“Go on,” Miss Mayhew said encouragingly.
“I followed a woman to the chapel on my cousin’s estate in Somerset, Windemere Hall. She was wearing a wedding dress.” Clara’s voice trembled, affected by the memory. “It was clear the lady was not in her right mind. I thought she was a squatter who had taken up residence in the chapel. I confronted her and—and she attacked me. She tried to strangle me. I drove my fingernails into her eyes to escape and I hit my head in the scuffle. The woman escaped before Branson arrived. My cousin insisted it was a hallucination. His explanation seemed plausible at the time, if not very comforting. I was in a fragile state when I came to Windemere. I had recently suffered a nervous collapse. The position Branson had placed me in only increased my anxiety.”
“What position was that?”
When Clara did not answer right away, Laura Mayhew stretched her thin arm across the settee and took Clara’s cold hand in hers. “Forgive my questioning you so closely. I’ve been lonely here before you arrived and I do so enjoy discussing the minutia of life outside these walls. A story such as yours is profoundly interesting. But I will not be offended if you would rather not reply.”
“I shall tell you. I must tell someone.” Clara felt her face grow hot. “M-m-my cousin is not a gentleman. We were betrothed; I arrived at his estate for the wedding but he announced there would be no wedding. He made me an offer of another kind instead.”
“Oh dear. Oh, I see. That is terrible. Terribly wicked. He sounds a dreadful villain.” Miss Mayhew’s eyes were shrewd but not unkind. “Is your cousin attractive by any chance?”
“Exceedingly so.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in love with him, I think,” Clara said with dismay.
Laura Mayhew covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. “As we will do with handsome cousins who make us villainous offers.” Her eyes danced merrily. “My dear Louise was equally smitten with her gentleman who was not a gentleman. Can I assume you were persuaded to accept his offer by his significant physical charms?”
Clara could not help but smile, though she was embarrassed. “I was ... utterly persuaded. But the romance was doomed from the start. What I experienced at the chapel—the encounter with the supernatural—his dead wife stands between us. She will not let him go, even in death.”
“Miss Hamilton, I am not convinced she is dead. A malevolent spirit would not manifest in a physical attack. They are more likely to hurl objects or frighten their victim to death. What proof did your cousin offer that his wife was dead?”
This was a novel idea. Clara raised her head. “Her death must be written in the parish records. I did not think to ask for proof. Why would he lie about such a thing?”
“To secure your betrothal, of course. It was the only way he could get you alone to seduce you. Though I can’t think why he confessed to having a wife at all. He must have hoped to gain something from it.”
“He did. I came to doubt my sanity. Perhaps that was his intention all along.” Clara eyed her companion. “You seem to know a great deal about the supernatural. Are you a spiritualist as well as a member of the Royal Household?”
Laura’s smile was troubled. “I possess the gift of second sight but it is not a gift I would wish upon anyone. I’m glad when I can put it to good use.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ll wager there is no record of Mrs. Reilly’s death because Mrs. Reilly is not dead. Your cousin could not marry you, Miss Hamilton because he is already married.”
Clara tried to refute the theory but the words would not come. A sick cold fear balled in her stomach. For all that Branson had done to her—Clara had no illusions about the condition of his heart or his character—she loved him still. She loved him to the centre of his being.
If the mad woman in the chapel wasn’t the ghost of Branson’s dead wife, then he was still married and there was no hope of happiness for her.
None at all.
Chapter Two
London, the same day.
EDGAR WAS heartened to see Branson’s solicitor, Mr. Schofield and the Director of Hamilton Trading Partners, Mr. Blakely, chatting amiably in the Gentlemen’s Club when he arrived. The meeting had been arranged rather hurriedly before Branson left for Somerset. Both men rose and shook hands upon greeting Edgar and with the pleasantries out of the way, he launched into his pitch.
Stick to business matters only. Edgar was reminded of Branson’s instruction. Men of business will not concern themselves with Clara’s incarceration or Arthur’s sordid history. They only want to know if there is profit to be made if they take Branson’s offer.
When he finished speaking, Edgar thought it would be smooth sailing from there on. It was an attractive proposition. Mr. Blakely had another view.
“What your cousin has proposed is out of the question, sir,” he said solemnly. “Quite impossible. Arthur Hamilton has agreed to accept a loan from Captain Strachan. The transaction is well in hand. I am to meet with the gentleman in a few hours time to accept the funds.”
Schofield spoke up. “Is it acceptable that Arthur Hamilton has embezzled funds from the company and nothing is to be done about it? Captain Strachan is an outsider to the family. How can investors trust this man to vote in the best interest of the company? Mr. Blakely, you must agree that the shareholders would benefit from Branson Hamilton’s investment immensely in the long term. And not just to put the books right, but to restore good faith.”
“Good faith is it? Arthur Hamilton is also my friend. He has informed me that Branson Hamilton’s only interest in this affair is to have his uncle arrested! The ensuing scandal would destroy the value of the stock and the company would collapse.”
“Yes, that was my cousin’s original intention,” Edgar cut in quickly. “He had reason for his bitterness, the details of which I will not go into—but his mind has changed in the past few weeks. My cousin is very fond of my sister. Under her influence, he has come around to seeing the value of preserving the company and our family name. The offer he makes is a satisfactory one and will be in the best interest of the company.”
“What is this offer?” asked Blakely.
Edgar linked his hands over his chest, leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Mr. Branson Hamilton will restore the funds borrowed by my father. I have chosen the term deliberately, gentlemen. There has been no criminal activity or willful harm intended. My father made a mistake for which he is deeply regretful. In additional to his financial backing, Branson has given me his full proxy. His voting shares will be held by me to ensure the company is protected. Although I will be acting as my cousin’s representative, my first priority will be Hamilton Trading. Can you assure me that Captain Strachan will do the same?”
“He has agreed to all of this—Mr. Branson Hamilton?” Blakely gazed in astonishment at Mr. Schofield. “It was my understanding there was no love lost between Arthur and his nephew. He’s a clever man of business is Branson.” Blakely stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “He would not make such an offer if there was not a great deal of profit in it for his own interests.”
“I daresay you are correct, Mr. Blakely,” grunted Schofield. “If my client regards Hamilton Trading as a desirable investment, I can assure you the shareholders stand to make a great deal of money out of his interest in the company.”
Nevertheless, Blakely appeared unwilling to be persuaded. “What is the catch?”
Edgar had anticipated this. Branson warned him that men of business always demand to know the conditions attached to any extraordinary offer. This business of running a business had proven to be quite educational. He crossed one leg over the other.
“The catch, gentleman,” he said smoothly, “is that Arthur Hamilton is removed from the Board of Directors and barred from participating in Hamilton Trading operations. That is the condition of our offer. Do you accept?”
§
Windemere, Somerset County
WINDEMERE PARISH Church was
a homely stone building, ancient and stalwart against the autumn sky. Its bell tower frowned upon Branson, casting a shadow, as if it knew the business he was about was filled with deceit. Vicar Wimbley was in the vestry. The look he gave Branson when he entered was one of astonishment. The master of Windemere Hall was not a regular church-goer.
“Good afternoon, sir. I thought you were in London. What brings you to our humble parish?”
There was no time for pleasantries. Branson got to the point. “Vicar Wimbley, I need the parish records for a brief length of time. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”
“Well, I am usually delighted to be of service, but in this instance, what you ask is impossible. The book cannot leave the premises, Master Hamilton.”
Branson bit back an expletive. “If one were to make a substantial donation to the church, could it leave the premises then?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am willing to pay for the privilege.” Branson reached for his billfold. “It is a matter of life and death.”
“Sir, I do not comprehend your meaning,” the vicar protested. “Please sit down and explain. Perhaps I can help you with your problem. Whose life is at stake and how can our poor parish records help?”
Branson ground his teeth. His response was clipped and bordered on rude. “Clara Hamilton has been wrongly committed to Gateshead Insane Asylum by her father. I need the records to get her out. My aim is to prove that I am her husband and have the lawful right to take her home.”
§
Gateshead Asylum, that same day.
“TELL ME about the vision, Clara.”
Clara Hamilton turned to Doctor Rutledge and blinked, momentarily confused. She had become accustomed to white walls and the smell of disinfectant; the doctor’s panelled office, furnished with books and upholstered sofas had made her forget where she was for a brief spell. Clara had been admiring the view from the doctor’s office when he recalled her to the present.
“For moment, I thought I was in my father’s study back home. You have such lovely things.” Her fingers grazed a porcelain vase and she saw the doctor flinch. “Do not be alarmed. I have no desire to break anything. Your ornaments are quite safe.”
“Please sit down, Clara. With regard to the vase you smashed in your father’s study, I want to discuss the accusation you levelled against him at that time. According to the analysis performed by Dr. Hargreaves, this delusion is a manifestation of a vision you had in adolescence. I should like to discuss it in depth. You would like too that wouldn’t you? Sit down, please.”
Dr. Rutledge was sitting in a leather chair behind his desk. Clara imagined she was supposed to be reassured by his bland demeanour but she was not. Behind his paternal gaze was a stranger analyzing every tick and shudder in her speech and every stumble in logic. His first question was a trap. Denying the story was not possible, but neither was revealing the full scope of her encounter with Grace Leeds.
“I have no objection, Doctor.” Clara sat down in a chair opposite the desk and tried to appear sensible. “I was twelve years old,” she began. “We were visiting Windemere Hall, the manor home of my uncle, Leonard Hamilton. I went to the lake to take a swim. It was there I saw a red dress floating on top of the water. The image had a strong effect on me. I suppose I was quite disturbed by it.”
“What made you think it was a hallucination?”
“I didn’t at first. I thought someone had drowned.”
“Who did you believe had drowned, Clara?”
“A young lady who was visiting us from Oxford. Miss Grace Leeds. She had worn a red silk afternoon dress that weekend.”
Clara caught the ends of her long hair and began twisting it round her fingers. Matron had combed out her locks and tidied it off her face and she was given a plain brown dress to make her presentable for the appointment. Still, Clara felt she looked a fright, leaving her at a disadvantage against the immaculately groomed Dr. Rutledge.
“You thought Miss Leeds had drowned and yet you did not go for help.”
“No.” She recalled how she did not fetch help even as the girl was being raped inside the summer house but knew better than to say so. “I saw straight away that it was only a dress floating on the surface. There was no body in the dress.”
“You became curious and ventured over to the summer house.”
“I can’t remember. I suppose I must have done.”
“That is not what you told your father. Your accusation was very specific. You claimed you saw him inside the summer house attacking a young woman by the name of Grace Leeds. You asserted that he had tossed her dress into the lake to prevent her escape. It gave your father great pain to relate this to me but he did so in the interest of seeing you well. Do you now deny making this statement?”
Clara bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. The anxiety was returning despite her best efforts. If she told the truth, Arthur Hamilton would confine her to Gateshead indefinitely. But a lie was out of the question.
“I had a vision I came to believe really happened. Everything I accused my father of was real to me at the time. He confirmed it himself. I saw what I saw but I misinterpreted the scene. I was only twelve. I didn’t know how men and women were with each other.”
“Are you referring to sexual intercourse?”
“Yes.” Clara felt her face go hot. “Arthur told me the act was consensual. Grace was not in any danger. The misapprehension was all in my mind.”
“Do you believe your father’s version of events, Clara?”
She lifted her eyes to the doctor and remembered Laura Mayhew’s admonition. Tell them whatever they want to hear to get out of this place. “Yes, yes, I do. I only wish he had been honest with me years ago; I might have been spared a good deal of anguish.”
Doctor Rutledge nodded, somberly stroking his beard. “There is the source of your trouble. Your father’s private affairs were not your concern. What you witnessed, disagreeable though it may be to a young girl, was none of your business. He did not owe you an explanation—on the contrary—you owed him your loyalty and devotion. A father has natural rights and authority over his daughter until that authority is transferred to a husband. If you cannot accept the natural order of woman’s place in the world, you will continue to suffer, Clara.”
Clara nodded in quick agreement. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m glad to have it explained to me so clearly. Thank you, Dr. Rutledge. When may I be released now? I am quite myself again. I apologize for any upset I may have caused during my illness. But as I am quite well again, I am eager to return home.”
Rutledge frowned, leaned forward and placed his folded hands on the desk. “We are a long way from recovery, I’m afraid. Your delusion is a serious one; psycho-sexual in nature. I concur with Dr. Hargreaves’s initial assessment but we must probe deeper to bring about a full recovery.”
Clara’s heart sank as Dr. Rutledge sat back in his chair and he linked his fingers together. “I assure you what I saw was not a delusion. My father has confirmed as much. Arthur claims the act was performed with Miss Leeds’s consent and I am satisfied with his explanation. There is nothing more to be said from my perspective.”
“I must disagree. What led you to view the act of sexual intercourse between the girl and your father as violent?”
Clara hopped to her feet and paced the office. “Must I relive that day? I have suffered enough these past seven years protecting my father, but it seems he will not be satisfied until I say that Grace Leeds was not raped after all. He is trying to bully me into saying she was clearly enjoying herself when the scene I witnessed gave evidence to the contrary! No, no, sir. You have made your position clear. You do not mean to recommend my release. How much is my father paying you to hold me here? Never mind—do not trouble yourself to deny it. You will not release me until I betray my conscience, my heart, mind and soul and align myself to a lie!”
The doctor was unmoved. “This outburst has demonstrated the severity of your psycholog
ical break with reality. It is my considered opinion it will take many hours of therapeutic treatment to restore you to your right mind.”
“Treatment?” Clara froze at the word. Alarm prickled the back of her neck. “What sort of treatment?”
“We shall begin with an ice bath to slow the brain and central nervous system. This will break the cycle of reinforcement the psychosis is feeding upon. If you continue to manifest unhealthy psycho-sexual tendencies, then I shall seek permission from your father to perform a new procedure on your brain, in which we relieve the pressure by drilling a hole into your skull. This form of surgery is in its infancy but great success had been reported.”
Clara moved swiftly to the door only to find it locked. She realized with cold horror that she could be committed to this institution for the rest of her life if her father desired it, and more and more it was becoming clear that Arthur would do just that to keep her quiet. With great effort, Clara turned and eyed the doctor coldly.
“Do you want the truth, Dr. Rutledge? Shall I tell you what I saw seven years ago? I saw my father thrusting between a seventeen-year-old girl’s thighs while she sobbed in pain. Tears were running down her cheeks and she looked at me—she saw me watching from behind the curtain and implored me to help her. And I stood there, rooted to the spot, shocked to pieces as she strained against my father’s weight. Arthur was grunting and moaning as he took his pleasure. That is what I saw! That is the truth. I am as guilty as Arthur is in what happened to Grace Leeds. There is no delusion. There is no psychosis—only pure evil. The evil act of a corrupt man.”
“Are you still a virgin, Clara?” Dr. Rutledge asked smoothly, ignoring her passionate confession.
She started back as if burned. “Why do you ask that? What has that to do with anything?”
“A great deal, I believe. Your father has suggested that you may not be intact. When you were in the care of Branson Hamilton, did you allow him to use you sexually?”
Beguiled Page 2