She extracts a hand to grasp her hair, her entire person quivering like the leaves above her. “My hair, my makeup. When I rise, when I practice, when I sleep. I have wanted to escape, would do anything necessary to escape his rule. Even marry a man I do not love and bear his children, just to be free of him. But then … I met you.”
My head swirls at this revelation. I blink, trying to focus on her words.
“I began to rethink every decision. To hope, nay, to live inside this insane possibility that perhaps you might want me as well. And … ” Her hand clutches her chest, which is heaving. “And you do. At least you did.”
My mind makes the decision. “I do.”
To not have her, possess her, is unthinkable. Insufferable. I shall do whatever is necessary to make this our reality.
Her chest heaves as sobs rack it. “You do? You still do?”
I nod. “Am I pleased at this confession? Of course not. But how could someone as beautiful and singular as you not be attached? Truth be told, I suppose I am lucky you are not already wed.”
“My father. I do not really know him. I never know how he shall be. After working here, I realize he shares many of his patients’ traits. One moment he is loving, the next, a spitting, raving lunatic, one word away from pummeling me.”
I swallow. “Has he struck you?”
She shakes her head. “He is too clever for that. He has locked me in a closet. Broken my violin before my eyes. Burnt my dolls as a child. Too many incidents to recount.”
I nod. Precisely as I suspected. “Does anyone know of this?”
“My governess, who is now my lady’s maid. She has been with me since I was very small. When my mother died.”
A black mass takes flight from the corn, pulling my eyes to the darkening sky.
Her eyes drift to them and widen, then quickly resume their normal almond shape. But there was something in that look. Recognition, perhaps?
I pull out my pocket watch. “Jules. It is getting very late. You will be missed if he is heading home. I will not put you in danger.”
She nods, fear pulling her dark brows together. “What shall we do now? How shall I see you again?”
I pull her to me, cradling her face against my chest. Her heartbeat is a wild, fluttering bird against my forearm.
I bend to kiss her, and force my breath to remain steady. Her lips are smooth as a worry stone against my own. I press harder, desire shredding my control.
Her mouth opens, surprising me. Fueling my fire. Her darting tongue shoves me towards a precipice I dare not tumble over.
I break the kiss, both our chests heaving.
“We shall find a way. It may take time, but allow me to think. We shall tell your fiancé when the time is right.”
The night is so very cold. I pull the coverlets about my head, leaving only a gathered circle from which to peer out, always keeping the window’s streaming moonlight within my sights.
Sebastian purrs against my leg, and I curl my body around him in a C shape as we mutually drink in one another’s heat.
I sigh, and my exhale puffs out into my room, misty and curled like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils.
Normally the gloom would ride the cold, burrow into my heart, settling there for the entirety of winter.
But now … now I have hope.
It is a mere fraction of an idea that I may make it out of Soothing Hills, but it is all I need to keep the melancholy at bay. This shall be my last night alone in my room. My roommate is set to arrive on the morrow.
I hear the door creak open and stiffen, my hand instantly going to Sebastian to quiet or shoo him—depending on the visitor.
I hear the chair propped beneath my door handle, and my blood runs cold as the ice frosting my windowpane.
It might well be Cloud.
I hold my breath for what seems a life, then feel a warmth as someone slides behind me in bed. Tears well as I breathe in the familiar smell. His hands wrap around me, pulling me close, my back to his front.
“Mo cridhe,” he whispers.
My heart swells so full and large I worry it will burst in my chest as it always does when he croons to me in his mother’s tongue.
I know the phrase to mean my heart.
“It is so very dangerous,” I whisper.
“It is too cold. Too cold for all of them—but I cannot lie with all, keep them all warm, so I shall have to be content with you and that mangy furball.”
I smile and burrow backwards, allowing him to pull me tighter into his embrace. Sebastian resumes his purring, his feline chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep.
“Sleep, mo cridhe. I am here. You are safe. I shall watch over you.”
I nod quietly, glad he cannot see the grateful tear which escapes the corner of my eye to trail to my mouth.
I fall quickly asleep, astounded that, at last, the dread of my life is lifting.
And for the first time, I do not dream of birds.
One week later
Jane
Mason strides into my room and boldly takes my hand, despite it being broad daylight.
My face must show my fear, for he says, “All shall be well, love,” and gives my hand a little shake.
My new roommate, Anna-Leigh, sits in the rocking chair across the room, neatly placed below the barely perceptible words of the madman scribbled on the wall.
She is quite beautiful—in an unkempt wildling sort of fashion. She rocks. That is all she is capable of. Unable to feed herself, unable to speak, barely able to walk on her own.
My eyes tear up. I do feel sorry for her. “She does not belong on this ward.”
Mason’s blue-green eyes are tight, and his lips press into a fine straight line, but I see the compassion. “No, she does not.”
Our ward is for harmless women. However, women who are able to speak, to take care of themselves—women working toward Ward One.
This girl belongs on Two or Three, where the patients require a heavy amount of nursing.
“He is doing it to punish me.” My voice cracks on the last word. I begin to pace. “It is because I am no longer under his control. He is showing me he can still affect my life. By placing her here with me.”
I stare at Mason. “So that you may no longer visit me at night.”
My chest feels as if an invisible hand presses down, smothering me. I clutch at it, collapsing to sit on my bed.
Mason squeezes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Come with me.”
I glance up at him and then out at the sun and cock my head in question. It is like we are creatures of the night—only able to show our love and spend time together with the setting of the sun. Never have we walked together in daylight—other than running for our lives through a cornfield.
“I don’t understand.”
He pulls me out into the hallway, and I stop short.
Ginny stands, one door down, beaming. She pours a patient’s elixir onto a spoon and winks at me. “Be careful, darling.”
I turn back to stare at Mason, dumbfounded. “I pulled some strings to get Ginny here today.”
Indeed, he had. Ginny was almost never on this ward.
Before I have had a chance to process this revelation, I feel his warm hand gather mine and pull. “We still cannot afford to dawdle. Somewhere, Nurse Spare lurks.” He leads me over to the nursing closet and opens the door. “I am certain she is quite out of sorts to be removed from her natural habitat.”
We step inside the closet, and he closes the door, lighting a lantern.
“We are using the tunnels?”
He smiles, his eyes crinkling. “How else might one travel undetected in this place? It is my turn to show you, something.”
Curiosity rises. I am certain there are secrets of Soothing Hills I do not know. Many tunnels I have not entered—they are just too far from my room to chance being caught. I’ve had to content myself with travel with
in my mind and be grateful I found my library to feed my imagination.
We drop into the tunnels, hurrying along. But not a soul is in sight. Most likely all are enjoying the reprieve from cold on perhaps the last autumn day before winter comes to stay.
We reach an oversized wooden door with a large metal lock in its center.
“Hold this, mo cridhe.” Mason hands me the lantern, his eyes dancing in its light.
I smile, despite the oppressive gloom of the tunnel.
He fumbles in his pocket, extracting a very large key.
“Whatever is that?”
“Skeleton key.” His grin is huge. Like a naughty little boy, proud to be working mischief. My eyebrow rises in question. “It can open any door here.”
“What? Wherever did you find it?”
He jams it in the door, and it makes a resounding click. He stands up straight, almost laughing. “I stole it from Frost. From his own desk.”
My mouth pops open, but I do not have time to fear, because he is hurtling me through a long hallway. At its end is a pinprick of light.
We reach it, and he holds up a hand to still me, peering carefully out of what looks to be a small window.
“It was another hidden observation glass. Hold still now, I want to be sure no one is afoot.”
We are staring out into the maze.
For several long minutes we wait in silence. His thumb gently caresses the back of my hand in the near dark.
When it is apparent no one is coming, he says, “I chose this day, this time, for a reason. Do you know why?”
I bite my lip and think. After a moment, I say, “It is examination day. Twice a year massive rounds are made in preparation for the board.”
“That is right, button. And Ginny has already forged yours. No one will be out here.”
With that, he scrambles through the open window and waits.
“Come on!” He laughs and takes off running into the hedges.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I giggle, trying to suppress my fear.
We are out in the light. We are out in the light, my mind repeats over and over.
I cannot find him for several moments, but I know where to go.
To the heart of the maze.
I hurry there and round the corner, chest heaving, to see him sitting on the stone bench, face upturned to the sun. I stop to stare. He is breathtaking.
His mouth is pulled into a closed-lip smile, his eyes closed as he drinks in the sunlight. There are tiny striations in his blue eyes, making them appear deep and layered.
“Come here, alainn,” He extends his hand.
I step forward, as if in a dream. “What does that mean?”
His smile is so intense, I blush.
“Beautiful.”
He pulls me to sit on his lap, and we are quiet for a moment, worshipping the sun. Together.
“My mother is Scottish. I speak the language well … for an Englishman. She was the love in our house. I am told my looks favor her. I was forever underfoot as a wee laddie, my father spending most of his time with me elder brother.”
Our hands are joined in my lap. I suddenly feel a coolness slip about my finger. I stare down to see a tiny silver band on my right ring finger.
I pull back to stare at him.
“That is a promise ring. I give it to you here, in the light. Which means no more hiding, no more darkness—only honesty. It means you will be my wife one day—if you will have me. And that I will drive away the darkness of this place from your mind and heart. By leaving it.”
Blackness presses in and out as if an ethereal blanket seeks to snuff my consciousness.
“Jane? Good heaven, are you alright, lass?”
I laugh, loud and raucous, drunk with happiness. “Yes.”
Tears stream from my eyes to drip off my nose and onto his white shirt. “Yes, I am perfect. And yes, I accept.”
I hug him so tightly, I feel his chest rise and fall against mine.
I slide off the ring to stare at it. Inside, there is an engraving.
“It says misneach.”
“What does that mean?”
“Courage.” He nods gravely. “That is what we will both need to see this through.”
As we start back through the maze, he adds, “And if I picked one word to describe you, Jane, that would be it.”
A few days later
Jules
I hurry down the corridor, glancing back for the tenth time to assure I am not being followed by Nurse Spare. I could scarcely wait for my shift to end.
This time, however, I am prepared. I brought a dress and changed forthwith. Granted, it’s only a day dress, as nothing elaborate would fit inconspicuously in a bag, but one that Maeve assured me was truly flattering.
“Take most care, ma chere,” she had whispered. Maeve was worried but knew that once my mind was set, there was no turning back.
It is odd I have come to think of any room in this asylum as our place. I wonder how many other trysts, between patients, between staff members, why, even the forbidden—between doctors and patients—have occurred between these walls?
My mind leafs through all our meetings. Our murmurs, our pledges, our kisses. How quickly our relationship has progressed.
I have now not only been introduced to desire, but we are well acquainted.
It has been Jonathon’s resolve and regard for my virtue, not my own, which has kept my reputation and chastity intact. If he said the word, I fear I would shed good name and petticoat if it meant a life with him. No matter the time or place.
I smile. There is no vanilla in Jonathon Grayjoy. Nor curry.
Indeed, he is the most spectacular combination of a man, with layers of interests—like a well-made dish in which one notices new tastes one layer after the next.
The heat blasts me in the face as I crack open the hothouse door. I am struck with the myriad of botanical smells which I have come to associate with Jonathon.
I hurry, snaking around the winding stone paths. Small trees overhang the stone walkways that weave around pools with lily pads and floating flowers. Plants grown for medicinals as well as decoration inhabit this hot haven. Red poppies line most every inch of the place.
Jonathon stands staring out the window, his broad back to me.
I hurry forward, and he turns to catch me as I launch myself. He holds me aloft, his tongue finding mine as I tilt my head to better reach him. How I wish. Wish this was over. Wish I were his. Wish this part of my life to be a distant memory.
As if hearing my thoughts, he pulls back, lowering me to the ground.
He has once again brought supper. “Mr. Blackstone is beginning to think me a true outdoorsman with the number of meals I am eating outside of our house.”
I smile. “I can think of many indoor sports that might hold your attention.”
His lips curl in a half smirk. “You are indeed a minx. Talk like that could land you in here. Promiscuity is indeed grounds for admission.”
We sit and begin to eat. As usual, his staff has outdone itself—cold duck, wine, and crusty rolls. The heat lulls my senses, and I fight to keep my eyes open against the comfort of the hothouse.
After we’ve finished, he begins, “I have made arrangements with my barrister. The dowry I have arranged would far exceed what your father would be getting from Willis.”
I nod, feeling my eyes fill with guilty tears. Not guilty enough, however. I am so selfish that I will hurt Willis to have a life with Jonathon.
I attempt to force the tremble from my voice. “Willis is a good man.”
Jonathon gives a grim nod. “Indeed, he is. I have enquired about him, his character. I … know many eligible ladies. When we break it to him, once he has recovered from the shock, I shall do my utmost to play Cupid.”
My body stiffens. A sound. What was that? It cannot be.
I have been so consumed with Jonathon, with my potentia
l life with him, that the mystery of Twenty-Nine and her paintings was nearly driven from my lovesick mind.
Jonathon is still talking, but it is as if I have been struck deaf. Time seems to slow, as if the air about us thickens, the seconds trickling slowly past. I see his mouth move but hear no words issue forth. He notices my expression and squeezes, and then shakes, my hand. I see the fear in his eyes, but I am helpless to it.
The music. The corn music.
Stronger and louder than the soft calls from my childhood. It blares in red in my mind—a megaphone of sound and color. A cello plays the center stage.
I rise, as if sleepwalking, to stare out the hothouse window at the dying stalks.
Recognition flares. Father’s voice, many times from childhood, “Mr. Barrow, detour round the Field Church Road, if you would.”
Because it passed a cornfield.
My mind flashes through other routes, other towns. Yes, yes, I am correct. Always the same directions—avoid them.
Is that why he resisted my coming to the hospital? Because of the massive cornfield situated nearly against the main building?
Still, the melodic, mournful call of a singular cello. My mother’s instrument.
The tones rise, up and down, with the rhythm of my breathing. I see the bow saw against the humming strings, the elegant, long fingers guiding its path.
I drop to my knees, my eyes overflowing with tears, and my heart seizes with want, with sorrow, with longing. “Mama.”
It is as if her very essence is embedded in the notes. Not just a reminder—truly her soul, somehow.
As if it is trapped in that very music.
“How is that possible?” I whisper.
Jonathon’s hand is on my shoulder, his words far away, as if beneath water.
Words. Words interweave within the music. As if a three-fold chord twirls forth from the cello. I begin to hum. I find I can follow the sound precisely.
My voice, one strand; the words, the music, are two twirling, entwining entities. Their notes alive and powerful.
It is as if my mother’s voice speaks low in my ear. “My turtledove. You must find her. You may not approach without her.”
The Requiem Red Page 18