The Madness of Miss Grey

by Julia Bennet

  Time had not been kind to Blackwell House in the twenty years since Mam had retired. Inside probably hadn’t seen a duster since her departure. Primrose Cottage, where she lived now, might be small and pokey, but at least it was warm and well cared for. He was like to freeze his ballocks off in the windy turret rooms Sterling had allocated for his use.

  Outside, Blackwell’s ivy-covered stone walls, tall lancet windows, and sinister gargoyles still looked picturesque in a gloomy neo-Gothic way, but it was impossible to tell what state the gardens were in under the thick blanket of snow. He only got as far as the stables before loud barking heralded Hector’s reappearance. Will smiled despite himself and went down on his haunches in the yard as the dog padded toward him, casual as you please.

  “And where the hell have you been?” he asked, patting Hector’s head.

  From inside the tack room someone shouted, “Where’s that bastard dog gone now?”

  Will sighed. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

  Hector had the grace to hang his head.

  “William Carter, as I live and breathe.”

  Will glanced up in surprise. He knew that voice, and sure enough, he knew the man’s face as well.

  “Tom Green, how do you do?”

  Tom had been head gamekeeper when Will was a boy. He hadn’t changed at all except for a few extra wrinkles.

  “I’m right enough, lad, right enough.”

  “I hope Hector hasn’t been troubling you.”

  “He’s a fine fellow. Has a mind of his own, though.”

  “That he does,” Will said. “I misplaced him in the woods near Primrose Cottage. I’m glad he found his way back.”

  “Aye, strolled in when I was locking up last night. I knew he must belong to someone.”

  It was a relief to see a familiar face. “During my exchange of letters with Dr. Sterling, he agreed space might be found for Hector in the stables.”

  Tom scratched his chin. “I don’t see as that would be a problem.”

  “But this is the first you’ve heard of it?” Will couldn’t keep the disapproval out of his voice.

  In an asylum, attention to detail was vital. It didn’t bode well that Sterling had forgotten to make the promised arrangements. Nor that a patient had managed to escape into the snow.

  “Dr. Sterling’s a great man,” Tom said as if he’d read Will’s mind, “but he’d usually delegate a task that small. Someone probably forgot to pass the message on to me. Still, we’ve plenty of room. Lord knows there’s few enough horses these days.”

  Will nodded and glanced down at Hector, who sat, hind leg craned, scratching one ear. “He’ll probably be warmer here than he’d be in the house.”

  “Aye.” Tom grinned. “It’s not like it was when your mam had the running of things, that’s for sure.”

  By the time he’d heard all the local news from Tom, it was almost time for his meeting with Dr. Sterling.

  Will arrived to find the library door standing open. Inside, most of the shutters were closed, probably to protect the books. Light trickled in from a single mullioned window. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he perceived the outline of a man atop a tall ladder.

  Sir Clifford.

  An absurd thought. Sir Clifford was dead.

  Dr. Sterling—for who else could it be?—gave no sign that he knew he was being observed. Now that the moment had passed, Will realized Sterling didn’t particularly resemble Sir Clifford, even from behind. It must be this room. Nostalgia played tricks.

  The library had seen less neglect than the rest of the house, probably because it still retained its former use. Sir Clifford’s impressive collection must have been boxed up and shipped elsewhere by his heir prior to the sale of the house. Medical texts, research papers, and pamphlets filled the shelves instead. Though the volumes themselves had changed, the smell—book dust and musty paper—remained the same as the last time Will had stood here.

  On that occasion, Sir Clifford had shaken his hand and wished him well with his studies. Without his patronage, Will could have never aspired to the sort of education that led him all the way to the Royal College of Physicians. He hadn’t known then, couldn’t have known, that they would never meet again in this life. Nor could he have known the circumstances of his own return twenty years later.

  Oh, you’re the old housekeeper’s son, Miss Grey had said in the sort of cultured, upper-class accent he could never hope to emulate. He’d worked hard to gain acceptance, yet here he was, returned to the one place in which his humble birth was known everywhere—even, it would seem, by his patients. And the reason stood atop that ladder.

  Dr. Sterling slotted his book back into place and descended the rickety ladder slowly, each rung creaking in protest. Will began to think there was nothing in the house not in need of modernizing. Still, there were few men as successful in their field as Herbert Sterling. Will intended to learn everything he had to teach, but for that to happen, he needed this temporary position to become permanent. This interview would be his first chance to impress the other man in person.

  He took a step forward, about to make his presence known, and that was when he saw Miss Grey.

  Will’s view of her had been blocked until he’d taken that extra step, but she sat on a hardback chair facing him, her arms folded, eyes flashing defiance as they had yesterday when she’d scolded him. She hadn’t seen him yet, her attention entirely taken up with glaring at Dr. Sterling who now stood over her. Will waited, but neither spoke. They seemed engaged in some sort of doctor-patient staring contest.

  Miss Grey’s expression didn’t change, but Will knew when she noticed him. The focus of her glare shifted ever so slightly, so that it took Dr. Sterling several seconds to comprehend that she was now looking past him. For Will, being on the receiving end of that look was a most peculiar experience. His skin prickled with something very like anxiety.

  Dr. Sterling didn’t turn or so much as glance in Will’s direction, but his shoulders sank back like a man who realizes how tense he’s grown and deliberately forces himself to relax. “You can go back to the nursery now, Helen.”

  Will bowed as she stood up. “Miss Grey.”

  Her brown eyes snapped with obvious annoyance. “Sir,” she said, equally polite, then walked toward the door, her head held high.

  “Helen.” Sterling didn’t raise his voice, but she stopped abruptly, her hand on the doorknob. “You have forgotten to bid me good day.”

  Perhaps three seconds passed before she answered. “Good day, sir.”

  When the door closed behind her, Dr. Sterling transformed. His stern demeanor vanished, and he became genial, offering his hand.

  “Dr. Carter, thank you for appearing so promptly. Forgive me for not being as punctual.” He gestured to a reading table next to that single unshuttered window. “Do please sit with me a moment. I hope you’re settling in. Rooms not too drafty?”

  Will muttered a polite response, still too unnerved by Miss Grey’s demeanor. What had he done to earn such a look from her?

  “So sorry I wasn’t able to greet you yesterday. I assure you, we are not in the habit of letting our patients roam about the countryside, but Helen is…” Sterling sighed. “Helen is one of our most difficult residents. She’s far from being the first patient I’d have brought to your attention in the ordinary way of things, but since events have overtaken us, I’m curious to hear what you make of her.”

  She knows how to put on a show.

  The thought hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. The way she’d stood there shivering in the snow. All that white, her red hair the only splash of color. And most theatrical of all, that moment when she’d let the coat drop. Yet her sadness had been genuine and profound.

  Sterling waited, one hand stroking his beard.

  “It’s too soon to offer a definite diagnosis, but I’d say Miss Grey suffers from melancholia.” And if he was right, it was a shame. Melancholia was notoriously difficult to treat.

/>   Sterling nodded. “And what of hysteria?”

  Will had yet to come across a female asylum patient not diagnosed as a hysteric at some point. Anxiety, irritability, excessive joviality, almost any emotion you cared to name characterized this so-called illness. At best, it was overdiagnosed.

  “It’s worth considering.”

  “Did you detect any signs of nymphomania?”

  “We only shared a brief interview before she fainted,” Will said, concealing his dismay with a polite smile.

  If Sterling had diagnosed hysteria, a secondary diagnosis of nymphomania wasn’t surprising. Sexual problems characterized both illnesses. But one of the most popular treatments for hysteria—orgasm, or paroxysm, to give it its proper medical name, induced as part of regular marital intercourse—was directly converse to the preferred method for handling cases of nymphomania. Nymphomaniacs’ hands were often bound to prevent self-induced paroxysm.

  Did they bind Miss Grey’s hands? A disquieting thought. Though it was a common enough practice, Will remained unconvinced of its efficacy. He understood the benefits of a good orgasm—he never felt more at peace with the world than after he’d taken himself in hand—but some physicians considered it an addictive feeling, one nymphomaniacs should be denied. But wasn’t it better to let them see to themselves rather than leave them starved for release? Might they not, in their deranged state, engage in far worse practices?

  “Well, be vigilant,” Sterling said. “She’s seduced men before.”

  Women didn’t often try to seduce men like Will—plain and devoid of wealth or breeding—but Sterling clearly implied that Miss Grey would seduce anyone, regardless of personal attractions or their lack.

  “I’m sure you’re far too honorable to be taken in,” he went on, “but I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you of the dangers. And Miss Grey has powerful friends. She is a certain gentleman’s natural daughter.”

  Dr. Sterling spoke these last words in so suggestive a tone that Will was immediately intrigued. Her father must be someone of note.

  “That explains it.” Will hadn’t intended to speak out loud. The words had come out as little more than a murmur.

  “Eh? What’s that?” Sterling’s hearing was apparently still in excellent order, despite his advancing age. “Explains what?”

  Will suppressed a shrug, embarrassed to have spoken out of turn. “That explains why Miss Grey talks like a duchess.”

  Sterling spluttered so that Will wasn’t sure if he was enraged or choking. But the wet wheezing sound turned out to be laughter. “My dear fellow, forgive me. I can’t help myself. If Helen speaks like a duchess, you may be sure it’s some Drury Lane trickery.”

  As Sterling paused for another loud burst of merriment, Will felt his ears grow hot.

  “She was an actress,” Sterling said. “Her father plucked her off the stage when she was fifteen and tried to make a lady of her. You can see for yourself how successful that was, or rather wasn’t.” Finally, his mirth subsided. “Oh, Dr. Carter, I do beg your pardon. But it’s as I told you. Helen is highly manipulative. My advice is, question everything.”

  “You particularly wish me to work with her, then?”

  “You must have noticed her behavior a moment ago. My relationship with Helen has become…” Sterling smiled. “Adversarial. My advanced age and position of authority here, both things have their uses, particularly when a firm hand is needed, but I do not have her trust. Trust, I’m sure you will agree, is essential if one is to make any headway with a case such as this. I realize you are here on a temporary basis while other candidates are considered, but I have high hopes for you. Your credentials are impeccable, and the very fact that you’re here is an enormous advantage. However, the final decision rests not with me but with Helen’s benefactor. If you do well with her, I’m confident you’ll be offered the post.”

  All of this was music to Will’s ears.

  Sterling stood up. “Now, what do you say I take you to meet some of our other patients, and then we’ll have a spot of lunch?”

  The tour didn’t take long. Having lived below stairs as a boy, Will probably knew the house better than Sterling.

  As for the patients, four were abed and not to be disturbed, and one was with the neurologist. Only three remained: Mrs. Cox, an elderly lady admitted after the death of her husband (“Loss of nerve force,” Sterling explained); Miss Stanton-Jones, a spinster who spoke only in whispers; and Mrs. Fairly, a religious monomaniac. The only other patient was Miss Grey, and of her there was no sign.

  The ground floor was given over mostly to administration, except for the reception rooms—the parlor and drawing room—which remained as they had always been, albeit with less expensive furniture. Where Sir Clifford had once entertained the local gentry with cups of tea and polite conversation, the mentally deranged now sat with only each other and their nurses for company. It was still, Will thought, a pretty genteel crowd.

  After lunch, he went back to the windy tower. In addition to his sleeping quarters, they’d given him an office/workroom on the floor below. The neurologist had similar space on the two floors beneath, though Will had yet to actually see him.

  Dr. Sterling had promised to make Miss Grey’s notes available, but Will was surprised to find them already waiting in his pigeonhole. Perhaps Tom Green was right to blame someone else for the oversight with Hector.

  For the next few hours, Will sat at his desk deciphering the notes.

  Sterling didn’t like his patient. “Manipulative, quarrelsome, delights in provoking others.” Such was the venerable physician’s assessment. He’d forbidden her to read on the grounds that she lacked the “strength of mind necessary for prolonged mental activity.” Not a prescription Will would issue lightly. Often it did more harm than good, leaving patients too much time to think about their pain. Other than that, the notes frustrated his efforts to glean more knowledge of Miss Grey’s condition, containing list upon list of symptoms but no explanation for any of them.

  Bugger, but his feet were freezing. He needed to find somewhere warmer to sit if he was going to keep reading. He left his rooms behind and followed the spiral staircase down two floors, intending to slip through the narrow side door into the main building.

  “Hullo,” a voice said. “Carter, is it?”

  Will turned and noticed the neurologist’s door standing open. Beyond, a young man sat at a desk, his feet resting on the surface.

  “Yes,” Will answered. “You must be Dr. Bell.”

  “Call me Bell if you like. Come in and sit down by the fire.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “Nonsense.” Bell stood up and came out from behind the desk. Younger than Will—certainly no more than thirty—he had a pleasant face and a ready smile. “I have tea and hot buttered crumpets.”

  It was cold, it was dark, and the crumpets smelled like heaven; Will didn’t need further persuasion. Bell’s little office turned out to be the warmest spot in the entire house.

  “It would be even warmer if I hadn’t left the door open, hoping to catch you as you passed.”

  “Don’t you worry about running out of fuel?” As far as Will could tell, the coal was strictly rationed.

  “You need to make friends with Mrs. Braithwaite,” Bell said. “She’s what passes for a housekeeper these days, although really she’s in charge of all the nurses. Except for Fletcher—she’s a law unto herself, that one. Yes, charm Mrs. Braithwaite and she’ll see you get extra coal.” Bell was a gold mine of useful information. “I hope you’re settling in. Just yell if you need any help. Here.” He handed Will a toasting fork. “Get one of those crumpets started and I’ll pour the tea.”

  By the second cup, they were chatting like old friends. “With so few patients here, you’ll probably find this a doddle compared to your old post. South Yorkshire, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A challenging place. More than seven hundred beds. It’s difficult to accomplish much good with s
o few doctors per patient.”

  It had been impossible. In more than ten years of practice, Will had watched as patient after patient was failed by the public asylum system. A catalogue of misdiagnosis, mistreatment, and general incompetence. He’d left convinced of the necessity for reform, but to affect real change, a man needed prestigious connections. Since he’d been born with none, he needed to forge them himself. Hence his move into the private sector. With Dr. Sterling’s support, Will could make a real difference to the lives of not only the patients at Blackwell but patients everywhere.

  Bell nodded in understanding. “I couldn’t wait to get out of public service. We all do our allotted time, but I’m much happier here researching my papers. I like the quiet. Still, you arrived on an exciting day. I hear you were the one who found Miss Grey.”

  “Yes,” Will said. “She seems like an interesting case.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Sterling won’t let me near her. She’s his little favorite.”

  Will couldn’t conceal his surprise. “That’s not the impression I’d gained.”

  Bell laughed. “No. I didn’t mean to imply he feels any affection for her. Just that she’s prestigious. Never tell me he’s sharing her with you.”

  “It looks that way. His notes…There’s nothing in them about the reasons for Miss Grey’s troubles.”

  Bell hesitated. Will gained the impression he was choosing his words carefully. “Far be it from me to speak for Dr. Sterling, but I think he’s rather old-fashioned about that sort of thing. Miss Grey is baseborn, therefore she is corrupt.”

  Will set his teacup down on the side table with a smart click. “Original sin?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But that’s a ridiculous notion. If original sin’s to blame, how is she to recover?”

  Bell shrugged and sipped his tea.

  Will’s world shifted under his feet. Not a full-blown earthquake. More like a tiny tremor, but still enough to unsettle him. He struggled to keep his dismay from showing on his face. They were scientists, for heaven’s sake. How could Sterling, with his exalted reputation, subscribe to such antiquated claptrap?