A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  “No!” she snarled. “That’s my window. Get away from it.”

  Lucy covered the side of her face, seeing stars. She’d never been hit like that before and hadn’t realized how badly it hurt.

  “Just do it,” Ruby said with a resigned sigh. “We don’t want the matrons in here, and Betty will change her mind eventually. She always does.”

  Lucy took Ruby’s word for it, even though in the brief moment she’d stood before the window, she’d seen Colin leaning in the pharmacy doorway across the street. He was so close! Every cell in her body longed to lunge across the room and gaze out at him, desperate for the reminder that she wasn’t really alone.

  And she truly wasn’t alone, she reminded herself. The Lord was with her, even at times like these when she felt isolated and abandoned. He’d even sent this hard-eyed adolescent girl to her, a small voice of sanity in this forsaken world.

  The hours slipped past, and Lucy tensed each time footfalls sounded in the hallway outside their locked door. Would Dr. Schroeder come for her? Would she be forced into one of those hideous straitjackets like her father? Her mind rambled through the possibilities. Perhaps her uncle’s plan was to lock her up indefinitely. It seemed impossible to believe, but Ruby’s parents had done it.

  An hour after sunset, Betty lay down and stopped singing. Lucy lay motionless, listening to the slowing of the madwoman’s breathing. When she was sure Betty was asleep, she quietly lifted off her cot and tiptoed to the window across the icy tile floor. She almost wept when she saw Colin through the window of the pharmacy, reading a newspaper at a table in the waiting area at the front.

  She slumped against the window frame as exhaustion pulled at every muscle, but seeing Colin gave her hope, especially since he repeatedly looked up from the newspaper to stare toward the asylum. She smiled. He hadn’t forgotten about her.

  She straightened as he set the folded paper down and reached inside his jacket for something. A moment later, a series of quick flashes came from the crook of his arm. He had Nick’s flashlight!

  It took a moment for her stunned mind to focus on decoding the message he sent her.

  Oxford cricketers beat Cambridge by eight wickets.

  She covered her mouth lest her gasp of surprise wake crazy Betty. It seemed Colin was willing to share the evening newspaper with her. A moment later, he sent another message.

  First woman went over Niagara Falls in a barrel. I find you more admirable. You are brave. She is merely stupid.

  Even though the message was delivered in Morse code, she could hear Colin’s charmingly smug British accent. She wilted a little when he returned the flashlight to his jacket and lifted the newspaper again. He went back to reading.

  She couldn’t blame him. She already verged on the edge of lunacy for want of anything to do other than half-hearted conversation with her one lucid cellmate. Nevertheless, it was comforting to watch him read, for she’d always admired his insatiable curiosity.

  Less than twenty minutes later, he put the newspaper down and flashed her another message.

  Last leg of transpacific cable successfully laid. Inaugural message to be sent on the Fourth of July.

  A combination of joy and regret swirled through her. Once the cable running beneath the Pacific was working, the AP would no longer need Reuters for anything. How ironic that if Colin hadn’t made that mistake in communicating the AP’s Pacific messages, she never would have become friends with him.

  She curled up on the windowsill, desperate not to lose a single message. He went back to reading his newspaper, but an hour later he picked up the flashlight again.

  I love you.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered, her fingers touching the cold glass. Who could have guessed that the impossibly arrogant man who once chewed her out for taking too long to buy chestnuts would become so precious to her? No matter how long she lived, she would be forever grateful that during this most terrible of nights, Colin was with her throughout the ordeal.

  At breakfast time a slot in the door opened, and four trays slid through the narrow opening. Ruby sprang off her cot to retrieve the trays and distribute them to the others. There were no words exchanged with the orderly on the other side of the door, only the squeaking of a metal cart as it wheeled down the hallway.

  Lucy stared at her tray. Wherever Ridgemoor spent their money, it wasn’t in the kitchen. A bowl of oatmeal, a cup of milk, and half an apple was what each woman received. Lucy had never cared for apples and offered hers to Ruby.

  Which upset Betty. “Stop talking! No one is to talk while eating. It’s forbidden.”

  It wasn’t, but as Ruby explained after the trays were collected, Betty was liable to start throwing food if she got upset during meals. “And if that happens, we get nothing but bread and water until they’re convinced we can all behave.”

  After breakfast, Betty went back to singing into the palm of her hand, the other woman gazed vacantly into space, and Lucy turned to Ruby for a quiet word, speaking softly so as not to set off Betty.

  “What are the days like here?”

  The answer was depressing. It was three meals a day and a bath every fourth day. Dr. Schroeder was a big believer in the “rest cure,” which meant complete physical and mental withdrawal from activity and stimulation. Patients were to lie on their cots in silence and concentrate on quelling unhealthy urges. External stimulation was limited, which was why interaction with the staff was prohibited and meals were bland. The same menu was served for seven days in a row. This week they would have oatmeal at breakfast, baked beans and stewed tomatoes at lunch, and broiled chicken with a wedge of bread for dinner.

  Each patient met once per week with Dr. Schroeder for personalized treatment. Lucy’s blood chilled as Ruby described the various treatments inflicted on the patients.

  “He uses ice water baths that are supposed to slow circulation of blood to the brain and calm aggravated nerves. I’ve heard rumors he has a thing for electricity and sometimes uses it to shock patients who aren’t doing what he wants. Then there is exposure therapy. That one’s the worst. He tries to figure out what upsets you most in the world, and then he straps you down and makes you endure it. The lady who was here before you had an unholy fear of spiders. You could hear the screaming all the way up here on the third floor.”

  Lucy swallowed hard. She didn’t expect to be locked up more than a few days, but if Sergeant Palmer didn’t act quickly, she could find herself subjected to one of Dr. Schroeder’s barbaric therapies.

  It came sooner than expected. The door opened with a clang, and she whirled around, her mouth going dry at the sight of Dr. Schroeder and two male orderlies.

  “You are to come with us, Miss Drake.”

  She backed away, clutching her gown. “Now?”

  “Now.” Dr. Schroeder’s voice was implacable.

  She would not scream or thrash like a madwoman. No matter what happened, she would endure it. This man couldn’t break her spirit unless she gave him that power.

  She felt naked walking through the wide hallways wearing nothing but a baggy cotton smock, but that was the least of her concerns as the orderlies guided her down the staircase, Dr. Schroeder close behind. She was shown into a comfortable office with plush oriental carpets and book-lined walls. No sign of a bathtub or electrical generator in sight.

  Dr. Schroeder’s face was welcoming as he gestured to a leather chair opposite his desk. “If you can comport yourself like a lady, I am willing to dismiss the orderlies, and we can have a pleasant conversation. It is entirely up to you.”

  “I can behave.”

  She stood stiffly by the chair as the two men left the room, the door clicking softly behind them. It was hard to believe Dr. Schroeder was actually willing to meet with her alone, and she glanced around the room, looking for additional guards lurking behind the potted palm or the velvet maroon panels framing the window.

  “I assure you that we are alone, and the windows are secured from the o
utside, so there is no chance for escape. But come, let’s have a chat and get better acquainted. All I want is to help you.”

  She lowered herself onto the chair, the cold of the leather quickly penetrating the thin fabric covering her legs. “The last time we met, you wanted to kidnap me.”

  His smile was pained. “People rarely choose to visit Ridgemoor on their own accord, which is a shame. We can help people become better adjusted to the world. While I understand you have achieved considerable success in your work as a telegrapher, it does not exempt you from the normal psychological strains that often affect women who have no one to lean on. I can only imagine the stress you have been under, heading to the office each morning before the sun is even in the sky, then performing a man’s work all day. I expect it is often dark by the time your workday is over. True?”

  Of course it was true. Uncle Thomas managed to terrorize any man who dared court her, so of course she had to work to support herself. But she wasn’t going to talk about her life with someone on Uncle Thomas’s payroll. She opted to stare at the collection of miniature sculptures lined up on his desk. One was a hunting dog, another a child holding a shell to his ear, and another a woman cradled on a man’s lap.

  Dr. Schroeder noticed her gaze. “I see you are curious about the Rodin,” he said as he rotated the figurine so she could see it from the front.

  She caught her breath at the beauty of the sculpture. She’d seen it before, as Auguste Rodin’s sculptures had been reproduced countless times in plaster, terra-cotta, and bronze. The plaster reproduction was wildly romantic, showing the hero’s strong musculature as he sheltered the woman curled on his lap. He was leaning down and about to press a kiss to her face. It was possibly the most tender, romantic image she’d ever seen.

  She looked away, and Dr. Schroeder rotated the sculpture back to face him. “Let’s get to know one another a little better, hmm? Your uncle has serious concerns about your stability. He worries you have been working yourself to the bone, and who can blame him? A woman your age should have a man at her side, someone to lean on both for spiritual and material comfort. It must be exhausting to be on your own.”

  It was exhausting to be kidnapped and forced to run through a sewer system, but she kept her face carefully blank, refusing to engage with him.

  “One of the things I do to get to know my new patients is to show them images and encourage them to tell me what they see. I find it so much easier than other examination techniques.” Dr. Schroeder pushed the figurines on his desk to the side, then set a stack of full-color artistic prints on the desk before her.

  She didn’t want to look, but the first image was burned onto her mind before she could glance away. It showed a man at the head of a table, his head bowed in prayer, with his children gathered around him and his wife gazing at him through adoring eyes. It must have been a Thanksgiving meal, for the table was laden with a roasted turkey, freshly baked bread, and bowls of steaming vegetables.

  “What sort of thoughts does this image evoke?” Dr. Schroeder asked.

  She said nothing, just gazed at the elderberry leaves on the shrub outside the window. If she had to talk about the image in that picture, she might crack. The father looked healthy and strong but still humble as he bowed his head. The children were happy and secure, the wife content. She would give anything to be part of such a family.

  “I hope you can cooperate with this examination,” Dr. Schroeder said in a mournful voice. “The other examinations are so much less pleasant. Come. What is the first thought that comes to your mind when you see this picture?”

  “It makes me wish your kitchen made meals that appetizing.”

  Dr. Schroeder threw back his head and laughed. “Excellent! I was hoping you had a sense of humor. Let’s move on to the next image.”

  She glanced at it quickly. “Old people.”

  That was all she was going to say about the photograph of two people sitting on a bench in Central Park. She didn’t want to comment on the quiet joy on the elderly woman’s face or the laughter in the man’s expression as he leaned forward to toss bread crumbs to the pigeons at his feet. The pigeons reminded her of Beatrice and Bianca. She’d had such fun with those birds during her fleeting time with Colin. Now the birds were dead, and Colin would marry someone else, and she would return to her desk at the AP, transcribing stories about other people living full and vibrant lives.

  The rasp of paper cut through her thoughts as another image was set before her. “And this?” After she refused to look, he prodded softly. “Come, Miss Drake. I don’t want to keep reminding you of what will happen if you don’t cooperate.”

  This wouldn’t be so painful if she wasn’t so drained from the ordeal of the past few days. Why couldn’t she look at some pretty pictures without the temptation to dissolve into tears? It was just that she was so tired. And alone. Even if she wasn’t locked up in this horrible place, she was still mostly alone in this world. She didn’t have a man in her life, and brothers didn’t count. They didn’t hold you protectively like in Rodin’s sculpture.

  The doctor slid the photograph to the bottom of the stack and nudged another image across the desk. She refused to look.

  “Why does this experiment disturb you?” Dr. Schroeder asked. “There is no point denying it, for I can see the whites of your knuckles as you cling to the seat of the chair. Come. Have a look at this image and tell me what you feel.”

  As expected, it was another scene of domestic bliss, this time a mother nursing a baby as she laughed down at a little toddler at her feet. Lucy feared her own years for producing such a family were growing short, but she wouldn’t give Dr. Schroeder the satisfaction of letting him know the image upset her. She looked him in the eye without flinching.

  “The sight of that innocent boy looking up at his mother with such trust makes me wonder if he will grow up to be a man of honor, or if he will choose to become some rich man’s lapdog.”

  The tightening of Dr. Schroeder’s mouth was the only sign that her arrow found its mark. He produced another picture. “And this?”

  It showed a gallant navy officer holding a woman in his arms as they gazed at a warship on the horizon, an American flag snapping in the breeze as clouds darkened the sky. Despite the ominous tone, the image still radiated strength and the enduring power of love, dedication, and perseverance.

  She straightened her spine to glare at Dr. Schroeder. “It makes me proud to be an American. The people in that picture would do whatever it takes, sacrifice anything, to protect the people and the country they love. Too bad the artist doesn’t show if they are waging war against enemies abroad or the homegrown sort. The kind who takes bribes, ignores common decency, and debases himself to please his master. Next picture,” she ordered.

  He collected the pictures and slid them into a drawer. “That will be all for this afternoon. I will have you escorted back to your cell.”

  The hours blended into one another, the monotony of the days broken only by the arrival of meals slid through the slot in the door. Lucy soon realized Dr. Schroeder’s test had been more sadistic than she thought, for it revealed the huge, gaping hole in her life. The full effect of the damage didn’t hit her in the book-lined office but in the endless hours after she was back in her cell, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and remember the burning sense of intimacy and love in those pictures. With all her soul, she longed to trade places with the women in those pictures. They lived in the shelter and protection of a loving family. They probably didn’t rise before dawn and make their way across the city to work for countless hours transcribing the stories of other people’s newsworthy adventures.

  If she and Ruby spent too much time in conversation, it was likely to send Betty into one of her rages, so Lucy did her best to sleep during the days. It would let her remain awake at night, when Colin arrived back at the pharmacy and sent her a few quick, covert messages by flashlight. They were always fleeting and usually pointless items from the ev
ening’s newspaper. A baseball score. Tomorrow’s weather forecast. Once he told her that his nanny had made a batch of lemon cream shortbread for the team of police officers working with them.

  The days were the worst. She tried to doze, but it was hard to sleep during the day, and she stared blankly up at a water stain on the plaster ceiling. The stain looked like a woman scrubbing the floor. Or was she crawling on her knees? Praying for mercy? If Lucy stared hard enough, her focus wavered, and it seemed the water stain moved a little, as though the woman crawled across the ceiling but never moved very far.

  She had been here for three days. How much longer before the Secret Service located Tom’s coconspirators? Fear crept around the edges of her vision, for she didn’t know how much longer she could endure this.

  Lucy was awakened before dawn for another session with Dr. Schroeder. The unusually early meeting time was worrisome as she followed an orderly to the doctor’s office, still groggy and disoriented from a restless night.

  Which seemed to be part of Dr. Schroeder’s plan. He showed her more pictures of young lovers gazing wistfully into one another’s eyes and happy families enjoying a picnic on a perfect spring day. Only this time he was shrewder.

  Amidst the scenes of domestic bliss came the stark image of a single, sickly tree standing in a barren field. He asked Lucy how she felt seeing that isolated tree, twisted and battered by the wind and elements. All she could do was shrug before Dr. Schroeder moved on to a painting of a laughing couple on a sailboat. Picture after picture captured such loveliness that Lucy wanted to dissolve into them, and then came a photograph of a dozen women standing on a factory floor, their shoulders stooped in exhaustion and a blank look of resignation on their faces. Those women had no hope.