On Sparrow Hill (17 page)

“Only a pot, a pan, and a spoon. All laid out as neatly as could be, awaiting Katie’s brother on the bed. Mr. MacFarland returned them to the kitchen just a little while ago, then tucked himself in without a word.”

“He’s said nothing about whether he’ll be taking Katie away?”

Mrs. Cotgrave shook her head as they entered the parlor and each took her favorite seat. “He did wonder where you’d gone off to, as he told me he wanted a word with you. Perhaps he’s made his decision.”

“And where did you tell him I’d been?”

“On an errand. He’s quite the nosy one, asking what sort of errand as if he has a right to know our comings and goings.”

The thought of Simon MacFarland allowed every concern to rush back to Berrie’s mind, and she withdrew the letter from the pouch in which she’d carried it.

“You must contact this Finola O’Shea through her solicitor,” Mrs. Cotgrave said. “Invite her here. Very likely she has no idea Escott Manor is now a school.”

“Let’s pray it makes a difference and she won’t demand we all leave.”

“Now, there, Miss Berrie. It’s in God’s hands. You’ve just spent time in prayer over this, as have I. And the Lord hasn’t told me we’re to close our door because of this letter. Has He told you that?”

Berrie shook her head, smiling. Movement beyond Mrs. Cotgrave caught Berrie’s eye. A moment later Katie stood in full view, dressed in her cotton nightgown without a wrap or slippers. A frown marred her large forehead.

“We’re to close the school, Miss Berrie? Because of a letter? We cannot do that. It’s our home.”

Berrie stood but not before Katie turned on her bare heel and rushed from the room. Berrie moved to follow.

“I’ll go,” Mrs. Cotgrave said, passing Berrie without trouble. “I’ve put the kettle on; you should have a cup of tea, and then to bed with you.”

Instead of retaking her seat, as inviting as it was, Berrie went to the kitchen in search of tea. She took a seat at the wide worktable, where bowls, clean and ready for morning porridge, waited in neat stacks. Nothing in this kitchen reminded her of home, not the aged stove nor the plain but serviceable dishware. And yet she thought of her family just then, wondering if she would return to them sooner than she’d expected.

Over a cup, Berrie bent her head in prayer. She closed each day with a plea on behalf of one student or another, each in their turn. Tonight all of the children were on her mind. The school had only just begun to help them and their families. What would become of them if this letter proved to be a real problem?

She wasn’t sure what disturbed her prayer, since she heard nothing. She lifted her head, and there stood Simon MacFarland. White shirt, black trousers, his thick hair tumbling onto his forehead. Appealing to behold. It irritated Berrie that she should even notice such a thing with so much on her mind—and when the man in question had so brash an interior.

Sitting straighter, she wished she could greet him cordially but found it beyond her. If he’d come to tell her he would be taking Katie home with him, she didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight. He’d had a chance to judge their school for two days, longer than many parents had taken. If he found her school and staff lacking, perhaps the letter meant something she didn’t want to believe: that she wasn’t here under God’s mission after all, and the school was doomed for failure. She was a failure. Before she’d really begun.

“Katie came to my room a moment ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought Mrs. Cotgrave—”

“Yes, she was quick on Katie’s heel. Mrs. Cotgrave saw her safely to bed.”

Berrie received the news with a nod. Then, seeing he showed no indication of leaving, she realized she would have to face his decision tonight whether she liked it or not. She raised a weary gaze to him. “Have you decided Katie’s future, Mr. MacFarland?”

“I thought I had,” he said, nearing the table and taking a seat.

It briefly crossed her mind she should offer him tea, but she simply sat. Waiting.

“Katie was upset just now. She said the school would have to close its doors.” Simon met Berrie’s steady gaze, and she strove to hide her regret that he knew of the situation. “Mrs. Cotgrave wasn’t very enlightening. Why should you be closing your doors?”

Too many thoughts warred in her mind already to try deciphering whether or not it was wise to share her burden with him. He hardly needed more reason to take Katie away. His elegant carriage awaited.

“I’ve received a letter claiming half of Escott Manor by legal inheritance, which was evidently overlooked within the last score of years. It says 50 percent belongs to relatives of the Irish woman we thought owned it outright.”

“But Escott is an English name. I thought this was all owned by an Englishman?”

“Through marriage. The woman who originally inherited the manor is Irish. Kennesey. She evidently had a sister whose descendants claim she should have inherited half.”

“There used to be a law regarding such things. First imposed by the English, Miss Hamilton.” His tone was as hard as the look in his eye. “Divide and conquer—that was the goal, so eventually there would be no great Irish landholders left.”

“I’m sure you’d like to blame me personally for a law created long before I was born, Mr. MacFarland.” Even as Berrie spoke, she was glad he didn’t know that her brother, father, grandfather, and other such forebears were at least partially responsible for the laws of England this man obviously detested. She was too tired to defend all of them along with herself and her school.

“May I see the letter?”

Momentarily confused, she didn’t comply. When he reached for the document resting before her, she belatedly took it up, handing it to him. He stood, placing himself in the immediate spill of the single sconce’s light.

“I’m not familiar with MacTaggert, the solicitor.” He studied the pages. “But I’m sure I can find out more about him. In any case, this is likely nothing to worry about. What has become Irish custom is one thing. English law, which as you know we’re all subject to, is another. That no longer requires the equal splitting of property.”

“So in this case
English
law will protect the right of the school?” It was the first hopeful thought she’d had since opening that dreadful envelope.

“Yes, Miss Hamilton. Like most of life, one can find something redemptive in the vilest creation.”

She had the faintest notion he was purposely trying to peeve her, but she held her tongue. She couldn’t afford to refuse assistance, regardless of whence it came.

Simon scrutinized the letter again. “A sufficiently subjugating letter, preferably on the letterhead of an MP, will likely put this matter to rest.”

Berrie bit her tongue once more. Standing before her was no doubt just the MP to affect an appropriately dominating tone.

25

* * *

Rebecca sat at her desk with Dana across from her. Four-year-old Padgett was soundly sleeping in the room that adjoined Dana’s down the hall. It wasn’t late, but an afternoon of flower collecting, croquet, and another visit to the cuddle farm had worn the child out.

Dana waded through the stack of thick brown envelopes she’d brought with her. “Most of the copies are legible,” she said, “although I’ve only had time to read a little so far. The woman I spoke to said when she was little, her grandmother gave these records to her, telling her how so many of the women in their family worked in hospitals of one kind or another.”

“Was she a nurse?”

Dana shook her head. “A teacher for kids with developmental delays. She said these records helped her choose her profession. I have to admit I was a bit uncomfortable around her at first. Back home we’re always so afraid to say anything impolite, and there sat Mrs. Kettle, categorizing various students from these records as idiots and imbeciles and lunatics as easily as she’d name blue eyes or brown. Until she explained they were nineteenth-century legal terms, I found myself thinking how relieved I was my sister didn’t have to bring her son to a teacher who used such words.”

“My degree is in history, but I admit I don’t know much about infirmaries or asylums from the Victorian age,” Rebecca said. “My father is the true expert on the time period.”

“Mrs. Kettle told me that people thought the feebleminded were a result of environment and lack of education, so with a sort of Victorian philanthropy, they thought they could fix the problem. When they figured out biology might have a part in it, something not to be changed . . . an act of God, well . . . they left their high ideals behind. Maybe that had something to do with the school closing.”

“The date matches Berrie’s early letters,” Rebecca said, looking over the sheet in her hand. Each word fit into what appeared to be a handmade chart, with its horizontal and vertical lines every bit as straight as a computer-generated report. The letters were tall and steady, uniform in size. Remembering Berrie’s letters, Rebecca assumed the neatness could be attributed to Mr. Truebody.

“I’ve only read a few of the files, starting with
E
for Escott because I wanted to make sure I had the correct school. Here,” Dana said, searching through another file, “these are the ones I’ve read. Roy Escott’s records are there, confirming everything.”

Rebecca scanned the list. Edwards, Eppingham,
Escott
.

She pulled that sheet from the rest.

Candidate: Roy Escott, aged fifteen

Doctor’s observation:
Non compos mentis

Gift relatives: Cosima Escott Hamilton (sister); Peter Hamilton (brother-in-law)

Rebecca raised her gaze to Dana’s. “
Non compos mentis
. . .” She knew what it meant; it simply seemed jarring to find it on a file.

Dana’s face clouded with sadness. “Idiot.”

Rebecca reached for Dana’s hand, squeezing it once. “Legal term, Dana; remember that. And he wasn’t your nephew.”

“But just like him,” Dana whispered. She sucked in a breath, brushed away a tear. “I’m so silly, aren’t I? I don’t know why I’ve been so emotional lately. Yes, Royboy was termed a legal idiot, as determined by what was called at the time a Lunacy Commission. Mrs. Kettle defined it for me: idiots were set apart from lunatics in that lunatics once had a mind to lose, while idiots were born without one. Words, just words.”

Rebecca squeezed her hand again. “It’s a relative you see on the page, but one long dead and not harmed by such terms, even were he alive. He wouldn’t know what it meant.”

“Maybe not. But those who loved him definitely would.”

Rebecca glanced down at the pages again. “I see Cosima and Peter Hamilton were named as ‘gift relatives’ for Royboy.”

“Every candidate needed two respectable persons who pledged to cover his expenses and also take the patient back once the term was finished. Rules—every school has them, even today.”

“Is there anything in this box of school records explaining why Escott Manor was open only a short time?”

“No, not that I know of, but I haven’t read every word yet. Everything I’ve seen is dated between 1852 and 1853, mostly limited to patient progress and treatments. I think some of the treatments are still used today, like rewards with a favorite food, calming with music, and learning language with pictures. My sister has shown me some of the things the therapists do with Ben, and it sounds similar.”

Rebecca read the data pertaining to Royboy.

Previous abode: Escott Manor

Prior treatment: Escott Manor

Suicidal? No

Duration of attack: Life

How simple the words seemed on paper. How endless it probably was in reality.

The report also listed things he had learned to do:

Count; eat with fork; recite letters (though not read); hold urine and feces except when agitated; undress (note: not dress) unattended.

Concerns: Limited speech, overly trusting, lack of discernment in all areas of life. To be kept away from books due to penchant for ripping bindings.

Royboy’s records, Rebecca noticed, were more scant than others. She thumbed through ledger sheets, seeing instructions for one student to be kept away from knives or sharp instruments, another who spilled water when possible, upset chairs, threw items into the fire.

Goodness, but it must have been hard to run such a place, especially when fires were used for cooking, light, and heat in an often dreary, chilly climate.

Yet another page revealed someone who set fire to his bed. Blood pounded in her temples. Is that why the school closed? Maybe a patient had set it on fire. How awful that would have been for Cosima if it were true, having lost other members of her family to fire already.

Compassion filled Rebecca. She fanned the pages, noting one stark similarity on nearly every ledger, no matter the name.

Duration of attack: Life

A life sentence of intellectual challenge. Mental retardation. Idiocy.

She thought of Padgett, sleeping so close at hand. Rebecca eyed Dana, who was reading some of the letters Rebecca had transcribed.

Rebecca didn’t believe Dana at all selfish for wanting what every woman wanted: a healthy child. Was asking for the norm too much to ask?

If it was, then Rebecca was also asking too much. All she wanted was to love Quentin and hope for a future with him. The “norm.”

26

* * *

I have been so busy I have not been able to write, but I wanted to tell you about the day I watched Simon MacFarland’s carriage take him away. He had given in to letting Katie stay, agreeing to a full year with the promise of his frequent visits. Unscheduled visits, he warned me.

When he told me he would be leaving, saying he would do his best to dispel our legal trouble, he also offered unwanted advice that entirely negated any shred of gratitude that might have stirred within me. Only now can I write of it without seething inside.

“I do this for Katie,” he said, “not because I believe this place will make one bit of difference in the lives of any so-called student. It is little wonder the Commission terms you a hospital rather than a school. Nothing can be learned by those you have here, and you should do well to accept your task as impossible.” How I wanted to fight him, to prove him wrong. Already his sister had learned to make a basket. Beyond that, she is achieving something vastly more significant: independence.