I didn’t wait another moment. I bolted from the room. I doubted Mrs. Patterson was one to raise her voice often, and I dared not disobey her. I didn’t want to know how much further Mrs. Allan was willing to go to get what she wanted.
CHAPTER 12
Mrs. Allan’s high-pitched hollers propelled me down the hall to the kitchen. Even there, in the back of the house, her voice carried. Before I reached the kitchen door, Cook poked her head out and grinned at me.
“Mrs. Allan’s begging for her ‘mineral elixir’ again, is she? Every time the doctor is away, she tries to guilt Mrs. Patterson into giving it to her.” Cook stepped back into her domain. “You’d better get in here before she finds you loitering in the hall. Heaven help who crosses her after this.”
Cook stood over the stove stirring a pot. On the table sat a pitcher of lemonade, which made my mouth water.
“Hello again, Isabelle,” Agatha said. I’d been so focused on the beverage I hadn’t seen her sitting at the table.
“You’re having quite the day. First Marilla, now this.” Agatha grinned. “It’ll calm down. Most days are routine here.”
Mrs. Allan’s screams finally subsided, but the silence troubled me almost as much as her crying did. I’d read enough novellas to know about sanitarium silencing techniques. Restraints and drugs used to keep control over patients. Yet, the people here had shown me nothing but kindness. Novellas were only fiction.
“Pour yourself some lemonade and have a seat,” Agatha said, patting the table in front of her. “Mrs. Patterson will come retrieve you when everything is calm again. You are too young to be a witness to Mrs. Allan’s rage.”
So, I’d been sent from the room because of my age. Little did they realize all I had seen in my life.
“If you weren’t a voluntary mute, you could stand up for yourself and tell Mrs. Patterson you’re not a little girl.” Cook’s voice had an air of amusement to it.
I nearly choked on my lemonade. Voluntary mute! Was that how they labeled me? Such a meager title for all I’d been through. Their assumption meant they didn’t believe I had actually lost my mind. Beads of sweat threatened to break out across my forehead. If they discovered my ruse, Mother would have me wed the moment I returned! The back of my throat ached at the thought. I’d have to find a way to avoid that. Clearly, simple silence wasn’t enough. I’d have to show everyone more, but when the time was right. A display too soon after these comments would only prove I was calculating.
Agatha must’ve sensed my distress, for she waved a dismissive hand at Cook. “Don’t worry about Cook. She’s just nosy. She reads all the files.” She paused. “And no one thinks you volunteered to come here. It’s just a medical term. None of us want to be here, but a job is a job.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cook interrupted. “I’m proud to be here. Proud to help these women get back on their feet. It’s more than a job to some of us.”
Agatha stared down into her lemonade. In the silence Cook returned to stirring whatever was in her pot.
Hoping to appear confused, I kept my expression blank and my gaze out of focus, but inwardly, I thanked Agatha. She didn’t have to relieve my worries, but she did. Watching the exchange of glances between the two women, I realized they’d been in disagreement over this issue before. Agatha met Cook’s raised eyebrow as if to duel, but Cook returned her attention to the stove.
Looking at Cook’s rounded back and the flour handprints that covered her rear end, I couldn’t help but smile. She turned around quickly and caught me appraising her.
“Don’t you look at me like that, missy. I’m too old and too good a cook for them to ever fire, especially over some silly papers.” She dropped her smile. “But, I am sorry for you. What an awful thing to believe of your fiancé!”
For a moment the wind was knocked out of me. Cook didn’t question my story, but accepted what I had witnessed. Amazement clouded me. I jumped for the stove where a pot was about to boil over. Using the edge of my gown, I grasped the handle and moved it to the far burner, and with my other hand, I fanned down the heat.
“Well, look at that—this one’s useful!” The shock was clear in Agatha’s voice. The more she spoke, the more I detected the slightest Irish accent.
With the subject of my past dropped, Cook put an arm around my shoulders and led me back to the table, where she placed a big bowl in the center. In it was a huge pile of green beans waiting to be prepared for dinner, but even though I waited patiently, Cook didn’t say exactly what she expected me to do with them. I was beginning to see how hard it was going to be to not be able to speak.
Cook tossed a gingersnap into her mouth before grabbing a bean from the bowl, popping each end off, and putting it on the table.
“You never shucked peas before?” she asked. I couldn’t tell if she was upset or amused, so I shrugged and followed her lead.
Agatha frowned at this, her hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window. “Give her a chance! You didn’t tell her what you needed done to them.”
Cook let out a long sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Isabelle.”
Agatha reached into the bowl and tossed me a couple green beans. I twisted off each end, adding them to the pile.
We kept working like that when Agatha asked, “Can you talk?”
“Agatha, don’t be rude. Isabelle, she’s sorry. Sometimes Irish folk don’t have the best manners.”
“Now wait,” Agatha interrupted. “I was born here. Don’t give the girl a reason to dislike me. I work just as hard as anyone else.”
Mrs. Patterson entered the kitchen suddenly, and Agatha squared her shoulders. “Agatha, Mrs. Allan is in room twelve. Please make sure she remains there,” Mrs. Patterson ordered.
Agatha pulled her eyes away from Cook. “Yes, Mrs. Patterson.” She fixed her skirt. “It was good to see you again, Isabelle,” she said before exiting the room.
Cook cleared her throat. “Would you mind if Isabelle stays here with me? She’s proving useful.”
Mrs. Patterson looked at the bowl of beans. “That would be helpful. Without the doctors, it is hard to keep everyone content.”
“Isn’t that always the way of it?” Cook asked.
Mrs. Patterson appraised me. “Are you comfortable in the kitchen?”
She acted like I was some kind of silly puppy, but I nodded so she’d go away. As she followed my motions, disappointment read all over her face. She turned to Cook and sighed. “I wish she would speak. I don’t know what’s blocking her.”
Cook kept her eyes on me and smiled sadly. “When she’s ready, she’ll speak.”
Mrs. Patterson glanced once more at me before nodding to Cook and swishing out of the room.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Cook inquired once Mrs. Patterson was gone. “You will talk, when you’re ready?”
I thought about it for a moment and then nodded. At some point Gregory would give me up, my life would return to normal, and I’d be safe, and then I’d be able to speak again.
“Good,” Cook said, patting my hand. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat down in Agatha’s vacated spot. “Do any of your friends know where you are?”
I shook my head. Of course they didn’t. Anyone with half a brain knew that for one to make it known they were being committed to a sanitarium was to commit social suicide. I raised an eyebrow and looked at Cook with condemnation.
“Don’t you give me a look like that, Miss Isabelle. I’m not so daft that I don’t know what people would be saying about you if they knew. But I’m also not so stupid to think that a young lady like you wouldn’t still confide in a good friend if she had half a chance.”
I thought of Lucy and sighed. She was the only person with whom I could confide such a horror, but there was no way I could do so now. She was probably in New York City by now, and it was all my fault. Despite that, thinking of Lucy brought a small smile to my lips.
“Praise the Lord!” Cook cried out, nearly making me
fall off my stool. “She can smile!”
Her exclamation was so overly dramatic that, despite myself, a small caw of laughter escaped my mouth. The sound cut through the air in the kitchen, pausing our conversation.
I waited, still as a tree, for Cook to demand an explanation—or worse, demand that I confess my deception—but she only held my gaze for a moment then drained her glass of lemonade as if nothing had happened.
“Dr. Patterson doesn’t understand the healing effect a friend can have. If you want to write to your friends, you just give me the letters. I’ll see that they make their way out discreetly.”
My hands fumbled with a green bean and fell limply to the table. There was nothing I could trust to paper. If Gregory was visiting Lucy’s house at all he could read my letter. Or Mrs. D’Havland would read them and show them as punishment to me. I couldn’t be too careful. My world felt incredibly small.
Cook reached across the table and covered my hands with hers.
“Isabelle, I realize you’ve had a terrible time of it lately, but remember that a good friend will be there for you no matter what. Don’t go through life thinking that everyone is against you.”
Her eyes intensified, like clouds in a stormy sky.
“Do you understand me, dear?” Cook asked. I nodded, letting her calmness soothe me.
“All right then. Do you like apricots?” My mouth salivated at the mere mention of my favorite fruit. I nodded. “Then I’ll show you how to make my famous apricot cobbler for dessert.”
She walked across the room and pulled a basket of apricots from a shady corner. Tossing me one, she began her instructions. Although I listened enough to follow her, I was overcome with my thoughts. Cook was right; a friend could provide healing. I could at least give Lucy my support if not my confession. If I hurried, perhaps she’d get my letter before she was sent away.
CHAPTER 13
The grandfather clock chimed midnight. I’d burned nearly two inches of candle and had only “Dear Lucy” written on the page to show for my efforts. Shoving the paper away, I leaned back in my desk chair and rubbed my temples. The small candle flame forced hypnotizing shadows to dance across the page. To this one friend I’d confided my lifelong dreams, my frustration in Mother’s various shenanigans and flirtations, even my own embarrassing inability to keep my female troubles from staining the bedsheets. All that I spoke effortlessly, but I couldn’t bring myself to pen this apology, let alone all that had happened to me.
The tree’s leaves rustled outside my window. I walked over to open it and let the cool night breeze air out my room. Sitting on my bed, I gazed out at the moon illuminating the path that cut across the lawn. The bright light cast shadows over the property. No one was visible, but anyone could be lurking. I tried to see through the darkness, but I only felt the breeze. I shook the apprehension from my head. It was time to focus and complete my letter.
Yet, no matter what I wrote, my emotions didn’t come across. Written words couldn’t express my sorrow or fear. I thought again of Marilla and the mockery she faced from the other women. If I told Lucy everything, would she shun me forever? The paper was heavy in my hands as I rested my head back on the window well.
A light bobbed down the street and was accompanied by the rhythmic clip-clops of approaching horses, making my ears twitch and stomach flip. A buggy pulled up to the house and two men in dark jackets emerged. I licked my fingers and pinched out the candle flame. Peering around the edge of the window frame, I glanced into the courtyard below. Immediately, I recognized Dr. Patterson’s bald spot glowing in the lamplight, and Samuel’s wavy brown hair. I adjusted myself again to be sure they wouldn’t see me and strained to hear their conversation.
“And I’m saying that she is ill.” Dr. Patterson spoke with authority as he stepped out of the buggy. “You heard the behavior the witnesses described. Spending money without thought, hallucinations that her son is on his deathbed, and then insisting that there is a plot to murder her. She needs our help.”
“Needing help is one thing, sir, but taking your mother to trial to have her committed is quite another. What is Robert after by making such a spectacle? This is going to be in the papers!” Samuel’s voice was crisp with passion. “This could ruin her.” Shadows darkened his face as he stood and waited to climb out of the carriage.
Who were they speaking of? I had no idea. None of the women I had met matched their description.
“That isn’t for us to say. Our job is to take care of her and assist in what ails her.”
“She’s had a sad life.” Samuel’s hair shone in the moonlight.
“Grief is an odd thing, but I don’t believe that is all this is. The woman is seeing things that aren’t there and is squandering her money to speak to the dead.” Dr. Patterson rubbed a hand over the horse’s mane. “If nothing else, she needs a period of rest and reflection. We can give her that.”
I held back the curtain and continued to peer out from the corner of the window.
Samuel waved his hand. “You’re playing with fire, sir. She was our president’s wife and worked hard to save many during the war. If we aren’t able to cure her or at least help her, our reputations will be at stake. Are you willing to put that on the line?”
The president’s wife was coming to Bellevue? What ailed Mrs. Grant? Dr. Patterson’s laugh made me twitch. “My dear boy, when you get to be my age, you’ll learn how little others care about reputations, especially if you just do your job. Mrs. Lincoln will be well taken care of here. Now please, Samuel, put the horses away. I need to see my wife.”
I slid down so my head rested on my pillow. Mary Lincoln was coming to Bellevue! Not our current president, but Abraham Lincoln’s widow. Since the war there had been numerous reports of her odd behavior, but Papa forbade me from reading gossip. He’d known her during the war and regarded her of the highest caliber. Lucy saved the articles for me and we read them together in her room. Such silliness. Reports of frivolous spending, convulsive shopping, and a scandalous auction of her belongings a few years back. I hadn’t read much of her since the great fire in Chicago four years ago. Given her odd behavior since the war, it wasn’t all that shocking that she needed rest. Yet, that anyone could be sent here for something as common as grief surprised me. Perhaps being locked up here wasn’t as terrible as Marilla had made it out to be. If someone of that caliber was coming, it couldn’t be.
Wasting no time, I grabbed the pen and wrote in the moonlight:
Dear Lucy—
Words cannot express my sorrow for what you must be enduring. I don’t know which would be worse, marrying that boring man or being forced to move and start over in New York.
It’s my fault. If you hadn’t followed my advice, you’ d not be in such trouble now.
If it’s any consolation, I’ve ruined my life as well. If you write back, I’ ll make you privy to the details.
I miss you, my friend,
Izzy
My fingers itched to write more, but I couldn’t confide in her, not yet. Mine was too big a story to not know who was reading it. I folded the letter and sealed the envelope.
* * *
Tuesdays were for gardening and before I could tie my dress laces, there was already a line of women coming out of the building and taking tools off the gardening cart. My eyes skimmed over the handful of women, looking for someone I’d not yet seen, but there were no new faces. Mrs. Lincoln must not have arrived yet. Marilla glanced up at my window and waved to me. I forced myself to smile before backing out of view.
Tucking Lucy’s letter deep in my pocket, I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. Cook was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.
I glanced out the window into the garden. Seeing how close Mrs. Patterson was, I promptly shut my mouth and instead stamped my foot to get Cook’s attention.
Cook looked up immediately. Her smile for me was genuine. “Isabelle, what a surprise. You should be outside, dear.”
I pulled ou
t my letter and pressed it into her hand. She glanced down and quickly shoved the envelope in her pocket. Her callused hand squeezed mine.
“I’ll put it in the mail today,” she promised. “Better get outside before Mrs. Patterson comes looking for you.”
Once outside I quickly blended myself into the group of women standing before Mrs. Patterson. Despite the fact that patients tended to them, the gardens of Bellevue were just as beautiful as ours were at home. Roses climbed up the trellis and bloomed in bright colors. Other flowers had sprouted as well and looked as if they might open any day. Clearly, Mrs. Patterson knew how to lay out her plots. Mother refused to let me associate with our male servants, which meant I had never learned about gardens or horses.
The other ladies immediately walked to their plots and knelt on pillows next to the narrow brick walk that outlined the curving flowerbeds alongside the building. I observed how they moved with purpose. Bringing things to life was a therapy I understood.
Mrs. Patterson said nothing to me, but put a trowel in one hand and a sack in the other. Then she glared at me for a moment before saying, “Weed that bed beside Marilla.”
She pushed me toward the front of the house where there were only a few women working. I was close enough to overhear Marilla and Mrs. Allan’s conversation, which was quickly becoming animated. Pulling my gloves on, I dug into the earth and listened as they discussed the latest trends in ladies’ gloves.
As I eavesdropped, dirt snuck its way through my gloves and into my nail beds, while the dampness of the ground seeped through my skirt and petticoat. My dress, petticoat, and apron were soon wet and clung to my knees. Standing, I grabbed the fabric and shook it out. As I did so, I turned to look back toward the front of the house.
Standing on my tiptoes, I could see down the two blocks that led to the main road. Squinting slightly, I made out a buggy piled high with trunks and boxes making its way toward us. Of course it was nothing fancy enough for a lady to ride in, but I was sure it meant Mrs. Lincoln was on her way. She was legendary for living in excess. No one else would pack so much for a stay here.
House of Silence Page 9