He sighed and closed the folder before handing it back to the waiting nurse.
He’d already seen more than a dozen cases of advanced neurosyphilis in his first two weeks of work. This one offered nothing new. Medically, nothing could be done for her. The asylum was as good a place as any to keep her fed and housed until the end, which—judging from the yellow tint to her skin—was not long in coming.
Andrew started for the door at the other end of ward five, known unofficially as the incurables wing. It was a depressingly apt designation. His eyes roved over dozens of other patients as he went. Some were quite clearly ill, raving and weeping; a few were even wearing restraints. Others merely sat, mute and unseeing. He fought the urge to stop, to try to speak to them. To offer some measure of comfort. It would do no good.
Tyree had told him the truth that first day—the “malingerers” had been a gentle introduction to the asylum. In the two weeks since, he’d seen more depravity and more anguish than in the whole of his life up until then. There were so many patients, with more coming in each week, and so few effective means of helping the sickest of them. He reached into his coat pocket and rolled the hard rubber cylinder he found there between his fingers. It contained a syringe loaded with chloral hydrate, which he’d begun carrying on Tyree’s recommendation. “There will be times when you’ll want it quickly,” the other physician advised him. “Best to have it ready.” So far, Andrew had not been forced to use it, but there had been several times he’d come close.
One of the nurses swung open the outer door as he approached. He nodded his thanks to her and stepped out into the main hallway. He sighed as the door closed behind him and raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck.
“You look as though you could use a drink.”
Andrew turned. Tyree walked toward him, a knowing expression on his face.
“It shows, does it?”
“One comes to know the signs. Are you finished for the day?”
Andrew nodded. “I was about to get my things and head to the ferry.”
Tyree pulled a watch from his pocket and clicked open the cover. “Well, you’ll have missed the six o’clock. May as well come up and have a drink while you wait for the next one. You can tell me about it.” He gestured toward the ward door.
Andrew’s face heated again as he thought of the woman’s proposition.
Tyree grinned. “Must have been a good one.”
Andrew relayed the story as they walked, and by the time they reached the stairs, the other man shook with barely suppressed laughter, his face nearly as red as his hair. Andrew felt a smile pulling at the corners of his own mouth.
They passed Dr. Klafft on the way up, trailed by Connolly, the young man who’d stood behind him at lunch the first day. He was, Andrew had since learned, employed by Klafft. “Paid from my personal funds,” Klafft informed him upon discovering Connolly completing some trivial task Andrew had unwittingly assigned him. He seemed to be a sort of secretary-cum-valet. “A dogsbody,” according to Tyree. He assisted Klafft in the wards, but he also saw to the doctor’s wardrobe, kept his social calendar, and—if Tyree’s somewhat acerbic commentary was to be credited—even shaved him in the mornings. He allegedly lived off-island, although Andrew found it difficult to believe, ever-present as he was.
The older man gave the pair of them a disapproving look before continuing on his way, his silent, harried shadow scurrying in his wake.
“Here we are,” Tyree said moments later. He unlocked the door and gestured for Andrew to enter ahead of him.
They stepped into a comfortable-looking parlor, with plush furniture and decent rugs on the floor.
“Help yourself to whatever you like.” Tyree pointed to a shelf containing several bottles. “Pour two. I’m going to wash up before I join you.” He disappeared through another door at the back of the room.
Andrew examined the selection and poured two glasses of what turned out to be entirely undistinguished whiskey. Leaving one on the table, he took the other with him as he made an aimless circuit of the room. There were several prints on the walls, but no photographs. The only sign of disorder was a pair of boxes on the floor in front of a deep shelf of books and curios. Andrew examined the volumes on the bottom shelf: several popular novels, some poetry. Propping them up at one end was a glass-topped wooden case with a tarnished brass latch. Inside, resting in velvet-lined cradles, sat several pistols, some obviously quite old.
“Inherited from my father,” Tyree said from behind him. Andrew turned back to the other man, who took a drink and sighed with evident pleasure. “Never saw the appeal myself, but after he died it seemed wrong to sell them. Are firearms an interest of yours?” He gestured to the case with his glass.
“Not particularly,” Andrew replied. “An uncle taught me to shoot when I was a boy, but I never showed any aptitude for it.”
“You’re still ahead of me, then. I’ve never taken them out of the case.” Tyree seated himself in a worn leather chair. “So, apart from obscene suggestions, how are you finding your time here?”
Andrew cast around for the right word as he sat. “Enlightening.”
“Not what you expected?”
“I’m not sure what I expected. I suppose I was not prepared to see so much intractable illness. So many of the patients seem so far removed from reality,” he said. “I don’t know that anyone can help them. It’s disturbing.”
“Do you regret taking the job?”
“No,” Andrew said after a moment. “There are patients here who can be helped. It is a fine thing, for the city to have a facility such as this to care for the poor. And from the perspective of my research, it’s ideal. The wealthy have many of the same problems, but they’re far better at keeping them secret. It isn’t—”
Andrew cut himself off and glanced at Tyree, hoping the bitterness creeping into his tone hadn’t caught the other man’s attention. But no, Tyree didn’t appear to have noticed anything unusual. Relieved, he went on. “At any rate, I feel quite fortunate my situation has worked out as it has.”
“Even if you do have to spend some of your time in ward five?”
“Even in ward five there may be those who could be treated, if only there were resources enough.”
“You sound like Blounton.” Tyree shook his head, a flicker of emotion passing over his features.
“I presume he is the doctor who passed away?” Andrew asked after a moment’s hesitation.
Tyree nodded. “Dr. John Blounton. A fine physician. Quite dedicated to the patients. He could have had a bright future somewhere, but he wanted to be here.”
“He was young, then?”
“Indeed. Just two or three years out of medical school. He was only here for a few months, but I liked him quite a lot.” Tyree stared into his glass. He hesitated, then seemed to decide something. “Officially, his death was an accident.”
“Officially?”
Tyree sighed. “I don’ like to tell tales, but…” He took a swallow of whiskey, then continued. “I believe I would be remiss not to offer my advice.” He looked at Andrew, his gaze direct. “Working in a place like this, one needs to be able to keep a certain professional distance. I don’t mean like Klafft, insisting on being addressed as ‘Doctor’ even at lunch with his colleagues. Ridiculous man.” He snorted. “No, I mean from the patients, from their histories, from the weight of the place itself. There are a great many sad stories here. If you let them affect you too much… Well, Blounton was young and idealistic. He didn’t understand that however much he wanted to help the patients here, it wasn’t always possible to do so. I saw it happen. He hadn’t been here long before the place began to drag at him. He grew quieter. And then…”
“Do you mean to imply—” Andrew floundered, unsure how to continue. “Forgive me for asking so bluntly, but how did he die?”
Tyree grimaced. “It was ruled an accident, as I said. He was known to be in the habit of taking walks along the island’s seawall, an
d the verdict at the inquest was that he must have slipped and fallen in somewhere. Hit his head on something and drowned. But I’ve wondered ever since if that’s the truth of it. He had changed so much. And I feel a certain degree of guilt about it, as well.”
He stood and crossed to the decanter, where he poured himself another drink, raising an eyebrow and pointing to Andrew’s glass as he did so. Andrew declined with a small shake of his head.
Tyree sat back down. “I should have pursued the matter when he began to pull away from our friendship. But I’m afraid I was rather hurt by it. I didn’t see it for what it was. If I had said something to him, or if I had been here when it happened…” He shook his head with regret.
“You were away?”
“Yes. I was attending a conference that week. In Philadelphia, as a matter of fact. It was such terrible news to come home to.” He sighed. “Ultimately, there’s no way of knowing exactly what happened.”
He indicated the boxes by the shelf. “I packed up his things afterward. I found nothing to indicate he’d planned to harm himself. But one doesn’t always.”
“No,” Andrew said quietly, “one doesn’t.” He took another swallow of his drink, trying to dissolve the knot that had suddenly appeared in his throat.
There was a long moment before Tyree spoke again. “I haven’t shared my suspicion with anyone else. I would hate to cause further grief to his family. I hope you will honor that desire.”
“Certainly.”
“I wouldn’t have even brought it up, but as I said, you remind me of him. I know you have little experience with such things, and I know how important it is for you to guard yourself from too much sentiment. We have all had to learn. Klafft manages by virtue of his own unpleasantness—he blames the patients for their condition, so they aren’t worthy of sympathy. Lawrence records minutiae and natters on about nothing and floats above it all. Harcourt avoids the wards by burying himself in administrative work.”
“And yourself?” Andrew asked. “How do you manage?”
Tyree considered his now-empty glass. “I strive always to remember why I am here. I keep my distance. I do my job, and I walk away.”
Andrew finished his drink in silence and thanked Tyree for his hospitality and bade him farewell. As the sun fell toward the horizon, Andrew made his way back across the river and to his rented rooms, his heart heavy. When he arrived, he took off his coat and lowered himself into a ratty armchair, lost in thought.
He found himself staring at one of the cartons he’d never gotten around to unpacking after his hurried flight from Philadelphia, then reached out and hauled it nearer. He tore open the flaps and rummaged, sitting up a moment later with a small wooden box in his hand.
He opened the lid and read the brief note first, although he’d long since memorized every word.
My dearest Jamie—
I’m so sorry. This isn’t your fault.
Please forgive me.
I love you always,
Susannah
Beneath the note was a silver oval—a locket on a chain. The metal was smooth and cold beneath his fingers. Finally, the photograph. By then it was as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror: a little boy, wrestled into his best suit of clothes and standing, stiff with resentment, next to a smiling older girl in a ruffled dress. The locket was visible, hanging around her neck. Andrew traced her face with a finger before he flipped the photograph over and ran his thumb across the faded words their mother had inked there years before.
Susannah Grace Cavanaugh, age 12
Andrew James Cavanaugh, age 8
Tyree had warned him to avoid involvement. There was wisdom in the advice, but Andrew knew he would never be able to embrace it. He’d kept his distance once before, and the price had been far too high.
8
Ward two was one large room, broken in half by a low wall. Behind it, iron cots crowded against one another, so close each woman felt the breath of her neighbor on her face as she slept. In the front were rows of hard wooden benches, backless and rough, where the patients—some two hundred of them, by Amelia’s rough count—spent the bulk of their waking hours pressed shoulder to shoulder.
It took Amelia less than a day to decide she vastly preferred her cell.
The crowding would have been unpleasant under any circumstance, but it proved an especial torment to Amelia. It was impossible to avoid touching the other women: a brushed hand as they reached for a bowl or steadied themselves on the benches, an outflung arm in the night. Twice that first day in the new ward, the unexpected contact sent a jolt of insight through her, as it had with Mara. The first time, Amelia relived a woman’s memory of being held facedown in a washtub, a man’s large hand on the back of her head as she struggled. It ended as she breathed in, and Amelia came back to herself with a choked gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The second time was worse.
Desperate to keep it from happening again, Amelia held herself rigid on her bench the rest of the day. That night she lay vigilant on her narrow cot, starting at every movement. By morning she was skittish and haggard.
Shortly after breakfast, Amelia was sitting beside the wall, grimly determined to touch no one, no matter what the cost, when the ward door swung open to admit a quartet of nurses. All had at least half a dozen wide leather belts looped over each arm, which they began to lay out two by two on the floor.
“What’s happening?” Amelia asked the woman nearest her.
“It’s the Promenade. Haven’t you been before?”
Amelia shook her head, frowning as two of the nurses began threading a heavy rope through the canvas loops attached to each of the belts. The other two began herding patients toward the front of the room.
“I was in isolation until yesterday.” Amelia went silent in appalled astonishment as the nurses began to harness—there was no other word for it—patients into the contraption.
The other woman apparently noted Amelia’s horror. “It’s not so bad as it looks. It’s outside air, a chance to move around without bumping into anyone or having their elbows in your ribs.”
Amelia considered her words as the first group departed, hitched two abreast like horses to a plow and driven out of the hall. When they returned, she hesitated, then set her teeth and stood. She followed the woman who had reassured her and joined the queue for the second group.
“I’m Elizabeth,” the woman said as they stood waiting to be fitted with their belts.
“Amelia,” she replied after an odd, strangled pause, suddenly tired of the pointless “Lina” charade.
Before Elizabeth could reply, the ward door swung open and a large woman stepped inside. Dressed in a more formal version of a nurse’s uniform, her doughy face was broad and empty of expression. Her steel gray hair was scraped into a tight knot. A frisson of something ugly rippled through the room at her appearance, raising gooseflesh on Amelia’s arms. She went still, transfixed by the air of absolute menace emanating from the woman, palpable even at a distance. Even the nurses seemed to shrink before her.
“What’s the delay here?” the woman asked.
“No delay, Mrs. Brennan,” one of the nurses said as she fumbled with the belt on the woman in front of Amelia. She yanked it tight, and the patient let out a grunt at the abrupt pressure around her middle. “Just these last two.” She gestured to Elizabeth and Amelia. “And then we’ll be ready.”
Mrs. Brennan watched silently as the two women were buckled into their belts, then left the ward.
There was an audible sigh of relief in the wake of her departure.
“Who was that?” Amelia asked, after the nurse moved away.
“Mrs. Brennan, the nursing matron,” Elizabeth replied. She paused. “It’s best to stay out of her way, if you can.”
In their traces, the women were led out of the building and on a circuit of the grounds. The morning’s fog hadn’t fully burned away. Near the kitchen gardens, they passed a group of more privileged
patients working under a nurse’s supervision, clearing away the winter’s debris and turning the soil in preparation for planting. These women shied away from the group as though they carried lepers’ bells. Amelia’s cheeks burned. As if the same couldn’t happen to them.
A group of orderlies clustered under a tree, smoking and trying to flirt with the younger nurses. One was taller than the others, with a shock of black hair. Hope surged in Amelia’s breast, and she twisted in her belt. Jonas. But the man turned his face away as they passed and blew out a stream of smoke. Her heart plummeted. Jonas hated smoking. The nurse at her side wrenched her back into place with a pinch and a muttered threat, and Amelia walked onward in bitter disappointment.
It was quite possibly the most humiliating experience of her life. And she knew when she next got the chance, she would line up for it all over again. For the promise of clean, cold air and an hour’s freedom from the risk of seeing another woman’s ugliest memory, she would willingly surrender every shred of dignity.
She might have tried to convince herself it was because the outings would help her escape. But the excuse rang hollow. She’d already seen enough to judge it impossible. Even if she could free herself from the restraints, if she could walk away from the group unseen, where would she go?
Amelia imagined attempting to board the ferry wearing her trailing sack of a dress—with CITY ASYLUM, BLACKWELL’S ISLD stenciled across the bottom in thick black letters, no less. And unless she could steal and somehow learn to pilot a boat, the ferry was the only option, with swimming out of the question. It was excruciating; the city skyline was visible across the water but as far away as the moon.
The group was near the northernmost end of their route when Amelia felt it: the same strange itch she’d felt in the park before she encountered the girl’s spirit. She stumbled and avoided going to her knees thanks only to Elizabeth, who darted out a hand and caught her by the elbow.
A Deadly Fortune Page 6