The Madness of Miss Grey

by Julia Bennet

  Will. The simple thought of seeing him again raised her spirits.

  Come back to me soon, Dr. Carter. Come back soon.

  That night Fletch returned.

  Rough hands seized Helen’s shoulders, shaking and bruising. “Wake up, lady muck.”

  In the dark, she couldn’t make out Fletch’s features, but she knew that voice too well to doubt the identity of the person crouched over her on the bed.

  “What? What is it?” Helen asked, her voice still slurred with sleep.

  “Up, up, up. You’re to come downstairs now.”

  Frigid air enveloped her as Fletch dragged her clear of the blankets and tugged her out of bed. Helen almost went flying over Hector’s warm bulk, sprawled on the floor. Oh, thank God.

  “Up, Hector,” she called. But he didn’t stir.

  Helen’s eyes had begun to adjust, and she caught Fletch’s smirk. “Oh, don’t you worry about Hector. I fixed him.”

  Helen tore her arm free and knelt by the sleeping—please, God, let him only be sleeping—dog. Fletch released her too easily; she wanted Helen to see him.

  “Hector, oh please!” Will would be heartbroken. Helen would be heartbroken. Tears clogged her throat as she rested her shaking hand on his back. The slow rise and fall of his breath reassured her; he was alive for now. “What did you do to him? What did you give him?”

  “A little injection. I hope I got the dose right. I’ve never needed to knock out a beast of that size before.” The gloating lilt to Fletch’s voice made Helen want to vomit. Fletch thrust a flannel robe into Helen’s arms, seized her by the wrist, and yanked her forward.

  “No, please wait. We have to get Dr. Bell. He’ll look after the dog. I—”

  Fletch held up a syringe. “It’s full, and if you don’t behave, I’ll stick you with it here and now. Or maybe I’ll give it to the dog. That’ll show you. You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s just a dumb animal. I never thought I’d see you weep over a dog.” Reversing their positions, she shoved Helen before her, through the bedroom door and past Elsie’s room. “Don’t think of calling out, either. You even try, and I’ll finish that dog off before a sound leaves your lips.”

  Helen’s stomach lurched at the sight of Jim waiting on the landing. She hadn’t seen the big orderly since that last horrific water treatment. He handed his lamp to Fletch and reached for Helen, his meaty fingers tangling in her hair as he seized her shoulders.

  “Wait. I don’t—”

  “This way,” Fletch said, turning left.

  What choice did Helen have? Though she’d finally accepted the necessity of Will’s trip to London despite the long-term risk to his position, she hadn’t permitted herself to dwell too closely on the more immediate danger to her person. It had never occurred to her to worry about Hector’s safety; he was so fierce and strong, and Fletch had been terrified of him.

  He’ll be all right. He’s a big dog. They’ve got what they wanted. They won’t hurt him anymore.

  They walked in single file, Helen in the middle so she couldn’t break away. The ice baths always took place in the old nursery, but they headed for the stairs. She wanted to see this as a good sign, but the taste of fear soured her mouth. By the time they’d descended two more flights of stairs, she’d given up trying to guess their destination.

  On the ground floor, Fletch led the way through the green baize door leading to the servants’ quarters, through the kitchen, and into the scullery, where a door opened onto yet another set of stairs. Helen had never been through this door before, but she knew it must lead to the cellar.

  “Wait,” she said again.

  Jim already had hold of her arms. “No point fretting,” he said. “It’s for your own good.”

  “What’s for my own good?”

  No answer.

  Fletch had already descended, her lamp a faint glow in the distance. Jim pushed Helen ahead of him, and she abandoned any thought of escape; she needed to concentrate on her footing, or she’d bring them all down like dominoes. As satisfying as it would undoubtedly feel to flatten Fletch, it wasn’t worth the risk of a broken ankle or, worse, a broken neck.

  The fetid stench of damp made Helen sneeze. The air felt clammy as they progressed through a series of rooms, some large, some small, but all cold and too dark to discern clearly.

  “Here we go,” Fletch said at last and held the lamp aloft.

  In its faint glow, Helen saw a tiny room, no more than a cupboard really, with a single, low pallet affixed to the wall. “Why?” she asked.

  “You’re overstimulated,” Fletch said, as if that explained everything.

  “I’ll freeze.”

  “There’s a blanket,” Jim said, pointing to a dark mass at one end of the mattress. “But we’re to chain you to stop you hurting yourself.”

  “In you go,” Fletch said. Then, leaning in so that only Helen could hear, she added, “Your gentleman isn’t here to save you now.”

  Helen stared at the pallet a few moments longer. She could struggle, but what was the point? Jim was built like a bull, and no doubt Fletch would love to see him force Helen into that dank little prison. She wouldn’t allow her the thrill.

  Pulling her robe on, she stepped into the darkness.

  Helen didn’t know how long she lay there. With no fire, no window, and not so much as a candle to light the tiny cell, time ceased to exist. It stretched to forever, yet nothing changed. Sleep wouldn’t come. Even huddled in the threadbare blanket, she couldn’t stop shivering, the cold so intense she could think of little else.

  Fletch came to see her often, slipping into the room, whispering horrible things. “Slattern,” she’d say, or “Slut.”

  Helen listened in silence at first, but when it looked like Fletch had grown bored, she spoke up. “Slattern, slut, trollop, whore. It’s always the same insults.”

  “Give a dog a name and hang him,” said the voice in the dark.

  Helen smiled, though neither of them could see it. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

  “We all know I’m not as clever as you. And yet you’re the one locked up in the dark.”

  “Because you hate me.”

  “Because you deserve it. The way you’ve been making eyes at that doctor; it’s sinful.”

  Helen laughed softly, and the sensation felt strange, as though the muscles of her face and throat had forgotten how, as if it had been weeks since she’d last found anything amusing.

  “Sinful? What are you talking about? I haven’t even done anything yet, you mad harpy.” But she intended to.

  If she lived through this and she saw Will again, she fully intended to spend hours, days, weeks in his bed. She didn’t yet know how she’d persuade him, but persuade him she would. If they left her to die in this hole, not having slept with Will was the thing she would regret most. That, and not letting Hector tear out Fletch’s throat.

  “Is Hector all right?”

  Somewhere nearby water dripped.

  “You’re not natural,” a voice snarled.

  Why, because she’d slept with a few men? A bit rich coming from a nurse who spent her days harming her patients. “Neither are you.”

  Fletch moved suddenly, and Helen felt a stinging pressure on her arm. Not the syringe but a hard pinch. Oddly, she was reassured. Most of the time, she knew the voice in the dark belonged to Fletch, but now and again she got confused. The pain of those cruel fingers clarified things.

  “Do you believe in God, Fletch?” she asked. “You never talk about him. It’s all sin and hell and the devil’s work.”

  Fletch didn’t answer. Perhaps she’d gone, or perhaps she’d never been there at all.

  They wouldn’t kill her. If only because they’d lose whatever sum the duke paid them to keep her here, they needed her alive. Fletch hadn’t brought any food yet, but sometimes she fed Helen water. It would be all right.

  No, they wouldn’t kill her.

  The drip, drip of water, which
for a while had become as unobtrusive as the ticking of a clock, turned deafening, each individual drip an assault on Helen’s nerves. To distract herself, she traced the links of her chain in the darkness, counting each one.

  This one’s for my mother, who loved me. This one’s for my father, who didn’t. This one’s for Peter, the first boy I ever kissed. This is for Joe, the second. This is for Dr. Sterling, who betrayed me. This is for Fletch, who hates me. This for Dr. Vaughn, who used me. This for Dr. Carter, who might love me. This for Hector, whom I failed.

  All links in her chain. All people who tethered her, but not all tethers were bad.

  After her mother died and her father left her here, Dr. Sterling had promised to help her. For a short while, she’d trusted him. She’d thought him the cleverest man in the world. Her real father might not care for her, but Sterling had claimed to.

  You must dress more modestly, Helen, he’d say. Try not to laugh so loudly. It isn’t appropriate for a respectable young lady. Nothing she did in those early weeks had been enough to win his praise. I only say these things because I care for your well-being, he’d explained. At first, she’d believed him, but she’d ached for the warmth and tenderness her mother had always shown.

  No wonder she’d fallen for Joe. At sixteen, she’d believed herself in love. Now she knew she’d just been lonely. Sterling had discovered them together, and in the worst circumstances possible: naked in the hay. His disgust had torn out what remained of her heart. He must have written to Harcastle, because Fletch had arrived at Blackwell a few days later.

  After that, she hadn’t trusted anyone until Will, but now he was gone, Hector might be dead, and she might never escape this darkness.

  A cry tore from somewhere deep inside her, a despairing wail that filled the emptiness. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. Sobs racked her for endless hours until her voice failed her.

  Afterward she lay still, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

  “Will,” she whispered.

  Helen woke up and blinked her eyes against the light. The chains had gone, the door stood open, and beyond, Dr. Sterling sat in the glow of a sturdy paraffin lamp, his greatcoat muffling his chin. How long had he sat there, watching her sleep?

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Always so polite. At least Fletch’s open hatred was honest. Sterling wasn’t even honest with himself.

  When she didn’t greet him, he bowed his head. “Dear me, Helen,” he said without looking up. “What’s this I hear about a screaming fit? You know we only wish to help you.”

  It was a testament to her despairing state of mind that the injustice of this statement was nearly lost on her. In all her life, she’d never felt so tired; Sterling wasn’t worth the effort to converse.

  “I’m sorry to say this,” he went on, “but I think Dr. Carter’s influence has done you more harm than good. I fear it would have been better if he’d never come.” He probably believed that, but what a clever bastard to hint at the removal of her only ally.

  She despised herself for the tears brimming in her eyes, but she’d never felt so small and helpless. She didn’t know if she could stand much more.

  “Please…” she whispered, but it came out an incoherent croak.

  “You are overwrought, Helen, but this enforced seclusion will go a long way to setting you to rights.”

  “How…how can anyone stay sane…in these conditions?”

  He stared at her for several moments, his face blank. Was he honestly puzzled by her question, or did the lack of expression conceal cunning? She honestly didn’t know any more.

  “You will only be here for a short time,” he said, “until you learn the docility appropriate to your sex.”

  Docility? Perhaps she could pretend. “Why? What will happen once I’ve become…submissive? Will you set me free?”

  “You’ll be able to return to your room. We’d better go back to no books, but—”

  “No, I meant will you let me leave Blackwell?”

  He frowned. “Why ever would you wish to leave? We have a great deal more to do before you’re well enough to even think of it.”

  “Well enough,” she murmured. “You and I both know I’ll never be well enough as long as my father lives.”

  A man of Harcastle’s reputation fathering a bastard on an actress? Everyone would laugh at his hypocrisy. Imagine that: a life sentence because a powerful man couldn’t bear anyone to make fun of him.

  Sterling stood and approached. His presence in her little room was an invasion. When he reached the pallet, his body blocked most of the light, and she jumped as his hand brushed her shoulder.

  “It grieves me to see you give way to such dark thoughts. Your suspicion, your paranoia—these are the very gravest of symptoms. Won’t you trust me a little, Helen? Won’t you let me help you?”

  He sat, and she scrambled to sit up, her muscles protesting. Unlike Fletch, he didn’t hurt her, but the arm he slid around her shoulders—paternal and kind—terrified her infinitely more. Most horrifying of all was the warmth of his body, which made her want to turn toward him rather than pull away. She did neither, choosing instead to suffer the arm on her shoulder without response.

  “Let me be a friend to you, Helen.”

  “I don’t…” But her thoughts wouldn’t come any more than the words.

  “Don’t worry about it now,” he said, and he drew her head down onto his chest.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was still under the desk with Will, but Sterling felt all wrong. Narrow chested instead of broad; too bony, almost skeletal, rather than muscular. His scent of book dust over a faint whiff of cologne brought no comfort, only dread. She couldn’t keep pretending, but Sterling’s warmth was all she had.

  …

  That was how Will found them.

  The house had seemed too quiet when he arrived, having walked from the village. Then Sally Braithwaite had found him and sent him rushing for the basement. Sally’s claims had seemed too hideous, too Gothic to believe, and yet here Helen sat, filthy and shivering, in a cell little better than a dungeon. She hadn’t looked up when he walked in. Perhaps she hadn’t even noticed. Sterling sat next to her; he dared to touch her even as he condoned her presence here in this nightmare.

  Will lunged forward and pulled Sterling up by his lapels. “What is this place? What’s she doing in here?”

  Helen’s eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t say anything. Her blank expression—as if only her body were present, her spirit missing or moved on—terrified Will.

  Sterling spluttered and flailed. “Unhand me.” The melodramatic words might have startled a laugh from Will in less dire circumstances.

  “What have you done to her?” Like a terrier with a rat, he shook Sterling hard.

  “Nurse…Nurse Fletcher thought it best—”

  “Enough!” Will dropped Sterling and spun to face Helen, who still stared at him without recognition. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, her voice flat.

  “Liar,” he said and scooped her up. Without bothering even to look at Sterling, he carried her up into the light. His stomach clenched when he saw how she squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against his shoulder. How long had she been shut up in the dark? Please, God, not the whole time he’d been away.

  Sally waited in the scullery. “I’ve lit the fire in your room.”

  “Good, because that’s where we’re going. Send Elsie.”

  He didn’t wait for Sterling. The important thing was to make sure Helen was safe. It seemed he couldn’t let her out of his sight, so that meant taking her to his own rooms. She curled into his chest, her eyes still closed.

  It was a long walk to the little corner tower, yet he barely felt it. He supposed anger—and guilt for having left her in the first place—fueled him.

  “Where the hell was Bell while all this was going on?” he muttered as he climbed the spiral staircase. “Bloody dreamer. Buried i
n his books no doubt.”

  He kicked open the door to his room and lowered Helen onto the bed. For the third time since he’d met her, he covered her with every blanket he could find. It wasn’t enough. He could never do enough to make this up to her. Too slow, too slow. He hadn’t got her out fast enough, and now look what had happened.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  For the first time since he’d entered the basement, her eyes focused on his face.

  At last the terrible vacancy of her expression faded, replaced by a slow-dawning tenderness. “I missed you,” she whispered.

  His heart contracted painfully. Again and again, he underestimated the cruelty and brutality of Blackwell and Helen’s keepers, but she never had. Since the moment they’d met, she’d tried to make him understand, but he hadn’t listened, not really. Yet she looked at him with gratitude.

  “I should have known, I should have known what they’d do.”

  “Hector…” she said, her voice hoarse. “Is he…”

  “He’s fine. Sally has him hidden in the kitchen.”

  Behind them, a fist hammered the door. “Dr. Carter, open up!” Sterling shouted from the other side.

  Yes, Will had much to answer for, but there was plenty of blame to go around. If Sterling wanted a confrontation, Will wouldn’t disappoint him.

  “Can you sleep?” he asked Helen.

  “You won’t let him—”

  “No.” He would kill Sterling before he let him into this room. “I promise. I swear, Helen.”

  She nodded. Her absolute confidence in his ability to protect her struck him as a miracle in the circumstances. He strode to the door and yanked it open. Before Sterling could speak, Will grabbed his arm and dragged him downstairs to the office.

  “I wonder you dare face me,” he said, shoving the other man into a chair.

  “Dr. Carter, you forget your place. You had no right to interfere. Miss Grey is my patient.”

  “Not anymore,” Will said, deliberately towering over him. “Do you think the Duke of Harcastle will be pleased if I force a lunacy inquisition? Do you think he’ll keep pumping money into this place once he knows you let his identity slip?”