Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  The woman nodded as she pulled the door wider, revealing herself in a black mourning dress. “I am Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” she said as she stepped out of the way to allow Ainsley to enter.

  The home Mrs. Fitzpatrick shared with her husband was modest in space and furnishings. She led the way through a sparse sitting room at the front of the house, to the equally sized kitchen at the back. A slim set of stairs leading to a half storey above was situated against the farthest wall in the kitchen.

  “I was just ’bout to sit for a spot of tea,” she said meekly. “Would you care for some?” She placed her hands on the back of one of the chairs at the table as she looked at him.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Ainsley said with a nod.

  “Have a seat then,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick ordered before turning to the stove.

  “First let me say, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, how very sorry I am for your loss,” Ainsley began as he settled himself in at the table. He saw the older woman slow her movements slightly, bowing her head as if in prayer.

  “Thank you,” she said before continuing to prepare the tea. A moment later, Ainsley was presented with a lovely china teacup with a chip in the saucer. “I hope you like honey. I’m afraid it’s all we have at the moment.” Once she spoke, regret overtook her features. “It’s all I have, I should say.”

  “Honey is fine. Thank you.”

  When Mrs. Fitzpatrick took her seat, she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed her eyes. “Pardon me,” she said, sniffling. “It’s all very new.”

  “Shouldn’t someone be here, sitting with you,” Ainsley said, “at such a difficult time?”

  “Oh, I have a very good neighbour,” she said, her expression livening slightly. “Such a dear she is. She sat with me well into the night after they brought me the news. I expect she’ll be home any minute now from work.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled as she pressed down the creases in her tablecloth. “I have friends, many lovely people who will look after me,” she said, as if trying to convince him further. “You wanted to ask me some questions about Rolland?”

  “Was he a farmhand at Summer Hill?”

  “Oh no, no,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked as if she could laugh at the suggestion. “He is a railway man. Works at the yards carting things and moving things. He’s done right by me for nearly thirty-five years now, he has. I don’t think he ever set foot on that farm until the day of the fire. Not my Rolland. No, sir. He’s not a gambler.”

  “He must have seen the smoke then, and ran to help?”

  “Yes ’em, he did. Always very helpful he was. I don’t doubt it was he who told the others to go too. That was my Rolland. Always the first to help. That fire must have been a dreadful sight. All those horses.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick clicked her tongue and shook her head. “He ran for those horses, so they tell me. He cared little for the men at that farm but he would have given his all to save them horses.”

  Ainsley saw Mrs. Fitzpatrick stiffen slightly at her own words. She pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve again and raised it to cover both eyes. When she pulled it away, her nose appeared red and her eyes moist.

  Ainsley reached over the small table and squeezed her hand.

  She smiled. “Thank you, deary.”

  “You said he cared little for the men. Why might that be?” Ainsley asked.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick huffed. “Well, on account of their unchristian goings-on, that’s what. My Rolland was a God-fearing man, Mr. Marshall.”

  “What sorts of ‘goings-on’?” Ainsley asked, using her own words.

  “Oh, he’d never tell me for sure. Only said those men would face God’s judgement before long for what they done.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick waged a stout, crooked finger at him. “It was only a matter of time. He never wanted me to concern myself with them. He told me if I were to ever see them in town I was to cross the street or pretend I never seen ’em. And I did. My Rolland has never steered me wrong.”

  Ainsley nodded as he allowed her words to soak in.

  “Seems a shame he had to go on account of that farm.” She sniffled loudly as she raised her handkerchief. “More tea?” she asked from behind the cloth.

  “No, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

  As Ainsley closed the door behind him his heart felt heavier than when he first arrived. He kept finding himself at an end to the clues, yet no further along in his quest for answers. It seemed logical that a man with as good a heart as Mr. Fitzpatrick was said to have would rush to the aid of his neighbours in need. What seemed illogical was the level of loathing he had displayed in his life for a family farm whose worst trespass, as far as Ainsley could tell, was gambling. Unless there was more to it than that.

  “Blast!” A woman at the neighbouring door was struggling with her key. Even with her back to the street Ainsley could tell her arms were burdened with a package, books, and a small basket. She pushed on the door, growling at its refusal to budge and then her books toppled to the step. Ainsley hurried to assist.

  He pick up one book and was about to snatch another when he realized the woman was Diane, the head nurse at the local hospital. He plucked the book from the pavement, without taking his eyes off her. They both stood at the same time but it was clear Diane couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Marshall,” she said curtly. She collected her books and turned back to the door, probably hoping Ainsley wouldn’t say anything more.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Fitzpatrick was your neighbour?” he asked. He pushed himself closer and took the books and package from her to ease her burden. He saw her exhale before turning the key in the lock. It worked.

  “As I said before, it’s nothing to concern yourself about,” she said, making a point to look him in the eye as she collected her books and package. She turned to go inside but Ainsley pulled the door closed. A look of resignation fell over her features as her shoulders sank. “Mr. Fitzpatrick was a good man, the best I had ever met, and I didn’t want him maligned with the likes of them.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl as she spoke.

  “You need to tell me why. What is it about these people?”

  Diane bit her lower lip and looked farther down the street. “Come inside.”

  Her home was an exact copy of the Fitzpatricks’s, only with less furnishings and knick-knacks. She dropped her books and basket on the table in the kitchen before returning to the sitting room. Ainsley closed the door behind him before he spoke. “Are you the neighbour who has been sitting with Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” he asked.

  “Yes. I slept on their couch last night so Maggie wouldn’t feel alone.” Diane pulled her hatpin and placed her straw hat on the hook near the door. “They are like my parents and I always said I wouldn’t know what to do if anything happened to either of them.” Diane placed her hand on her forehead. “I know he was old but he didn’t deserve to die like he did. He should have died in bed, at home with Maggie at his side.”

  “What about the Owens?”

  Diane took a breath and eyed Ainsley across the cramped room. “My father used to work at Summer Hill. Said it was the best job he’d ever had working with them horses. Could never say anything negative about the place that was so good to him. Even then people in town would talk, about the boys and their father, but my father would put them in their place. Said Summer Hill was as good a place as any and then some.” Diane’s face soured. “And then one day about three years ago everything changed. He became moody, wouldn’t come home at the end of his shift, spent more and more time at the public house. He wouldn’t talk about it, to Ma or me. Said he understood what the men were about. That some things, once seen couldn’t be unseen.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  Diane swallowed. “I don’t know. My father wasn’t the same any more, that was clear. He grew more and more agitated. Ma said he should find another place but no one would hire him without a reference and he needed to pay for my schooling.” Diane closed her eyes and shook her head slightly
. “Then one day I came home and Samuel was here. He had my father pressed up against the wall with his fist holding his collar really tight. I only heard a few words before they saw me. He left shortly after. I’ll never forget the look that man gave me as he passed me on his way out. I swear he looked as if he could eat me alive.”

  Ainsley felt a shiver go up his spine. He wondered if the look was similar to what he’d seen at the cemetery.

  “There are many in this town that would love to see the Owens run out and I’m one of them. No better than gypsies.”

  “Can I speak with your father? Maybe he’ll tell me what happened.”

  “He passed away last August. Dr. Hollingsworth said it was his heart.”

  Chapter 27

  Bees sip not at one flower,

  The smoke woke Ainsley first, circling in the air above his head and attacking his lungs as soon as he drew breath. Coughing did little to relieve the struggle for air and when he opened his eyes he found his room engulfed with smoke and ash.

  Another breath, deeper than the last, brought heat down his throat and nearly choked the life out of him. Each movement was a struggle but he somehow made it to the door. Rushing into the hall the flames and heat hit him, trapping him at his doorframe.

  Through the orange glow and plumes of smoke, Ainsley saw an empty hallway. No shouts or screams escaped Margaret or Jonas, Hubert, George, or Nathaniel. Flames licked the wood frames around their closed doors.

  Ainsley pushed through the pain of the heat that singed his pants and lapped at his skin underneath. He began going door to door only to find each room empty. All the furnishings, draperies, and remembrances of the family that were there once were gone. The fire remained in the hall, warming his back as he darted from room to room, finding each one barren.

  Ready to make for the front door a form caught his attention at the end of the hall. A person sat on a chair as the flames grew large around him. As Ainsley ran toward them he found his father, Lord Abraham Marshall, seated as easily as he would have in his study at the London house.

  “Father?”

  His face looked vacant as he stared past Ainsley, unaware of the flames and heat engulfing everything around him.

  “We have to go!” Ainsley shouted over the roar of the flames. “Follow me!” Ainsley turned to the stairs, expecting his father to follow.

  Lord Marshall did not move.

  Moving closer still Ainsley saw a wide swath of fabric sewn tautly over his father’s mouth. Ainsley tried to pull his father’s body from the chair but it would not move. He checked for rope or anything that could be binding his father in place.

  “The house is going to collapse!”

  He pulled on his father’s body, which remained rigid and unaware until suddenly Lord Marshall’s eyes snapped wide and stared at Ainsley imploringly.

  “I’m trying to help you!” Ainsley said, almost crying. “Why won’t you let me help you?” Ainsley clasped his father’s shoulders and shook him angrily, crying against the angst. He could not leave him. “Father, please!”

  His head on his pillow, Ainsley drew in a long, exuberant breath, gasping as if he hadn’t taken in air for days. He sat upright in bed, his heart still racing from his dream, and realized it was morning and his room looked just the same as it had the day before. He closed his eyes, attempting to relieve the panic that vibrated inside him.

  A tiny rap sprang from the other side of his closed door. “Mr. Marshall, is everything all right?” one of the maids asked.

  “Quite all right,” he answered steadily.

  “Do you want me to summon Maxwell for you?”

  “No. I’m all right,” Ainsley answered with a little more strain. “Thank you,” he added as an afterthought.

  Chapter 28

  Spring comes not with one shower,

  As the carriage rolled up the lane at Summer Hill Farm a chill went up Margaret’s spine. Two days had passed since she last saw Ivy and she still wasn’t quite sure the girl would want to see her, not after what last happened between them. But Margaret could not keep the girl from cropping up in her mind. She felt herself becoming deeply fearful.

  The horses were grazing in the lower pasture, farthest from the house, which gave the property a sparse, almost abandoned feel. There was a stark difference between that day and her first visit the week before when stable hands, grooms, and trainers riddled the property. Now it seemed almost too quiet without a sign of life anywhere.

  An uneasy feeling washed over Margaret as she stepped down from the carriage. A knock at the front door went unanswered. Stepping back, Margaret looked up to the dark windows of the second storey, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of Ivy. A form did appear at the window, pulling back the curtain to look down at Margaret, but it was not Ivy.

  “Hello?” Margaret called out feebly.

  The figure withdrew, allowing the curtain to fall back into place.

  It was the steady chop, chop, chop from behind the house that drew Margaret’s attention away from the window. She found Samuel just outside the back door, chopping charred bits of wood, presumably some of the remains from the barn fire, into pieces small enough for the kitchen stove. When he saw her he drove the ax into the stump he had been using as a pedestal.

  “Good morning, Samuel,” Margaret said, somewhat shakily.

  He did not look at her and stood, hands on hips, surveying his progress. “What can I do for you, Miss Marshall?”

  “I saw a face in the window just now,” Margaret said pointing to the upper windows.

  Samuel squinted as he looked up. “You must be mistaken. I’m the only one home,” he said with a shrug.

  “I thought it may have been Ivy,” she pressed.

  Samuel smiled out the corner of his mouth but said nothing more on the subject. Chop.

  “I’ve come to visit with her,” Margaret said.

  “She’s isn’t here,” Samuel answered, his breathing laboured.

  Margaret smiled in an attempt to soften the evident tension in the air. “Do you know when she will return?”

  “I can’t say she will return,” he answered, rearing his ax. Chop.

  A chill washed over her. “What do you mean?”

  Samuel gathered up his ax and balanced the handle on his shoulder as he positioned the next piece of wood to be splintered. “Garret took her this morning to St. Andrew’s house. She’s been committed. We don’t think she’s ever coming home.”

  Chop.

  Climbing into the carriage, Margaret told Walter to drive as fast as he could to Barning Heath and he obeyed, but not without a great deal of coaxing. “Are you sure we shouldn’t inform Mr. Marshall?” he had asked, swallowing hard and glancing around the empty farm lane.

  “Yes,” Margaret answered angrily. “He needn’t know everything I do.”

  Walter pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. For a second, Margaret thought he wouldn’t comply. But then he gave a quick nod and clasped the carriage door shut.

  Her conviction left her only once when she peered out the window just as the carriage rolled through the gates at St. Andrew’s House. She had heard stories about the asylum since she was a child—that it was like a prison for women who had never learned their place. She once heard boys taunting a young village girl by telling her they’d have her thrown in the asylum with one word to their fathers if she didn’t do what they said. Thankfully, Margaret was able to convince Daniel to intervene while Margaret waited on the stoop of the teashop. She’d been told the rules had changed considerably in recent years but the foreboding remained. No one ever walked through the front doors willingly.

  Walter helped her down the carriage steps and lingered behind her as she stepped forward. “We can come back, miss,” he said, “with Mr. Marshall. No need to go in yourself.”

  Any other time Margaret would have accepted his reasoning and relented, but that day she knew she’d have to get herself up those steps and through the arches on her own. />
  “Wait for me,” she said without looking back. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  She did not see his face as she made her way toward the front door, but she imagined he was just as nervous as she was. The secretary scowled at her, the dent between her brows deepening as Margaret approached. “Can I help you?” She looked up at Margaret without lifting her chin.

  “Yes, my name is Margaret Marshall. I’d like to enquire about Miss Ivy Owen,” Margaret said, keeping her voice steady. She clasped her hands together in front of her to keep them from shaking.

  The secretary said nothing but Margaret could hear her flipping pages in a book behind the partition that separated them. After a time the woman looked up. “She’s already had two visitors, which is our daily limit.”

  “Oh please,” Margaret said without thinking how desperate she must look, “she must be so scared.”

  The woman looked as if she would laugh. “She has her friends to keep her company.”

  Margaret’s face fell and tears stung her eyes as the woman spoke. “What do you mean?” Margaret asked in challenge.

  “That’s why she’s here, isn’t it?” the woman asked. “Imaginary friends.”

  Margaret pulled her shoulders back and vowed not to give the woman an inch of ground in that respect.

  “Certainly not. Now are you going to let me see her or should I return with my father, Lord Abraham Marshall, Earl of Montcliff?”

  Her father was nowhere near Kent County nor could he be at a moment’s notice. She was relying on this woman’s fear of authority and her respect for the peerage.

  The woman glanced left and right and leaned closer to Margaret. “I’d be more inclined to break protocol were you willing to”—she uncurled her hand with her palm facing the ceiling—“make a donation.”

  Margaret did not hesitate. She’d do anything for Ivy. She opened the string of her reticule and pulled out all the notes she had and presented them to the secretary.