by May Woodward
Polly came in with the tea tray. Clemence waited until the girl had withdrawn again.
‘I’m getting out of here, Fanny! I swear it. They cannot keep me here, not when I’m getting better. And what good will keeping me here do Philo? I’m hardly likely to produce an heir for his precious duchy, am I?’
Brandon fumbled in his pocket and brought out a crumpled note.
‘It’s from Lizzy.’
Clemence eyed it sadly. She had not seen Lysithea since before they’d brought her to Dwellan. Brandon must have read her thoughts.
‘You know she cannot visit, Clemmie. Amathia and Philo gave instructions that she wasn’t to be admitted if she was to try.’ Brandon handed her the notepaper. ‘Lizzy sent it through me so that I could smuggle it in without Warburton seeing it first. So, might be best to burn it when you’ve read it.’
Clemence scanned the contents. Lysithea was writing from her lands on the continent, from her palace in Pressburg.
‘She says she hopes I will be released soon. In the meantime, she will be sending a hamper of treats to Aunt Cassandra. And there will be something for me in the package too. But not to speak a word.’
Clemence lowered the note into her lap and looked up at Brandon.
NINETEEN
The key rattled in the lock. And rattled again. Clemence heard some disgraceful language.
Sarah came in wearing a disgruntled expression. Her first task was to subject the errant lock, which had impeded her ingress, to a savage jab.
‘You forgot to lock it again,’ Clemence pointed out. ‘That’s the second time this month. Fortunate, isn’t it, that there are three further locked exits between here and freedom, or I could have been wreaking havoc halfway across the county by now.’
‘Huh!’ snapped the wardress. ‘Well, I’ve come with news for ‘ee, Your Grace.’
Clemence had sniffed liquor on the woman’s breath not a few times. You never knew – such knowledge could be to Clemence’s advantage someday, somehow.
‘The panel’s finished considering your case.’ Sarah drew herself up to her full height, hands clasped before her. ‘I’m afraid they’ve decided you’re still too ill to be released. So, it’s another year of cold baths for you before they’ll again consider letting you out!’
In the hospital grounds, in the shade of the great chestnut, stood an octagonal shelter.
Clemence watched a figure shuffling around the walkway of the freestanding structure, clasping each support as he passed. Old Jack paused, glancing up towards her window. He knew by custom that she was there and observing him; the fellow gave a shy grin and waved. He was settled into a routine which would never change until the not-too-future day when they carried him out of Dwellan in a crate.
So, they were planning to keep her in Dwellan forever too, were they?
Meanwhile, Lysithea it seemed was sending a hamper to Aunt Cassandra… and it would contain something for Clemence too? Not just a nice veal and ham pie, presumably. Something Lysithea couldn’t address to Clemence directly through the mail because the superintendent or his staff would see it first. But they’d not bother checking anything sent to Cassie.
The Baronet of Eardingstowe passed among the crowds at the Newmarket races. He spotted Sir Bertrand and stopped to talk.
‘You’re looking deuced well, old boy,’ his friend said. ‘Putting on weight where it counts.’
‘In the wallet you mean, Bertie.’ Richard grinned. He tipped back his top hat with his cane.
‘Heard a few rumours about your rising fortunes. This gold mine business, is it?’
‘One shouldn’t listen to rumours, Bertrand. That’s how wars start.’ Richard gazed over the shifting sea of racegoers’ smart hats: bows, feathers, pins, roses and grey silk. ‘What might be these rumours you’ve heard?’
‘Oh, a few acquaintances have been talking about a company called Smoky Mountain. And my nose has traced the source of the scent to you, old fellow. Do tell. What’s it all about?’
Richard took Sir Bertrand’s arm, and led him to one side. Both men paused, raising hats as a lady passed close by. Richard spoke into the other man’s ear.
‘Not to be common knowledge, Bertrand, you understand. In fact, it is indeed a gold mine. One of the richest seams ever found apparently. I’m told Smoky Mountain will be supplying one third of the world’s gold needs by 1870!’
‘By Jove!’ whistled Sir Bertrand. He removed his hat and mopped his brow.
‘Well, I’m only telling a select few like yourself. We don’t want a rush on shares. Would devalue them.’
‘Of course, old boy. Not sure I’d be interested meself. Too much of an old stick-in-the-mud. But, erm… say one did fancy a little flutter, eh?’
‘I’m a close associate of the director as it happens. He prefers to keep a low profile. But I suppose I could mention you to him. Mind – it’s on the understanding you don’t go telling absolutely all the world!’
‘Oh, certainly, old boy, certainly! Mum’s the word.’ Bertrand tapped his nose with a glint in the eye which warmed Richard’s heart.
He wandered on through the spectators who were milling near the grandstand. He met an old school friend named Dr Thaxted. The two men raised hats in greeting.
‘Fine day, Sir Richard. Had any winnings?’
‘Afraid not. Yourself?’
‘No. I hear there’s a good bet in the three-fifteen, though. The Monster Mirage. Worth a flutter if you want a tip.’
‘Thank you,’ said Richard. ‘Perhaps I shall.’
‘I, ahem…’ Dr Thaxted hemmed, then peered around to see who might be listening, ‘hear you’re dealing a few tips yourself lately, Sir Richard?’
‘Oh? Where did you hear this whisper?’
‘From the Duke of Bedford, in fact. Said you’d sold him shares in some mining company on the other side of the world, and that they’d returned him a pretty profit. Only, old Bedford said I wasn’t to tell anyone. Is there any truth in it, old chap?’
‘Well, actually…’
And thus, the afternoon advanced.
Richard admired the gold-tipped cane he’d recently purchased. Four years he’d been the public face of Smoky Mountain – while Cormorant remained in the shadows doing all the real work! And it was a success, by George, it was. Eardingstowe was to have a new wing after all, although he’d put his foot down about having the old hall demolished; Amathia was buying dress after dress after jewelled necklace, and hostessing party after lavish party; his youngest surviving brother, Carswell, was about to join a smart regiment; and Miss Caroline Somerlee would be one of the richest débutantes of her season when she was presented…
So easy to forget, wasn’t it, when you were a coming man, that you were a bounder who’d not stood up to your wife and brother-in-law; done nothing to stop your sister being shut away in a nuthouse.
“I hope and pray, Clemmie, that you are found sound of mind as you should be.”
The package for her had been hidden in the basket for Cassandra just as Lizzy had said. Clemence read the note in the privacy of her room.
“Please God you are able, therefore, to leave without furtiveness,” so wrote Lysithea. “But if they don’t release you, I have furnished you with the means of your escape.”
Escape? Clemence’s heart went thumpety-thump. Oh, dear God, she had not seriously thought of that. Only in her dreams.
Was that someone spying on her through the eyehole in the doorway? She listened. No further noise came… the rustling sound must have been mice. She was safe – course, she was – locked in her own cell for the night.
Clemence laid down the letter. Also tucked inside the food hamper had been the parcel which Clemence now turned over and over. A rather large cloth bundle tied with string. It had been snuggled deep inside the crate, beneath hothouse legumes and home-baked st
arry-gazey pie.
She listened for footfalls on the stone corridors or stairs. No, all was silent. In the grounds an owl hooted; the church bell rang the hour of eleven.
Clemence pulled and pulled at the string, fretting to loosen the knot, and at last set frustrated teeth to it. Of course, they’d not let inmates have anything as convenient as blades in their rooms.
Out from the goody bag tumbled a garment of some sort. Plain, grey homespun cloth. Not one of Lysithea’s cast-offs, then.
Clemence unfolded and spread it across the bed. It looked like the uniform of an asylum wardress. Now what the… a girdle and white cap to go with it?
Next, Clemence took out from the package a bottle of diaphanous liquor. She held it up to the light. No – don’t recognise it.
She slumped onto the mattress, turning the bottle over and over.
How could she escape? She couldn’t even get through the front door, let alone shimmy down the ivy. What are you asking of me, Lysithea?
She took up her aunt’s letter again. No! This is absurd. I’d be caught before I got to the gatehouse. Oh, Lizzy, how could you ask something so beyond me? Breathless, she sank her head in her hands.
Someone is coming… sweep this pirate hoard beneath the bed…
No, not footsteps. Only the scurry of mice again.
She laid a hand on her chest until the pounding slowed.
Clemence stared at Lizzy’s note for a long moment. It was almost glowing, the words seeming to burn on the page.
“This wardress of whom you have written – Sarah – she of the slack habits and a penchant for a tipple – you should invite her to stay with you one evening after she comes off duty. In the bottle is a Slovakian delicacy called slivovica. Believe me, two glasses of this stuff and Sarah, too, will be out with the fairies.
“You’ll be able to relieve her of her ring of keys, won’t you, Clemmie? And in your wardress’s uniform make your way? Fashion your hair in similar style to hers. Anyone looking on will see Sarah, won’t they, on her way home for the evening?
“I have opened an account at Laine and Potterton’s bank in Taunton. It is a small country bank, with no previous business with Somerlees, Consetts or Schwanglis. The account is unlikely, therefore, to be traced to either of us. It is in the name of Mary Carswell. The codeword you should use to access the funds which I shall deposit there is ‘Greenteeth’.
“You will be a wanted woman, of course – a lunatic at large – and the constabulary will be on the lookout. Ergo, you should draw funds as soon as you are able and purchase new garments.
“You should then travel by train to London. There, in the great, wide metropolis, you can safely disappear.
“I have also opened an account in the same name at Mr Almond’s bank on Little Wild Street. On the first of each month, I shall make there a deposit of one hundred pounds. These funds will keep you in board and lodging, until you feel ready to quit the country. Then make your way to my home in Geneva.
“Of course, Clemmie, you cannot go to Somerlee House or to anyone of your acquaintance.
“The next time I hear of you, then, will be either a joyful communication telling me Dr Warburton and his panel have certified you sane and you are getting out legitimately; or else in the newspapers – as the duchess on the run.”
‘They’ll never let me out, will they?’ said Clemence. She was sitting in the window-seat, peeping out at the new morning.
‘Oh, don’t ‘ee get upset, Your Grace!’ Sarah pinched Clemence’s chin. ‘You’re not well. If Dr Warburton says you’d not be able to cope in the nasty world outside, then he’s only thinkin’ of your welfare. We want to make ‘ee better, dearie, and the doctor thinks you’re not, yet.’
‘I see.’ Yes, Clemence certainly did. Philo must be paying high fees to keep his wife in relative comfort here. ‘Sarah – you’re my friend, aren’t you?’
‘Course I am, Your Grace. Here to look after ‘ee, you know that.’
Clemence drew in a deep breath.
‘You know my aunt, the countess, sent some dainties in a hamper to Miss Cassandra yesterday? There’s the most delicious starry-gazey pie and apricot tartlet. How would you like to try a slice or two?’ No going back, then. Let’s cross that dratted Rubicon.
‘Ooh, very nice I’m sure, Your Grace. But you know Dr Warburton’s rules…’
‘Yes, I know,’ Clemence purred. ‘But how about after you’ve come off duty?’ She parted her lips in the kind of grin shared between conspirators. ‘Listen – I know this is probably against your rules too, really… but it really is a very delicious pie, baked by my aunt’s French chef.’ Sarah looked as if she was about to start salivating. ‘Why don’t you stop by my room after you come off duty tonight? We can share a little feast! And we can have a good talk too, just the two of us, eh?’
‘Well… I’d like to, Your Grace. But we’re not supposed to fraternise with patients, you know that…’
‘Didn’t you say you’d a sister who was struggling to find a place in service? Well, I know of a vacancy at Kingsmede…’
‘Well, Your Grace…’ The woman cast a nervous look behind her to see if they might be overheard. ‘All right then, Your Grace…’
Sarah grunted a few times. Her chin settled onto her chest. She slumped into a snore.
The wardress was sitting upright on her patient’s mattress, head lolling on one side as she’d dropped off to sleep.
Clemence crept up close. She checked for signs of lingering alertness. Then she gently lifted the feet and ankles in their spring-heeled boots and eased them up onto the bed. She settled Sarah into a lying-down position.
Sarah curled herself into a contented slumber. She slipped an arm around Clemence’s pillow. In her sleep, she licked the last blobs of Lysithea’s blackberry jam from her lips. God bless the Slovaks. Not for hours would the woman wake.
Clemence fished out the uniform and white coif from where she’d stashed them behind the cupboard and got dressed.
Would she pass for the wardress – hair gathered beneath the cap, girdle clinking with Sarah’s keys? Sarah was older than Clemence, but not so much so that it should be obvious at a distance. And Sarah’s colouring was fair, like Clemence’s.
But what had not occurred to Lysithea, Clemence thought, was that some – in fact most – females were better padded than her niece.
It’s now or never, though.
Clemence peeled back the curtain. A few spots of rain dotted the window glass. Blackness hid the lawns. The great chestnut was just a shadowy shape. She could hear its branches creaking in the wind.
Back to Sarah sleeping on her bed she looked.
The wardress would be found with liquor on her breath, snoozing in the bedroom of a patient who had absconded from under her nose. Whatever the outcome of Clemence’s flight, this poor woman faced being bounced from the heights of Will’s Neck. A shame – Sarah didn’t deserve that. But losers there must sadly be.
‘Sleep and dream, Sarah, and thanks for everything!’
Clemence stooped, and kissed the sleeper’s brow, before sliding the keys and their ring off her girdle.
Sarah had left the cell door unlocked. Out into the passage Clemence peeped. Empty and quiet.
There were four cells and two washrooms on this floor. It had housed servant accommodation when Dwellan had been a private residence. You couldn’t hear the screams from the isolation cells here – best rooms in the building, therefore. The four wealthiest women patients currently in residence occupied them.
Clemence listened at the door of her neighbour Mrs Buxomley, wife of a former mayor of Taunton; she was in colloquy with her dead husband and wouldn’t trouble the escapee.
Clemence crept down the winder staircase. Around the bend flickered a nightlight. Looming ahead was the first barred portcullis between her and liberty.
Five keys dangled from the iron ring. No way of knowing which would unbar her way here. Just try each. The first which Clemence tested rattled, and wouldn’t go in.
Slow down, ticker, do. Someone will hear you.
The second key she slotted in did it. She pulled back the door she’d unlocked and investigated the corridor on the level below her own. All the cell doors which lined the passage were shut fast.
Clemence carried on down the stairwell. At ground level, the second blockade faced her. Three fumbling attempts with the keys before she could progress.
Here was where she might meet someone. Night warders on the prowl. Domestic staff coming and going from the kitchen and laundry in the basement. What if someone stopped the woman they believed to be Sarah with a ‘Oh, Miss Cummings, did ‘ee sign the requisition I left for ‘ee earlier?’ knowledge of whose contents Clemence could not bluff?
Just march bossily should someone emerge from a door and see you.
In the rooms she was now passing the poorest female patients were housed. These souls had no families who could afford to pay fees, and the asylum treated them as such. Definitely don’t want to rouse any of them. Clemence walked on the balls of her feet to prevent her heels clacking on the tiles. Many would recognise her, for sure; they had more sense than the staff.
She paused only at Betty’s door. There, she whispered a ‘God bless, darling.’
Clemence reached the bend in the corridor which led into the entrance hall. The patterned, marble tiles shone with an eerie glow. Potted indoor greenery cast deep shadows. She had not been here alone before, after sundown.
Oh, God… the huge main door. How had she done it the night of the village fire? God knew… but she did recall that she’d roused the whole blessed household in so doing.
Dire necessity must have pricked her out into the vacuum that night; a current zapping through her brain that said ‘get your unmentionable rear portions out, woman, or lives will be lost.’