by Jess Russell
The giant looked down at his feet, his mouth working as if he wanted to say more. Finally he sputtered, “Lor Aus sent.”
“My brother, sent you?”
The big man grinned like a monkey, exposing a graveyard of teeth.
By God, could Macready be gone? Maybe the tide had turned. Maybe he would finally have an ally in this hell.
Ivo moved like a prizefighter, his balance forward on the balls of his feet like he had to take a wicked piss, his hands half-raised as if to protect his body. A lantern jaw held a mound of pudding that was his face—small pig-like eyes above a smashed nose, fleshy cheeks pocked with scars. Dev would have bet a wad of blunt on this fellow in any boxing ring.
Where had Austin unearthed such a hulking puppy? He bowed deeply, this time holding his aching ribs.
The giant bowed back even deeper, his huge head nearly touching the floor.
“Whoa, lad, easy. Don’t want to topple over.”
Suddenly the hulk straightened. Grabbing his pocket, he spun away.
Right. Maybe too hasty in his assumptions. Dev backed away. What was the man hiding? Macready always carried a set of brass knuckles.
“Can you show me, Ivo?” Best not startle the lad. “Can you show me what is in your pocket?”
He looked as if he wanted to and then swung his melon of a head side to side.
“Very well. I will not press you. Just as long as you do not decide to murder me in my bed.” Good God, this man is barmier than me. One madman sent to mind another.
Being sure to keep the giant in his sights, he turned toward his cot. Would the night terrors come tonight?
And his laudanum. Had Austin brought more? He dare not check under the loose floorboard. Not until he sorted out where this newest keeper stood.
Besides, he must wean himself from taking the stuff if he were to have any hope of getting free of this place.
The door latch rattled. His new keeper retrieved Dev’s dinner tray from some unseen minion.
The familiar gray gruel littered with chunks of tasteless mutton had his stomach heaving. Hives had called him paranoid. Lord Devlin, your meals only contain tinctures to balance your humors, nothing more.
Wet lumps on his tongue. Tasteless. He swallowed. No bitter tang. No poison? A few more spoonfuls. Still nothing. He made himself take more to fill his hollow belly. But the spoon shook as his body cried out for sleep. He laid it down and used the back of the chair to hoist himself on to his legs. The giant hovered by his side, ready to catch him or club him, he did not know.
Gruel rose in his throat as he lay down. How much longer? How much longer could he endure before submitting to despair like poor Cummings?
The new white wash had obliterated his tally of ticks on the wall. No matter; they were wrong anyway. No way to tell, with entire days lost to oblivion. Eight months at least in this hell. Of that he was sure. Could it be April? Today might even be his birthday for all he knew. That meant four until he might be free?
He would never make it.
The giant loomed over him.
He raised his arms. After an incident, the doctor always prescribed more stringent measures, both wrists and legs shackled.
Ivo’s lower lip protruded as his brow furrowed. The keeper did not seem to like using the restraints.
Something to file away.
Despite their thickness, and the lack of light, the giant’s fingers were surprisingly adept as he secured the manacles.
A moment later he snuffed the light, and the room plunged into darkness.
A soft sing-song crooning filtered through the quiet. Was the man singing? Hell, maybe this bruiser was religious and at his prayers.
Steeling himself, he waited for the numbness. The seeping raw weather got into his bones, behind his teeth, and under his fingernails. It would leach its way into your very heart, if you stayed still enough.
Bits of memories ticked over his brain: the smell of brandy and burning flesh, a sharp cry, a knife, blood, so much blood. He shook his head, but the action only made the fragments shift and warp, teasing him with the possibility of recognition. The moon? No, the face. The white face with its sea-green eyes. Those terrible staring eyes…
“By God, this time you have gone too far, sir.” Nora’s words rang over his drink-sodden brain.
His delectable mistress had certainly gotten herself into a stir. What had he done this time?
“Undoubtedly I have, madam.” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t seem to make his face work. “Too much of too much.” He hiccupped and licked his parched lips. “But in for a penny, in for a pound, I say.” He started for her hoping a quick tumble might put her to rights.
His feet somehow tangled in the carpet, and he fell to his knees.
Nora scoffed and brushed past him.
He caught her ankle and grinned. “Very well, I am foxed. Is that such a crime that you must play the wounded lady?”
Then he saw the girl.
She stood at the top of the stairway and seemed to float toward him. Her face and then her belly became huge and swollen like a full moon. Her white gown bloomed with blood—
“Noooo!” He pushed the face away.
Bands of iron held him down.” No, no more!”
“Shhh. Shh.”
He jerked awake. A monster stared back at him.
The leather cuffs bit into his wrists, and his breath came like a bellows as sweat ran into his eyes.
“Shhh.” The giant loomed over the bed, huge hands engulfing his own.
He blinked. The new keeper—Ivo. Not a fiend.
Just another nightmare.
Bracing himself, he waited for the blow. Macready would have landed him a good one by now. Good ol’ Ned Macready never liked a fair fight. Or to have his sleep disturbed.
But the blow did not come. The huge man only cocked his head as if confused about what he should do. Gently, he took one of Dev’s hands and placed a finger against his lips.
“Shh,” the man said, putting his own finger to his lips like a child sharing a secret. Then he laid Dev’s hands in his lap, palms up. Ivo turned and delved into his pocket.
Dev jerked his hands up to shield his face.
The giant frowned and once again patiently placed Dev’s hands open and waiting as if he might be about to receive the holy host.
Very well, he’d gamble.
He held still as Ivo dipped into his pocket and pulled something out. Reverently cupping it in his hands, and with a shy smile, he deposited the thing into Dev’s waiting palms.
Tiny skritching feet scrabbled against his flesh. Soft fur brushed his thumbs and a moist quivering nose found the cleft between his fingers.
Relief gushed from his lips. A mouse. That was all. Just a plain mouse.
God, he wanted to howl with laughter, but the keeper stood with his mouth hanging half-open, a look of such wonder in his eyes. And just like that, Dev’s laughter turned to tears. This tiny mouse was the most precious thing this man possessed. Dev knew it as sure as he knew his own name.
He stroked the soft fur and looked up into the giant’s eyes. Ivo grinned.
By God, this sweet brute must truly be daft if he believed Dev worthy of such a gift.
Perhaps the tide had turned.
Chapter Five
Doctor Hives spared Anne a glance when she entered his office and then continued scanning a letter with an impressive golden seal.
If only she could gauge his mood, but all she could say with any surety was the man took prodigious care in arranging the few curls on his otherwise shiny head. He did not offer her a seat. She resisted the urge to adjust a hair pin slipping loose to tickle her neck. Instead she smoothed her perfectly ironed apron.
Mrs. Coates said the doctor was often gone and could appear without any forewarning as he had this morning. Nearly two weeks after her arrival, he’d entered the gold withdrawing room while she had been kneading Lady Tippit’s shoulders.
The massage had bec
ome part of their daily routine. She found it best not to interfere when the woman touched herself inappropriately, simply ignoring the behavior, as if it were normal to dip a hand between the legs or fondle a breast. Mrs. Nester followed her lead, and her ladyship indulged less and less.
Thank goodness Lady T’s hands had been quietly folded in her lap when Doctor Hives had stepped into the room. Beyond introducing himself, he’d remained silent, only observing. After several endless minutes, he left, and she had been summoned to his office by Mr. Macready.
The keeper stood just behind her, his hot breath stirring the fine hairs on the back of her neck. He had certainly taken full advantage when the doctor was away, strutting about, barking orders as if he were lord of the manner. She had not seen Lord Devlin once since that first day. Servants whispered about him but clammed up when she came near. Once, she had sneaked up to his room and even opened the small hatch in the door, but she could see no one within the narrow view the window provided. No sounds either.
Only yesterday she had secretly followed Mr. Macready down a set of narrow and twisting stairs. He disappeared through a low door. She had pressed her ear there until her neck ached but again heard nothing. When she went back later, the portal was locked. She’d nearly jumped out of her skin when the keeper caught her coming back up the stairs. When questioned, she had said she had lost her way.
Had he mentioned her snooping to Doctor Hives?
“Miss Winton.” Doctor Hives pushed the letter aside. “I am sorry I was not here when you arrived, but I am at the mercy of my benefactor. When he requires my attention, I must comply.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hives’ small head, snub nose, and thin lips reminded her of her old turtle, Tobias. A thick woolen cravat, wound round and round the doctor’s neck and chin, only added to the comparison. Indeed, his eyebrows, drawn sharply upward, seemed to be the only thing keeping his mouth from being swallowed up.
Tobias had been her only friend that first year at Ardsmoore. Would Hives be a friend?
“Mr. Macready, you may leave us now.”
Hot, fetid breath pulsed heavy against her neck as the man crowded closer before turning and quitting the room.
“Now Miss Winton, are you clear on your duties?”
“Yes, sir. I am to assist the ladies with their toilets and dressing, accompany them to morning prayers, read from prescribed books, supervise their diets, take them on short walks when the weather is fine, attend tea when asked, make sure they take their various medications, and generally see to their comfort.” She pulled a small book from her pocket. “I have kept copious notes, sir.”
Not a healer so much as a glorified lady’s maid.
“Let me see.” He gestured for the book.
She handed it to him. Were her observations helpful? Too much detail? Not enough? She felt like a dangling boot lace.
The doctor opened it and began scanning pages.
“If all goes well, you will be with us for quite some time, I believe, Miss Winton? Paying off your debt?”
“I am contracted for four years, sir.” No way to know how much Mr. Harlow had revealed to the doctor. The hair pin slipped down her back, and her bun loosened.
“I understand you are an orphan, and the vicar, Mr. Harlow, did a great deal for you in settling you here at Ballencrieff?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Harlow has shown me every kindness. I owe him much.”
“Indeed.” The one word held a world of meaning but nothing she could decipher. “You were a bit of an…oddity at the school, weren’t you?”
She smoothed her apron uncertain how to answer.
“Yet Mr. Harlow urged me to take you on despite—rumors.” Doctor Hives narrowed his already beady eyes. “He assured me your “talents” were wasted in teaching, and you could be more useful here.” The doctor turned another page, his gaze remaining fixed on her. “Ballencrieff is a place for re-birth and second chances. I hope I will not be disappointed, Miss Winton.”
She tried to smile. “I am very eager to be of service, Doctor Hives, sir,” she said, with less assurance than she intended.
“We will see, Miss Winton. We will just have to see.”
Please allow her to do some good somewhere. Her gift was a blessing. Surely she could prove it if he would only give her a chance.
“We will meet formally every odd day of the week after tea when the ladies are resting. Of course, if anything dire should arise before then, you will come to me immediately.”
Taking her first real breath, it seemed the inquisition was over. “I understand, sir.”
“Mrs. Nester had another nightmare last night?”
“Yes, Doctor. However, if you’ll note.” She leaned over, directing him to the correct page. “I was able to get her settled and back to sleep in a much shorter amount of time.”
She had just turned out her lamp when the moans started. Once again, Phoebe Nester had been clutching her belly, so sure she had lost yet another child. After an earlier spell, Anne had found the poor woman huddled over her chamber pot convinced she’d seen a bloody mass. It had taken most of the night to settle her fears.
“Mrs. Nester’s hysteria seems to have improved since your arrival.” The doctor looked displeased despite the good news. “We were accustomed to coping with her terrors on a nightly basis. I am told you have a calming effect on her.” He looked up as if he might catch her out. “Indeed, Mrs. Coates informs me many of the patients here at Ballencrieff seem to have benefited from your presence in the short time you have been with us.” His eyes narrowed, and his lower lip brushed the top of his neck cloth.
“I try to help where I can, sir.” She must tread carefully if she was to be of any use in her new life. Mrs. Coates said Hives fancied himself a forward thinker, but it would be a mistake not to test the waters first. “If you’ll pardon my saying, Doctor, I do not see all that much difference between these patients’ infirmities and the rest of the world. Yes, they have their idiosyncrasies, but don’t we all?”
“Idiosyncrasies?” The doctor smiled, which was not a smile at all. “Granted, this is not a home for extreme lunatics. It is more of a way station toward entering back into the world, a haven if you will, where patients may recover without prying eyes.”
Haven was not a word she would ever use to describe this place.
“However, while Ballencrieff Hall is no Bedlam, Miss Winton, do not be lulled into complacency. We must provide a strict routine where these unfortunates cannot indulge in their ravings and fantasies.”
Not so forward a thinker as she’d hoped.
“Which brings us to Lady Tippit.” He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together in the general area of where his chin might be located. “Where did you learn this ‘massage’?”
Finally, the sticky wicket. “It is not learned, sir, it is something I have always remembered doing. My hands seem to bring comfort. I do not know why.”
“Yes, your talents. I see it is not mentioned in your notes.”
“No sir, it is something I have been trying. However, I do believe—”
“You believe? You are very free with your opinions. Is there something I have missed? Do you have medical training?” His eyebrows rose to meet the arranged curls high on his forehead. “Excessive touching is contrary to the therapy I have set out for her ladyship. She must have less tactile interaction, not more. You will desist immediately.”
Disappointment pricked, and she took a step backward. “Yes, sir.”
“I am sure you mean well, but we cannot be lax, Miss Winton. These unfortunates need strict discipline, much like naughty children. You will report any unseemly behavior immediately. Time is of the essence. Lady Tippit must learn to associate certain actions with punishment.” He paged through the book until he came to her last entry. “I see no cold plunges were ordered? No restraints? Am I to understand that her ladyship has indulged in no aberrant behavior these last thirteen days?”
She sai
d nothing.
“Believe me you will do her no good service by omitting her failings.” He closed the book and handed it back to her. “We cannot indulge her fancies. As her nurse and companion, I rely on you in this regard. Do I make myself clear, Miss Winton?”
“Yes, Doctor Hives.” Too soon.
For now her light must remain under a bushel. Punishment and even the threat of the madhouse had hung over her those early years at Ardsmoore when she had felt so lost and alone. But slowly the tide had turned, and she’d become almost accepted. Until a jealous, spiteful girl wiped her world away in one fell swoop.
“You must be vigilant and always on guard. Make no mistake these patients can become unbalanced in the blink of an eye.” He sat back in his chair. “I believe you saw that behavior demonstrated by Lord Devlin when you first arrived?”
“He did not harm me,” she hastened to say. She did not think anyone had seen their brief intimacy, tucked as they were within the niche under the stairway. And he had already been drawing away from her when Macready arrived. She, herself, could not believe Lord Devlin had sought her out. So why would anyone imagine a marquess, who had apparently enjoyed the company of the most celebrated beauties, would ever bother with plain Anne Winton.
But deep in the most secret place in her heart, she could not squelch the peculiar stirrings within her body. Or the feeling of reciprocity. Lord Devlin had noticed her. There had been a palpable vibration between them that had shocked her. She tried to dismiss the moment a hundred times, but like a vivid reoccurring dream, it would not die.
If only she could look in his eyes, she might be reassured he could not be a murderer. And she might also put her inexplicable fantasy to rest. Surely this pull toward him was only his affliction, drawing her to help him.
“I have been thinking of the marquess’ case ever since I arrived.” She shifted her feet. “I wonder if I might offer a thought, sir?”
The doctor’s neck stretched up a fraction, his upper lip protruding, but he did not say no.
Heartened, she pressed on. “After seeing Lord Devlin’s room, and on further reflection, I wondered if perhaps the marquess uses painting as a way to exorcise his demons?”