by Ciar Cullen
“My God, what will I tell Kitty?”
“Tell her to ready a guest room.”
“You are not serious?”
“At least she will see that I can help save a mortal instead of murder one, if indeed I am lucky enough to succeed. I caused this situation, and I have the rare inclination to fix it.”
Phillip leaned back and sighed. “I don’t know what is more shocking. That you say you give a damn about the woman, or that I believe you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An unwelcome getaway.
“I want to see her,” Lillian mumbled, but the doctor either didn’t hear or ignored her. Perhaps she hadn’t actually spoken? Her eyes were shut, and everything was awhirl.
“My uncle will not tolerate this… You must speak with him… I will give you the address…”
What is his address? What is his name? Her head throbbed and her stomach turned as she opened her eyes to the dimly lit room. She saw only shadows at first but heard the low murmuring of a woman. She strained to hear the words then found them baffling: The stranger repeated a nursery rhyme in a precise cadence over and over.
The stench of soiled bedclothes made her stomach worse, and Lillian tried to sit only to find herself restrained with burlap straps. How long had she been asleep? And why did things look fuzzy? She tried to blink the blurriness away, but she still saw two of everything: Dr. Schneider at the foot of her bed times two, a stand with a pitcher on it doubled, a lamp that flickered side to side.
And there, off to the side, the most horrifying sight. The Jackal, watching, arms folded across his chest, a grin upon his twisted pocked face. Or was it a frown?
In horror she realized she couldn’t feel her legs and tried to kick the blanket away. The blanket moved slightly and she understood she still had legs; they only felt dead. The Jackal moved toward the doctor and whispered something.
“What did you do to me? What did you give me?”
Someone behind her moaned and babbled incoherently, but she couldn’t turn to see who stood there.
“Listen to me!” she shouted. But no one understood or cared. For she was the person babbling incoherently, she realized in horror. How had she lost the ability to speak? Would she be trapped in this Purgatory forever?
A prick at her arm made warmth flood through her vein and she faded into dreamless twilight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miss Holmes is rescued.
“I’d like to speak with Miss Wheeler, please!” George requested curtly.
There’s little time, so little time. Angered by the details that made his life tiresome on a mundane day and impossible today, he barely had patience for the butler who requested George produce a card. He’d sprung out of his house the moment the sun set and literally flown the ten city blocks to the Wheeler house. He’d first considered venturing out in daylight, then weighed that he needed his full strength to rescue Lillian and decided that the rescue would be best under cover of night.
“It’s rather late, sir, but I’ll see if she’s in.”
The butler turned his back, and George held the door open and pressed past.
Bess stood in the foyer behind the servant, shock and horror etched across her face. She nonetheless found the nerve to take a deep breath and motion for the butler to leave. “Come in, Mr. Orleans. My father and mother are home, as are both my brothers.”
“We don’t have time for that, Miss Wheeler. I am not here to accost you, no matter what you might believe. You must listen carefully, as Lillian’s freedom may hang in the balance.”
Bess held her hand to her mouth. “That is exactly what she wrote in her letter to me. She told me to find you, but to—”
“To be careful? I imagine she told you not to come alone, but being nearly as pigheaded as she, you did anyway. Well, you found me. I’m here now.”
“It’s very confusing. On the one hand she said you threatened her, but it seems on the same night she wrote me to find you. I hear that she had a gash on her neck and fired her pistol several times. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”
George grimaced. “Yes. I misinterpreted her feelings for me and pursued her. She mistook me for a robber, or for that terrible murderer loosed on Baltimore, and she fired at me. Fortunately she is not a good marksman. She tripped and hurt her neck on the andiron.” Pausing, he chastised himself for not thinking the story through thoroughly. Did the woman even have a fireplace in her room?
“That was a terrible thing to do to her! I am glad she shot at you—and missed.” Bess’s face changed as the picture crystallized. “Oh! Then you can corroborate her story, and they will know she was not about killing herself. We must hurry to see the Adencourts. They must hear what you have to say and contact the doctor. That is why Lil wanted me to visit you.”
“No!” Bess jumped at his tone, which George immediately softened. “No, Miss Wheeler. I cannot open myself up to that kind of scrutiny. More I cannot say about it, except to assure you that I have Lillian’s interests at heart. In any case, it seems that the…Adencourts, did you say their name was? Yes, the Adencourts and the doctor rushed quickly to judge her actions and might not be so quick to have her released.”
“That is likely the Jackal’s doing.”
“The Jackal?”
“A Mr. Pemberton, the solicitor in charge of Lil’s fortune. They treat her as if she’s a child instead of a brilliant, mature…well, perhaps she’s unusual, but nevertheless—”
“Damnation. I take it Lillian dislikes Mr. Pemberton, given his moniker? Does she believe him to be after her wealth?”
Bess nodded. “She cares more about her freedom than money. But I’ve worried for her. I do not believe she attempted suicide, but her state of mind recently…” She bit her lip. “She’s been obsessed. Would it hurt so much for her to stay there a bit longer? Doctor Schneider is a good friend and has taken care of her for many years. I cannot imagine he would allow anything to go wrong. Perhaps she does need watching over?”
“Did she not say in her letter that you were to do all in your power to free her? Do you understand some of the treatments your wonderful Doctor Schneider will likely give to a patient he considers mentally unstable? Have you not heard of the suffering of the insane in most of these so-called healing houses? They are little more than prisons at best, and some are veritable torture chambers. Surely you know that your friend has an opiate addiction. Half of what ails her is in those little pills and potions she consumes. The rest is part and parcel of a brilliant, spirited woman in an age of constraints and boredom. They can do nothing to heal that. She does not need more confinement!”
Bess wiped a tear and sat. “I tried to make her stop. Why didn’t I do more? God help her.”
George didn’t care much about the young woman or her guilt, but she reminded him of Phillip: earnest, good-natured, a bit naïve. The type that bored him to distraction, and yet here was a valuable ally. “There is no way to stop an opiate addict from self-destruction by simply telling them what to do. It is not your fault; my suspicion is that it is not her fault.”
“It is as if you truly do know her, Mr. Orleans. But I don’t have power over…well, anyone. What weapon do I have to fight the Jackal or the doctor to make them release her?”
George held out both arms and bowed. “Voila, Miss Wheeler.”
“What will you do?” She paced again, certainly wondering if she could trust him. “What am I to do? Are you certain it is best that she be freed?”
“I caused her great distress, and I aim to fix that with or without your help. I am going now to retrieve her and bring her to my home.”
Miss Wheeler wrung her hands. “This feels like one of her Sherlock Holmes stories. I wish now I’d have read them. Perhaps I could be of more assistance.”
George smiled. “Ah, she and I do have something in common then, for I am a reader of the same stories. I have a part for you to play, Watson.”
“She calls me that at times. I fear I’m a
very poor detective.” The blonde girl shook her head. When she looked up, however, her eyes were full of determination. “But I will do whatever it takes.”
“I believe you will; you are a formidable ally. I underestimated you, Miss Wheeler, and for that I owe you an apology.”
“If you help my Lillian, then you owe me nothing and I will be in your debt forever.”
One obstacle overcome.
Less than an hour later, George leapt across a stream trickling through the farmland and the country estates that fronted Asylum Lane. Spring Grove loomed on a hill, lights burning in many windows at an hour when most slept.
Twenty-four hours. He’d spoken to Lillian for the first time only a day ago, and now he felt an urgency to be with her again that belied their brief acquaintance. Half tempted to walk in the front door and bash anyone who got in his way, he took a cleansing breath. It wouldn’t do to have half of the city searching for a kidnapper. She would have to seem escaped—or to have been released, perhaps with the assistance of one of the employees.
As he approached the massive building, he noted that all the windows were barred. How would he find her in that maze from the outside?
I’ll work my way down.
A leap to the roof, four stories up, and he had a view of the twinkling lights of the harbor sloping to the north far in the distance. Baltimore. George took in the view for a moment. Phillip was there, and a few acquaintances. Beyond that, the city held nothing for him. But it would mean a great deal to Lillian, he guessed.
Never mind that, he thought. You will leave and she will stay and all will be right with the world.
The escape door on the roof opened with a solid pull and he was in, creeping lightly down an unlit staircase where he heard not a mortal peep. Still, this was unlikely the mortuary, which would be the lowest floor. But he felt no warmth as he ran his hands over the grey stone and continued down to the next level.
The scents of mortals wafted out through the landing, and he opened a large wooden door an inch to see who was about. A man in a drab uniform sat on a stool at the far end of the hallway, snoring. George hoped for the oaf’s sake that he stayed asleep and crept to the first door.
Through the bars in an opening, he saw ten or more cots with men sleeping, one awake and staring at the door, eyes going wide when he saw George. George put his finger to his mouth and the man smiled sadly. No plea for help, no fear, but perhaps there was recognition that someone would be freed tonight.
Each of six rooms was the same, all men. George walked right past the guard to descend to the next floor which had many doors—and the vibration of females. She is here. He imagined he could almost hear her heartbeat.
In one room, a nurse reprimanded a patient who sounded very distressed. He prayed it wasn’t Lillian. No, here she was, in a different chamber, her long hair pouring over her shoulder, sleeping or staring out the window, back toward him.
George freed the padlock with a single pull and gently opened the door. Would she cry out in terror to see the man who had nearly killed her the night before, or would she cry tears of relief to see her rescuer? Or, no doubt having been drugged, would she even notice his presence?
He weighed how to approach her when she turned suddenly and looked at him. She tried to speak, but her words were barely audible. At first she appeared terrified, and with good reason. She looked dreadful, her skin far too pale, her pulse slow in his ears.
George saw a tear roll down her cheek. He moved closer, putting a finger to his lips. He knelt near her, and he shook his head, her agony tearing at him. Yes, I want your blood, he thought. Yes, I want my safety, and you are a direct impediment to that. But I do not want to kill you. It would be like crushing the first flower of spring. She was not the scum of the Fell’s Point docks, not an idiot of no consequence. No, Lillian Holmes, in another century, in a fantasy in which he wasn’t a soulless killer, might have been the love of his life.
He wiped away her tear.
“Am I alive?”
It clearly pained her to speak, and he took her hand in his. “Alive, yes, and perhaps, before long, well.”
With her eyes, she indicated her restraints. Flooded with relief at that bit of trust, George brushed her hair from her damp brow. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles, and she had a bruise on her cheek. I will kill whoever did that. Of course, he reminded himself, the bandage on her neck was his doing.
She seemed to be having difficulty focusing on his face. “I want…”
“No, don’t fall asleep! Tell me what you want!” He pulled the straps from her wrists and ankles. As tenderly as he could, he lifted her torso to lean against his body, and she released a sigh that broke his heart.
“I want to see her,” she mumbled, with such determination to get the words out that he thought she might faint from exertion.
“You will find your mother. You will see her.”
“No… I want to see her. The baby.”
George pulled back and stared into her eyes as he steadied her. Baby?
“Water…”
He felt her head and groaned. She needed much more than water.
“The city wants me…it wants me to ride into the harbor. It wants to kill me.”
George grimaced. “What the blazes did they give you? No more talking now. I will protect you from the city.” And may the city protect you from me.
He found a glass and filled it from her washing pitcher, the only water in the room. Swirling a bit in his mouth to ensure it wasn’t fouled, he then held the glass up to her parched lips. “Slowly. Only a little to start.”
She sipped while he wiped her face of perspiration and dirt with a cloth, and then he wrapped her in a blanket.
“We must go now, Lillian. You are safe.” It took a moment for him to tear the bars from the window before he realized it was too narrow for him to get through alone, much less holding Lillian. “Back the way I came, then.”
He scooped her into his arms, pressed her head against his shoulder, trying to ignore the scent of blood still on her neck that made his entire being thirst for her. When did they last change that bandage? God, the world over, these places were hell.
Quickly he moved out into the hall and up the stairs. The guard was still asleep, and he met no resistance. For that George was thankful, though he equally wanted to make someone pay. When he pushed open the flap door to the roof, a rush of fresh air blew Lillian’s hair in a swirl across his face, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead.
“Mr. Orleans,” she whispered, and he nearly dropped her in surprise. “Will you kill me again tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so. Will you shoot at me tonight?”
“Perhaps. But I’ve misplaced my pistol.”
George smiled, but it was a pained expression. She might shoot him again, but she’d have to survive this fever first.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Perchance to dream.
Lillian floated down a river on her back, watching trees and filmy clouds of myriad colors flicker by. Terror came from the knowledge that she approached a waterfall and would die when the river carried her down that endless drop. She tried to fight her way to the shore but her limbs wouldn’t move, tried to cry out but she couldn’t make a sound.
She started awake and clutched at the bed. The room spun at first, but she finally was able to focus on the source of the voices that blurred in the background. Three figures, two men and a woman.
The last several days rushed back in an instant, and she realized she’d been freed from the institution but wasn’t free of her catastrophic situation. She quickly shut her eyes to avoid alerting her…captors? Saviors? Who were Kitty and the Orleans brothers? What were they?
Lillian tried to hold on to silence as she spied, but the aches and anxiousness in her body made it difficult. Her legs moved restlessly without her permission, and she couldn’t stop fretting with the blanket. My heart has never raced this fast. Is it terror, or am I dying?
“Why did you bring the Wheeler woman into it?” Phillip asked, frantic and angry.
“She can be trusted, as long as she believes our goals match hers,” George replied.
“Poor thing looks terrible,” Kitty murmured, thankfully not looking over at Lillian. “Can I do nothing to help her?”
“She’ll look terrible for a while but should recover. I’m certain the brilliant doctor gave her more of some opiate, thinking she had a breakdown.”
“Didn’t she? Wouldn’t you?” Kitty’s voice didn’t hide an apparent loathing for George. “A man steals into your room and takes a nice chunk out of your neck, then isn’t hurt when you put two bullets into him. How could she possibly be sane after that!”
“It simply wasn’t like that. In any case, I could have killed her and I did not. Despite your emotionally driven lack of reasoning, that should be the proof you both need of my rehabilitation. I am not a murderer.”
“Don’t get snide with Kitty!”
“Look, the point is that we must make her well, and as I’ve gone through some similar rehabilitations, although eons ago, I am the person to nurse her to health. It will take a few days for her to be past the worst. Then I’ll leave Baltimore. I believe that once she is clearheaded, you will find that she has far more than adequate intelligence and resources to care for herself. She can end the charade by actually joining her friend Bess at the Wheeler country estate, and they can return to the city together, her recuperation complete. Voila!”
“To hell with you and your voila!” Kitty stormed from the room.
“It will be all right, Phillip. This will be the last penance you’ll endure for the sin of being born my brother. I’ll be so far away, for so long, you’ll barely remember me.”
“What of Marie de Bourbon? I thought you insisted upon my help, upon building a following with which to battle her?”
“My choices are to kill Lillian Holmes so that she does not betray me and stay, or to find a part of the world in which she, Marie, and anyone else who loathes me cannot find me. I do not intend to kill Miss Holmes.”