The Wild Child (14 page)

The first cell Dominic checked was empty, but sounds of hopeless sorrow came from the next. He looked in the peephole. A disheveled woman crouched in one corner of the cell, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her sobbing would make angels weep. Face rigid, he closed the hinged window plate. “What is her story?”

“Mrs. Wicker had more than a dozen miscarriages,” the doctor said with compassion. “Only the first child was brought to term, and it died almost immediately. Last year, she descended into uncontrollable madness.”

Dominic couldn’t blame her. What kind of husband would subject his wife to such a series of disastrous pregnancies? “How are you treating her?”

“Leeches applied to the temples to draw off the evil humors have been the most effective,” Craythorne said. “Along with purging and weekly bloodletting. She hasn’t had a violent spell in weeks.”

Ice baths. Straitjackets. Leeches and purging. No wonder Amworth refused to consider sending Meriel here. Even if a cure was guaranteed, Dominic didn’t think he could subject her to such treatment. As the grim tour continued, he asked, “Do many patients become well enough to return to their normal lives?”

“Some.” The doctor’s expression turned bleak. “I’ve had the best success with females suffering from melancholic complaints. In time, I believe that medicine will be able to cure all mental illness, but I don’t expect it to happen in my lifetime.”

At least Craythorne was honest, but Dominic wouldn’t want Meriel in his care. She wasn’t melancholic—she was sunshine personified. Or sometimes like a swift squall, but never melancholic. “Are patients confined to their rooms at all times?”

“Walking in the garden is one of the privileges extended for good behavior. Let me take you there.”

Outdoor exercise sounded refreshing compared to the bleak misery of the rest of Bladenham. The garden was something of a disappointment, however. It consisted mostly of graveled paths and patches of lawn, with a few scattered shrubs and benches. Perhaps flower beds were considered overstimulatmg. The high stone walls were topped with inward curving spikes. If this was the most progressive mental asylum in Britain, Dominic quite sincerely hoped he would die rather than ever be struck by madness. Seeing the direction of Dominic’s glance, the doctor said, “We’ve never had a patient escape. The village considers us the best of neighbors.”

On the far side of the garden, two burly, gray-clad women followed several steps behind a pair of female patients. As the group turned and headed toward the house, Dominic saw how the older woman, on the left, stared vacantly past him. Her watery gaze had a terrifying blankness. The other patient looked directly at Dominic, and he saw something swift and intense flicker in her eyes. A tall young woman with strong features and ragged dark hair, she might have been handsome under other circumstances.

Craythorne said in a low voice, “The woman on the left, Mrs. Gill, may be going home soon. She was suicidal, but is now quite calm. Mineral tonics and narcotic potions have soothed her agitation.”

Soothed the poor woman into near unconsciousness, from what Dominic could see. “And the other patient?”

“Mrs. M—” He broke off without completing the name. “That patient is known as Mrs. Brown. Though her husband wishes the best care for her, he fears his neighbors learning of her condition. I believe he has told them that she is in Italy, for her lungs, while she is treated here. A pity that he feels he must spin a web of lies.”

Her husband was not alone in his attitude; Dominic knew other families who denied cases of madness in their midst. “Is she improving?”

“She’ll have long lucid spells, then go completely mad, particularly when her husband visits. I’ve had to ask him to come less often. I wish I could offer the poor devil more hope, but her behavior is so unpredictable that I cannot be sanguine.” Craythorne regarded the patients, expression brooding. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” With a nod, he went to speak to one of the attendants. Dominic strolled toward a wall, thinking how poor a place this was compared to Meriel’s vibrant, imaginative gardens. Then a shout echoed through the enclosure. He turned to see that Mrs. “Brown”

had bolted and was running wild-eyed toward Dominic, her attendants pounding after her with all their might.

Dominic hadn’t feared a woman since he left the nursery, but might a strong, healthy lunatic be a threat?

Still, he’d be damned if he’d run from a female. He braced himself. But Mrs. Brown didn’t attack. Instead she caught his arm, saying desperately, “Please, sir, I’m not mad! I’m being held here for no reason. If you’ll take word to my father, he’ll see I’m released. General Ames of Holliwell Grange. Please, I beg of you…”

Before she could say more, her keepers had caught up. Mrs. Brown dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Dominic’s legs. “Ames of Holliwell Grange! In the name of God, just a note, anything to let him know so he can come for me!”

The attendants wrenched her away from Dominic as Dr. Craythorne arrived. “Your father knows you’re here, Mrs. Brown, but he is too distressed by your condition to visit,” he said in a gently implacable voice. “You know that—your husband has explained it to you over and over.”

“My husband is a liar!” Her wild gaze went to Dominic again. “It was my husband who brought me here, and do you know why? Because I wasn’t a biddable wife. Because my blood was impure. Because I didn’t agree with him!”

Before she could say more, one keeper gagged her while the other wrestled her arms behind her back, dragging them up painfully. The attendants took Mrs. Brown away, leaving Dominic shaken.

“I think it is vital to always be honest with patients, but she is still prey to delusions as well as fits of violence,” Craythorne said quietly. “I’ve seen no signs of progress. Luckily her husband can afford to keep her here with the best possible care. Perhaps, God willing, someday…” His voice faded away. Knowing he would remember Mrs. Brown’s frantic eyes until the day he died, Dominic turned and followed Craythorne into the house. He didn’t doubt that the doctor was sincere and capable, and he ran his asylum well. But Dominic made a solemn oath that he would never let Meriel be sent to a place like this.

Chapter 13

Unable to shake his dark mood even after he left the asylum, Dominic rode back to Warfield more slowly than he’d taken the outward trip to Bladenham. Though vowing to protect Meriel from confinement was all very well, it was Kyle who would have authority over her person. Any decisions would be his.

He reminded himself that his brother could be an arrogant bastard, but he was never cruel to women. Even if Meriel descended into hopeless madness, surely he would keep her safely at Warfield, where she could enjoy fresh air and flowers and kindness.

But if he didn’t, what would Dominic be able to do about it?

Arriving at the intersection of several roads, he glanced up at the half-dozen signs on the fingerpost. One said Holliwell.

“Take word to my father… General Ames of Holliwell Grange. Please, I beg of you…”A shiver went down Dominic’s spine even though he told himself that a nearby Holliwell meant nothing, for the name was not uncommon. Mrs. Brown was mad, and nothing she said could be trusted. And yet…

He turned Pegasus toward Holliwell. He’d ride into the village and find that there was no Grange, and no General Ames. Then he could return to Warfield with a clear conscience. Losing an hour was a small price to pay for banishing those frantic dark eyes.

* * *

Within minutes, Dominic came abreast of a massive pair of stone gateposts. “Holliwell” was carved on the left post, and “Grange” on the right. He reined in his mount with a frown. This still proved nothing because every village in England had at least one house called a grange. Perhaps in better days Mrs. Brown had visited here.

But Holliwell Grange might really be owned by a General Ames who was her father, and who was so distressed by his daughter’s madness that he couldn’t bear to visit her. An inquiry from Dominic might do nothing more than bring further sorrow to a grieving parent. He steeled himself for that, since he would not forgive himself if he turned back when he was so close to learning the truth. A few minutes’ ride up a pleasant drive brought the grange into view. As the name implied, the building had started life as a farmhouse, but additions over the years had produced a large, rambling stone structure. Though not elegant, it looked comfortable and spacious, and prosperous fields and pastures lay in all directions.

Like many old farmsteads, the house comprised one side of a courtyard formed by outbuildings and a paddock. Dominic rode into the yard to tether his horse before trying the door. As he entered, a gentleman in country buckskins led a small, silvery gray mare from the stables.

“What a beauty!” Dominic said involuntarily.

The man glanced up. Tall and grizzled and ramrod straight, he could easily be a retired general.

“Moonbeam is as well behaved as she is pretty.” His admiring gaze went over Pegasus. “I see that you’ve a good eye for horseflesh.”

“I like to think so, but what man doesn’t?” Dominic firmly restrained Pegasus, who showed signs of wanting to pursue too close an acquaintance with the mare.

The older man turned Moonbeam into the paddock. After closing the gate, he turned to his visitor. His skin was dark and leathery, as if exposed to years of harsh sun. “I’m Ames, if you’re looking for me.”

For a moment Dominic froze, caught between names. Reminding himself that he couldn’t be Dominic so close to Warfield, he dismounted from his horse. “My name is Maxwell. I’m staying at Warfield.”

“Then you must know little Lady Meriel,” Ames said with interest. “How is the child doing?”

“She’s not a child anymore.” Dominic tethered Pegasus, then joined Ames at the railing of the paddock. They contemplated the mare in respectful silence, bound together by the camaraderie of horsemen. Willing to postpone the purpose of his visit a little longer, Dominic added, “Lady Meriel is twenty-three now. You’ve met her?”

Ames pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “How time passes. I haven’t seen the girl since she was a child in India, but our families have been Shropshire neighbors for centuries. I thought of calling on her when I returned from the East several years ago, but given the stories of her mental state, I thought it better not to risk reminding the girl of what happened there.” He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. I’ve always wondered if I could have done something to prevent her parents’ deaths.”

Dominic fitted that information with what he already knew. “You look like a military man. Were you stationed in India when Lord and Lady Grahame were killed?”

Ames nodded soberly. “Grahame was on a parliamentary mission that took him all over India. I commanded the army cantonment in Cambay, in the north. It was the last British outpost the Grahames visited before they were killed. From Cambay they traveled to Alwari, a minor residence of one of the local rulers. That’s where the raiders struck. The whole palace was burned down, and a hundred people or so died.” He sighed. “Very hard on Grahame’s brother—the present Lord Grahame, that is.”

“He was traveling with the party?” Dominic asked, wondering how the younger Grahame had survived the massacre.

The general shook his head. “No, he was a major serving under my command. A good officer—spoke Urdu like a native. The late Lord Grahame included Cambay on his route partly to visit his brother, because they hadn’t seen each other in years. After the massacre Major Grahame was distraught, of course. Kept saying that if his brother hadn’t come to Cambay, he wouldn’t have died.”

“At least Lady Meriel survived. That must be some comfort.”

Ames’s expression eased. “She was the most intrepid little thing. She had a little gray pony, and she would tear across the plains like an Afghan bandit. Most mothers would have fainted on the spot, but Lady Grahame just laughed and urged her on.”

“Lady Meriel could ride?” Dominic asked, startled.

“Since the age of three, according to her parents.”

But not since. No wonder she had enjoyed riding with Dominic once she got over her initial anxiety. The experience must have brought back the happier days of her childhood. On impulse, he asked, “Is Moonbeam for sale? She looks like a perfect ladies’ mount. I’d like to give her to Lady Meriel.”

“I’d not thought of selling her. But for Lady Meriel?” Ames’s eyes became distant. “Whenever I think of the girl, I also think of my daughter. Jena was several years older, so she appointed herself Meriel’s guide and took her all over the encampment while the Grahames were at Cambay. The men adored them both.”

Dominic’s pulse quickened. “You have a daughter?”

“I did,” Ames said curtly. Perhaps thinking that was too abrupt, he added with difficulty, “She died the autumn before last.”

Ames seemed to be telling the truth, but it was possible that he preferred to tell others that his daughter was dead rather than admit to the shame of a mad child. Watching the older man closely, Dominic said,

“I’ve just come from visiting the Bladenham asylum. While I was there, a patient begged me to take a message to her father, General Ames of Holliwell Grange. She said that she was not mad, that her husband had committed her to the asylum against her will.”

The older man went bone white under his weathered skin, his pain palpable. “That’s not possible. My daughter is dead.”

Acutely uncomfortable, Dominic said, “I’m sorry. Probably the woman is someone from the neighborhood who knows Holliwell Grange, and in her madness thinks that she once lived here. I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”

He turned, wanting to leave as quickly as possible, but was halted by the general’s harsh voice. “The woman. What did she look like?”

“Tall. Dark hair and brown eyes. About my age, I think. She is known as Mrs. Brown, though the doctor said that wasn’t her real name.” Dominic visualized that desperate face, trying to remember if there were any distinctive features. “She had a faint scar on her chin. Almost invisible.” With a fingertip, he indicated on his own chin exactly how the scar ran.