed instructions. And he would never stop wanting to please her. But he couldn’t. Not this time. “Let me do things my own way.”
“With your fists?”
“If necessary. They’ve served me well in disputes before.”
“Giving Coleman a thrashing won’t convince him to change his ways. You need to utilize a more civilized method of persuasion.”
“This is how men solve problems, Alice. And I plan to make sure that he knows if he doesn’t improve conditions at the asylum there will be worse in store for him.”
“But could you give my method a try first? If it doesn’t work then you have my blessing to beat that horrible man until he’s bloodied beyond recognition.”
“So bloodthirsty, Dimples.” Nick caught her hand and stroked his finger across her palm. “I’d like to give your method a try but it’s not me. It’s not the way I do things.”
He wanted to tell her the truth: he was frightened that if he entered the private asylum, if the maw of madness swallowed him, he might never re-emerge.
The fear that ate his soul away.
The fear that made him live for pleasure, live each moment as if it were his last, as if he had no future.
But he couldn’t admit any of that to her. She thought he was strong. He didn’t want to disillusion her.
“Why won’t you go?” she persisted.
“I don’t play by society’s rules. I thrive in darkness. I’m not the kind to blare my trumpet for bloated, corrupt politicians. They wouldn’t listen to me, anyway. If you hadn’t noticed, you married a notorious rogue.”
“Oh, I noticed, Nick,” Alice said, raking her gaze across his powerful frame. “But that’s precisely why they’ll listen to you. You come from a notorious line of madmen. But Dr. Forster believes your kind, permissive treatment of the duke could effect a cure for his lunacy. Your report can detail the contrast between your methods and the madhouse’s corruption.”
“My father’s case is very mild.”
“Yet you’ve been with him the whole time. You’ve borne witness to the ebbs and flows of his illness. You were on the ship with the duke when the mania claimed him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your father told me. You must have been young then. Weren’t you in school?”
“I was at Cambridge with Dalton and Harland. I didn’t know my father was going mad when he arrived in the dead of night and forced me to pack a bag. He would brook no protests. Didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye to my friends.”
One moment he’d been hard at work on his studies and the next day he was traveling across the ocean with his father on an insane hunt for a nonexistent orchid.
Wind on his face on the deck; salt spray in his eyes and salted cod for dinner.
Hold of a ship. Smell of candle wax and sweat. Father gripping his arm. Hadn’t washed in days. Eyes blazing with the mania.
I’ll never go mad, Nicolas. Because of this. Waving the dried stump of an orchid.
The sadness of the memory never waned. Evergreen and fresh each time.
Nick had been so helpless. He’d been unable to keep the madness at bay and had been forced to watch as day by day his brilliant father descended into the depths of his obsession.
There had been periods of relative calm since then, but his keen-eyed father had never returned.
In his place there was this affable, sometimes bumbling, courtly old man who believed orchids whispered secrets to him.
“Nick?” Alice asked softly.
He raised his eyes. The tenderness in her gaze nearly undid him.
“That must have been so difficult for you, to watch him go mad on board a ship.”
“After that miserable voyage I swore I’d never set foot on a ship again.” He shuddered. “That was the coldest, darkest, most miserable time of my life, and it’s best forgotten.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Nick, this mission tomorrow, it’s a way for you to restore power over those painful memories. If you help improve conditions for lunatics, and you open an inquiry into better treatment methods and wider access to physicians, you’re helping all the sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, who witness the torment of their loved ones and feel helpless.”
She was right, of course.
He was tired of keeping the walls up between them. He might as well admit to himself that he wanted more than her body.
He wanted that tender light in her eyes. He wanted her to know that he was better than the wastrel she’d thought him.
She believed in him, and when he looked into her eyes, he began to believe in himself as well. He could do this. Visit the Yellow House. Face his demons. Send them yelping into the night. He could do this for her.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“You will?”
“I will. I’ll help write the report. I’ll try things your way.”
She hugged him and the clean scent of lavender washed over his senses.
“You’ll see, Nick, this is the right way. This is the only way to make a lasting change.”
“It’s not a good idea for many reasons, but I’ll go. For you.”
“It’s not a good idea, it’s a brilliant one.”
“You’re insufferably arrogant, you know that, Lady Hatherly?”
She caught his face in both her hands. “And you love it.”
He did love her confidence.
She was this wholly strong and independent woman who stood in the center of a group of powerful men and informed them that her way was best.
He wanted to believe that he was strong enough to face his fears. He wanted to make her proud of him.
She kissed him hungrily, drawing him into her arms. He bunched the fabric of her skirts in one hand, desire pounding through his skull. He unbuttoned his breeches.
When he buried himself inside her, swift and deep, she rose to meet him, wrapping her legs around his hips, urging him on with her hands grasping his buttocks.
He loved her.
His mind pushed the thought away. It was easy enough to think you loved a woman when you were buried deep inside her.
That’s not it, and you know it.
Don’t think that thought. Pin her wrists with your hands. Take control.
And ride to sweet oblivion.
He held back until she reached orgasm, her inner muscles gripping his cock.
Then he shouted her name as he found his o
wn release, spilling into the covers instead of inside her, where he wanted to stay forever.
With Alice in his arms, he was fearless and invincible.
She’d asked him what he would do with his life if he knew he had ten years, or even twenty. He’d never considered that question because he’d been telling himself for so long that he’d go insane, so nothing mattered.
He was a man with no future.
If he had a future, if the madness spared him, what did he want from life?
Alice.
The answer was there, reverberating through his being.
He wanted Alice. Not just for physical gratification. Not just in his bed.
He wanted her light and her laughter all for himself.
She made him want to have a future.
Chapter 27
A horse having once attained the fifth degree of motion goes on with blind speed, regardless of pits, ditches, and posts in his way.
The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana
Nick’s heart sped as he stared up at the ivy-covered façade of the Yellow House. Dressed in so much green, you couldn’t tell the old girl was dripping with the pox and rotten as they came.
“How are you doing?” Alice whispered.
Nick nodded in a way he hoped was reassuring, not trusting his voice.
The yard was large and well maintained. A group of patients huddled against the wall with an attendant watching over them.
They were all clothed but their faces were vacant and slack-jawed.
It was indescribably sad, and Nick’s chest constricted.
Patrick and Dr. Forster had gone ahead to find Annie and bring her to safety while Coleman was occupied with Nick and Lear.
Nick strode through the door with Alice on one side and Lear on the other.
If her way didn’t work, Nick and Lear would be ready to use their fists.
A keeper stared at them, but he had his hands full with an unruly patient.
There was a smell in the baseboards that no scrubbing would remove. The smell of desperation and fear and lives curtailed.
He’d expected there to be shouting, but the eerie silence was worse. Black lines danced at the edges of his vision, but Alice slipped her hand into his, and that gave him the courage to go deeper into the cursed building.
Coleman met them as they crossed from the hallway into one of the dining halls.
“You can’t just come here as you please, Lord Hatherly,” he said loudly. “You’ve no invitation and I’ve been given no advance notice of your visit.”
“I have an invitation.” Nick thrust a paper at Coleman, hoping he didn’t examine it too closely. Patrick’s forgery had been hastily done. “A writ to visit this institution on behalf of the Duke of Harland, who plans to present the report of my observations to Parliament at the next session.”
“I’ve heard nothing of this.”
“Why don’t you want us to come in?” Alice asked in an imperious, duchesslike tone. “What are you hiding, sir?”
“Is this your wife, Lord Hatherly? You bring a lady into these walls? There are things here that are unsuitable for a lady’s eyes. Nakedness. Depravity.”
“She’s not any lady. She’s Alice,” Nick said. Was that the right thing to say? He felt confused. His breathing labored. His thoughts muddled.
“And we’re not just any visitors. We’re the ones that will make your life a living hell if you refuse to let us enter,” Lear said.
Coleman took one look at Lear, with his narrowed, dark eyes and clenched fists, and decided to comply.
“There’s no problem here, gentlemen.” Coleman held up his hands. “There’s a visiting physician here right now, in fact. A Dr. Forster. I freely allow legitimate visitations. I have nothing to hide. Follow me, please.”
The abrupt about-face didn’t fool Nick. He knew the second their backs were turned, Coleman would send a message to his keepers to sweep the worst offenses under the rug before they arrived.
Alice threaded her arm through his elbow, and it wasn’t so that he could support her.
She wanted to show him that he could count on her.
He wasn’t sure it would be enough. His mind was muzzy with panic. He knew the hideous secrets these walls his from the world.
Ringing sensation in his ears.
Breath coming in puffs. Heart racing. Numbness in his fingers.
They followed Coleman into a large dining hall.
“Hello there.” A plump, matronly woman with white hair that matched her starched white apron greeted them.
“This is my wife, Mrs. Coleman,” Mr. Coleman said.
“More visitors, dear?” Mrs. Coleman asked. “Shall I fetch some tea?”
“We don’t want any tea,” Lear growled.
“I’m afraid many of the rooms are locked,” Coleman said smoothly. “I need to go and fetch the keys for your tour.”
Nick saw the deceit dripping from his smile, like blood welling from a fresh wound.
“Have some tea,” Alice whispered to Nick. “It will do you good; you look very pale.”
Mr. and Mrs. Coleman left and Nick, Alice, and Lear inspected the empty dining area. It seemed ordinary enough. Long wooden tables and benches. A sideboard with water pitchers and baskets of bread.
Nick didn’t like the idea of drinking tea at the Yellow House as if they were on a social outing in a parlor in Mayfair, but he’d promised Alice to try things her way first, before he started flinging his fists around.
Nick hadn’t come here to be led like a lamb through the carefully choreographed presentation that Coleman had no doubt assembled to fool visitors into thinking his operation was aboveboard.
The truth had already been told to Nick over and over by the inmates he spoke with after they made their escape. This was a house of death and suffering. .
He sat on a bench beside Alice, trying to remain calm and not succeeding very well.
Mrs. Coleman returned with a tray of teacups and biscuits.
Nick finished his tea in one swallow and set the teacup down so hard the handle cracked.
Everyone stared at him.
“Now,” he said through tightly clenched teeth, rising from the table. “We wait no longer. Fetch your husband,” he said to Mrs. Coleman. “The tour begins now.”
Something was very wrong.
Nick’s mouth was strained around the edges, his shoulders hunched in on themselves like broken wings.
Even the way he walked was all wrong—no confident striding, no nonchalant, careless stroll.
His steps were tentative and faltered ever so slightly, probably unnoticeable to the rest of the company, but to Alice it was beyond troubling.
Coleman led them into a long, narrow room with rows of high-walled cribs, large enough to fit grown men. “This is one of the sleeping chambers,” he said.
Chains fitted to the railings of the beds. A few inmates wearing the chains, trapped in their beds. The stench in here was worse. Alice put a sleeve over her nose.
Coleman didn’t seem too interested in hiding anything from them. He didn’t even comment on the loathsome stench or try to divert them away.
A sullen, greasy-haired attendant was scrubbing the wooden floor. A rust-red stain.
Alice laid a hand on Nick’s arm. When he turned his head, his eyes were as vacant and cold as those of the man scrubbing the floor. Flat gray of cold metal frosted over so that all the shine was gone. Crystals of fear and hatred in his eyes.
She must take him away from here.
This was why he hadn’t wanted to come. He was afraid.
More than afraid, terrified and faltering in the darkness of his mind.
“Nick,” she whispered, tugging on his sleeve so they lagged behind the group, which was moving to the next room. “Nick, let’s leave. Patrick can write the report. Come, you need fresh air.”
Nick was shaking, staring about him in confusion. She held his hand so tightly she knew she would leave nail marks.
“Too late,” he said. “Too late, Alice. It’s beginning. I can feel it.”
“Nick?”
He staggered like a drunkard, lurching ahead, away from her and toward the group. She raced after him, but his legs were so long he quickly caught up with them.
Nick heard the shuffling of feet, he heard the thoughts of the asylum patients in the room, he heard their apathy and their outrage, dulled into resignation.
He heard everything with such sharp clarity.
Alice calling his name.
Coleman’s swift intake of breath, like a man’s dying gasp.
An elderly man with white hair that stuck straight up held out his hand.
“Barrington?” Nick asked.
The man spit in his face and Nick didn’t even care.
“Stay back,” one of the attendants said. “Old Mason is dangerous.”
Another man, younger, chained to the wall in a loincloth and nothing more, scraggly hair and mottled skin, purple with bruises.
This is me, Nick thought. This could be me. He laughed then, a wild, desperate sound that spiraled to the rafters.
An answering clamor arose from the patients.
Laughter and shouting, a sound like the battle cry of an army.
A clanging of spoons on tin cups and the rattle of labored breathing.
Coleman with his arms crossed watching with ill-disguised glee.
Where was Lear? Where was Patrick?
Alice at his side.
Alice with the turquoise eyes and the tender smile.
She wanted something from him. “Nick, please, talk to me. What’s happening?”
He averted his gaze. No tenderness for him. No hope.
“Maybe instead of writing reports, Lord Hatherly should be committed,” Coleman said with a jeering smile.
Nick had thought the onset would be more gradual, as his father’s was . . . losing memory here, feeding himself on delusions, imagining the voices getting louder.
Now there was only this roaring in his ears and the darkness closing around him.
