Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  “You have not spent enough time with her to make that sort of claim,” Margaret said dismissively. Her distrust was grossly evident.

  “I have read her files, which include the statements from her brothers—”

  “Which were highly falsified!”

  “True. But Mr. Marshall here and others at St. Andrew’s have given me much to go on and I believe Miss Owen suffers from a disassociation disorder. Her panics, as they are described, point to trauma.”

  Margaret snorted.

  Dr. Hertz licked his lips nervously and glanced to Ainsley, who only indicated that he should go on. “This trauma has caused her consciousness to disconnect, in a way, leading her behaviour and then no recollection of having done anything amiss. Cases abound of such things, though I agree with Mr. Marshall here that Ivy’s symptoms are far less severe.”

  As the alienist spoke, Ivy grew tired and lowered her head onto Margaret’s shoulder. She seemed perfectly content to have Margaret speak for her and never raised a peep of protest.

  “What do you suggest?” Margaret pressed.

  “I run a small, private asylum, housing no more than a hundred souls, all who suffer from milder forms of lunacy and who we believe to be curable.” The doctor spoke with a growing smile. “If we can study them there is much we can learn.”

  “Study them how?”

  “Well, asking questions, observing their actions. I understand your trepidation, Lady Margaret. I have no desire to send Miss Owen anywhere that resembles St. Andrew’s House. I’m sure it’s a fine institution—”

  “It’s hell on earth, Dr. Hertz. I wouldn’t darken its doors no matter the sum offered to me.”

  “Fair enough. An institution such as that will only worsen Miss Owen’s condition. We must offer her space for calm, so that she may be calm up here as well.” He pointed to the side of his head.

  “His research facility is in London, Margaret,” Ainsley said.

  “Yes, you may visit her any time you like,” Dr. Hertz offered.

  Soon Ivy laid her head down to rest on Margaret’s lap while Margaret cradled her and petted her like a mother with a child. Ainsley could tell she was contemplating the doctor’s words, weighing his claims carefully before finally asking a question. “You say you are from London. How did you come to know about us, and our need for such a place?”

  “Dr. Davies came to visit my facility just last evening. He said it was a matter of dire emergency. I came as soon as I was able.”

  Margaret smiled at the mention of their family friend. Her apprehension disappeared almost instantly. “Why didn’t you say as much in the first place?”

  Epilogue

  Ainsley’s dreams about his father, bound to a chair and unable to speak, haunted him for many days, appearing almost nightly even after the family made the strategic decision to return to Marshall House in Belgravia so that renovations could be completed at The Briar. He told no one of the growing sense of foreboding that rose up in him, causing him a great deal of anxiety as he went about his daily tasks. The dreams stopped abruptly, however, on the day when Aunt Louisa came to Ainsley’s room, an unfolded letter in her grasp.

  “What is it?” Ainsley asked, seeing how his aunt’s hand trembled.

  “Lord Benedict writes to say your father has suffered some sort of medical attack.” Aunt Louisa paused and placed a hand over her mouth in a feeble effort to stifle the tears.

  “Does he live?” Ainsley asked, ignoring the heavy feeling that bombarded his head. The thought of both his parents gone within the span of a year was too difficult to comprehend.

  Aunt Louisa nodded but then proceeded to thrust the paper at him, unable to form the words to relay the rest of the missive. His father’s business partner offered no explanation for what exactly had transpired while abroad but said they would be making their way home and would telegraph their expected arrival by train once they reached a British port.

  The four-day wait was excruciating, with Margaret, Nathanial, and Aunt Louisa speculating widely. Their theories ranged in intensity from a slight bump to the head to complete cardiac failure. Ainsley remained silent. His vivid, medically trained imagination would not help the family find calm. Eventually, the telegraph did arrive and they readied themselves to head to Charing Cross for the three o’clock train.

  Train after train arrived and departed, blowing smoke and steam into the air around the Marshall family as they waited. With each train, the platforms became bloated with travellers, returning or departing, though none took any special notice of the apprehensive family that waited on platform four.

  When Lord Marshall’s train arrived, Aunt Louisa recognized it instinctively and tapped Ainsley’s arm. “This is it,” she said. She looked at him with a downtrodden exhale, which made him place a reassuring hand on her back.

  Passengers disembarked and scurried along, leaving the family to wonder if they understood the date of the arrival wrong. “Perhaps Lord Benedict meant tomorrow’s train,” Margaret suggested glumly. She turned to Ainsley but as she did so, a final compartment door at the far end was opened and two porters rushed to aid the passengers inside. Benedict appeared first, waving his hat toward the family, but lingering as a third porter clamoured up into the compartment.

  Aunt Louisa stepped forward first, inching along the platform with trepidation. Margaret took Ainsley’s hand and together they walked. By the time they reached Lord Benedict’s side Lord Marshall appeared, carried by the two porters, one on each side, a third holding a wheeled chair.

  At first, Lord Marshall looked as if he were speaking. Over the chug of the nearby engine, Ainsley imagined him barking orders to the men helping him. But the movement of his father’s lips did not cease. The chair had been facing away from the family, who now walked slower, confused and unsure. It was only when the chair was turned did Ainsley, Margaret, and Aunt Louisa see the true extent of Lord Marshall’s condition.

  Seeing his father’s head slightly slouched to the side, his mouth downturned at the corner, and a recognizable tremble to his right hand, Ainsley knew right away what it was that had befallen his father, even before Lord Benedict said the word.

  Apoplexy.

  The porters rolled the chair along, but Margaret rushed them, throwing herself at her father’s feet and crying into his lap. Lord Marshall placed his left hand on Margaret’s head while his lips moved but no words came out.

  Ainsley saw Aunt Louisa swallow back accumulating tears before tapping her niece on the shoulder. “Now child, let’s not make a fuss.” She glanced around them, scanning for onlookers, known or unknown to the family.

  Lord Benedict spoke quietly, offering quick details of the calamity, but Ainsley heard none of it. He watched his sister cry at his father’s feet and studied the features, once proud and angular, that had become slack and withered. He hardly looked like their father at all.

  It was only when Lord Marshall’s blue eyes lifted, catching Ainsley’s stare, that the son recognized the man behind the body ravaged by stroke. His father lived, inside that malfunctioning body, trapped by circumstance and silenced by immobility.

  In that instant, all the worry and fear erupted, cascading down Ainsley’s face and crashing into the cement beneath them. He wept openly, not for the father gone but for the man constrained by a malady that came without warning. They may have never seen eye to eye, or agreed on much of anything, but for all their chest puffing, curt phrases, and spiteful remarks there could be no denying how much Ainsley had grown to love this man.

  Approaching Night

  By John Clare (1793-1864)

  O take this world away from me;

  Its strife I cannot bear to see,

  Its very praises hurt me more

  Than een its coldness did before,

  Its hollow ways torment me now

  And start a cold sweat on my brow,

  Its noise I cannot bear to hear,

  Its joy is trouble to my ear,

  Its w
ays I cannot bear to see,

  Its crowds are solitudes to me.

  O, how I long to be agen

  That poor and independent man,

  With labour's lot from morn to night

  And books to read at candle light;

  That followed labour in the field

  From light to dark when toil could yield

  Real happiness with little gain,

  Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain:

  Though, leaning on my spade to rest,

  I've thought how richer folks were blest

  And knew not quiet was the best.

  Go with your tauntings, go;

  Neer think to hurt me so;

  I'll scoff at your disdain.

  Cold though the winter blow,

  When hills are free from snow

  It will be spring again.

  So go, and fare thee well,

  Nor think ye'll have to tell

  Of wounded hearts from me,

  Locked up in your hearts cell.

  Mine still at home doth dwell

  In its first liberty.

  Bees sip not at one flower,

  Spring comes not with one shower,

  Nor shines the sun alone

  Upon one favoured hour,

  But with unstinted power

  Makes every day his own.

  And for my freedom's sake

  With such I'll pattern take,

  And rove and revel on.

  Your gall shall never make

  Me honied paths forsake;

  So prythee get thee gone.

  And when my toil is blest

  And I find a maid possest

  Of truth that's not in thee,

  Like bird that finds its nest

  I'll stop and take my rest;

  And love as she loves me.

  Tracy L. Ward

  A former journalist and graduate from Humber College’s School for Writers, Tracy L. Ward has been hard at work developing her favourite protagonist, Peter Ainsley, and chronicling his adventures as a young surgeon in Victorian England. Readers can expect further books in the Peter Ainsley series as well as some other books currently in the works. She lives north of Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and two kids.

  For all the latest updates her website can be found at www.gothicmysterywriter.blogspot.com

  Find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TracyWardAuthor