Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  “Don’t cower, girl. Help me with my bags.”

  Julia gave an uncertain glance to Ainsley as he slid through the door. The unmistakable shape of Aunt Louisa Banks came into view as he neared the front door.

  “Merciful heavens!” The delighted look on her face melted into confusion before morphing into hostility as she took in the scene—a mud-soaked Ainsley carrying a sopping wet girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than sixteen.

  “What on earth!” she gasped as Ainsley passed, determined to pay no heed to the aunt they scarcely knew.

  “Peter! Peter!” She chased after him but was unable to match his determined steps. “Goodness gracious, Margaret, who is that girl clinging to your brother?”

  A young man, striding childhood and manhood, stepped to the side rather awkwardly as Ainsley approached the bottom of the stairs. He nearly bumped into two little boys in matching brown knee pants and caps that stood agape at the front door. The eldest was Nathaniel, Aunt Louisa’s firstborn. The other two, often mistaken for twins, were Hubert and George, the youngest cousins in the Marshall clan. A year separated their births but nothing else had come close in the eight years that followed—they were that dependent upon each other.

  Hubert gasped and raised a hand to cling to his older brother’s arm as Ainsley passed by, the girl’s muddied dress creating a long trail of filth from the back door as they went. Ainsley nodded in their direction before heading up the stairs. There was enough time for pleasantries later. The girl, soaked to the skin, shivered in his grasp and all he could think to do was get her before the fire and in a warm bath.

  He could hear Margaret behind him, trying to explain the abnormal state of chaos that marred Aunt Louisa’s and the boys’ arrival. “Everything is not as it seems,” Margaret said.

  On the stairs Julia scurried by Ainsley and dashed down the hall to open one of the guest rooms. She’d had the same thought he did. By the time Ainsley turned into the room Julia had the fire lit and was building the flames higher by adding a generous helping of wood.

  “Set her here,” the maid indicated, pulling a chair closer to the fire. “I’ll order the bath.”

  Ainsley laid the shivering girl into the chair as Julia ran to the door. Instantly, there was a blanket thrust at him, which was quickly proceeded by another. Together they disrobed her to her shift and then wrapped the girl tightly and adjusted the chair as close to the fire as they could without risking the wool of the blankets catching.

  The girl’s blue lips quivered uncontrollably, matching the convulsions that sprang up from the rest of her. Hypothermia was a real risk, even in April. The rain was cold and her adornments were soaked before they found her. There was no telling how long the girl had been suffering.

  “It’s not enough,” Ainsley said. He turned to the door just as Jamieson and the footman ushered in the copper bath. A pair of chamber maids and the scullery maid trailed in behind them with their arms burdened with water. The male servants placed the bath just before the fire and instantly the maids began draining their pails into it.

  Ainsley tested the water with his hand and found it lukewarm at best. “More,” he said, calling loudly to the maids who were nearly at the door. “Summon everyone from the kitchens!” Ainsley turned to the butler, who was ushering his staff to hurry. “Jamieson, tell Margaret we will need dry clothes. Perhaps something from her winter closet.”

  Jamieson nodded and left the room.

  The girl, fair, blonde, and extremely waif-like, shook as her body worked tirelessly to preserve what little body heat remained. Ainsley gestured for Julia to get closer to the girl. “Wrap your arms around her,” he instructed. “Use your heat to keep her warm.”

  Julia nodded and did as instructed. She slipped into the chair beside the girl and hugged her close. Social conventions were easily abandoned in such situations, but not enough so that Ainsley himself could have done the same. He was a doctor—but even doctors had to observe a certain degree of decorum, especially with their female patients.

  Another troop of marching maids came into the room, each depositing her heated water into the bath. Finally, Ainsley gave the signal that he and Julia should place the girl in it. Together, Ainsley lifting her upper body and Julia grasping the girl’s knees, they pulled her from the blankets and slipped her into the bathwater, muddy shift and all. The girl flailed slightly, clearly unsure around water, and Ainsley was forced to hold her to keep her from leaving the bath.

  “Peter, I found my warmest nightclothes,” Margaret said, rushing into the room.

  Ainsley pointed to the bed from his crouched position beside the bath.

  “And—” Margaret hesitated as she placed the clothing on the bed. “Aunt Louisa wishes to speak with you…”

  “What?” he snapped. “What is it?”

  Margaret swallowed. “She intends to stay.”

  At first, Ainsley did not see the harm in it. So often they had played host to friends and family, never once shirking their duty. But Margaret’s tone, combined with her clear need to inform him at that inopportune moment, told him there was more to this decision to stay. Aunt Louisa had no intention of staying for just the fortnight. She was informing them she would be staying much longer than that.

  “Lord help us,” Ainsley muttered. He pressed his lips together and turned from his sister’s apologetic stare. “I haven’t the luxury of time at present,” he said through gritted teeth. “She will have to wait.”

  Margaret nodded and approached the bath. The girl’s chattering slowed substantially and her entire demeanor became calm. Ainsley’s attention turned from keeping her warm to keeping her head above water as she drifted toward sleep.

  “No, no,” he said, struggling to keep her upright.

  Her eyes shot open then, staring at him unblinkingly. “You saw them,” she charged.

  Ainsley looked at her uneasily.

  “You saw them, as I did,” she said again, this time sitting upright in the water. Her thin shift clung to her form, forcing Ainsley to look away out of pure decency. “Don’t deny it,” she said, brushing away his and Julia’s hands. She grasped the side of the tub and drew closer to Ainsley. “You can’t hide from them. You can’t. They found me and they will find you.”

  Ainsley felt a tremor begin in his hands, and then realized his heart was quickening as well.

  “Say it!” she yelled. “Goddamn it, don’t deny it!” She reached for him then as if to strike him or pull him into the water with her.

  Ainsley stumbled back, putting himself out of her reach and then some. Julia tried to hold back the girl, who now screamed at him to confess what he had seen on the lawn. What did she expect him to say? That he was haunted, day and night, by similar apparitions. Such a confession would never leave his lips.

  The girl pushed against Julia’s arms, clawing and biting at the maid’s exposed flesh. A growl escaped her lips. Julia sprung back, pulling her arm away, but she was too late. Three deep welts began to form on her arm where the girl had grasped her.

  “Margaret, fetch my bag,” he commanded, a stern look slipping over his features. He did not take his eyes from the girl, who flailed in the tub. “My doctor’s bag.”

  “Where is it?” Margaret went for the door slowly, waiting for his reply.

  “Under my bed!” he called out over the ruckus. He had stored it there almost as soon as he had arrived at The Briar, hoping he’d not have to look at it for some time.

  Within seconds, Margaret returned and opened it in front of him. Ainsley hastily prepared a syringe, filling it generously with a sedative, a mixture of morphine and chloroform, which would calm the girl, and hopefully save himself and the staff from further abuse.

  “Hold her,” he said, shooting a quick glance to Jamieson, who had stood at the door, unsure how to help or proceed, most likely due to the girl’s state of dress.

  Jamieson came to the side of the tub and grasped the girl’s upper arms, holding them to her sides.
She struggled against his grasp but the butler held firm.

  “I warn you, if you continue to move, it will hurt,” Ainsley said.

  The girl looked at him defiantly, probably unsure what he meant to do. As the needle drew closer she backed away, pressing against the farthest edge of the tub. Ainsley came in swiftly, piercing the skin of her arm and pressing the plunger. Within seconds, the girl’s muscles relaxed and she nearly slipped below the water’s surface. The house, and all its occupants, was suddenly enveloped with an unnerving quiet.

  “Can we dress her now, my lord?” Jamieson asked as Ainsley restored order to his medicine bag.

  Ainsley nodded from his spot on the floor.

  Regaining his composure, Ainsley stood as Jamieson and Julia wrestled the unconscious girl from the water and placed her on the bed, wrapping her in the blankets once more.

  “Peter, you should clean yourself up,” Margaret suggested.

  “Not until I see to Julia’s wounds,” he said. He gathered his medicine bag and gestured for her to follow him.

  Given the house’s small footprint, Ainsley and the maid reached the door to his room within a few strides. Once Julia was past the doorframe, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter. Julia clutched her forearm weakly and gave a slight shrug.

  “I’m quite all right, Mr. Marshall,” she said, “’Tis merely a scratch.”

  Ainsley ignored her dismissive nature and raised her arm so he could see clearly. He carefully lowered his medical bag to the floor. He pressed his lips to her minor wound and began leaving a trail of attentions up her arm until finally finding her lips. She tried to pull away, most likely from embarrassment or fear of discovery. After a moment, she returned his kiss freely, almost excitedly, as he brought her closer to him. She enjoyed his attentions and hadn’t turned him away in the weeks that passed since their first encounter.

  A slight laugh escaped her lips when Ainsley finally pulled away. She bit hard on her lower lip, as if to stifle the noise, and then they both listened for any movement beyond the door.

  “She didn’t hurt you?” he asked. Julia gave a quick shake of her head.

  “When I saw her go after you I…” He paused as he ran his hand through his hair.

  Julia smiled. “I can hold my own.”

  He knew this to be true. She had proved this time and time again and yet it still did not diminish the overwhelming protectiveness he felt for her. “I should clean it, in any case,” he said, pulling his bag up from the floor. “If only to justify us being alone together.”

  He saw Julia smile as she followed him toward his desk. There he opened his bag and pulled out a large amber bottle and a square of cloth. Holding the cloth beneath her arm, he gingerly poured some of the liquid over her flesh.

  “You did not flinch,” he said.

  “Pain does not bother me,” she said softly.

  “I was talking about the cold,” he said, referring to the liquid’s temperature. Placing the bottle on the top of the desk, he repositioned the cloth over her wound and held it there for a long time. “Do you think anyone knows?” he asked suddenly.

  Julia licked her lips and shook her head. “No.”

  Seconds later there was a rap on the outer side of his door and they both turned, startled by the intrusion. Their relationship had not been compromised, but each time they were found together, even innocently, a sense of alarm overtook them.

  Margaret appeared a moment later. “She’s sleeping,” she said as she walked in the room. “How is Julia’s arm?”

  “All cleaned up, miss,” Julia said, pulling her hand from Ainsley and holding the bandage for herself. “I’ll go help the others set the room to rights.”

  As Julia left, Ainsley could feel his anger returning, rising from his feet to the top of his head. “Who is that girl?” he asked gruffly as he replaced the cap on the amber bottle and reset it in his medicine bag.

  Margaret shrugged. “I don’t recognize her,” she said. “I asked the staff already, but no one knows.” Margaret paced the room, no doubt taking in the numerous sketches, torn from the pages of his sketchbook and strewn about the room.

  “She can’t have come too far,” Ainsley said. “It’s been raining for nearly two days straight.”

  Margaret nodded. She fingered a scattered assortment of drawings on one of the tables and began shifting pages to view the others. “How come no one has come in to straighten this all out?” she asked. Finally choosing one, she held it up, angling it toward the light so she could get a better view of it.

  Ainsley exhaled. He had no care to show anyone his art, Margaret being the only exception until he had met Julia.

  Suddenly, Margaret stopped, replaced the paper to the table and turned. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “Send her on her merry way after breakfast?”

  Ainsley chuckled at the suggestion and pondered it two seconds too long. “As promising as that sounds, I don’t think anyone would thank us for it.” Ainsley pulled his bag from the table and returned it safely under his bed, hoping he would not need it again for a very long time. “She is very troubled.”

  Margaret nodded. “What did she mean, you saw them too?” she asked. “What was she talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” Ainsley answered. “Rantings of a delusional woman, I suppose. Nothing to worry ourselves over. If no one comes forward in the next day or so, we should make arrangements for her to go to St. Andrew’s House in Barning Heath, as I doubt the workhouse will accept her.”

  “The asylum?”

  Ainsley nodded. “The very one.”

  Chapter 3

  Than een its coldness did before,

  Margaret stood outside the guest room door as one of the kitchen girls waited behind her, a tray of food held in her hands. Margaret gave the girl, Patrice, a quick glance, looking for encouragement, but got none. The entire staff remembered the outbursts from the night before and Patrice was the only soul brave enough to venture inside with Margaret.

  “Jamieson said she slept soundly,” Margaret said as if to reassure them both.

  There wasn’t so much as a peep that could be heard on the other side of the door.

  “Ready then?” Margaret whispered to herself as she turned the key and pressed on the door.

  Inside they found a dishevelled bed but no girl amongst the bed clothes. A panic rose from the pit of Margaret’s stomach and she almost fled to notify Ainsley but then she saw her standing iron straight at the tall window. The pale clothes she wore, clothes that Margaret hadn’t worn since the death of her mother, blended easily with the morning light shining in the east-facing window.

  “Good morning,” Margaret said as cheerily as she could muster. Neither Margaret nor Patrice ventured farther into the room.

  The girl turned and took a step toward them, a movement that made the kitchen maid flinch. The girl stopped as if suddenly aware of their fear.

  Maintaining her composure, Margaret spoke again. “I have brought you some breakfast.” Margaret indicated the table where Patrice was to place the tray of food.

  The maid set it down and then fled without waiting to be excused. Margaret sized up the room, quickly making mental calculations. Were the woman to rush at her she could easily back away into the hall and turn the key in the lock. Seemed silly to have such an escape plan, but then Margaret’s hand went up to the scarf at her neck that hid a permanent reminder to trust her instincts.

  “You are kind,” the mystery girl said as she stepped toward the table. She plucked a grape from a small china bowl. “Forgive me,” she said, raising a hand to hide the fact she was speaking with food in her mouth. “Would you care to join me?”

  There was one chair at the table and Margaret intended to refuse but the girl quickly turned and pulled the chair at the writing desk toward the table. She set it opposite the existing chair and gave a pat on the cushion. Margaret only moved forward once the girl had retreated to the other side.

  Margaret had
no intentions of eating but she thought it rude to expect their guest to eat alone. The only reason why the mystery girl was not expected to join them at breakfast was because she was entirely unpredictable. No one in the room the night before could have anticipated such a civil creature by morning.

  “There is but one teacup,” the girl said apologetically.

  “By all means, this was brought for you,” Margaret said. “I am merely here to keep you company.”

  The girl devoured a handful of grapes without a second glance.

  In the silent minutes that passed, Margaret watched as the blonde girl poured a tea with one hand while stuffing grapes into her mouth with the other. Her eggs disappeared as quickly as her first two cups of tea and Margaret could not recall a time when so much marmalade had been used to drown a biscuit. The girl was an anomaly. She possessed a rudimentary understanding of airs and graces, the beginnings of a highborn lady, yet much was tossed aside while she ate, or perhaps it was because she felt comfortable. Or even spectacularly hungry. Margaret could see hints of breeding. However, she was far too old, sixteen or seventeen, to still be behaving as childishly as she was the night before.

  “My name is Margaret.”

  “I know.”

  “May I ask your name?” Margaret said, eyeing the young woman. “We are very interested in learning from where you originate.”

  The woman swallowed what had been puffed up in her cheek. “My mother called me Ivy.”

  “And your family name?”

  Ivy shook her head and bent further over her plate of food.

  “Ivy, I cannot help you if you do not tell me who is responsible for you,” Margaret said.

  “They say grandfather is ultimately responsible for me.”

  “And where may we find him?” Silence followed and Ivy’s feasting slowed.

  “If I told you, you would take me there and life would be even more wretched than it already has been.”

  “Wretched in what way?”