by Maureen Lang
Dana shook her head. “A teacher for kids with developmental delays. She said these records helped her choose her profession. I have to admit I was a bit uncomfortable around her at first. Back home we’re always so afraid to say anything impolite, and there sat Mrs. Kettle, categorizing various students from these records as idiots and imbeciles and lunatics as easily as she’d name blue eyes or brown. Until she explained they were nineteenth-century legal terms, I found myself thinking how relieved I was my sister didn’t have to bring her son to a teacher who used such words.”
“My degree is in history, but I admit I don’t know much about infirmaries or asylums from the Victorian age,” Rebecca said. “My father is the true expert on the time period.”
“Mrs. Kettle told me that people thought the feebleminded were a result of environment and lack of education, so with a sort of Victorian philanthropy, they thought they could fix the problem. When they figured out biology might have a part in it, something not to be changed . . . an act of God, well . . . they left their high ideals behind. Maybe that had something to do with the school closing.”
“The date matches Berrie’s early letters,” Rebecca said, looking over the sheet in her hand. Each word fit into what appeared to be a handmade chart, with its horizontal and vertical lines every bit as straight as a computer-generated report. The letters were tall and steady, uniform in size. Remembering Berrie’s letters, Rebecca assumed the neatness could be attributed to Mr. Truebody.
“I’ve only read a few of the files, starting with E for Escott because I wanted to make sure I had the correct school. Here,” Dana said, searching through another file, “these are the ones I’ve read. Roy Escott’s records are there, confirming everything.”
Rebecca scanned the list. Edwards, Eppingham, Escott.
She pulled that sheet from the rest.
Candidate: Roy Escott, aged fifteen
Doctor’s observation: Non compos mentis
Gift relatives: Cosima Escott Hamilton (sister); Peter Hamilton (brother-in-law)
Rebecca raised her gaze to Dana’s. “Non compos mentis . . .” She knew what it meant; it simply seemed jarring to find it on a file.
Dana’s face clouded with sadness. “Idiot.”
Rebecca reached for Dana’s hand, squeezing it once. “Legal term, Dana; remember that. And he wasn’t your nephew.”
“But just like him,” Dana whispered. She sucked in a breath, brushed away a tear. “I’m so silly, aren’t I? I don’t know why I’ve been so emotional lately. Yes, Royboy was termed a legal idiot, as determined by what was called at the time a Lunacy Commission. Mrs. Kettle defined it for me: idiots were set apart from lunatics in that lunatics once had a mind to lose, while idiots were born without one. Words, just words.”
Rebecca squeezed her hand again. “It’s a relative you see on the page, but one long dead and not harmed by such terms, even were he alive. He wouldn’t know what it meant.”
“Maybe not. But those who loved him definitely would.”
Rebecca glanced down at the pages again. “I see Cosima and Peter Hamilton were named as ‘gift relatives’ for Royboy.”
“Every candidate needed two respectable persons who pledged to cover his expenses and also take the patient back once the term was finished. Rules—every school has them, even today.”
“Is there anything in this box of school records explaining why Escott Manor was open only a short time?”
“No, not that I know of, but I haven’t read every word yet. Everything I’ve seen is dated between 1852 and 1853, mostly limited to patient progress and treatments. I think some of the treatments are still used today, like rewards with a favorite food, calming with music, and learning language with pictures. My sister has shown me some of the things the therapists do with Ben, and it sounds similar.”
Rebecca read the data pertaining to Royboy.
Previous abode: Escott Manor
Prior treatment: Escott Manor
Suicidal? No
Duration of attack: Life
How simple the words seemed on paper. How endless it probably was in reality.
The report also listed things he had learned to do:
Count; eat with fork; recite letters (though not read); hold urine and feces except when agitated; undress (note: not dress) unattended.
Concerns: Limited speech, overly trusting, lack of discernment in all areas of life. To be kept away from books due to penchant for ripping bindings.
Royboy’s records, Rebecca noticed, were more scant than others. She thumbed through ledger sheets, seeing instructions for one student to be kept away from knives or sharp instruments, another who spilled water when possible, upset chairs, threw items into the fire.
Goodness, but it must have been hard to run such a place, especially when fires were used for cooking, light, and heat in an often dreary, chilly climate.
Yet another page revealed someone who set fire to his bed. Blood pounded in her temples. Is that why the school closed? Maybe a patient had set it on fire. How awful that would have been for Cosima if it were true, having lost other members of her family to fire already.
Compassion filled Rebecca. She fanned the pages, noting one stark similarity on nearly every ledger, no matter the name.
Duration of attack: Life
A life sentence of intellectual challenge. Mental retardation. Idiocy.
She thought of Padgett, sleeping so close at hand. Rebecca eyed Dana, who was reading some of the letters Rebecca had transcribed.
Rebecca didn’t believe Dana at all selfish for wanting what every woman wanted: a healthy child. Was asking for the norm too much to ask?
If it was, then Rebecca was also asking too much. All she wanted was to love Quentin and hope for a future with him. The “norm.”
26
* * *
I have been so busy I have not been able to write, but I wanted to tell you about the day I watched Simon MacFarland’s carriage take him away. He had given in to letting Katie stay, agreeing to a full year with the promise of his frequent visits. Unscheduled visits, he warned me.
When he told me he would be leaving, saying he would do his best to dispel our legal trouble, he also offered unwanted advice that entirely negated any shred of gratitude that might have stirred within me. Only now can I write of it without seething inside.
“I do this for Katie,” he said, “not because I believe this place will make one bit of difference in the lives of any so-called student. It is little wonder the Commission terms you a hospital rather than a school. Nothing can be learned by those you have here, and you should do well to accept your task as impossible.” How I wanted to fight him, to prove him wrong. Already his sister had learned to make a basket. Beyond that, she is achieving something vastly more significant: independence.
But she was not the kind of student he referred to. He spoke of those who cannot make anything (baskets, pictures, folded serviettes), either before they arrived or to this day. Perhaps he is right, and they never shall.
Yet should I call what we offer apart from that a failure? At the very least, we are able to give the families relief and the children themselves a place where, at least for a time, someone is devoted to their care. Is that not enough?
Since that day I wished he had not gone, if only to argue the point.
When I returned to my desk that day, I found a note directed to the Bank of England, signed by Simon MacFarland and entrusted to me, for the exchange of an amount that far exceeded the tentative agreement for Katie’s stay of one year.
I began this letter early this morning before drills and have returned to share happy news with you. Duff has returned, telling me our school is well received and several new families will be visiting us soon. He was relieved to learn about Katie’s family, as his investigation led him in circles. He had come across a family MacFarland early on, but Innis MacFarland had sent him immediately away, denying she had ever heard of Katie and promising arrest if he steppe
d foot on her property again.
I am quite glad I shall never have to meet Innis MacFarland.
But it is nice to have Duff here. Just today, as we were going over the list of prospective families who might be sending us students, we were interrupted by something I had forgotten to worry about. . . .
“Miss Berrie,” a voice whispered from the open door of Berrie’s office, where Berrie sat with Duff across from her.
Berrie looked up to see Decla peeking around the edge of the white, six-panel door. Her eyes were wider than normal.
“There is a woman here.” Decla turned to look over her shoulder. “She must have come in on her own. I saw her poking her head in the doors on this floor, not saying a word.”
Berrie exchanged a look with Duff, who stood from a chair that was made small beneath him. She was reminded of Simon MacFarland as Duff stood at full height. What was it about Irishmen that they grew so tall and strong?
Berrie stood as well, curious. “Show us where she is, Decla.”
The servant led the way down the hall, past the dining room and the blue parlor they often used for chapel time, toward the open door to the smaller parlor where families said their private good-byes. There stood a woman, her back to Berrie and Duff, a poke-style bonnet hiding her face as she peered inside the room.
“May I help you?” Berrie said.
The woman’s shoulders jerked forward; then she turned to face them. Berrie noticed the woman was not as young as her meager height might have suggested. She was obviously fully grown at just under five feet tall. Her hair was the color of dark honey, and the eyes that met Berrie’s were grayish green, set on a face of pure white skin. Petite, like a doll.
“I was remembering the room,” the woman said. “It’s the only one I recognize.”
“You’ve been here before?” Berrie asked.
The woman nodded, stepping forward, one hand extended. “My name is Finola O’Shea, and I visited here as a child. Before my mother died.”
Berrie felt her brows shoot up even as she warded off a burst of panic. “You are Finola O’Shea?”
The woman nodded. “I am. My apologies for an unannounced arrival, but upon learning the manor house has been converted for public use, I couldn’t resist a visit.”
Berrie’s wariness mixed with a touch of guilt for not having followed her instinct to invite the woman who, at least until recently, thought she deserved half of this very estate. Hadn’t both Berrie and Mrs. Cotgrave believed the problem posed by Finola O’Shea’s original contact might not have been just legal but moral as well?
“Welcome to Escott Manor, Miss O’Shea,” Berrie said. “I am Beryl Hamilton, headmistress here. And this is Duff Habgood, our senior attendant. We can give you a tour if you like.”
She nodded. “Yes, I would like that.”
Berrie hesitated. “You do know what kind of school we are, don’t you?”
The woman nodded again, and though she stiffened, her height didn’t grow by much. “For the infirm. I’m well aware of the inspiration behind this school. I am a descendant of the Kennesey family, true and sure. I had two brothers afflicted by feeblemindedness, and had they not died, they very likely might have become students here.”
Berrie knew about Finola’s mother. Cosima had told Berrie of the tragedy, how her aunt Rowena had taken two of her sons and her two nephews as well to the cottage in the forest and set it afire. Only Royboy had escaped.
“Your cousin is here,” Berrie said gently. “Royboy.”
Finola’s gaze met Berrie’s. Her hazel eyes flooded with dampness and she looked away, holding out a gloved hand to the fireplace nearby.
“Do you know,” she said with a hesitant smile, “I used to think this fireplace massive? Now I see it’s quite a normal size, since I’m nearly as tall as its mantel.”
Berrie glanced at Duff, whose mouth went crooked at the petite woman’s observation. The top of her head barely reached the bottom of the mantelshelf.
“I’m afraid you might not recognize many other rooms,” Berrie said, looking around as well. “This is the only one we’ve left as it was. Other rooms have been converted for various uses, and what objects the Escotts didn’t ship to England with them when they moved have been sold and replaced with more practical items for the kind of students we house.”
“In truth, I was so young when last I visited, I’m surprised I remembered this room.”
A moment of silence followed, as Berrie could think of little else but the near disaster of having to give half of the estate to this very woman. While she’d been assured that matter was settled legally, she wasn’t at all sure Finola O’Shea believed it so.
“Miss Berrie—” Duff’s voice was low, respectful as always—“is it me you’re wantin’ to start the tour?”
“Oh!” How foolish to have forgotten her own invitation. Maybe that would be best, to have Duff give the tour while Berrie went in search of Mrs. Cotgrave. Best to have her know of this visitor as soon as possible. “Yes, Duff, that would be helpful. Please come to the dining room when you’re finished. We’ll have tea.”
They left the small parlor, Berrie heading for the kitchen while Duff led Miss O’Shea up the stairs to the classrooms.
Berrie requested tea to be served in the dining room, then went in search of Mrs. Cotgrave. They couldn’t easily be spared from the students at the same time, so Berrie only told her about the visitor, not requesting she join them but asking her to pray for a good outcome of the visit.
The tea was set before Duff and Miss O’Shea returned. When they entered, Berrie was glad to see a smile on Finola O’Shea’s face.
“I certainly admire what you’re doing here, Miss Hamilton.”
“Thank you,” Berrie said to her. “We’ve tried to make the school a home for all of us, staff and students alike.”
“And it shows.”
Berrie offered tea while Duff stood awkwardly back. She knew he had countless duties to attend, not the least of which was to acquaint himself with the new students he would be responsible for. And yet he seemed reluctant to go, when just this morning in her office he’d been eager to start his day and establish a routine like the rest of them.
“Duff, would you care to join us?”
He nodded, taking a step closer, but Miss O’Shea raised a hand. “If you don’t mind, Miss Hamilton, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss privately with you.”
Berrie looked at Duff, whose cheeks turned a pleasant shade of pink, a sharp contrast to his dark hair. Before she could say a word, he bowed to both of them and exited the room.
Berrie poured tea for Miss O’Shea, unable to conquer the trepidation growing in her breast. Did this woman still believe she deserved half of the estate? Berrie had the law on her side, but was it right? Maybe this woman thought the decision unfair.
“I came to apologize, Miss Hamilton.”
The words were extraordinary but—far more than that—welcome. “And why is that, Miss O’Shea?”
“Please, call me Finola. The apology is for a recent legal proceeding initiated by one Mr. MacTaggert, a friend of my brother’s. My older brother is the one who initiated the attempt to claim an inheritance.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a brother,” Berrie said. Only Finola O’Shea had been listed as the possible recipient of any inheritance to be gained.
“Yes, I do. He did it on my behalf, for my future.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I am destitute, you see, with no home and no place to go.”
“I suppose that is why your brother named only you as possible beneficiary.” Berrie frowned. “Was that the extent of help he could offer? A suit? Why don’t you stay with him until you marry and establish a home of your own?”
Finola looked over her shoulder again. “’Tis married I am already—or was—to a man who abandoned me and left me with nothin’, not even his name. After the annulment, he made it clear I was no longer entitled to it, legally or otherwise.”
&nb
sp; A wave of sympathy washed over Berrie. “I’m sorry.” Then she frowned anew. “But I still don’t understand why your brother isn’t of more help than to simply hire a solicitor to try any means to gain funds.”
Finola shook her head. “He thought it worth a try. Once I knew what he was about, I begged him to stop, but Mr. MacTaggert had already sent the letter. Not that it did any good, as he received a note stating no funds would be forthcomin’. From no less than an MP! And that’s when I discovered the manor was now a school, so I came to see about it for myself.”
“That doesn’t explain why your brother cannot help you now that you have no other options. Surely he won’t bar you from your home, the home you both grew up in?”
Finola smiled, though her eyes looked ready to spill tears. “He already has.”
In a single instant Berrie thought of the silly arguments she’d had with both of her brothers over the years, not a single one serious enough to banish anyone. “But why?”
“He fears the curse,” she whispered. “I have it, same as me mum. He’s afraid I may be . . . like my mother. Alike as to be unsafe. ’Tis why my husband abandoned me—because of Conall, my own sweet son. Me husband paid for an annulment, so he’s free to marry someone else.” Tears fell freely now. “I don’t know what that makes my son. Feebleminded as well as a bastard?”
“Surely not,” Berrie said. “Where is your son now?”
“In Dublin, with my friend Nessa O’Donnell. I cannot impose on her for long, or sure and enough her own husband will toss her out along with my son.”
“How old is your son?”
“Four years and a bit.”
Berrie touched the woman’s trembling hand, this woman who was none other than Cosima’s cousin. Berrie must do something, and not only for Cosima’s sake. Hadn’t Christ Himself said when you help the least of My brethren, you help Me?
27
* * *
Rebecca watched Quentin lift Padgett onto the horse in front of him. She fit easily on the blanket that extended beyond the smooth English saddle.
The day was fine for riding, a gentle breeze moving air that might otherwise have been too warm for either man or beast. Beneath the cloudless sky the grass was greener, the hedges deeper, the wheat fields golden.