Color of Danger (The Sullyard Sisters Book 2)

by Ruth J. Hartman

  When had he developed a conscience? Become her champion? He turned to find Lydia now wrapped in the blanket. His coat lay on the straw, folded up.

  She pointed to his garment. “I don’t know if your valet would have any luck, but perhaps you could give it to him and see. I’m so very sorry.”

  “You do not need to apologize for anything. Besides, I think it best if you keep it.”

  “Keep it?”

  “In case… well in the event you’d have need of it again.”

  She looked at the coat again, then the closed door. Was she thinking of the male keeper? After letting out a sigh, she nodded.

  “Why don’t you finish your meal?”

  “All right.” She took slow, careful bites, but she had to be famished. Was she embarrassed at how quickly she’d eaten when he’d brought her the food before?

  “Lydia, I know you’re hungry, please don’t try to be ladylike in my presence.”

  Without another word, she grabbed a large piece of the bread and dipped it in the gruel. Stratford nearly grimaced at the possibility of how the hospital’s food must taste, but if he’d been denied sustenance, wouldn’t he do the same?

  To give her some privacy while she ate, he thought to step out of the cell. As he approached the door to call out for the keeper again, however, he heard the clang of Lydia’s chain as she moved.

  “You’re not… leaving, are you?”

  He faced her again. “I imagined that perhaps you’d… that is, I don’t want to be a hindrance to you eating.”

  She eyed the piece of cheese in her hand. “If I promise to eat all of this right now, will you stay? At least a little while longer?”

  His heart warmed. Surely she only craved company, anyone’s company, in the long lonely hours of her imprisonment, and that otherwise she’d likely not wish to spend much time with him, but still, he was glad she’d requested that he stay. “Of course.”

  Lydia had all of the food and water gone in short order. She let out a contented sigh. She’d commented on how he seemed to have changed, but Stratford couldn’t get over the changes in her.

  Gone was the snippy, bossy, propriety-loving younger sister of Kitty. In her place was a kind, grateful young woman who didn’t appear to have a use for all of the rules she’d loved to remind people of. Stratford looked around the enclosure, angry once again that Lydia was trapped there against her will. That there was no reason for her to have been committed.

  The keeper had mentioned a woman. Who in their right mind would have had Lydia sent to Bedlam, and how had they arranged it? He’d always been of the understanding that someone in a patient’s family and possibly a physician were the only ways someone could force another to be locked away.

  But her family wouldn’t have done this. Even her cousin Robert, vile as he was. And hadn’t Nathaniel said that when Robert had heard of Lydia’s plight he’d been glad of it? That indicated Robert had had no prior knowledge of her being there.

  Besides, the keeper had specifically mentioned that it had been a woman who had given her money to see to the discomfort of Lydia. As if it wasn’t already bad enough without extra help.

  Something touched his sleeve. Lydia was staring at him intently. “You’ve gone so quiet, Stratford. Is something wrong?”

  “Other than you being stuck in here?”

  She lifted one shoulder, which caused the blanket to slip. She tugged it closer again. “Something seems to have changed.”

  He forced a smile. “Just trying to think of a way to…”

  “To what?”

  Why did he have to start that sentence? If he mentioned wanting to find a way to see to her freedom and failed, wouldn’t that make it worse for her than it already was? “I… I’m sorry. Just woolgathering.”

  She lifted one corner of her mouth. “That’s about the only thing this cell is good for. Trust me when I tell you that I’ve done quite a bit of it myself.”

  “Yes, I can see where one might.” He suddenly remembered the other item that had been in his coat pocket. “Say, I’d nearly forgotten that Kitty gave me another letter for you.” He held it out and stopped. “Oh, Lydia, I’m such an idiot.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I can’t read it to you.”

  She lightly brushed her shoulder against his. “That’s not a problem. I think I can now.”

  “Truly? Your vision has improved?”

  She nodded.

  “How wonderful.” He handed her the note and waited while she unfolded the foolscap. He watched her eyes, fascinated at how quickly they moved back and forth as she read. What must it be like to be able to read something so effortlessly? To enjoy the written word instead of seeing it as an enemy to be avoided?

  She sighed. “It sounds like Kitty is restless, but all in all doing fine.” Lydia handed him back the note.

  “Why did you…” He frowned. “I can’t…”

  Lydia lowered her eyebrows, looking more like her old self than she had since he’d seen her before she’d come to Bedlam. “I thought perhaps we could try.”

  “Try?”

  “To help you read.”

  “We as in you and me, or the royal we?”

  She chuckled. “Humor me, won’t you? As you can see, I don’t have much with which to occupy myself in here.”

  He gave a sigh, appreciative that she wanted to help, but doubtful anything good would result. “As you wish.”

  “Now that’s what a lady likes to hear.”

  He laughed. “I’ll need to remember that.”

  “See that you do.” Her eyes, not as swollen now from her beating, crinkled at the corners.

  Seeing that he wouldn’t escape the embarrassment of Lydia finding out just how bad his reading problem was, Stratford peered down at the jumble of words. He knew what the letters were. Had learned them early on and had no trouble identifying them or writing them out individually. The problem came when he tried to either put them together so they made sense to someone else or when he attempted to read something. Anything.

  Lydia leaned down over the page in his hand. “Tell me what you see.”

  “One big catastrophe.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “How is being glib going to help?”

  Though Stratford was glad Lydia had lost some of her bossiness, relief swept through him that a piece of her personality was still there, somewhere, just waiting to climb out. “Pardon. It’s only…”

  “What?”

  “If you point to a letter, I can identify it. But when they’re placed together in a row, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Lydia reached behind her and grabbed her pencil, which was now only a couple of inches long. She must have really put a lot of hours into her panorama with it. Handing it to him, she said, “If I asked you to write your name, could you do it?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether or not you want it to make sense.”

  “Just show me.”

  He took the battered pencil and carefully, slowly, wrote out his name.

  “Hmmm.” She squinted like that might help her make sense of what she observed.

  “See? Hopeless.”

  “Not hopeless.”

  “No?”

  “I have an idea.” She took the paper and pencil back and wrote something right below what he’d written. “Now, I’ve written your name how it should appear. Compare it to yours. Do you see a difference?”

  “It’s all so confusing to me.”

  “Let’s just do one letter at a time then.”

  He didn’t see the point, but nodded.

  Underneath where he’d placed his S, she wrote something. “There. Now do you see the difference?”

  Stratford tilted his head and studied the two letters. At first, he didn’t see it, but the more he studied them, something stood out. “Mine is… different. Backwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that’s the
problem with why I can’t read very well or why no one can understand what I’ve written?”

  “I don’t know that it’s the whole issue, but I think it’s a good start. Are you willing to try? To allow me to help you?”

  “Only if you want to. You have no obligation, you know.”

  “It would be my honor and privilege to help you.”

  At the light dancing in Lydia’s formerly dull eyes, Stratford felt better than he had in a very long time.

  Chapter Ten

  Lydia’s head lolled to the side as she lay on the straw. She couldn’t quite gain her equilibrium after her treatment. Her head spun and her stomach clenched. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could imagine was circling out of control. The walls spinning past so quickly she thought she’d faint.

  During the treatment, she’d wrapped her arms around her middle, hoping… well she wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been hoping. Maybe, to keep her insides from tumbling out? Or to prevent her hands from catching on something by the wall and getting snapped off at the wrists? Even now, she kept her hands and arms close to her sides.

  When two male keepers, Mr. Steele being one, had come into her cell, she’d nearly shrieked in panic, thinking it would be two against one that time with him wanting to finish what he’d started. But they’d undone her leg shackle, which felt heavenly for the short time it was off. They had walked her, one man on each side with a tight grasp on her arms, up the stairs and down a long, darkened hall. She’d had difficulty walking, her legs weakened from nonuse. They’d half-carried her for a good bit of it.

  She hadn’t seen any part of Bedlam except where they’d taken her the first day, so at least it might have been something new to view. Not that it ended up being different. Unfortunately, the moaning, screaming patients were the same, just with different faces.

  The closer she’d gotten to the last door on the right, the louder people screamed from inside the cell. She’d bucked against the men, trying to dig in her heels but it didn’t work. For one thing, the men were too big and strong. For another, digging in one’s heels when those heels were bare and legs were weak was highly ineffective.

  Did the physician at Bedlam really think that spinning a patient in the chair would cure them of whatever ills had befallen their minds? That the terrible notions and hallucinations would fly out of their bodies the faster the chair whirled?

  After taking a deep, slow breath, Lydia let it out. Much better. Things weren’t twirling quite as much, though she still felt as helpless as a day-old kitten. She could take the weakness as long as the room wasn’t flopping about. And her stomach had calmed down, so hopefully she wouldn’t lose the tiny bit of gruel they’d given her that morning.

  Steps sounded outside her door, and Lydia eyed it expectantly. When had she started to assume that Stratford would visit daily? Was that wrong of her? A tiny spark of hope coiled around her heart, desperately longing to burst into a flame of joy at the thought that maybe, Stratford felt something for her beyond that of familial duty.

  He stepped inside, gave the keeper a nod, and turned toward her. “Have you been receiving your food? I see they’ve allowed you to keep your blanket.”

  Her heart plummeted. No greeting. No kind salutation. Only inquiries into her comfort. She mentally shook herself. Stop this. The man is here. He’s concerned for you. Have you any right to question his form of address?

  “Yes, I have been given my food. Thank you for speaking to the keeper about it.”

  He set a white towel down next to her. “I brought that in case… well, I wasn’t sure if the keeper would stand by her word.”

  Lydia eyed the parcel, still hungry in spite of the fact that she’d already consumed her day’s portion of gruel. She waved a limp hand. “You… you may take it back home. If you like.”

  “Nonsense. You still need it.”

  Her gaze floated once again to the food. If she ate what he’d brought, would she gain back more of her strength?

  He paced back and forth in front of her. Why was he so agitated? Just the day prior they’d had such a pleasant talk and had made a little progress on his letters.

  Stratford stopped suddenly. “After I left here yesterday, something plagued me.”

  “Oh?” Welcome to my little corner of hell. Plagues of all sorts seem to reign supreme here.

  “Yes, it was what that keeper had said. About the other woman who’d paid to keep you…”

  Lydia nodded and glanced away. She’d heard the word miserable.

  “Who is the woman, Lydia? Do you know?”

  She closed her eyes, regretted it, and immediately opened them. She was a terrible liar. Always had been. Instead of answering, she kept her focus on the straw and simply shrugged, causing the straw to rustle beneath her shoulders.

  He stepped closer. “What’s happened? Is something amiss?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “You might want to have another look at the surroundings and rethink your inquiry.”

  His face reddened. “Pardon. Of course.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s… I had a type of treatment today, and I’m… out of sorts, I guess you’d say.”

  “What did they do?” He crouched down and studied her face.

  “It wasn’t… I wasn’t beaten again, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “I’m glad to hear that at least. So… ” He wound his hand in a circle for her to continue, but even that small motion threatened to make her ill.

  She pointed up, picturing the contraption to be above them. “They put me in a chair suspended from the ceiling and… spun me.”

  He frowned. “Pardon?”

  “It was as bad as it sounds.”

  “That’s terrible.” He shook his head. “How long did you have to endure it?”

  “I’m not sure. It felt like hours. All I know is, when they came to get me early this morning, the corridor windows were much darker than when they brought me back.”

  He gritted his teeth together. “Lydia, we must figure out why you’re here. I’m worried for you. Afraid that…” He blinked rapidly. Was the man trying not to cry? Stratford, the rake?

  Still feeling weak, and knowing she wouldn’t give a convincing performance of acting innocent of any knowledge, she sighed. “I guess since you told me your secret, I’ll tell you one of my own.” She paused, trying to gather the courage to tell him. Once she said the words, there was no reeling them back. “You see, I only found out recently why I happen to be here.”

  He held very still and seemed to be holding his breath in anticipation. A single nod was his only response.

  “You are acquainted with a woman by the name of Miss Queensbury?” She knew he was, as she’d witnessed the woman pawing at him during the party. Still, she didn’t want to sound presumptuous. Besides she didn’t know how he felt about the woman. Maybe by some strange quirk he was actually fond of her.

  He rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “No. Not in any way.”

  “That is perplexing indeed.”

  He sat down on the floor beside her. “Because I don’t care for her company? Why would it be a surprise? She’s very unpleasant.”

  “I happen to agree, but… She fancies you.”

  “Me? I thought she’d always set her cap for Nathaniel. I’d always felt bad for him about it and relieved it wasn’t me.”

  “She tried to ensnare him. But since he’s married…”

  “Now she wants me?”

  “Yes.”

  He visibly shuddered and lowered his voice. “Did she tell you this?”

  “She did, when she came here the other day to see me. She barely stepped inside the cell but stood next to the door at first. I couldn’t get close to the door, of course, because of my chain, but she spoke loudly enough to wake the dead. I think she was proud of what she was saying and cared not who knew it.”

  “Wasn’t she worried someone might overhe
ar your conversation?”

  “Probably not. Have you looked around? Most patients actually are mad. They wouldn’t have batted an eye if she’d danced a waltz with a circus jester down the corridor. I’m guessing she just plain didn’t care and enjoyed speaking louder to make her point.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “She admitted in no uncertain terms that she was the one who’d had me committed.”

  “What? How is that possible? Surely she had no proof of a reason to have you brought here?”

  “I’m not sure she needed any. Though, I do have a peculiar way of… well, my family is used to it, I guess.”

  He frowned and leaned closer. “I’ve never noticed anything. What do you do?” He asked it not in a way someone would who was hoping for juicy gossip, but as a concerned listener who wanted to help.

  “I… sometimes count items or… tap a surface a certain number of times.” Lydia glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, almost afraid to hear his response. “Does that make me sound like a mad woman?” Please say no. In all the time she’d admired him from afar, she’d always hoped he’d never heard of her peculiarities. Now, what difference would it really make compared to where she was?

  “Hardly. If every person who had quirks were housed here, the streets of London would be empty.”

  Relief spread through Lydia and she laughed. How wonderful that felt. “You might be right about that.”

  “Then how was she able to have you committed? She’s not even a member of your family. And doesn’t a physician have to concur that someone is mad?”

  “That's what I’d always heard. Like you in school, she found that being wealthy has its advantages.”

  Stratford jumped up and began to pace again. “Miss Queensbury paid someone to have you brought here?”

  “That’s what she told me. And also that she indicated I might be some sort of witch.”

  “Why? Why would she do this?”

  Lydia sighed. She had no desire to tell him more, but since she’d started the admission, she was afraid Stratford would keep digging for the truth if she didn’t finish. Wouldn’t it be better coming from Lydia than someone else? Besides, since he’d shared with her his embarrassing struggle with reading, she hoped to have a deeper intimacy in their budding friendship. Perhaps telling him a secret of her own would help. “Miss Queensbury mentioned the fact that you and I had danced at the ball. Also, at the party your father had a few weeks ago, Miss Queensbury saw me standing next to you. Apparently she thought that you and I… that we…” She bit her lip, not able to finish. A longing so deep for the sentiment to be real flowed through her, surrounding her heart.