The Madness of Miss Grey

by Julia Bennet

  While he put the office to rights, she tried to think of something she could say, some way to convince him of his folly. If only she could think of an alternative plan, but of course this had been her plan until she’d started to care about him. Escaping Blackwell wasn’t enough anymore, not if Will lost everything as a consequence.

  Muffled voices in the corridor sent them both scrambling under the desk. The chair tilted alarmingly, but Will’s hand shot out to right it again. The rug stifled most of the thud. Helen still held the lamp, and she turned the knob until the flame guttered and went out.

  Two tall people trapped under a desk, large though that desk was, could never be comfortable. Will sat scrunched over, his back pressed against the wooden panel of the drawer, his neck crooked like a contortionist’s. Gently, he eased the lamp from her grip and positioned it on the floor beside them. Then, placing his hands on her waist, he drew Helen into the space between his legs so that she leant against his chest.

  Shock made her gasp. He was usually so reticent about touching her, but this was the best way for them to fit.

  The voices, both male, drew closer until their owners stood right outside the door.

  “What’s all the fuss about this time?” one said.

  “Old lady’s taken bad again.”

  “Shall we fetch Carter or Bell?”

  Helen leaned her head against Will’s chest. He didn’t react to the mention of his name, but his heart raced, thump-thump-thump-thump, a rapid staccato.

  “Not Carter,” came the response. “He got up the other night with that other one as always cries. Mean-looking bastard for a doctor. No telling what he’d do if we woke him twice. Let’s wake Dr. Bell.”

  Helen shook with silent laughter as the voices moved off.

  She kept her head where it was, tucked against Will’s chest. It was too soon to leave the safety of their hiding place, and besides, she felt quite content. The rhythm of his heart gradually slowed until it reached a normal speed, and she closed her eyes the better to listen to its steady beats. He smelt divine—a mixture of cleanliness and coal smoke from sitting close to the fire. When he wasn’t receiving patients, she’d wager he worked in one of those easy chairs where they’d had tea; the desk was too near the draft from the windows.

  One of his hands, which had until now both gripped her waist, drifted up to smooth her hair. Did he know he’d done it? Either way, she dared not react for fear of frightening him off. Tucked up against him, his fingers stroking her hair, she felt so…so right. Never had anyone held her like this. Even with her lovers, sexual satisfaction had been the primary aim on both sides; they didn’t lie together in peace afterward. And that’s what this was. Peace. Heaven. Cramped, dark, and precarious, but heaven nonetheless.

  “Helen.” Will shifted beneath her, and she realized that, neck craned to one side while he supported much of her weight, he probably wasn’t as pleased with their situation as her. “Helen, I think we should move.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” she said. As she withdrew, backing out from under the desk, cold rushed to claim her. She waited while he unfolded himself. Tall as she was, he was taller still, and he groaned with relief as he straightened to his full height.

  “When?” she said, as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “When do you plan to leave?”

  “As soon as I can.” He sounded weary, as well he might. “It’s late. I think we ought to go to bed.”

  “What an excellent idea. Elsie’s asleep in the adjoining room, but I’m sure we could manage to keep quiet. I’ll try not to moan and thrash about too much.”

  As she’d known he would, he began to stutter and stammer. “I didn’t— I couldn’t—” He took a deep breath and frowned at her. “You know very well what I meant. We should go. Alone. To our separate beds.”

  “Of course I knew, but I do so enjoy torturing you.”

  “I bet you do,” he said, offering his arm. The lamp swung from his other hand. “I’ll escort you to the attic stairs.”

  “What will you say if someone sees us?” she asked, resting her hand on his sleeve.

  “That you’ve taken up sleepwalking.”

  “Oh.” The simple brilliance of the lie struck her dumb for a moment. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Good idea.”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he said drily.

  They didn’t speak again until they reached the attic stairs.

  “Well, Dr. Carter, thank you for a lovely evening,” she said, a grand lady returning from a theatrical on the arm of her admirer. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to accompany me upstairs?”

  His muscles stiffened under her hand. “Good night, Helen.”

  “Good night, Will,” she whispered when he was gone.

  …

  On the day Will was to go to London, he visited Primrose Cottage. Lately, he’d been so preoccupied with his work and with Helen, he’d hardly seen his mam. She seemed to shrink with each visit, but that didn’t stop her plying him with tea. Nor did it prevent her from speaking her mind.

  “Sarah’s like to drive me mad,” she said as she poured the tea.

  As always, the little kitchen made a warm and cheerful counterpoint to the icy muck outside. Rabbit stew bubbled on the range, its meaty aroma perfuming the air. Copper pots gleamed in the light of the gas lamp. Even the floral pattern of the tea service—a hand-me-down from one of her employers before Sir Clifford—reassured him with its familiarity.

  “What’s she done now?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know Sarah.” He didn’t, but he let her continue. “Everything must be done just so. And you know me. I’m set in me ways. I knew when she moved in we were bound to squabble. That’s what comes of two former housekeepers setting up home.”

  “It’s the same with doctors. Sterling and I have such different ideas about how things should be done.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d have anything in common with that misery.” She stood and crossed to the stove, lifted the lid off the pot, and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon.

  Yes, Mam was set in her ways, but she only wanted her pantry organized the way she liked it. Sterling’s intransigence endangered every patient in his care. Will’s stomach dipped at the thought of leaving Helen at Blackwell while he went to London.

  “Are you listening to me?” Mam stood facing him, her hands on her hips. “I’ve asked you twice to pass me that cloth. What’s wrong with you? Spit it out, lad. It’s obvious something’s troubling you and has been for weeks.”

  “It’s nothing.” But the urge to confide in someone overwhelmed him. He could think of only one way to help Helen, one way he could protect her. “What would you say if I told you I was thinking about getting married again?”

  It was the first time he’d articulated the thought, though the idea had fermented in the back of his mind for a while. It was a drastic step, and it wouldn’t completely solve all Helen’s problems; the legality of the union would be extremely dubious, and the Duke of Harcastle would undoubtedly attempt to have it set aside.

  “That depends,” Mam said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Who were you thinking of marrying?”

  “Actually, it’s Miss Grey.” And if that didn’t shock her, nothing would.

  “Miss Grey?” she said, brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t know any—” Her face cleared of expression as realization hit her. “Not that half-frozen lunatic girl you brought here?”

  “She’s not a lunatic.”

  “Happen not, but I’m starting to think you might be. What are you thinking? Why would you— You haven’t been up to anything you shouldn’t, have you?”

  The question, coming from his mother, was so unexpected that it took several moments for its full implications to penetrate. “No, Mam. What do you take me for?”

  “Well, why else would you marry such a creature? No, there’s no need to explain. She stood in my parlor, naked as the day she was born, as if it were nothing. Brazen. And what
will happen to your position? Sterling won’t keep you on. Have you thought about that?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it.” After a moment’s consideration, he decided not to tell her the upsetting truth on that score. One shock at a time. “Mam, sit down.”

  He stood and eased her into her chair. Her tea sat untouched on the table, so he added sugar and pressed it into her hands.

  “Come on now. Don’t be upset. I’m only thinking about it. I haven’t asked her yet.” He sat down again and waited until she’d taken a sip. “Miss Grey can’t stay at Blackwell, and I can’t think of any other way to get her out.”

  “You’re her doctor. Can’t you release her?”

  “Not without Sterling’s permission, and he won’t give it.”

  “You must find another way, lad. You can’t throw your life away, all to rescue some…lunatic strumpet.”

  “Shush, Mam. You mustn’t speak that way. If I marry her, you must try to love her for my sake. But that’s why I’m going to London: to see if there’s any other way.”

  “What’s in London?”

  “Never you mind,” he said, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

  Her lips thinned, but she didn’t press. “Do you love her?”

  He hadn’t been prepared for that question. He’d gotten so used to smothering his emotions, where Helen was concerned, under a cloak of professionalism. Now, here in his mam’s parlor, he could admit the truth.

  “I like her.” Most of the time, he added silently. No, that wasn’t true. He liked her all the time, even when she lost her temper, even when she tried to manipulate him.

  Most of all, I just want her.

  There. That was the simple truth of it. He wanted Helen. In his bed, in his life, in his future. Oh, he wanted to save her, too—if she’d let him, he’d spend his whole life keeping her safe—but more than that, he wanted her near him for as long as she was willing.

  Mam’s eyes grew watery, and for once he had no idea what she thought.

  “You’ve always said I should remarry,” he said.

  She shook her head. “But not like this. After poor Esther, I wanted you to marry someone who’d love you as you deserve.”

  “Esther loved me.” They’d had this conversation before. Many times.

  His quiet, genteel wife had loved him, but she hadn’t always known how to show it. She hadn’t been demonstrative by nature. Not like him. Helen didn’t love him, he knew that, but being in her company was like basking in the firelight on a cold winter’s day. Despite all her suffering, her irrepressible spirit shone out like a beacon.

  After Esther and their child died, the world had seemed impossibly dark and lonely. He hadn’t wanted to love or be loved. The pain of inevitable loss was too cruel to court more than once in a lifetime, but as the years passed, his defenses had melted away without his noticing. He wanted Helen to love him, but he accepted that she probably never would. His feelings for her had grown so strong that he no longer cared about the risks to his career and his heart.

  “Happen Esther did love you, in her way,” Mam admitted.

  “No one would ever be good enough for me in your eyes. The royal princesses are all taken, you know. Except for Princess Beatrice, but I doubt she’d have me.”

  “Don’t joke,” she said, slapping at him with a tea towel, but her lips trembled with a smile. “Perhaps I am a bit hard to please, but no mother would like the idea of her son wedding someone who’s been locked up in a madhouse for years.”

  He wondered if she’d feel any better if she knew the truth about Helen’s birth. Would she like her prospective daughter-in-law better for being a duke’s daughter or worse for being baseborn?

  “Well, happen I’ll find another way to help her when I go to London and all this worry will be for nothing.”

  “I hope so, son.” Her lips trembled.

  “Don’t, Mam. Don’t say anymore now. You must trust me to do the right thing. If I marry her, Miss Grey will do her very best to make me happy, you’ll see.”

  It was the biggest lie he’d ever told her.

  If he married Helen Grey she’d break his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Helen sighed. “What are you looking at?”

  Hector’s great sad eyes pleaded for acknowledgement. He shuffled forward until he sat flush against her and rested his enormous head on her lap. No doubt he’d dribble all over her skirt, but she hadn’t the heart to push him off. For better or worse, he reminded her of Will, and she found his presence reassuring.

  He’d been gone for almost twenty-four hours. Would he have spoken to the lunacy commissioners yet? She had no idea how long things like this took and no way to estimate how long he’d be away. Three days on family business is what he’d told Sterling, but he’d warned her it might take longer.

  For most of the afternoon, she’d sat in the rocking chair, her book untouched on the wooden armrest. She told herself, again and again, to have faith that he would come back, but she couldn’t quiet her fear. It wasn’t that she distrusted his resolve or the goodness of his intentions. Rather, she feared for his position—both for his sake and her own. The Lunacy Commission, by his own admission, was next to useless. If—when the commissioners failed to help, what would he do then? What if he tried to speak to the duke? What if the duke prevented him from coming back to her? If Harcastle had enough power to keep her at Blackwell for ten years without anyone asking questions, he could have Will dismissed with ease.

  Will had told her something of Harcastle’s reputation. Apparently, in his younger days, he’d wielded considerable political influence. A reactionary renowned for high moral principles, he was staunchly anti-reform. Even now, after he’d retired from the forefront of political life, his patronage influenced policy. No wonder he wanted to keep Helen hidden; she was his dirty little secret.

  Perhaps that was the key. Someone besides the duke and Sterling knew the truth about her now. Could they somehow blackmail Harcastle into releasing her? The risk to Will inherent in such a plan was high, and she wouldn’t put it past the duke to get rid of her, spirit her away, maybe even kill her. If they leaked the information without warning him first, the risk to Will would be less, but Helen’s situation would become even more precarious.

  No, a clandestine escape seemed a much safer option. Once they were both away from Blackwell, she’d consider what to do with the information they’d uncovered. Will would help her. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let her go through it alone.

  Fletch’s voice cut though her thoughts. “Look at you pining,” she said from the door.

  Hector’s ears pricked up, but Helen only closed her eyes a moment, willing herself to stay calm and show no fear. Lost in her worries, she hadn’t heard her enemy approach.

  “I’m only sorry to miss my walk.”

  “Oh, aye,” Fletch said, a smile in her voice. “A likely tale.”

  “Won’t you come in?” Helen asked, knowing she wouldn’t dare. Not with Hector there. She didn’t turn to check, but she didn’t hear the floorboards creak beneath Fletch’s weight, either.

  While silence stretched between them, Helen pretended absorption in the view. Rolling hills still dappled with snow. Everything gray, brown, or white. Beyond the woods to the right was the village. There, people went about their business, living ordinary lives, almost entirely ignorant of the asylum and what went on here. How Helen envied them their ignorance—that and their freedom to choose. It had been ten years since she’d chosen what to wear or what to eat. She barely remembered how that felt.

  Blackwell was a world unto itself; time had stopped here in the eighteenth century, more or less. How had Will felt when the train pulled into London? Were the weeks he’d spent here enough to make him forget what the real world was like?

  “How long do you think you can keep this up?” Fletch spoke from the door; she hadn’t mustered the courage to sneak past Hector, then.

  “Keep what up, exactly?�
��

  “This nonsense. Playing up to your doctors. You’re not exactly a spring chicken and—”

  “I’m twenty-six.”

  “A showy piece like you.” Helen had seen Fletch look her up and down often enough that she could picture the contempt in her eyes now. “You won’t keep your looks for long.”

  Hector whined as if offended on Helen’s behalf.

  Fletch warmed to her theme. “Don’t think your doctor will hang around, either. His sort, full of newfangled ideas and nonsense, move on fast.”

  Yes, but he’ll take me with him. You don’t know him. You don’t know what a man as good as Will is capable of.

  “And when he’s gone,” Fletch went on, “then it’ll be you and me again.”

  The thought chilled Helen down to the marrow. “I wonder why you take such pleasure in the prospect.” She stood, turning in time to catch the flash of unease in the nurse’s expression.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But she did; Helen sensed it. “Do you actually imagine this is how real nurses behave?”

  “Real nurses? You cheeky cow! I—” Fletch took a step forward.

  Hector lunged, teeth bared, a low growl emitting from the back of his throat. Helen hadn’t realized how closely he’d been keeping watch on the situation. Just like Will, he’d been quietly guarding her all this time.

  “Back away slowly,” Helen said. “He doesn’t like you, and neither do I.”

  Fletch took several hasty steps until she stood flat against the wall of the attic corridor.

  “Here, boy,” Helen called.

  Immediately, the dog returned to her side and buried his head again in the folds of her skirt. This time Helen didn’t care about his slobber on the fabric.

  “What do I care if you don’t like me?” Fletch said, voice trembling. “No one cares what you think.” But she edged away, and soon Helen heard feet descending the attic stairs.

  Will cares. The thought came unbidden. Will cares what I think.

  Absently, she stroked Hector’s ears; he always liked that. “Good boy.”