Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt
Page 27
Darkness was smothering. She screamed, clawing at
the door. She could not stay here in the dark. She would
die if she was left here alone. She had to get out of here.
Now! Nothing that had been done to her, not even her
grandmother’s machinations, had been this cruel.
Someone had to let her out. She could not stay here.
She would smother in the darkness.
Her pendant banged against her arm. Lifting it, she
ran her fingers along the green-eyed god. “Thoth,” she
cried, “why is it so many believed in you when you’ve
brought me nothing but ruin?”
She received no answer then or as the hours passed.
When her throat was raw and she could no longer make a
sound, she sagged in sleep. Asleep, this nightmare was
horrible, but, when she awoke, it would be worse.
***
She could not breathe.
The darkness was stifling, pressing down on Darcy so
she could not draw in a single breath.
Pain and darkness . . .
Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she
had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their
measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she
loved.
She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust
from shattered mortar and broken rock.
She had been warned. She should have listened.
Pain and darkness . . .
Where was the light that appeared each night and
hovered over her until the sun rose? Was it lost in this
ebony labyrinth as well? She looked for it, but saw only a
darkness blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Her only
escape now was death. When he designed this trap, he
would have left nothing to chance. Except she would be
the one to spring it, continuing the parade of death
overtaking everyone she loved.
Patience. She should have heeded the warning to be
patient, but how could she when so much was at stake?
Pain and darkness . . .
No, she could not let the darkness win. She might have
only one breath left, but she would use it to shriek out her
defiance to those who had betrayed her.
She screamed. From somewhere, she found more air
to pull into her lungs. She screamed again. And again.
And again.
“You are not alone.”
Darcy grasped onto that small voice. Maybe she was
going mad just as the doctor and his cruel nurses wanted.
She did not care.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“You are not alone.” A soft glow strengthened near
her right shoulder.
She bit back a sob of relief. Light. Wondrous, lifegiving,
mind-saving light. As the glow became the compact
ball that had guarded over her for all her life, she
whispered, “Thank you for not abandoning me. If I’d
listened to you . . .”
The light pulsed like sunshine, and a comforting
lethargy flowed over her. It was as if someone very dear
had put consoling arms around her. She could not recall
being held by her mother, but Jaddeh had cradled her often
while telling the old stories and soothing her night fears.
This sensation of being within the warmth of family was
all the comfort she needed to hold onto her sanity. She
was not alone in the darkness.
***
Darcy knew it was day only by the thin line of light
edging the bottom of the door. If that had been her only
source of light, she would not have survived this torment
with her mind intact. Her special light had been her
salvation , coming each night when the light vanished from
beneath the door. She had lost count of the number of times
the pattern had been repeated.
She raised her head as the line of light vanished at the
same time a key rattled in the lock. Were they letting her
out? She shuddered. Taking her out of this nauseating closet
might mean more attempts to steal her lucidity.
Mrs. Rale opened the door. She was carrying a bowl,
and Darcy held out her hands. This was the first food
brought to her in more than a day. The nurse laughed and
tilted the bowl. Soup poured out onto Darcy’s hands.
With a cry, she jerked them back. She shook the
burning soup off her hands, wiping it against her gray dress.
Tears fell down her cheeks as she cradled her hands on
her lap.
“You’d best learn some manners, Miss Kincaid,”
sneered the nurse. “You have to learn to wait your turn.”
“My turn?” she moaned, fearing the guardians of this
asylum were as deranged as those imprisoned within its
walls. “There’s no one else here.”
“Are you so sure of that?” She laughed. “I saw a few
rats before you were put in here.”
Darcy swallowed her groan, not wanting to give Mrs.
Rales more pleasure. The nurse slid the bowl into the closet
and slammed the door, locking it.
Groping for the bowl, she could not hold back a sob
as her sore fingers dipped into the hot liquid again. She
picked up the bowl, glad the soup was not hotter.
Otherwise, she would not be able to hold the bowl.
She took a sip and gagged. Any meat in it must have
been rancid. She almost set the bowl back on the floor,
then realized she could not leave food—even this
disgusting broth—where it would lure rats to her.
“You need to eat,” she whispered. “Otherwise, you
will become too weak to fight them.”
Battling her captors to hold onto her sanity was her
only goal as time seemed to have forgotten her. She was
never let out of this closet. Although she was offered the
chance to visit Dr. Berger what she guessed was each
afternoon, she refused. She knew she would be kept in the
solitary prison until she relented, but her freedom was not
yet worth what he wanted from her.
To hold onto the mind they longed to steal from her,
Darcy spent her time talking to the ball of light. She found
herself retelling Meskhenet’s story in hopes she would
discover the end of it. That one dream remained. She would
escape this place and find a way to Egypt. She would not
stay in England where everyone she had dared to trust
eagerly betrayed her. First her grandmother and now Simon
had turned on her.
The sound of the key in the door brought up Darcy’s
head from where she was staring at her special light. It
was an odd time for them to come, for their routine had
not varied once. Had they gotten tired of waiting for her to
break? What new horror were they ready to inflict on her
now?
When the door opened just as the ball of light vanished,
she cried, “Hastings!”
He stared at her. She leaped to her feet. The chain on
her ankle caught.
As if she had not spoken, Dr. Berger stated, “I can
understand your concern, Dr. Garnett, but I can’t, in good
conscience, release her. She refuses all help. She clings to
her delusions. This paranoia could become dangerou
s.”
“Darcy dangerous?” He laughed with the same
condescension as Dr. Berger had shown her, but she noticed
Hastings’ face had not regained a healthy complexion. It
still was gray. Maybe it was nothing more than the odors
and horror of this asylum. “You’ve seen the papers I have
brought to you. You must release her, for she doesn’t belong
in—” His nose wrinkled in genteel distaste. “—this place.”
Darcy wanted to shout Dr. Berger was far from sane,
but said nothing as Miss Johns squeezed her bulk into the
closet to remove the manacle from Darcy’s ankle. Raw
skin beneath it seeped blood, and she winced, but continued
to hold her head high. Hastings held out a wool cloak, and
she wrapped it around herself, glad for its warmth and its
smell of fresh herbs.
She was free to go, but she hesitated, torn between
snarling out insults at Dr. Berger and flinging her arms
around Hastings. She did neither. All she wanted was to
return to Rosewood Hall and reason.
Not that she intended to stay at Rosewood Hall any
longer than it took to pack her things. She would have the
carriage brought around and order Nash to take her to the
railway station. Then she would buy a ticket on the next
train to . . . She was not sure where she would go, but it
would be away from Rosewood Hall and Simon, who had
consigned her to this nightmare. Once she had been his
fool. That would not happen again.
Sixteen
“Let’s go, Darcy,” Hastings said quietly as he turned
toward the asylum door.
Dr. Berger began, “Dr. Garnett, I insist—”
“If you question the authority of the papers I brought
you,” Hastings replied, “I suggest you call at Rosewood
Hall tomorrow afternoon.”
Dr. Berger began to retort, then clamped his lips tightly
closed.
Hastings put his arm around her shoulder as she limped
along the hall.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming
to save me.”
“You should thank Andrew.”
“Reverend Fairfield?” She had not guessed the vicar
would play a part in helping her be released.
“Yes.” Hastings looked straight ahead at the door to
the outside, and she knew he was as eager as she was to be
done with the asylum. “He called at Rosewood Hall to
speak with me and urge me to come here with all speed.”
A pulse of guilt surged through her. Simon had told
her how he trusted his cousin, even when she had been
uncertain. She might never be completely comfortable with
Reverend Fairfield after his offer to pay her to leave
Rosewood hall, but she now, like Simon and his father,
was in the vicar’s debt.
“The reports Dr. Berger sent to Rosewood Hall didn’t
inspire any confidence in his ability to help you,” continued
Hastings when she did not answer.
“Help me?” Her bare feet slowed on the cold tiles.
“Hastings, I’m not mad!”
He gave her shoulder a paternal pat. “Of course you
don’t believe so.” Not giving her a chance to reply to that
unexpected comment, he asked, “Are you hurt anywhere
but your lower limb?” Color climbed up his cheeks, not
from health but from embarrassment.
Darcy drew the cloak more tightly around her as they
walked outside, so it concealed her bare legs. The stones
in the walk were warmer than within the asylum. “I am
otherwise fine.”
She gazed up at the setting sun, closing her eyes as
she let her skin absorb the light she had been denied. She
did not care if she ruined her face with a bronzing. Let
Grandmother Kincaid despair at how easily Darcy’s skin
darkened in the summer. Today, she was going to soak up
this light until she had her fill.
Hastings’ hand tugged her toward the carriage. She
reluctantly stepped beneath some trees beside the road.
Wishing he had brought an open carriage, she sighed.
Nash looked at her, then quickly away. The coachman’s
neck grew ruddy above his color.
Climbing into the carriage, she rested back against
the cushions. She had forgotten anything could feel this
wonderful. After long hours of sleeping on a stone floor,
she would never again take such comfort for granted.
Hastings sat beside her, taking care to keep his coat
from brushing her. His nose wrinkled, and she wanted to
apologize for the odors she was sure came from her. She
remained silent.
As the carriage rolled down the hill from the asylum,
Darcy prayed this was not a dream. She did not want to
wake to find herself within that dark netherworld again.
“I’ll have your clothes returned to you after they have
been laundered,” said Hastings, keeping his gaze focused
on the front wall of the carriage.
“No need. They aren’t wearable.” She trembled, trying
to shove all the appalling images from her mind.
“But you’ll want your precious necklace returned.”
“I have it.”
“You do?” He looked at her directly for the first time
since his shocked stare when her cell door was opened.
“They didn’t take it from you?”
Her lip curled in disdain. “They tried.”
“I’m pleased you defied them. It shows me that you
have some of your wits still about you.”
Glancing out the window at the village below, she put
her hand against her cheek. The price of her defiance had
been high, but she was now free of the horror. She drank
in the sight of the simple houses and the bright autumn
colors and every other aspect of the commonplace scene.
Only now, when she was free, could she admit how she
had feared she never would see anything but darkness for
the rest of her life.
As the carriage went up the road leading to Rosewood
Hall, Hastings said, “You must understand, Darcy, Dr.
Berger discharged you into my custody only because he
knows I’ll monitor your medication as I have my own.”
“Medication?” She repeated in surprise, for she had
not been given any powders at the asylum. If she had, she
would have tossed them away. “Hastings, I’m fine. I can
assure you I have all my wits about me. Once I have a
bath and a good night’s rest, I’ll be as good as ever.”
“Will you?” He smiled, a cool smile like Simon wore
when she first had arrived at Rosewood Hall.
Wondering why everything brought Simon to mind,
she wanted to ask Hastings how his son could have
condemned her to that nightmare. Hastings might know,
but, even if he did not, what would he say except she had
needed to go there? He obviously believed sending her
there had been justified.
She had escaped from the asylum. Now, unless she
was as mad as they thought she was, she must escape
Rosewood Hall. How could she stay with a man who had
foisted that heartless tort
ure on her?
Fraser was silent as he opened the door to let them
into the house. Darcy was surprised he stared at her. He
did not offer to take her cloak, and she was glad because
she did not want to let anyone see the shapeless, gray dress.
She guessed her face was close to the same color.
Darcy was aware of every eye watching her as she
climbed the stairs on bare feet and hurried to her rooms.
She was thrilled to see a bath waiting, then realized
Hastings must have ordered it before he left. Had he told
Mrs. Pollock where he was going? If so, everyone in the
house would know by this time that Darcy had been
incarcerated in the insane asylum. She did not want to
think of the servants belowstairs laughing at her misplaced
trust in Simon.
With a sigh, she wondered why it mattered. She had
been betrayed by someone she trusted. Again. Slipping
off the shapeless garment, she threw it aside and stepped
into the tub. The warm water climbed along her legs,
embracing her. Her right ankle stung, but she did not care
as long as the manacle was gone. Leaning her head back
against the tub, she stared up at the ceiling.
She wished she could cry, but even sobs would not
banish the disgusting memories of what had happened.
No amount of wishing could undo what had been done. If
it had been only Dr. Berger and his unmerciful staff . . . It
had not been.
Simon had consigned her to that hell.
Deliberately.
Simon had chided her about seeing the lights, calling
them her imagination. Yet, he had not denied they existed,
only that they were swamp gas. He had teased her about
the clouds of light until he, too, had seen them. Not once
on the nights when Simon had skulked into her room to
hold her and bring her ecstasy had he questioned her
behavior. Then he had wanted only to touch her, to lure
her into the savage longing, to satisfy that craving as one.
“You even dedicated your book to me before you sent
it off to Mr. Caldwell,” she whispered. But had he? She
had not asked Hastings if Simon had posted his manuscript
in time to meet his deadline. Without her to correct any
mistakes on the typewriter, for he always checked her typed
pages to look for errors either he or she had made, he might
not have been able to finish the manuscript. By now, it