Scandal with a Sinful Scot
Page 2
Garrett arched an eyebrow. “What is your meaning?”
“Aidan is in no fit state to return home. Let me read you this: ‘Aidan Wollstonecraft is emaciated, wearing dirty, ragged clothes, hair long and unwashed. Appears glassy-eyed, stumbling when he walks. When he speaks, his words are slurred. The subject is suffering from acute addiction.’” Edwin looked up and caught Garrett’s worried gaze.
“Your nephew will need medical attention, long-term care for his withdrawal. I have taken the liberty of contacting a private sanatorium. It is north of here, in Hertfordshire, outside the village of Standon. It is run by a Welsh physician and the cost is expensive. But he has done miraculous work with those addicted to opium. It’s becoming a rising problem in all classes. The place is confidential and clean; I have inspected it myself.”
“Aidan is in such poor condition, then?” Garrett whispered.
“Aye. He’s extremely ill, physically and otherwise. I’m sorry it has taken us this long to track him, but apparently the group of hooligans that he’s running with move about often. We may have never found him. It’s only by chance we spotted him when he approached the bank.” Edwin paused. “If he continues down the path he is on, Aidan will be dead in a matter of months. When the dragon gets its claws in you…well, it’s a sorry state indeed.”
Shaking his head, Garrett said sadly, “I never would have believed Aidan to be weak of character and sink to such depths.”
“Society sees opium and its derivatives as merely a bad habit. Dr. Bevan and his predecessor, Dr. Hughes, see it as an addiction of which certain people are more susceptible than others. Not by weak character, but by a brain disorder. His treatment is humane, not like at the asylums. There Aidan could be diagnosed with moral insanity and never see the light of day again. You do not want your nephew to go to one of those places.”
No. He didn’t. Garrett had heard the stories. People were locked up in no better than a prison cell. Mechanical restraints were used, as well as inhumane treatments that involved dousing with water hoses and hours of endless prayer. “What is your strategy?”
“We head in at the break of dawn. There will be ten men all told. We seize your nephew, and the three of us will head straight to Standon. We will need a private carriage. Fresh water. A bucket in case he starts to vomit before we arrive. The journey will take several hours, and he’ll begin to go through withdrawal, which includes nausea, vomiting, aches, cramps, body tremors. His bowels could let go.”
Garrett grimaced. “You know a good deal about this, Edwin.”
“Aye,” he replied softly. “More than I care to. Dr. Bevan set me on the path of recovery. He’ll do the same for your nephew.”
Edwin? Succumbing to an addiction? The man stood for all that is tough and unyielding. If addiction could fell him, what chance did Aidan have?
“Then we shall make plans.” How in hell could he explain all this to his father and brother? What will Riordan do? The twins were close, or had been up until Aidan disappeared. He rubbed his forehead, as a sharp ache had taken root.
No matter. Aidan was family, and Garrett would do anything to protect him. If cloistering him away in a small village clinic would assist in his recovery, then he would do it. The Wollstonecraft men stuck together. History had given them a hard hand, and their allegiance was the one constant they had, other than the curse.
* * * *
The early dawn sun cast a disturbing illumination over the slums of St. Giles, where raw sewage ran in rivulets down the broken cobblestone streets. Gin cellars and distillers packed the overcrowded courts and narrow lanes, while men and women addled by gin staggered about or lay unconscious in filthy alleyways. As the group of formidable men crossed into Petticoat Lane, Garrett saw a prostitute being rutted against a brick wall in the alley, her tattered skirt pulled up to her waist showing a dirty leg covered with sores.
Bile rose in Garrett’s throat, but he swallowed it down. The clash of rank odors was enough to bring up one’s breakfast. Sweat, human waste, and rotting garbage in overflowing rubbish bins. Dead animal carcasses—could be dogs and cats, hard to tell—lay in some of the alleys. The building that they were heading toward had broken and boarded-up windows and a decaying foundation. Gloom and despair were clearly present in this section of London. It was worse than he could have ever imagined.
Garrett carried a club, as did many of the men. Edwin held a pistol, and kept it in plain sight to show that they were not to be approached.
“We’ll have to make this quick, for our presence has no doubt been reported. The criminal in charge of this section of the rookery will send his men along sharpish,” Edwin said.
One of Edwin’s burly group kicked the door in with little effort, as the wood was rotten and splintered apart. Edwin ran up the dark, narrow stairway to the third floor, with Garrett right on his heels. The building was not quiet; shouting, swearing, and crying voices drifted in from all directions. Due to the boarded-up windows, the dour place lay in darkness. Luckily, one of the men carried a lighted lantern.
“In here?” Edwin indicated to one of his men.
“Aye.”
Edwin gave the door a shove with his shoulder and it gave way. At least there was some light, as the one window had a tattered piece of sheer material hanging over it. Garrett scanned the room. Dirty mattresses and wooden pallets filled the floor space with unconscious people of both sexes sprawled across them in various states of undress.
The stink was enough to gag a horse. Rubbish lay across the floor, rotting food, empty gin bottles, dried vomit, and buckets overflowing with piss and worse. There had to be close to twenty people crammed into the crowded area.
“Do you see him?” Edwin yelled.
His eyes lit on a familiar form. Aidan lay on a mattress, wearing nothing but frayed trousers, with a young man curled up to one side of him and an older woman curled up on the other. The young man stroked the front of Aidan’s trousers, as the woman trailed her tongue across Aidan’s nipple. An opium pipe lay on his nephew’s chest. Aidan looked ghastly, hollow-cheeked, haggard, and near death’s call from months of debauchery.
“Here,” Garrett called out. Edwin rushed to his side, and together they brought Aidan to his feet. He mumbled incoherently, limp in their grasp.
“Move out,” Edwin bellowed. They hurried toward the door, dragging Aidan, as he was semiconscious and not able to place one foot in front of the other. The stench of him made Garrett’s nose twitch and his stomach roil.
The older woman screamed, “They’re takin’ our luverly Aidan! Stop ’em!”
Some of the people on the pallets stirred, but the men were out of the room and down the stairs before any of them could take action.
“Head to the carriage,” Edwin commanded. Two men stepped in their path, as if to halt them, but Edwin’s men felled them with clubs before Garrett could even blink. Thank God Edwin could navigate the twisting lanes. They made it to New Oxford Street, the main thoroughfare that ran through the middle of the rookery. Since it was under construction, confusion reigned, making escape easier to achieve. Here they parted, with Edwin and Garrett bundling a moaning Aidan into the carriage while the other men splintered off, running in different directions.
Edwin thumped the roof of the carriage. “Move!” he shouted. With a snap of the reins, the conveyance lurched forward.
Aidan lay across Garrett’s lap, limp, with eyes closed.
Edwin grabbed a blanket. “We’d best wrap him in this; he no doubt has fleas and worse. Plus the cold chills will start soon enough.”
“I hardly recognize him,” Garrett whispered worriedly. “He’s lost too much weight.”
“Opium will do that. It leeches the good right out of you.” Edwin sighed. “I’ll not sugarcoat this: he’s in a bad way.”
Garrett nodded as he assisted in covering Aidan in the woolen blanket.
“Yes. It’s their mother’s maiden name. Smart to use an alias, wish I’d thought of it.” He pulled Aidan close, and Garrett’s eyes glazed with unshed tears. Damn it all, they should have found him sooner. Never should have allowed him to descend into the darkness alone. The family should have locked him in the attic until this wave of destructive behavior passed.
He could only hope that this Welsh doctor could work miracles.
Chapter 2
As Abigail Wharton Hughes gathered her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she mulled over her plans for the day. Very little happened in Standon, Hertfordshire, and she reveled in the serene quiet of the small country village. Living here the past fourteen years had brought contentment to Abbie.
She’d been a widow for more than two years, and seeing as her late husband, Dr. Elwyn Hughes, had been the local physician, she held a position of respect. Living in her tidy brick and wood bungalow on the outskirts of the village gave her the quiet privacy she needed. Since Elwyn had died, she spent her days toiling in her garden or volunteering at her late husband’s clinic.
Mrs. Jones would be by later to clean the house, so she must return by four o’clock. It gave her ample opportunity to shop at the small bakery. Well, it was not much of a bakery; a woman sold goods out of her front parlor. Then Abbie would stop in to the medical clinic and assist Dr. Gethin Bevan and his daughter, Cristyn.
Gethin Bevan, a colleague of her late husband, was a friend but nothing more. Although he’d hinted more than once that they could marry, seeing as he was a widower and she a widow. At thirty-two, Abbie was young enough to find another husband, only she did not want one. She was not looking for companionship or a lover. Living a quiet, contented life meant she could avoid any messy dramas that often accompanied most relationships. She’d never find another amiable partner like Elwyn—they were all too rare.
Stepping outside, she inhaled the crisp January air. A dusting of snow clung to the ground, but the temperature was not too cold for a brisk walk. The semi-frozen soil crunched under her boots as she headed to the village proper.
Once she’d purchased fresh rolls and a currant cake, Abbie made her way to the clinic, or as Gethin wished it to be called, the Standon Sanatorium. Being alone most of the week suited Abbie fine, though she was looking forward to her daughter Megan’s visit Friday afternoon. Megan attended Miss Bartley’s School for Young Ladies in nearby Little Hadham. Megan was not Elwyn’s, but he’d accepted and loved her as if she were.
Abbie smiled softly as she thought of her late husband. A kind and gentle man close to twenty years her senior, she grew to adore him, if not exactly love him. He had assisted her out of a tight spot, and because of it, she would be eternally grateful and cherish his memory.
At the tender age of eighteen, she found herself in a frightening predicament: unwed, alone, and pregnant. Until a friend of her father’s, the kindly Dr. Hughes, came to her rescue. It was another reason to esteem her late husband. Her heart ached that she could not love him as he deserved, but he often said he would take what she had to offer and be glad of it.
Striding along the lane, the sound of thundering horses’ hooves filled her hearing. A black carriage whizzed by her at a rapid pace, nearly spinning her like a child’s toy top and running over a couple of sheep grazing lazily on bits of grass visible on the snow-covered ground. What on earth?
Curious, Abbie hurried along the lane until the sanatorium came into view. Three men emerged from the carriage. Two of them were assisting another, who looked to be unconscious or close to it. Her blood stilled, and she dropped her basket. No. It couldn’t be him. Not here in this tiny village. Not after all these years.
But there was no mistaking the breadth and height, or the shoulder-length hair the shade of a fire blazing in the hearth. He seemed bigger than life, larger than she remembered. But then they were both barely eighteen when last they spoke. Curling an arm about her stomach to stem the nausea, she shook her head as if to convince herself that it was not Garrett Wollstonecraft heading into Gethin’s medical facility. They stood near the door, and the large man turned slightly.
Dear Lord, it was him. There was no mistaking the handsome perfection. She stumbled, her vision turning hazy as if she’d been pulled into a heavy mist. The memories she’d buried broke free and roared to the surface. Along with it came the intense emotions, whether she wanted them or not. For years she’d packed them neatly away, to the point she wondered if what had transpired between her and Garrett that summer had been merely a dream.
A younger version of Garrett stepped into the mist of her mind, tall, leaner, handsome beyond measuring. She’d first encountered him in the woods riding a large stallion. When he pulled up on the reins and smiled warmly at her, time stood still.
As it did now. Blood thundered in her ears, her heart racing. More memories flickered through her dizzying brain, of stolen kisses and fumbling in the hayloft and weeks of heated, clandestine meetings where they had taught each other about love and passion. The glorious moment when he had first entered her. A doleful sob escaped her throat with the remembrances.
It had all started with a summer visit to Alberta Eaton’s uncle’s small estate in Kent. The holiday had changed her life. Her future. She and Alberta were dear friends, and they had kept in contact through the years. Alberta and her brother-in-law, Jonas, had visited her in Standon twice. They exchanged long, gossipy letters, so Abbie was aware of Uncle Keenan’s death and Alberta’s inheriting the small manor house. But during those visits and letters one truth held firm: the name Garrett Wollstonecraft was never to be mentioned.
It was as if it had all happened yesterday, not more than fourteen years past. The emotions were still powerful and passionate. Prickles of searing electricity tore along Abbie’s spine as she gazed at him. Through the years, she’d often wondered what she would do if she’d ever encountered Garrett. Considering that he had broken her heart, would she rail and scream, pound his massive chest and curse him to the depths of hell? Or would she weaken and throw herself into his strong, warm embrace and sob uncontrollably?
Well, she would do none of it here. This was not the time nor place. Bending, she almost fell forward as her shaking legs buckled. Taking a deep breath, Abbie gathered up her basket, then broke into a run.
In the opposite direction.
The dam had burst. The unruly water rushing out of control. There would be no gathering all the memories and emotions and hiding them away ever again. First, she must write to Alberta and find out all she could about Garrett. Then she must decide if the past should be confronted at long last.
* * * *
“Damn it, this is nothing more than a barn. Where have you brought my nephew?” Garrett hissed through clenched teeth as they carried Aidan into the exam room.
“It’s a converted barn, actually,” Dr. Bevan replied. “All paid for from treatment fees. You may lay Mr. Black there.”
A young woman came to stand beside the doctor. Garrett cast a sidelong glance at her and made note of her beauty. Petite, dark haired, and fair skinned, with eyes the shade of a field of violets.
“Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Cristyn. She is training under me as a nurse, and is my trusted assistant.” The doctor turned to her. “My dear, burn the blanket. The clothes will be next.” Glancing up, he said to Edwin and Garrett, “If you will wait outside. There is usually someone here from the village to see to you, but she is late. Cristyn will be out directly to fetch you something to eat and drink while I perform my exam. Opium, you say?”
“And gin. God knows what else,” Garre
tt muttered.
Aidan stirred and started to thrash about. “I’m sorry…so…so sorry.”
Garrett clasped his hand and squeezed it tight. “It’s all right, Nephew. I’m here.”
“I take it your name is Black as well?” the doctor questioned.
Hesitating, Garrett nodded. It would be best to keep the name Wollstonecraft out of this tragic situation. At least initially.
“Then, Mr. Black, I will have a more inclusive picture to discuss shortly.”
Reluctantly, Garrett released Aidan, who didn’t even seem aware of his presence.
Edwin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come. Dr. Bevan knows what he’s about.”
He followed Edwin out into the hallway. Before he sat, he took a moment to inspect the premises. The large barn structure had been cordoned off into a long hallway with numerous rooms on either side. It was clean, bright, and not at all what he’d expected when they had first arrived. His initial thought was Edwin had brought him to a place out of the medieval era. The ancient stones and wood timbers that made up the bulk of the facade proved his theory.
He’d never been to Hertfordshire. Unlike Julian, who had travelled extensively, Garrett had not been north of London. Except for Scotland. He never believed he would find a sanatorium here in the middle of farm country. Exhausted, he plunked down on the large chair in the hallway. They sat in silence for God knows how long, and while they did, Garrett tried to think of a way to break this to the family. However he framed the narrative, it would be a jarring shock.
The trip to Standon had been harrowing. As Edwin had predicted, Aidan’s symptoms of withdrawal began about halfway through the journey. The chills and vomiting were the first to appear. Garrett glanced down at his shirt. A good thing he’d brought his valise, for he needed a wash and a change of clothes.
Cristyn stepped into the hall. “If you gentlemen will follow me. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room. It’s at the end of this hall. You can freshen up, and I will bring you a bite to eat. Slices of bara brith and tea.”