The Madness of Miss Grey

by Julia Bennet

  Between the two of them—the three of them once Sarah got back with the necessities—they soon had Miss Grey out of her wet things and covered in a veritable mountain of blankets.

  Only then did his mother turn to him for advice. “Do you think we need do more?”

  “Do you have hot water flasks?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’ll get mine. You too, Sarah.”

  While he waited, he shrugged out of his coat, adding it to the mound of blankets, tucking it in, trying to make some feeble amends for his earlier actions. You’d freeze more quickly without the coat. What had possessed him to speak as he had? He’d known who and what she was, yet he’d practically dared her into an act of madness.

  He’d been tired after the journey from London, but Hector had desperately needed a run after spending the entire day penned up, and so Will had ventured out again despite his aching limbs. He’d been frozen near solid by the time the dog decided to hare off on his own. Yet none of these woes excused such a lamentable lapse of judgment where Miss Grey was concerned.

  His mother returned with the hot water flasks and waited, foot tapping, while he positioned them under the blankets, one to the girl’s left, one to her right down by her feet. Once he’d arranged them to his satisfaction, he turned to face the questions he knew would come.

  “Come on, lad. Come and have a cup of tea. Sarah’s gone abed with one of her headaches, though no doubt she’ll want to hear all about it come morning.”

  Though Mam looked frail, the sight of her little kitchen—so neat and clean that even the stove shone—reassured Will.

  Her small home bore all the hallmarks of her skill as a housekeeper. He even recognized some of the ornaments that had once graced her quarters up at the manor: the china plate, with its pattern of orangey autumn foliage, which she’d received as a retirement gift; a tiny clay milkmaid that looked innocent enough now but whose miniature cleavage had fascinated Will as a boy; and of course, the mantel clock Sir Clifford had left in his will. This last was her most prized possession, but she kept it here in the kitchen, where she would see it every day, instead of in the parlor where it would impress guests. Never one to take her ease in front of the fire, she preferred to keep busy.

  Once she’d furnished them both with tea, she sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. Even seated, she wasn’t truly at rest; she resembled a squirrel perched on a branch. Any moment, she’d be off to gather more nuts for her store.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Who is she?”

  “A patient, that’s all I know. We’ll need to tell them up at the house. They’re probably still out looking for her.” Someone should probably retrieve her discarded coat as well.

  “You can send Billy Rigby,” she said. “Two doors down. He’s a good, steady boy. You can call in there when you’ve finished your drink.”

  He nodded and took a sip. “When I arrived this afternoon, the place was in an uproar. I haven’t even seen Sterling yet.”

  “Oh, him.”

  He knew that look. Recalcitrant maids, improperly dusted shelves, holes in the knees of the boy Will’s trousers—they were all things that caused his mother to wrinkle her nose and pucker her lips, as she did now.

  “He doesn’t come into the village often,” she went on, “but when he does, you’d think he was the lord of the manor, not some little doctor in charge of a madhouse.”

  Mam’s heart had all but broken when Sir Clifford’s heir decided to sell Blackwell instead of live there. Then the buyer—Sterling—had added insult to injury when he transformed her pride and joy into an insane asylum.

  In truth, Sterling was more than “a little doctor.” A former Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy, he’d treated members of society’s elite, and he remained a highly respected member of the Medico-Psychological Association. Will considered himself fortunate to be working with him even if it might only be for six weeks. He had taken the position on a temporary basis, though he hoped it would become permanent.

  Still, he couldn’t help but smile at Mam’s rude assessment of one of England’s most venerable physicians. “If I should ever start to get above myself, a cup of tea with you will keep me humble.”

  She winked. “Just as it should. Never forget where you came from, lad.”

  He reached across the kitchen table and took her hand. The skin felt thin and papery, as fragile as wrapping tissue. “I’ve stayed away too long.”

  “Now, don’t you do that. I get along fine. I’ve got Sarah for company, God help me. When Sir Clifford, God rest him, offered you a chance to better yourself, you were right to grab on with both hands.”

  Sir Clifford had been Mam’s employer, nothing more. But with no children of his own to educate, he’d had both money enough and inclination to help Will rise in the world. Will’s own father had died years before, and when Will departed for school, Mam had been left on her own. His career had kept him away, apart from the occasional visit, ever since.

  “You did me proud,” his mother said. “You’re a good son, and I won’t have you tearing yourself in two trying to look after an old woman.”

  She swiped at her cheek. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she was wiping away a tear.

  “Well, will you look at that?” she exclaimed. “Empty cups. Let’s have a nip of something stronger this time, shall we?”

  He didn’t know what to say. Mam was never one to talk about her feelings. As she shuffled over to the cupboard, he sensed how uncomfortable her speech had made her. Her spine rigid as a maypole, she sloshed brandy into two glasses and deposited one in front of him. From the smell alone, he could tell it was poor stuff, but he’d drunk plenty of that in his time, and he didn’t mind.

  “What you need, my lad, is another wife.”

  Ah, so she’d overheard his desperate recital of the Hippocratic Oath, had she? Before he had a chance to turn red with embarrassment, he choked down his brandy and excused himself to go in search of Billy Rigby.

  …

  Helen had no idea where she was—she might be anywhere—and yet she didn’t feel afraid. One thing seemed certain: this wasn’t her room at the asylum, and that could only be a good thing. Instead of damp, she smelled coal smoke and dried flowers. Instead of the bright glare of morning streaming in through barred windows, she’d woken to the gentle glow of a fire. She felt almost, but not quite, warm.

  A woman’s voice intruded. “They’re coming for you, dear.”

  Of course they were. They always came. The question in these situations was whether to make a scene. They would drag her back anyway, but sometimes she liked to resist. A point of pride as much as anything. If she allowed them to do as they wished with her, she’d end with fewer bruises, but what of her self-respect? It was a comfort—small comfort, she admitted—to fight back.

  A hand, gentle but insistent, touched her shoulder. “Come on now, sleeping beauty.”

  Helen forced her eyes open and looked into the face peering down at her, which turned out to be rather stern and wizened. Whoever this old woman was, she’d clearly taken care of her.

  “Where am I?”

  “Primrose Cottage. My son carried you here.”

  “Your son,” Helen echoed. The last thing she remembered was the dog, so enthusiastic, leaping and bounding. Then…Yes, that’s right, a man had come. The dog’s owner, the inscrutable William Carter. “The new doctor?”

  “Aye.”

  How proud the woman sounded. If Carter was her son, then she must be the housekeeper, the one who used to run Blackwell when it was a simple country manor. How did she feel now that her old home’s only inmates were madwomen and their keepers?

  “Your dress is dry,” the woman went on. “Wrinkled from the heat of the fire, but it’ll have to do you. I’ve lent you some underthings since you seem not to have any.” Here she gave a tut of disapproval. “I’m afraid my things’ll be a poor fit.”

  Helen didn’t doubt it. The old lady was tiny and thin
as a rail. Still, in the face of such consideration, brusque though it was, she couldn’t bring herself to make a fuss.

  Meek and repentant it is.

  In truth, she didn’t have the energy for anything else. Emotion usually tumbled inside her like an ocean barely contained, but now the water had gone flat as a millpond. Even the desperate urge to escape had vanished. No fear, no anger—nothing at all, only stillness.

  Slowly, she sat up, surprised at how much effort it took, by how weak she was.

  “Have I been here long?”

  “No more than two hours.”

  Beneath the blankets, she was completely naked. Her clothes must have gotten wet when she’d collapsed. Some kind soul had placed hot water flasks about her. Despite the numbness, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away before they could fall. What on earth had come over her? Was she really so starved for compassion that a simple hot water bottle could reduce her to mush?

  They’re coming for you.

  As much as she wished she could stay in the warmth forever, it was better to rise of her own will than wait for the orderlies to drag her. Experience had taught her that stepping out of a cozy bed (or settee, as in this case) into a cold room was a bit like jumping into a lake when one went swimming—best done quickly. She shoved back the pile of blankets and rolled onto her feet.

  A wave of dizziness hit. She waited, stark naked, until it passed.

  The housekeeper—Mrs. Carter, Helen supposed—raised her eyebrows. “Never mind me, dear. I suppose it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Brave words and practical, but she turned her back all the same. “You’d best sit down to get those clothes on, else you’ll fall down.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Helen had never felt so tired in all her life. Even seated, her progress was slow. Thankfully, Mrs. Carter didn’t take her lower-class prudery too far.

  “You’re all thumbs,” she said, sighing as she came to help.

  They’d only just got her decently covered when the door opened. Helen groaned when she saw the squat, rubicund woman who entered. It would have to be you, Fletch.

  “There you are. Shame on you, Miss Grey, for putting Mrs. Carter to such trouble.” Nurse Fletcher wasn’t usually so polite in her scoldings. Nor had she ever before referred to Helen as “Miss Grey.” Mrs. Carter must be much respected in the village if she commanded company manners. Fletch had never been anything but brutal and surly.

  “Never you mind, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mrs. Carter replied. “She’s safe. That’s all that matters.”

  Fletch hadn’t come alone. Peering in from the doorway, two men as burly as bailiffs waited, sleeves rolled up.

  “What strapping lads,” said Mrs. Carter.

  Helen smiled. Who’d have thought the old girl had it in her?

  “But are both of them necessary to fetch one girl?”

  “You never know with this one. Meek as a lamb one moment and spitting like a she-devil the next.”

  Mrs. Carter nodded, silently deferring to Fletch’s superior knowledge.

  No sign of Dr. Carter. Perhaps he’d gone on ahead or meant to follow later. Helen didn’t understand why she looked for him at all. It wasn’t gratitude for his heroics, because she hadn’t yet decided how she felt about her “rescue.”

  “Well, Miss Grey,” said the dreaded Fletch. “Let’s be having you.”

  Thus, with terrible suddenness, Helen found herself propelled back out into the cold.

  Chapter Three

  Helen’s wash water had frozen again. The skin on her bare arms was already covered in goose flesh, and she hadn’t even begun. She braced herself for the splash as she jabbed the end of her hairbrush at the icy crust.

  There. She peered through the ragged hole she’d made, trying to screw her courage.

  Someone shoved her forward. “Oh, don’t be so feeble.”

  “Fletch,” Helen said, without bothering to turn. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Seizing a cloth, she plunged both hands into the basin before the nurse could interfere.

  “Here.” Fletch thrust a bar of lye soap across the scratched surface of the washstand. “And don’t look like such a misery. If you think I’m running up and downstairs with pans of warm water for the likes of you, you’re madder than Dr. Sterling knows. First you run off in the dead of winter dressed for summer fair, and now you complain because the water’s chilly? You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death, you stupid girl.”

  I wore that silly gown because you dress me, and I had no way of getting another.

  Instead of saying the words out loud, which would have been folly given their relative positions at Blackwell, Helen started to undress for her wash. Unlike Mrs. Carter, Fletch didn’t look away. She was never one to respect her patients’ privacy, but she didn’t usually make such a point of staring.

  Helen’s last water cure—a polite euphemism for when Fletch submerged her in icy water while simultaneously abusing and berating her—had been six weeks ago. Fletch had that eager, anxious air—just looking for an excuse. Helen had no intention of providing any, but sometimes the temptation to argue was overwhelming.

  Despite her fear, she wouldn’t pretend to an embarrassment she didn’t feel, which was what Fletch wanted. Not when a desire to punish might lie hidden behind the wanting. Helen had been stripping off for doctors and nurses for a decade; embarrassment had fled years ago.

  First, she washed under her arms, and then, hiking up her shift, between her legs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a bath. Not the good sort, anyway. Somewhere in the house, or so rumor had it, Dr. Sterling had a private bathroom with hot running water—the sort that came through pipes and out of taps!—but patient hygiene remained in the dark ages. Pitchers and basins of cold water were thought good enough for the mad denizens of Blackwell.

  Her wash finished, she risked another glance at Fletch, who stood with her hands on her hips.

  “You’re brazen, you are,” was all the nurse said. She gestured to the narrow bed on which she’d arranged a clean white dress and reddish-brown pinafore. “There you go.”

  And if I’d refused to wash while you were looking, no doubt you’d have called me a missish fool. But that was the first thing Helen had learnt about Fletch: nothing pleased her. Remember that one simple rule and…well, she wouldn’t be all right, but at least she’d know what to expect. Sort of.

  Helen eyed the clothes with suspicion. Both garments looked like they’d been freshly pressed, a rare occurrence. “What are those for?”

  “You’re to see the new doctor this morning.”

  “Is that all? He saw me yesterday. He knows what I look like.”

  The expression in Fletch’s small blue eyes hardened. “Ah, but yesterday was a wanderin’ day, wasn’t it? And today is going to be a behavin’ yourself day.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows as loftily as she knew how. “Is it indeed?” But she pulled the dress—high-necked, long-sleeved, and virtually shapeless, like all of her clothes—off the bed. Gathering it up, she searched for the neck and slipped it on over her head.

  Fletch’s feet pounded across the bare floorboards. “It better bloomin’ well be a behavin’ yourself day,” she said, tugging the white cotton into place. “Or I’ll give you what for.”

  What for usually meant “a clout ’round the ear hole.” Much less alarming than the water cure. In any case, Helen took the pinafore from the bed and slipped it on over the dress.

  Her bedroom, a small room that led off from what must once have been the main nursery, had one mirror. She had to peer past a multitude of black spots in order to see herself, but at least it was full-length. She looked into it now.

  “I look like a child.”

  “Stay still while I brush your hair.”

  “Can you put it up?”

  She didn’t know what possessed her to ask when she knew the answer.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll plait it, same as I always do.”

  Helen knew better th
an to flinch when the brush met a tangle. Instead, she gazed at herself, a twenty-six-year-old spinster dressed like a twelve year old.

  Mama would be appalled. Emerald green is your color, Nell, she used to say. See how it sets off your beautiful hair?

  Mama had been an actress. For a few years, she’d been popular, but she’d enjoyed even greater success offstage. One of Mama’s protectors had fathered Helen, but this unconventional parentage wasn’t unusual for a theatre-child; she’d never felt the stigma of her illegitimate birth until after Mama died, when everything had changed.

  “Anyway, what rubbish,” Fletch said. “You don’t look like a child and more’s the pity. I keep telling Dr. Sterling to put you back on bread and water. A good reducing diet would take the sass out of you and make you look more seemly besides. You’ve grown so fat, you look like a barmaid.”

  Helen couldn’t stop herself. “Well, you look like a washerwoman.”

  Fletch stepped in front of the mirror and pressed one end of the hairbrush to the soft fleshy part underneath Helen’s chin. “Less of your cheek or you’ll be sorry. It’ll be an ice bath instead of icy wash water.”

  Helen never minded the bluster or even the occasional clout, but when the nurse issued threats in this quiet, steely tone, it meant she was close to snapping. Helen met the other woman’s gaze, careful not to issue a challenge with her look. Like confronting a wild animal. Show respect, but not fear.

  The moment passed.

  Fletch stepped back and surveyed her work. “You’ll do.”

  Helen glanced down at her feet. “What about shoes?”

  “Not today.” Not the day after a wandering day, she might have said. “Now go and find Dr. Sterling, there’s a good girl. I’ll come and find you later when it’s t’other one’s turn.”

  …

  Will woke earlier than usual, so cold he half expected to find a web of ice coating his blankets. Hector had been missing all night, and Will needed to find him and make sure he hadn’t fallen afoul of some gamekeeper somewhere. At least outside he could walk himself warm. Perhaps that’s what Hector had been trying to do, too.