by Ginny Dye
Carrie wanted to deny it, but she didn’t see the point. “Yes,” she admitted. “As much as I hated them being so far away in Oberlin, at least I knew they were safe.” She looked to Anthony. “I’ve been so busy with the clinic that I really am not paying much attention to anything else.” She paused. “Do you know what is going on with the KKK?”
Anthony nodded reluctantly. “It’s not good,” he said grimly. “Their success in keeping blacks away from the elections last November has emboldened them. The election didn’t go their way, but they learned their terror tactics are effective. They are increasing their attacks, and seem to not care who knows.” He hesitated. “I think they don’t believe anyone will take action to stop them.” His face set in grim lines. “I’m afraid they might be right. And, even if action is taken, it will be impossible to control everything in the South.”
Carrie sucked in her breath, thinking of all the attacks the plantation had already endured. What were Moses and Rose coming back to? What were they bringing their children back to? She understood their decision to accept the risk, but could she handle the idea of losing someone else she loved to vigilantes? She took a deep breath as worry replaced her delight. She knew worrying served no good purpose, but she couldn’t stop the trembling in her gut.
“I’m going to keep my promise to Sarge,” she said quietly. “I promised him I would go to bed early tonight. I’m going to do just that.”
Carrie could feel the eyes watching her as she walked from the kitchen. All she wanted was to curl up in her bed, go to sleep, and pretend the world wasn’t full of horrifying things.
Chapter Twenty
Alice took a deep breath, wishing with all her heart that she could retreat back to the safety of her room, but Dr. Tillerson had insisted she attend the social event planned for her old ward that evening. She suspected he had been compelled to make some degree of improvements since Carrie’s visit with letters from Governor Hoffman and the Inspector of State Prisons. Knowing how his mind worked, she was certain he intended to pressure her to make a good report on the ward if she wanted to continue to receive better treatment in her private room.
“I don’t wish to attend,” she said.
“I know,” Miss Wade said sympathetically, “but he was quite adamant. I don’t believe you want to defy him,” she warned. “You’ve been hurt enough, Mrs. Archer. Just go along with this, and you’ll be back in your room soon.”
Alice was grateful they had at least chosen Miss Wade to escort her and not the fearsome Mrs. Bartle. The last two weeks had healed her face, but it had done nothing to eliminate her fear of the ward. She couldn’t help being afraid that once back in the confines of her old prison, they would find a way to keep her there. She pulled her coat closer as they neared the ward. The patients confined here were certainly not being any more protected from the numbing cold. She felt guilty for having such a warm coat, but found herself unwilling not to wear it. She sent grateful thoughts to Carrie every day, even while she was wondering why she was still confined in the asylum.
There had been no more communication from anyone. Even if letters had been delivered, she knew she would not receive them if Dr. Tillerson disagreed with something in them. It was easy to envision a pile of letters filling the trash bin in his office.
“What happened to the woman who was hurt the last night I was in the ward?” Alice asked. She needed to take her mind off the fact she may never have any more communication from the outside world. Very likely, Carrie had not been able to convince Sherman to free her. Her brief moment of hope had already faded into resigned acceptance.
Miss Wade cocked her head. “Who are you talking about?”
“I don’t know her name. She had arrived just that day, and it was quite clear she was not insane. Mrs. Bartle subdued her in the cold water tub that night. It was her screams and cries for help that had everyone in my room so agitated.”
“And your attempt to calm the women in your room was the reason you were hurt so badly,” Miss Wade commented.
Alice shrugged. She found it easier if she didn’t think of that night. “How is she?”
Miss Wade frowned. “Her name is Beatrice Murray. I’m afraid Mrs. Murray has had a rough time of it.”
Alice bit her lip. She needed no imagination to understand what a rough time of it meant. Before she could say anything else, they arrived at the ward.
Everyone stopped talking when they entered the room. Alice shifted uncomfortably, her insides trembling more from fear than from the cold. What if Mrs. Bartle refused to let her leave? What if an agitated patient attacked her again? Now that she was freed from the daily reality of life in this cold, dank prison, she found it even more unfathomable that she might end up there again. Surely though, Dr. Tillerson would not be long constrained by the threat of the letters Carrie had produced. As time went on, his fear would diminish and he would take action on the hatred she saw shining from his eyes every time he looked at her. She suspected his insistence about her attendance tonight was simply a reminder and warning of what was waiting for her.
Miss Wade touched her arm. “Mrs. Murray is standing next to the window. I’m sure she would appreciate it if you spoke to her.”
Alice’s eyes swept the room, noticing the urn of hot coffee and plate of biscuits laid out on a long table in the center. In the realm of social events, this hardly counted as one, but she was glad the women would at least have a hot drink for one night. The atmosphere was blessedly quiet and constrained. She locked eyes with Mrs. Bartle for a moment. The burly attendant, watching from a corner of the room, stared at her with angry disdain. Alice was careful to look back with nothing but calm detachment. There was no reason to antagonize the woman, and every reason to not make her more of an enemy.
Alice turned away in search of Mrs. Murray. Her eyes swept over a woman standing by the window, but she didn’t recognize her. She turned to gaze around the room.
“That’s Mrs. Murray,” Miss Wade said quietly, appearing by her side again. “There, by the window.”
Alice shook her head. “That’s not possible. I don’t recognize her.” True, she had only seen her that afternoon before she was moved, but the picture of the delicate, fine-featured woman with frightened, yet sane, eyes was indelibly sketched in her mind. “Dear God…” she muttered, raising her hand to her mouth to stop her cry of distress when the truth dawned on her.
“I told you she’s had a rather rough two weeks,” Miss Wade said grimly, anger flashing in her eyes. “Mrs. Bartle has taken it upon herself to subdue her.”
Alice shuddered and swung her head back to where the woman was standing, staring out the barred sliver of a window, not seeming to even notice the icy wind blowing in. She took a deep breath and slowly walked over. “Mrs. Murray?”
Alice barely contained her shocked gasp when the woman turned to her. “Oh, my dear,” she murmured, laying her hand on her arm. “What has happened to you?”
Mrs. Murray stared in her direction through unseeing eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize your voice.”
Alice was amazed that even after two weeks of horrible treatment, the woman still maintained a grasp of courtesy. “You wouldn’t,” she said quickly. “I was here the night you arrived, but I was moved the next day.”
Mrs. Murray cocked her head. “You’re the one who was beaten by your roommate.”
“Yes,” Alice said softly, and then turned the conversation back to the pitiful excuse for a human standing in front of her. “What has happened to you?” she repeated.
Mrs. Murray grimaced. “What hasn’t happened to me?” Her cloudy eyes released a single tear that she quickly dashed away.
Alice understood. It was never good to show weakness in this ward. It only made you more vulnerable. She struggled to remember the beautiful woman she had seen enter the asylum two weeks earlier. Mrs. Murray had been lovely—short and tiny, with long, black, beautiful hair. She’d had tender, frightened eyes, and a white, clear comp
lexion. The woman standing in front of her now bore no resemblance.
Mrs. Murray turned toward the window again, seeming to find comfort in the cold air swallowing her emaciated frame. When she spoke, her voice was emotionless. “I have been choked, beaten, kicked, and plunged into that icy tub more times than I can count.”
“Why?” Alice whispered.
Mrs. Murray shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned I am a trained dancer or that I am highly educated. I believed, in the beginning, that I could convince people of my sanity. Now I doubt it myself,” she said bitterly. “I suppose I should have accepted the inevitable when they started giving me opium to calm me.”
Alice groaned. “Opium?” She had seen the results of using opium during her work with patients at school. She also knew, firsthand, the power of addiction because it had consumed her younger brother after his injuries during the war. He had never been the same.
Mrs. Murray still portrayed no emotion. “Mrs. Bartle told me it would quiet my excited nervous system.” She chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Evidently, it had the opposite effect, so they kept giving me more, thinking it would help.” Suddenly ,she clenched her fists and leaned toward Alice, hysterical laughter spilling from her lips. “It must not have helped…” she muttered.
Alice sucked in her breath, seeing what she hadn’t first been able to recognize in the blinded eyes. She knew excessive amounts of opium could cause insanity. Suddenly, certain she must tell Mrs. Murray’s story if she was ever released from the asylum herself, she continued to question her in a calm voice. “What happened to your face?” She was appalled by the open sores and her inflamed eyes.
Mrs. Murray frowned and raised her hand to her face. “Do I look badly? I am told the opium made me quite drunk one night. So drunk I fainted and fell down a flight of stairs.” She hesitated, and then finished the story. “When they found me, they poured a large bottle of camphor over my face. It went into my ears and eyes. I have been blind and hard of hearing since then.” She paused. “Oh, I can see some shadows – at least enough to get around - but my vision is gone. I can’t see a mirror, so I have no idea of what I look like. Not that it matters anymore,” she said in a broken whisper.
Alice couldn’t control another groan. Camphor could be an effective remedy if used correctly, but too much of it could wreak havoc on skin and on the eyes. “My dear Mrs. Murray. I’m so terribly sorry.” She knew her sympathy wouldn’t change anything, but she had to at least express it.
Mrs. Murray chuckled, her blind eyes somehow taking on a shine of madness once again. “Sorry. Yes, I am, too. My husband has indeed won.”
“Why?” Alice asked. She supposed she should be grateful she was not the only woman trapped here because of her husband, but the knowledge only made her feel ill.
“Oh, Harrison did not like the fact that I was fighting for women’s rights.” Mrs. Murray’s voice became coherent again as she talked about her passion. “Women should have the vote, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Alice agreed.
Mrs. Murray brightened for a moment. “I’m quite glad you know. Too many women don’t seem to realize we must fight for our rights.” She shook her head. “Harrison told me he wouldn’t have a wife of his making him look weak and ineffective.”
“So, he had you brought here and locked up,” Alice stated.
Mrs. Murray looked toward her. “Is that what happened to you? I can’t see your face, but you certainly don’t sound like the rest.”
“Yes. My husband was displeased because I was soon to get my medical degree. He had me abducted one night and brought here.”
Mrs. Murray reached out and gripped her hand. “What a horrible man!”
“Just as horrible as Harrison,” Alice agreed. Silence fell on the women for a few moments, but Alice knew she had to give the poor woman something to hold onto. Carrie had given her a private room and warm clothes, but her most treasured gift to her had been hope. It was fading now, but she would not diminish its value. “You have to hold on, Mrs. Murray. Things will get better.” She had absolutely no basis for her belief, but it was the only thing she could think of to say.
“Hold on?” Mrs. Murray asked absently as another laugh bubbled from her lips. “No, I don’t think so, dear. There is but one way to deal with living in this place of horrors.”
“Mrs. Murray, I—”
“That’s quite enough talking, Mrs. Archer.”
Alice felt Mrs. Murray stiffen with terror when Mrs. Bartle appeared at their side.
“Get away from that patient,” Mrs. Bartle ordered. “She is nothing but trouble.”
Alice wanted to lash out, but knew it would only make things more intolerable for Mrs. Murray. In truth, she had no idea what she would have said to infuse the woman with hope. She feared anything she would have said would have been nothing more than pointless lies. Trapped by the laws of America, Mrs. Murray was at the mercy of her husband because she was nothing but disposable property.
Bile rose in her throat as she walked away from the window, dismayed when she heard Mrs. Murray giggle and turn back to the window again.
*****
Sherman Archer prepared carefully for his meeting with Ralph Cook that morning. He knew his efforts with the Pennsylvania Railroad Company had been producing stellar results. He suspected he was being called in for the announcement of a promotion. His hands shook slightly with excitement as he brushed back his thick black hair, and carefully groomed his moustache. He adjusted the lapel of his suitcoat, straightened the monogrammed handkerchief in his pocket, and brushed away a few specks of lint before turning away from the mirror.
He heard a bell ring in the distance. Sherman smiled with satisfaction as he walked to the dining room. Sending Alice to the insane asylum had been an inconvenience in the beginning, but securing Hettie Holloway as his cook and housekeeper had proved to be a boon. As long as he paid Hettie on time, she had nothing more to say than “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.” There were moments when it was lonely without a wife in bed at night, but in truth, Alice had spent much of their marriage at school. It had not been difficult to find other ways to meet his needs. He found he rather preferred single life.
The time may come in the future when he would want another wife; then he would have to deal with the reality of Alice in the insane asylum. He was confident he would be awarded a divorce on the grounds that his once lovely wife was certifiably insane. During a brief moment of doubt, he had offered her a way out two weeks earlier, but she had refused his reasonable request to promise she would never be a doctor.
As Sherman seated himself in front of a plate of hot, steaming food in the dining room, he was confident he had done all a prosperous businessman could be expected to do for a recalcitrant wife. It was his place as a man to control his rebellious spouse. His position as a successful businessman required it.
Feeling secure in his future, Sherman ate his breakfast quickly, and then strode from the house. Even a cold New York wind could not damper his spirits this fine morning. He was about to take a step further into the future he dreamed of.
*****
Ralph Cook exchanged a glance with Wally Stratford when Sherman Archer was announced by his secretary.
“Hello, Mr. Cook,” Sherman said heartily as he strode into the room.
Ralph remained seated, merely indicating a chair in front of his desk by a brief nod. “Hello, Sherman.”
Sherman hesitated for a moment, his brow lifting when he saw Wally across the room, but smiled and took the seat offered him.
Wally knew that Ralph failing to stand when Sherman entered the room had passed on the message it was intended to. He could see the tension in Sherman’s eyes. Perfect. He wanted him on his guard.
“Thank you for coming in today,” Ralph began. Now that he had made clear his position of authority, his voice took on a more pleasant tone. “I have called this meeting to talk about the work you have been doing for Pennsylvania
Railroad.”
Wally understood when Sherman visibly relaxed. No one could dispute the effectiveness of his efforts for the company.
“I hope you are pleased,” Sherman said smoothly.
“I’m quite pleased with the increased positive publicity the company has received in the last year,” Ralph assured him. “We have discovered that by carefully monitoring the information the media receives, we can overcome negative publicity.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Sherman replied. “I have worked quite diligently to accomplish the results you were hoping to achieve.” He smiled confidently.
“Yes, you have,” Ralph responded. He paused for a long moment. “The problem we are facing now is negative publicity that we cannot control in the media. We find ourselves dealing with something that is quite out of our control, because it is now in the hands of a very prominent journalist.”
Sherman stiffened. “What is it, sir? I can assure you I will nip it in the bud.”
“Oh?” Ralph asked. “And how will you do that?”
Sherman leaned forward. “I’m not aware yet of what the negative publicity entails, but it can’t be anything major or I would be aware of it. First, I will get rid of whatever is creating the negative impression, and then I will meet with the media to assure them it has been dealt with. If there is any media coverage at all, it will be positive because of how we handled it.”
Wally smiled slightly, glad Sherman couldn’t see his face from where he was sitting. In truth, other than a brief glance and a head nod, Sherman had paid him no attention. It was just as he had planned.
Ralph listened closely and sat back with a sigh. “I wish I believed it would be that simple. As it turns out, it involves someone we consider very important to our company. We want to take care of the problem without jeopardizing this person’s position.”
