The Madness of Miss Grey

by Julia Bennet

  “What about your wife? Was she beautiful?”

  “I always thought so.” Esther had been small and fragile, a sparrow with freckles and a sweet expression in her eyes.

  “Did you love her?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then it must be difficult for you. Being a widower, I mean. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

  Even without looking, he knew she’d sat up. Every time she moved, the soft, wet sound of water lapping at her skin drove him a little closer to madness. He risked a glance and found her eyes fixed on him, as though she studied his every breath, every reaction, every tell.

  “Yes, I get lonely.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered.

  Twice he’d stripped her bare, and twice he’d looked but refused to truly see. This time he couldn’t help himself; when she stood up, he saw everything. Every detail burned into his brain.

  The soaking wet shift clung to her body, revealing every opulent curve. Her skin glistened with droplets of moisture, warm and rosy from the heat of the bath. Hard pink nipples stood out underneath the thin, almost transparent fabric, and lower down, a shadow of soft red hair covered her quim. Light shone through the stained-glass window, dappling her with shades of rose, blue, green, and gold.

  He’d never seen anything lovelier.

  “I’m cold.” Come and warm me, she might as well have said.

  “There’s a towel by the fire.” And though it took every ounce of his resolve, he turned his back. Inwardly, he repeated his oath. In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction.

  His cock didn’t care. Thick and hard, his shaft pressed against the front of his trousers. Hurry up, woman. Get dry, get dressed, and let’s get out of this room before I run mad. God, he wanted her. Every flirtatious, scheming inch. He longed to peel the wet cotton away from her skin and trail his lips and tongue over every line and curve. To sink into her softness and—

  “Very well, Dr. Carter,” she said after what seemed like an eternity. Her voice sounded even—completely unaffected. “You may turn. I promise, I’m quite decent.”

  She spoke true. The white gown and red pinafore were in place, every button fastened. The emptiness in his chest could only be disappointment.

  Fool, he told himself, get out of here before you betray every last principle.

  “Will you escort me to my room?” she asked, picking up the soaking wet shift from the floor.

  He shook his head. “Elsie is waiting for you.”

  And thank the lord for it, because if she hadn’t been, Will no longer trusted himself to act for the good of his patient. All it would take was one moment of weakness, and he might do something Helen would live to regret. He refused to become yet another doctor who’d abused her trust.

  Chapter Eight

  “Carter, good morning. Come and sit by the fire,” Bell called through the open door of his office.

  Will thanked God for the neurologist on a daily basis. Amid the chaos of incompetence at Blackwell, Bell was an oasis of sense and ability. Besides which, he always seemed to have crumpets and tea underway.

  “Well, what a fiasco that was,” Will said, collapsing into a chair. “Apparently, Miss Stanton-Jones spent almost the entirety of last night weeping. No one seems to think it necessary to find out the cause. I tried to talk to the poor woman, but Sterling simply administered laudanum as if that solved everything. I made the mistake of pointing out current thinking—”

  “Say no more.” Bell glanced up, in the act of pouring tea. “The phrase current thinking is something of a verbal grenade where Sterling is concerned. I imagine it didn’t go down too well.”

  Indeed, it hadn’t. Sterling had given his usual speech about his forty years of experience. Will had it off by heart. No one had said so, but Will sensed his days were numbered. Time was running out.

  “Miss Stanton-Jones needs calming,” Sterling had added. “If there’s a cause for her distress, which I doubt, there will be ample opportunity to discover it later.”

  All very well in theory, but in practice, Miss Stanton-Jones hardly ever spoke above a whisper. Whatever strong emotion she’d labored under might’ve helped her give full voice to her pain. Once the laudanum had taken effect, she’d sunk back into her usual lethargy.

  Will had seen doctoring like this in the public sector, but when there were seven hundred patients and only a handful of physicians, he’d understood—though he’d never rested easy with the understanding—that sometimes the good of one patient had to be sacrificed for the good of many. A single man couldn’t be permitted to rail and scream indefinitely when he shared a dormitory with thirty other people. But things ought to be different at a private institution with only nine patients, each in a private room.

  “Thank you.” Will accepted the tea Bell handed him. “And now I’m woefully behindhand.”

  “Whereas I am ahead of myself.”

  Will recognized an offer of assistance. “Does that mean you’re not busy immediately after luncheon?”

  “Nothing I can’t put off. Of course, I might become suddenly unavailable if you want me to see to Mrs. Cox. Cantankerous old witch.”

  “Nothing like that,” he said. “Actually, it’s Miss Grey. I usually walk with her each afternoon, but I haven’t the time today.”

  A twinge of guilt made him avoid Bell’s gaze. Ordinarily, he’d prioritize a patient who’d been through a trauma like the one to which Fletcher had subjected Helen. It was the bath. Seeing her in her soaking wet shift had made him realize how close to shattering his willpower was. Last night, the things Helen had done to him in his dreams, the things he’d done to her… He’d relished every second, but the guilt he felt now was indescribable.

  Bell raised his eyebrows. “A private tête-à-tête with Miss Grey? Now, there’s a chance I’d never pass up. Sterling won’t like it, though.”

  Will didn’t doubt that. “Nonetheless, it seems a shame for Miss Grey to miss beneficial exercise and fresh air simply because I lack for time.” Or, his conscience whispered, because you’re too cowardly to face her.

  “Well, I’m happy to help,” Bell said.

  After tea, Will returned to his own rooms and lost himself in research. He’d begun his new paper, which he feared might never see the light of day, concerning the shortcomings of asylum medicine. So engrossed was he that he forgot about luncheon entirely.

  Working in the private sector had proved more lucrative than the public system, but he knew Sterling would never back this research, especially since Will intended to condemn his fellow doctor’s methods without reservation. Patients like Miss Stanton-Jones shouldn’t be drugged into a state of catatonia to keep them quiet. Blackwell was exclusive, its residents wealthy and mostly well bred. Sterling made a great deal of money, but he certainly didn’t spend much improving the facilities.

  A knock came at the door.

  Will checked his pocket watch and saw that it was just after two. “Come in,” he called.

  A nurse entered. “Dr. Carter, Mrs. Fairly in’t in her room. We’ve checked indoors, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

  Bugger. What was the matter with everyone?

  “Look again,” he told her, “and have someone alert Tom Green. Get him to check the grounds.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  At least it wasn’t Helen this time.

  Shrugging into his coat, Will went out into the cold. Fortunately, it was one of those clear, bright days. Mrs. Fairly should prove easy to spot, provided she wasn’t wearing white.

  He kept close to the house, working his way counterclockwise. Near the herb garden, he heard voices, but once he got closer, he realized it was Bell and Helen still out on their walk. Every inch the gentleman Will wasn’t, Bell had allowed her to take his arm. They looked like a courting couple out for a stroll.

  “Dr. Bell.” Will’s voice came out much harsher and slightly lo
uder than he’d intended. “I expected you back half an hour ago. Mrs. Fairly is missing.”

  Bell sent him a speaking glance in return and gently disengaged Helen’s hand from his arm. “Excuse me, Miss Grey. I hope you won’t mind if I allow Dr. Carter to escort you back to your room.” Then, moving closer to Will so that only he could hear, “What is it about this woman that makes all her physicians act like possessive husbands?” He left, chuckling to himself.

  Will turned to Helen. “Where’s Hector?” They were supposed to be walking the dog, after all.

  On cue, he bounded through the clematis arch, his panting breaths fogging the air. He went straight to Will and nuzzled his hand.

  “Gracious, Dr. Carter, how rude you were to poor Dr. Bell. Anyone would think you were jealous.”

  Will knew damn well he was jealous, but the fact that Helen had noticed did little to improve his temper. “Nonsense. I’m merely anxious for Mrs. Fairly’s safety.”

  “As to that,” Helen said, arched eyebrows eloquently conveying her disbelief. “If it’s Mrs. Fairly you’re after, I may be able to help.”

  After tense negotiations—Helen wasn’t willing to simply tell Will where to look, insisting on accompanying him—she led the way through the clematis arch.

  “Aren’t you going to ask if I enjoyed my walk?” Her tone sounded far too innocent.

  “I don’t need to ask. I saw for myself.” Matter-of-fact in his head, the words came out reeking of hurt feelings. He wanted to tear out his tongue.

  “Dr. Bell is charming, but I’d prefer to walk with you on days when you’re not too busy.” It’s not my fault if you make me walk with other men, she meant.

  “Bell is nearer to you in age,” he muttered. And handsome. And a gentleman.

  “But I prefer your company.”

  He glanced sideways, but she seemed perfectly serious. “That…isn’t the point. We need to concentrate on Mrs. Fairly.”

  They walked for twenty minutes before he guessed where she must be leading him.

  “You’re taking me to the folly.” When she didn’t deny it, he added, “You could have told me.”

  “What, and be left behind?”

  And she was right; he wouldn’t have brought her with him if he’d had the choice. They’d ended up taking the very walk he’d been trying to avoid.

  “Why there?” he asked.

  “Before they put her on bed rest, Mrs. Fairly used to go there to pray.”

  That made sense of a kind. Sir Clifford’s father had designed the folly to resemble a Gothic church—the sort that often adjoined great estates and even minor ones. With no living in his gift, perhaps he’d felt inadequate. From a distance, with its stained-glass windows and flying buttresses, the building looked impressive. Only by climbing the steep hill on which it stood did one get close enough to discover how small it really was. A congregation of six would find themselves pressed for space.

  By the time they reached the low dry-stone wall at the top of the hill, they were both breathing hard. The small gate, lolling drunkenly on its hinges, swung partway open when Will pushed, before digging into the grass. Still, the gap was wide enough, and he stepped back, allowing Helen to precede him.

  “Stay, Hector.”

  Obedient for once, the dog slumped against the one lonely headstone and heaved a mighty yawn.

  Helen leaned in to read the carved inscription: Here lies Albert who died bravely in pursuit of a sheep. “I hope Albert was a dog.”

  Will smiled. “I thought everyone knew that story.”

  “Not me. What happened?”

  “One of the local farmers didn’t take kindly to Albert bothering his flock. I doubt he knew whose dog it was, or he wouldn’t have dared.”

  “You mean the farmer shot him?” She sounded appalled. Surely Helen wasn’t turning into a dog enthusiast. What a transformation that would be. “When did this happen?”

  “Long before my time, but not much happens here. Stories like that are told and retold.”

  “Well, let that be a lesson to you,” she said, glaring at Hector. “No sheep.”

  Hector whined as if he considered chasing sheep too energetic an undertaking for a sensible canine.

  The heavy oak door of the little church looked impressive and opened with a loud creak, but they both had to duck slightly as they passed through. Despite the noise, Mrs. Fairly didn’t look up from her devotions. She kneeled on the dirty stone floor, her lips moving soundlessly.

  Helen stepped forward before he could warn her to stay quiet, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sank onto the pew next to Mrs. Fairly. Like him, she appeared to sense it would be wrong to disturb the woman’s prayers. They waited in near silence, the only sound the occasional soft murmur as Mrs. Fairly reached out to God. Will wasn’t a praying man, but he hoped she found solace.

  As for Helen, she sat with her eyes fixed on the cobweb-strewn altar. Impossible to tell what she thought.

  “Why, Hubert, is that you?” Mrs. Fairly twisted on her knees and stared at Will with watery eyes.

  “No,” he said as gently as he could. “I’m Dr. Carter.”

  “Oh.” Her face stayed blank. Clearly, the name meant nothing to her. “Have you come to pray? It’s a pretty church, but I can’t find the priest.”

  “No, I haven’t come to pray.”

  “I’m praying for my Walter to get better. The doctors say it’s typhus…” She stared down at her hands in confusion, perhaps shocked to see them spotted and wrinkled.

  “We must get you back. Dr. Sterling will be concerned.”

  “Is he Walter’s doctor?”

  Helen stood, her jaw tight. “Sterling’s a fool,” she muttered. “Come, Mrs. Fairly, or we’ll be late.” Without waiting, she strode from the folly.

  Will offered the frail woman his arm and led her out into the winter glare.

  On the way back, Mrs. Fairly chattered about the efficacy of prayer and the many times when God himself had showered her with stars. “I found it a great comfort,” she told Will. “But the doctor says it’s merely the effect of rubbing my eyes too hard.”

  Helen was too quiet. Even Hector’s knack of weaving in and out of her path failed to elicit a reaction. When they reached the rose garden and she still hadn’t spoken, he knew something must be very wrong. “Are you well?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t remember her husband is dead.” The words were an angry whisper. “When she first came here, she remembered. She was sad, that’s all. Look what this place has done to her.”

  It was more complicated than that, but he decided not to say so. Helen’s emotions seemed so raw, so real. This wasn’t a performance.

  “That isn’t going to happen to you,” he told her.

  “Of course it will,” she snapped. “Mark my words, in ten years that will be me, except I’ll probably end up dead in the water like bloody Ophelia. My memories are all I have to cling to. Mama, the softness of her hands when she stroked my hair, the theatre, the smell of greasepaint. Little things that tell me there really is a world beyond Blackwell. A place where I was loved. In ten years, will all that be gone?”

  “In ten years, you won’t be here.” He wouldn’t allow it. Before now, he’d understood her hatred of Blackwell in terms of the things that had been done to her: the water treatments and all of Nurse Fletcher’s petty cruelties. For the first time, he fully comprehended what had been stolen from her when they’d brought her here. Helen had been loved and petted as a child. The only person who touched her now was Fletcher, and then only to bruise.

  Yet I begrudged her hand on Bell’s arm.

  “Don’t be so naive. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “They’ll never let me go. And this place makes lunatics. It births them like some great monster. And if you can’t see that, you’re a fool.”

  She broke away, storming off toward the house with Hector at her heels. With Mrs. Fairly to care for, he coul
dn’t pursue her.

  And so he let her go.

  Chapter Nine

  Dr. Sterling’s terrarium didn’t look well. The first time Will had seen the fern, the tips of the thick, glossy leaves already touched the interior of the glass dome. Now its fronds contorted, searching for space. It would die if someone didn’t do something.

  Yet again, he’d been summoned to Sterling’s office. These days, he spent half his life with his arse in this chair, Sterling’s cool gaze regarding him across the width of the enormous desk. It felt a lot like being sent to the headmaster’s study, something that had happened to Will only once or twice. Sir Clifford’s kindness in paying for his education had made misbehavior unthinkable.

  “I must say I find your latest report extremely disturbing,” Sterling said, clasping his long-fingered hands together. “It’s a mistake to let Helen have books. Her mind isn’t strong enough for that level of stimulation. As for the baths, warm water will only…inflame her appetites.”

  Don’t you ever get lonely? she’d asked, her voice soft and coaxing. Will shook his head to clear the memory away. Helen wasn’t a nymphomaniac just because she liked to flirt.

  As for the books, Will had noticed she seemed more animated since he’d sent them. Shakespeare was a particular favorite with her. Apparently, her mother’s theatre had performed one of the comedies every season. Helen’s eyes lit whenever she spoke of them.

  “Dr. Sterling, you yourself told me that your rapport with Miss Grey had broken down. I need to establish trust—”

  “And when you remove these privileges, what becomes of trust then?”

  What strange world had they entered where reading materials and occasional access to warm water were considered a privilege?

  “I may not need to remove them. I have yet to notice any ill effects as a result of the reading. And the bath…” Will suspected the bath had inflamed him far more than Helen. The memory alone was pure torture.

  “I call it irresponsible,” Sterling said, the first blunt criticism of Will he’d ever uttered. “What can you have been thinking to send her out walking with Dr. Bell? Did I not instruct you to keep the handsome ones clear of her?”