‘Well, would you believe it? Mebbe I’m learning, or else it was beginner’s luck.’ He pocketed the five shillings, a fair sum, which had collected up with double or quits in wager after wager. ‘Don’t look so doleful, lad. I’m sure you can win it back. Let me get in another round. Cheer you up.’
Callum was in dire need of some cheering up. There seemed to be nothing but worry in his life right now, what with his mam and Bunty both in difficulties.
‘You do want a chance to win it back?’
Callum did. His eyes were bleary, his gait unsteady, but he hated to lose.
Swainson won again. He won the next game, and the one after that. The more he won, the more desperate the lad became, obviously annoyed by his own failure. It really was quite amusing. Little by little Swainson took all his wages off him, and then, refusing an IOU, walked away.
Since he’d no money left to drink with, it wasn’t long before Callum left the pub. All Swainson had to do was wait for him up one of the dark yards nearby. The daft young fool never knew what hit him, and the lad put up a feeble defence. Swainson grabbed hold of him by the hair and shouted into his stupid face.
‘Lay off asking questions about the accident. Understand? Got it? I hear yer bloody mother’s gone mad as a bleedin’ hatter and they’ve locked her up in a Scottish castle. Lay off, or happen you’ll be joining her there.’
He punched Callum a few more times to make his point more forcibly, then left him sprawled in the muck, spewing the contents of his belly into the gutter.
Ned Swainson swaggered off well content, if aware that he hadn’t exactly done as he’d been instructed. The lad would recover, poorer and wiser but still alive. But then he’d no intention of getting blood on his own hands. He wasn’t daft. He would leave that dubious pleasure to Lucy.
But he’d done enough to keep her dangling, which was really all that mattered so far as he was concerned. Lucy Tyson would find it very difficult to shake him off because he meant to stick to her like glue, doing just enough to keep tabs on her, but not enough to incriminate himself too deeply. She might be glad of that, one day. Or she might be sorry she’d ever got him involved in the first place. Only time would tell.
It was Jack who drew his mother’s attention to Callum’s injuries, making it clear that he was not responsible. ‘It must be that low crowd he’s got himself involved with down at the Rifle Man’s. Showing his lack of breeding again.’
Lucy said nothing but was thoughtful. So Swainson had carried out her orders, but only to the bare minimum. He’d let the lad live to fight another day, not even frightened him enough to make him run. The man was cleverer than she’d given him credit for, obviously taking great care not to implicate himself in anything too serious.
Would she ever be rid of Swainson, parasite that he undoubtedly was, or Kate’s brat for that matter? The boy remained a thorn in Lucy’s side, as he had been all his life. A solution must be found. But she must also ensure that it was one which did not throw suspicion upon herself.
For the moment Lucy was forced to put the matter out of her mind as other, far more pressing issues, claimed her attention. Not least the fact that she was growing seriously short of funds.
Money did have a habit of slipping through her fingers like water, as darling Charles used to say. But then it hadn’t been her fault that his dratted family had kept them so short of funds, insisting they live almost in penury with only a handful of servants. And then poor Charles had died, robbing her even of that much dignity, all because Eliot absolutely refused to be responsible for his brother’s debts.
It gave her enormous satisfaction now to be sitting in the sumptuous elegance of Eliot’s study, enjoying the fruits of her brother-in-law’s labours, sipping Eliot’s fine Madeira wine, savouring a few chocolates bought with Eliot’s money. Although it had not proved to be exactly a pleasant morning, spent poring over the household accounts which did not make easy reading. Lucy was not good at accounts, and making figures balance was quite beyond her. Vera could have done the job better, or Toby perhaps, but that would have meant allowing them to pry into matters which didn’t concern them.
She refilled her glass, to help her think.
The Americans might well be stuck with prohibition but Lucy’s wine cellar was stuffed to bursting. She thought of it as hers now, in view of the way things were. Eliot had always kept a good cellar but Lucy had replenished it, stocking up on gin and vermouth, Cointreau, sherry and rum. Teddy adored his whisky, and cocktails were de rigueur.
Anyone who was anyone felt obliged to offer drinks before a dinner party these days, and all night long if the guests required it, so naturally it was essential to keep a good stock in the house. Lucy rather thought she might buy a cocktail cabinet from which to serve them, although what she really needed, of course, was a butler.
Fortunately the Bennet boys were always ready and willing to act as barmen for her. They’d once tried to instruct her in how to make a Manhattan – two thirds rye whiskey, one third Italian vermouth with a dash of bitters. Then it had to be stirred and served with crushed ice, apparently. But that was only one drink, there were a dozen more to master.
‘Darlings, too, too complicated! I’ll leave it to you darling boys.’
‘Don’t fret, old fruit,’ they’d told her, making Lucy wince at their choice of appellation. ‘We’ll see your guests want for nothing.’
She was quite certain their eagerness to help was due to their own fondness for the bottle. By morning she would generally find them both dead drunk under a table somewhere. They’d been like that ever since they’d miraculously survived the Somme together while losing most of their pals. All perfectly understandable, and great fun, but not quite the image she was trying to create.
Being at the cusp of fashion was all very well but her personal allowance didn’t cover anything like the costs involved. Even the household budget didn’t run to hiring butlers, bar attendants or outside caterers, and now with having to pay for Kate’s care as well, ready cash was growing ever harder to come by. The sooner she rid herself of the encumbrance of her sister-in-law, the better.
Eventually, Lucy intended quietly to remove her from the private home and put her into Lancaster Moor or Prestwich, which would cost nothing at all, with the added advantage that, once incarcerated, her blessed sister-in-law would forever be lost in the system.
If Kate hadn’t been queer in the head before she went into the castle, she surely must be by now. Elvira had personally guaranteed it.
Elvira Crombie turned out to be a dragon of the first water. She was a large woman with a voice that could stop a nurse in her tracks at fifty paces. She eschewed the overalls worn by her staff and dressed in garishly coloured, flowing gowns, arms and neck jangling with cheap jewellery, her grey-streaked black hair coiled in a thick plait around her head. Patients could hear her coming from miles away; the clinking and jingling of her beads, the heavy tread of her flat feet bringing a ripple of fear as each wondered if they were to be her next appointed victim.
She spent much of her time in her tiny parlour drinking gin, her temper depending on whether she had recently imbibed or was suffering the results of a hangover. Her nasty dark eyes with their blurred, slightly unfocused gaze would home in upon a patient and if she didn’t care for what they were doing, or even how they looked, she would pounce with her malicious claws out and torment them to the point of tears.
On the morning Kate had finally been allowed into the bathroom following her long, induced sleep, her wild mass of red hair admittedly not looking its best after several days of neglect, it instantly became the focus of Elvira’s attention.
‘That’ll have to go. We canna risk any vermin here.’
Kate was appalled. ‘My hair is not verminous! I wash it three times a week.’
A snort of laughter. ‘Nor can we afford the hot water for such vanity. Before you climb into that bath, we need to be rid of this mess.’ Whereupon, she pulled a large pair of
scissors from the pocket of her gown and ordered Kate to sit.
‘I will not! Sure and you’ll have to tie me down first.’
And that’s what they did. Elvira called a nurse to assist her and the pair of them tied Kate to a chair with two leather straps and then she was shorn of her luxuriant mass of curls. When it was done, she was next ordered to strip off, then frogmarched to the bathroom. Kate was too shocked even to cry.
The bathroom was a cavernous place in which stood two rows of huge, claw-footed Victorian baths, a row of patients queuing, half-naked, awaiting their turn to bathe. When Kate took her place in the queue all the baths were already occupied, some by whimpering females, others grimly silent, some even still strapped in their strait-jackets.
Kate stood there in her thin nightgown and shivered with cold and fear. Never in her life had she felt more deeply afraid. With the loss of her hair she felt she had lost a part of herself, her personality, her dignity, and finally began to understand the true depth of her predicament.
She’d longed for a bath, had dreamed of this moment. But why was no steam rising from any of them, and why did the bathroom feel as cold as a butcher’s shop?
She was soon to discover. ‘Holy mauther! The water is freezing cold!’ She cried out in pain as they man-handled her into a bath recently vacated by the previous occupant.
‘Excellent for the circulation of blood to the brain,’ Elvira informed her, eyes twinkling maliciously.
Kate instantly tried to climb out again but Elvira instructed a nurse to restrain her and she promptly found herself encased in a strait-jacket, her arms strapped tight across her chest, pressing painfully against her breasts, the strings tied to iron hooks on the wall behind.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, ice was then tipped into the water, making her scream in agony. ‘That’ll teach you to complain. Never know when you’re well off, that’s your trouble.’
Kate couldn’t remember enduring anything so terrible in all her life. Even in Poor House Lane they’d managed to warm the bucket of water they drew from the well for their ablutions. And all around her, echoing eerily in the huge room, came the pitiful cries and screams of her fellow patients. Those who created the most fuss, or became demented with hysterics, were struck about the head with a wet towel and then marched off, dripping wet. Kate didn’t care to think what fate awaited them.
She spotted Peggy nearby and watched in silent horror as her new friend was held underwater for what seemed like an eternity, relieved to see her come up, spluttering. Moments later, as the young woman passed by, wrapped in a thin towel, Peggy’s one thought was for Kate. ‘Don’t make a sound. Say nowt. Grin and bear it, otherwise it’ll get worse.’
‘How can it get any worse than this?’
‘There’s a bath outside, in t’yard, and if you think it’s freezing in here, you want to try that!’
Kate bit down on her lip and gave barely a whimper when a second tub of ice was emptied on to her feet. Later, when she’d been released and taken back to the dormitory she shared with the rest of the women patients, she rubbed herself dry as best she could, dressed in the thin grey gown provided, and then collapsed in tears on the bed.
Later, Kate learned that although Elvira seemed to have marked her out for particular attention, she largely allowed her nurses to do as they pleased with the patients, which was the reason for the abusive treatment they suffered. The staff were no doubt badly paid, worked long, tiring hours in difficult circumstances, and were not encouraged to treat the patients with any kindness or consideration.
There were one or two who did try to show a degree of humanity. One in particular, a small Irish nurse called Megan, took pity on Kate, perhaps since they shared a homeland, and would shorten the agony of the freezing cold baths to the minimum, and defend her if she noticed her being picked out for extra bullying.
When one of the other patients once flew at her, clawing and scratching at Kate’s face in a fever of dementia, it was Megan who saved her, managing to pull the crazy woman off before she quite gouged Kate’s eyes out.
In general, though, Kate knew she was on her own, would survive this ordeal by her own will power and strength, or not at all. Neither the other nurses, nor Elvira herself, would lift a finger to help. If some patients raved or became demented, little or no attempt was made to calm them. If they got entirely out of hand, nurses were free to inflict whatever punishment they considered necessary.
But then many of the methods of treatment felt like punishment. Emetics were popular, inducing vomiting and diarrhoea they were considered to be one of the major ‘cures’. Apparently they were meant to draw poison from the blood and drain water from the brain. A clean bowel, they said, was imperative for sound mental health.
Kate couldn’t see how it could possibly help, for all she admitted she had no knowledge of medical matters. What it really succeeded in doing was keeping them closely confined to quarters. Nobody wandered far if they thought they might be desperate to visit the lavatory every five minutes.
When Kate once complained of being thirsty and asked for a drink, they brought her vinegar and lemon, which gave her the runs for days.
She learned, one way or another, to keep her wits about her, to avoid taking the pills, to do as she was told and to keep her head down, aware that Elvira seemed to take a special interest in her; her beady black eyes constantly watching and observing. And if she stepped out of line by just the slightest degree, Elvira would take over from the nurses, as she had done in the bathroom.
Kate assumed this extra attention had something to do with the amount of money Lucy must be paying to keep her here. Had she paid above the odds to have Kate guarded more carefully?
As spring approached and the winter snows melted, there were moments, perhaps when a door was opened or they were allowed a precious half-hour out in the garden, when Kate would catch the sweet scent of heather that clothed the infinite vastness of the moors beyond, the sharp tang of the seemingly endless pine forest that surrounded the castle, and the freshness of a morning breeze. Her heart would ache then with the longing to be free, so badly that it physically hurt, making her feel sick with fear that she might never escape this dreadful place.
It made her all the more determined somehow to get word to Callum, tell him exactly where she was. The thought of spending years in this place, as Peggy had, didn’t bear thinking about.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy had reached the decision that her worsening financial state was all the fault of the company. Therefore, the company must rectify the problem. She called in to see Toby one morning, sweeping into his office unannounced to inform him that her allowance needed increasing, as did the household budget.
‘Pray see to it at once.’
Toby rose from his chair, as manners decreed, but only to regard her with inscrutable calm, not even raising his eyebrows, quite unmoved by her temerity. ‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’
‘I beg your pardon! Are you questioning my authority?’
‘Certainly not, but what you ask simply cannot be done, not without Kate’s permission.’
Lucy’s face began slowly to turn crimson with rage and her lip curled upward unpleasantly. ‘Kate is scarcely in a position to give her permission for anything. She can barely remember her own name.’
‘I’m sure she will recover soon and be back with us quite her old self again. I intend everything to be in good order when she does return.’
‘You have no say over what happens in this business! None at all. I’ve been granted a pittance to live on which, considering I own half of this company, is monstrous. I need twice as much again at least. Standards must be maintained and I really do not think that ...’
‘You don’t quite own half, and it is hardly a pittance,’ Toby gently pointed out.
‘Do not interrupt me when I am speaking! How dare you? You will double my allowance at once.’
‘Would you care to be seated so that we can di
scuss the matter further?’
‘No, I would not!’
‘Very well, as you wish.’ Toby picked up the pen he’d set down when she burst in, and calmly returned to his desk to continue with his work. ‘As I say, I’m afraid I cannot do as you ask.’
‘Oh, yes, you can, and will. There is nothing to discuss. Just do it. At once.’ Lucy whirled about and, clearly satisfied that she’d made her point, stuck her nose in the air and prepared to sail out of the door. She was stopped in her tracks by his next words.
‘No, I’m sorry, I won’t. I can’t.’
‘What?’ Her scream of outrage was so loud Toby was quite sure that half the factory must have heard it. He took a deep breath and ploughed on. ‘We need every penny we possess to develop the new line, buy in materials, maintain equipment and pay wages. The boom is over, trade is slack and recovery will not be swift. Even Kate is not taking any money out of the business at present.’
‘Kate has no need of any money since she’s off her head, quite run mad. Nor will she ever need it again, the way she’s going.’
Toby ground his teeth together, striving to hold on to his patience and to damp down his worries over Kate so that he could concentrate and prevent Lucy from damaging the business. ‘That has yet to be determined. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.’
‘There is something I can do.’ Lucy stepped forward and ripped the sheet of paper from his hand. ‘What is it that so absorbs you? Figures ... balance sheets ... fairy tales? No doubt you are busily feathering your own nest while Kate is away.’
Toby’s first instinct was to leap to his own defence, but he knew that would only be a mistake. He wanted to ask if Lucy understood balance sheets, but where was the point? They both knew she hadn’t the first idea what she was reading. Nevertheless, her gaze scanned the list of items, clearly seeking to find fault.
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