Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction

by Robert J. Begiebing

  “You have me there, Miss Norris.”

  He was relieved to hear that she did not propose some variety of abduction, as she had suggested before. That was a thought he had simply not been able to entertain. He did not think her new proposal would work, or at least not readily, but he saw no alternative and refused to do nothing.

  “The problem,” he suggested, “is enticing her on such a tour, as you put it, enticing her to Boston.”

  “What would you suggest, sir?”

  He thought a moment. “Well, I think she may—given her circumstances here, I mean to say—have some curiosity as to a ..., what should I say, restful alternative. That is, if she can be assured that it will be more restful, and temporary, than frenzied. And there is, of course, the admonitory force of her guardians, if they will insist.”

  Miss Norris, who had stopped and turned toward him as he spoke, looked directly at him. “Go on,” she prompted.

  “Yes, well, something more occurs to me. As you know she has illustrated beautifully Dr. Watts. I have in the past suggested that we approach Boston printers to see what may be done. I have, in fact, a letter, in response to my earlier query, from Thomas Fleet—”

  “The printer?”

  “Even so, Miss Norris. And there is the bookshop of course. I would be pleased, also through Mr. Smibert, perhaps, to approach Church and Company as to the possibility of their taking on the book once printed. That would insure a much greater exposure of vendibility—to schools, country shops and traveling auction men, and the like.”

  “I see. What would be required?”

  “I believe it’s a matter of some ten or twenty pounds, to start. Fleet would have to assess the manuscript for a more exact estimate. The principal expense, no doubt, would be in the illustrations. It is all doubtless a matter finally of suitability for subscriptions, but Watts is so popular I don’t see how this work can fail.”

  “And your idea is to increase the appeal of Boston by rejuvenating this idea in Rebecca?”

  “Quite so. With success, moreover, might she not even eke out some small or partial independence from the project?”

  “Anything is possible,” she said, looking away now and pondering the idea. “I think it a good enticement, Mr. Sanborn.”

  “Good.”

  “Will you appeal to the Brownes for an interview with us then?”

  “For both of us?”

  “I think it will be better, don’t you?”

  “You may be right. Leave it to me, Miss Norris.”

  “We shall play matchmakers then,” she said and smiled again.

  “I think that we shall have to prepare young Paine Wentworth as well, if Rebecca relents,” Sanborn said. “Her parents have kept her suitors in the dark as to her true distraction.”

  “It is but the English malady, sir—”

  “Be that as it may, I think we may also concoct some credible story of a doubtful and inexperienced young lady whose mind has been properly awakened by the counsel of her formidable parson and her parents, as well as by the advice of her former tutor and friend.”

  “Not to forget the blandishments of her fine young gentleman.

  Indeed, Mr. Sanborn. I see you warm to my project. That’s just the thing, and we may even be able to prevail upon young Wentworth to allow her some exercise of the decorative arts, as befits an accomplished lady, including drawing and watercolors.”

  “Which will have to be curtailed of their more visionary nature.”

  “Indeed,” she said. Her smile grew uncharacteristically wide. “We are of one mind, sir.”

  “We are, Miss Norris.”

  Chapter 29

  MISS NORRIS’S PLAN seemed to start out brilliantly; the Brownes, perhaps out of their own desperation, agreed to try it. So, that spring Sanborn returned to Boston as he had once come to Portsmouth, by coastal sloop, but Rebecca was his companion on the return journey. They stood on deck in mild weather as they left Portsmouth Harbor, where still another battery of artillery was being added to Fort William and Mary and to the point at Little Harbor. The air and adventure seemed to agree with the young woman after her confinement. Her cheeks reddened and her whole face colored. Gone was the unsanguine and sickly countenance of the lady of exquisite sensibility or the splenetic hypochondriac. Her conversation for the first time in months was occasionally punctuated with laughter. To look at her one would never have guessed their destination.

  Upon approaching the harbor at Boston they passed the high stone lighthouse, or pillar rather, upon the top of which night fires would be lighted to guide ships. Their sloop moved among many islands as they approached the town, its fourteen church spires reaching high and airily above duller buildings, as if God’s holy spears had been struck firmly in the earth. They passed the Castle, or fortification, bristling with thirty-two-pound guns below and more than a hundred twelve-and eighteen-pounders above. And the harbor itself was filled with scores of ships and small craft. Rebecca said she had never seen anything quite like it.

  For nearly a quarter of a mile along Long Wharf sat a range of wooden warehouses, and, close by, a multitude of ships. On the wharf, they hired a chaise that took them up King Street to the Town House and out along Cornhill toward Newberry where new and elegant buildings were steadily replacing the old ones destroyed, Sanborn explained, by the fire of 1711.

  “Those were bad years for many in Boston,” he added. “The French War was on, and a throng of young women were made widows. Then the fire. But by that year there were also scarcities of bread. Lots of food shortages, in fact, created by the prosperous few who sold most provisions to the troops, not only to ours, but to the French as well.”

  “I suppose it has always been true that some will do anything for wealth,” she said. “Did they get away with it?”

  “Yes, or so I understood from the old men in Boston’s taverns who spoke of those times when I first arrived here. They especially feared the return of hostilities. They told me that the common folk made their displeasure known finally when the next generation, still suffering from lasting shortages of all kinds, rioted and tore down the North End market house.”

  “Yet the city seems to have recovered,” she said, looking about as they rode on.

  “Most people appear to be doing well enough, now,” he said. Just then they arrived at the address Colonel Browne had given them. They soon found themselves standing at Dr. Oldmixon’s parsonage door, letter of introduction in hand.

  He appeared to be a mild gentleman in his late sixties, and Mrs. Oldmixon appeared to be of similar age and humor. Sanborn and Rebecca were conducted to a private house beside the modest parsonage, a substantial property that, it was revealed in conversation later, the Oldmixons rented for their business.

  “We accept no visitors who would come merely for their amusement,” the old physic said, as he showed them into the foyer, “after the cruel pattern of the home country. Here the inmates are simply confined to their rooms, so long as they are manageable and pose no danger to themselves or others.” He looked in his friendly manner at Sanborn and Rebecca. “Only the violent are restrained,” he added, as if musing. “We allow daily promenades on the grounds, with the attendant, as well.”

  Rebecca had said nothing beyond a polite greeting since their arrival at the Oldmixons’. The color began retreating from her face once again.

  “Have you any well restrained at present?” Sanborn asked, once they stood inside.

  The old man turned to lock the front door behind them. “But one,” he said, turning back toward them in his bent fashion. “Mr. Holt, who believes himself king of fairies, separated unjustly from his fairy queen, and sometimes steeped in a rage of sorrow and betrayal. Ira brevis furor.”

  Rebecca glanced at Sanborn, who said, “I see. Is his madness so brief then?”

  Oldmixon led them up the stairs. “Fits and starts,” he said. Very little daylight penetrated the interior, but upon opening a door to a private room, daylight po
ured in through two undraped windows. A bed, a tiny desk, and a chair were the only furniture.

  “This is our empty,” he said. “I’ve kept it available, at Colonel Browne’s request, this past fortnight. It’s a very pleasant room, taking the morning sunlight till about eleven o’clock.” He looked at Rebecca. “Some of our residents bring a piece or two of their own furniture.”

  The entire house was eerily quiet, nothing like what Sanborn had anticipated for a madhouse, just as the madhouse keeper was unexpectedly gentle. Might Rebecca be tempted to see this establishment as an acceptable retreat? Yet, he thought, looking at her, she seemed not to be tempted, and that reassured him—there was still hope for his plan.

  Dr. Oldmixon encouraged them to enter the room and look about; he insisted they take the views of the open fields and shimmering Roxbury flats from the two windows. He kept a curious eye on Rebecca. Yet he said nothing particular to persuade or dissuade her.

  “You and Colonel Browne have come to agreement as to a rate,” Sanborn stated.

  “Yes. Thus have I held the room in his interest.”

  “Thirteen pounds maintenance,” Sanborn said.

  “And ten for physic. There’s another two for warding.”

  Sanborn looked at the old man. “That was my understanding as well,” he said, satisfied to compare figures according to the colonel’s request for confirmation. He was, in fact, authorized to make a further deposit immediately.

  Suddenly a heavy sound, as of something large being dropped, came from a room down the hall. Then the strange bellowing of a man’s voice, as if speaking in tongues. It all amounted to gibberish, even when Sanborn could catch a word or phrase of English.

  What little color remained in Rebecca’s face drained away entirely.

  “That would be Mr. Holt now,” Oldmixon said, his face calm and expressionless.

  “Silence, for the love of God, you raving lunatic!” someone else called out from behind another door.

  “Mr. Snow,” the old parson said. He stood silent, looking at Rebecca and Sanborn, as if no further explanation could possibly be required.

  “Are any women boarding here, Dr. Oldmixon?” Sanborn asked.

  “Two,” he answered, nodding his white head. “Mrs. Reed, a widow of formidable spleen, and Mrs. Brixton, who suffers much from the hypp and the visions of an Enthusiast, of a devout Presbyterian sect.”

  Sanborn looked at Rebecca again. She looked away and turned once more to the southeast window.

  “Rebecca,” Sanborn said, “would you like some air?”

  “Not just now,” she said, without turning back toward them.

  Sanborn felt encouraged that their visit was having the effect on Rebecca that he, if not the colonel, desired. “These others, do you administer treatments?”

  “In some instances,” Oldmixon said. “Venesection, purges, and emetics, blistering—our own special remedies. With the more antic dispositions, opium is often helpful in settling the mania.”

  “Depending on the particular case.”

  “Certainly. But most boarders require, or indeed prefer, physic of one kind or another eventually.”

  “I imagine they do,” Sanborn said. “I wonder if we might see some of these others.”

  Oldmixon rubbed his jaw. “Well, I believe Mrs. Brixton wouldn’t mind a visit. Let me just step ’round to see how she is this afternoon.”

  They waited only some few minutes before the old parson returned and ushered them into Mrs. Brixton’s room. It was furnished similarly to the room they had just left, with the addition of a well-stuffed settee upon which the inmate might sit or lie as her humors took her. There was a considerable pile of books—Sanborn did not doubt of their vigorous piety—stacked on the floor beside the settee. Next to one window stood the inmate wearing a sort of night shift, ivory in color, partially overwrapped by a black brocaded dressing gown. Her hair was covered by a rust-colored turban, the only concession to fashion or public scrutiny. She was a not unattractive woman in her late thirties, Sanborn estimated, but the ravages of her soul’s enthusiasm marked her dignified face, as if she spent her nights in watchfulness rather than sleep—quite alone, Sanborn imagined, with her beautiful and terrible visions.

  Oldmixon introduced them to Mrs. Brixton, who bowed politely and eyed them curiously. Finally, a smile emerged from her lips and her whole demeanor brightened.

  “My pleasure, sir, ma’am,” she finally said. “Dr. Oldmixon informs me you have one who may join our little community.”

  Sanborn found himself speechless. Mrs. Brixton looked deeply into Rebecca’s eyes. Rebecca returned her gaze, but also did not, or could not, speak.?

  The old parson broke the silence. “Indeed, there is one who may benefit from our retreat and regimen.” He smiled at Mrs. Brixton. “If the lady and gentleman find our situation worthy of such a one.”

  “I’m sure they shall,” she said, looking first at Sanborn and then at Rebecca again. “A child, I expect.”

  Sanborn found his voice. “A young lady, madam. A young lady who might benefit from a period of peaceful confinement and Dr. Oldmixon’s care.”

  “You find our establishment suitable?” she asked.

  “I find the good work Parson Oldmixon is doing here impressive.”

  “And the lady?” She turned her deep gaze on Rebecca.

  Rebecca could not speak, still, and the pause grew quickly painful.

  “She, Miss Wentworth, finds herself rather hyppish after our journey, I fear, and from the thought of this young lady’s confinement here, or anywhere,” Sanborn said. It just came out of his mouth before he thought about it, to fill the vacancy.

  Mrs. Brixton smiled serenely at Rebecca. “You needn’t fear for her,” she said. “We live under the most scrupulous care. Dr. Oldmixon is a gentleman.” She turned to smile at the parson.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” he said, and made a little bow.

  “You’re from England, are you not, sir?” She was speaking to Sanborn now.

  “Yes, some years ago,” Sanborn said. “I had the pleasure of studying in London for a time.”

  “Then you’ve no doubt been to Bedlam, sir, with the droves of tourists seeking amusement.”

  He stumbled a bit, then said, “Indeed, madam.”

  “Nothing of the sort here, sir, I assure you. Nothing of the sort in all Boston.”

  “I’m most pleased to hear it, madam.”

  She returned to Rebecca. “Nothing of that sort here,” she repeated. She walked over to Rebecca and offered her hand. Rebecca took it. Mrs. Brixton held up Rebecca’s hand, like a fortune-teller.

  “A woman of sensibility,” Mrs. Brixton said. “Tell me. This young lady whom you might send here, for her repose, is she something of a seer?” She looked directly into Rebecca’s eyes and smiled.

  Rebecca found her voice, and Sanborn felt relief. “She is given to see things, yes,” Rebecca said, “as they truly are. She thereby sometimes causes discomfort in others.”

  The deep fatigue seemed to leave Mrs. Brixton’s face a moment. “The truth unsettles those unused to it,” she said. “Yet those accustomed to it the truth makes free.”

  “Even in confinement,” Rebecca suggested.

  “Even in confinement,” Mrs. Brixton said. “Even in our suffering.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” Rebecca said. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  Still holding Rebecca’s hand, Mrs. Brixton turned toward Sanborn and Parson Oldmixon, looking from one to the other.

  “Does the young lady who may come here find pleasure in reading?”

  “Yes,” Sanborn said.

  “Then she may find some of these of interest,” she said, indicating by her free hand the black books piled on the floor.

  Rebecca looked at the books, her face expressionless once more.

  Sermons, religious treatises, books of prayer and meditation had never been her favored reading, Sanborn thought, as he looked at Rebecca�
��s face. She seemed unable to speak again.

  Mrs. Brixton looked into her eyes for some time, then gently dropped Rebecca’s hand. She pulled a book off the top of one of the piles and withdrew a slip of paper, which she folded twice. This folded paper she placed in the palm of Rebecca’s hand and then folded Rebecca’s fingers over it. She returned to the window to stand just as she had stood when they entered her room. She looked at each of the three others in turn, smiled, and appeared determined to say no more.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brixton,” the parson said, holding out an arm to indicate the doorway for Rebecca and Sanborn. Sanborn repeated a thank you, and they all turned to go.

  “The truth will set us free,” Mrs. Brixton called out, as if to Rebecca, one last time, as Oldmixon was closing the door.

  “Would you care to look around the grounds, sir?” he said as they all descended the stairs.

  Sanborn looked at Rebecca. She had opened the slip of paper and her face appeared troubled. “I think not, Parson,” Sanborn said. “Perhaps a dish of tea is in order, however, if you and Mrs. Oldmixon would be so kind.” He tried to indicate Rebecca without her seeing the gesture.

  “I believe you are quite right, Mr. Sanborn,” Dr. Oldmixon said. “I think a dish of tea would do us all some good.”

  Chapter 30

  THEY REMAINED with the Oldmixons overnight, in the parsonage, as they had arranged before their departure from Portsmouth. The next morning Sanborn knocked gently on Rebecca’s door.

  She was already up and dressed.

  “The return boat leaves in two hours,” he reminded her.

  “Am I to return then?”

  “Just as we said, Rebecca.”

  “And such then, truly, was Colonel Browne’s purpose as well?”

  “Yes,” Sanborn hedged. “He believed this visit would allow us to confirm whether Dr. Oldmixon’s establishment might meet every requirement, as he had understood from others.”