Reed sighed then, and his face relaxed. "You are being cryptic, but I suppose not intentionally." He placed his hand on top of hers. "There's obviously too much going on in there," he said half in earnest, tapping the side of her head with his index finger.
"Too much by far. Why couldn't I have chosen a simple woman?" His thumb moved down slowly to caress her cheek. The tingling began in her body at his touch—immediate and, as he'd said before, electric.
"Because you would be bored," she said, trying to regain her composure. Charlotte had to speak lightly, or she feared she would beg him to make love to her in the carriage. "Isn't that why you kept Mrs. Belgrave as your watchdog?"
The cloud that crossed his features passed over in the space of a candle flame's flicker, but she knew she'd seen it. There was something else, she was sure, that had caused him to retreat from the ranks of eligible bachelors—something in the way he'd put a quick end to the woeful tale of the beautiful Celia.
Moreover, his brief expression reminded her too well of the face that used to look back at her from her own oval mirror. It held fear such as she had once known. And while hers was a fear of loneliness after Teddy moved away, what Reed could be afraid of was unknown to her.
They drew up in front of her aunt's home. Charlotte realized that, for the moment, they had come to a truce or a stalemate; she wasn't sure which. While she waited for Reed to help her down, she heard a loud crack followed by a man's warning cry.
Through the open carriage door, she saw Reed's horror-struck face as he looked down the street toward the noise. She barely had time to acknowledge the quick surge of alarm that raised the hairs on her neck when a bone jarring impact sent her flying.
Chapter 25
Reed caught her in midair as the clarence lurched forward. His team spooked and ran a few yards, striking another carriage and a lamppost before Forbes could get them under control. Charlotte and Reed landed together ungracefully with her on his stomach at the foot of Alicia Randall's steps.
"Are you all right?" Charlotte asked, looking down at Reed sprawled on his back, his face barely visible underneath her skirts.
"I think I should be asking you that," he said as they began to untangle themselves.
"I'm fine, I think," she stammered. Her aunt's door opened, and Gerald came into view followed by Alicia.
"What happened?" Alicia asked, as Gerald came down the steps to assist Charlotte.
"It seemed to be a runaway carriage," Reed said, dusting himself off. He scanned the roadway. "But it's gone! Forbes," Reed called, as his driver returned with the shaken team of Bays and the damaged carriage still attached. "What in God's name happened?"
"Don't rightly know, sir," the sandy-haired, young man answered. He, too, looked shaken. "I heard what sounded like a gunshot, then a man called out. I turned and sees the whisky coming straight for us, horse an' all. There weren't no one on the dickey as I could see."
"No driver!" exclaimed Alicia, grasping the seriousness of what had just occurred. "You could have been killed," she said, hugging Charlotte who still felt a bit dazed.
"Reed," Charlotte asked as her aunt released her, "how could there be no driver? I heard the noise, too. Was it a gunshot?"
He looked red-faced with anger. "It was some blamed fool out of control. Thankfully, it was only a shay or we wouldn't be here right now." He surveyed his carriage. One of the back wheels was cracked with the spokes sticking askew, and the rear axle was hanging at an odd angle.
Charlotte noticed that he hadn't answered her questions and began to wonder if he suspected foul play. Horses ran away with their carriages all the time, but gun shots in the city were uncommon. One name popped into her head, along with her last unfinished threat. She knew Helen was capable of vicious slander and cruel manipulation, but had never thought bodily injury was in her repertoire. Still, the stakes, as her father would have said, were very high.
"I think it's time to retire, don't you, Charlotte?" Alicia asked, looking pale.
She nodded. This wasn't the place or the time to discuss her suspicions of Helen with Reed.
"Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Malloy," she offered, "and for your quick reflexes."
"Are you certain you're—?" he began.
"I'm unharmed," she finished. "At least, nothing that a hot bath won't fix."
Charlotte wanted to smooth his eyebrows out of their severe straight rule, but she could do nothing in front of Alicia, who might already be suspicious about why she was spending so much time with the family attorney.
"You do make an excellent pillow," she added under her breath, trying to make him smile, but he didn't.
* * *
"How is your niece this morning?"
"Why, I'm fine," Charlotte answered Jason's query directed to her aunt as she floated into the parlor on a wave of determination to breach the barriers of Boston's Lunatic Hospital in a matter of hours.
An array of emotions crossed Jason's face when he saw her, the last one seemed to be utmost happiness.
"I heard that there was some trouble in the street here yesterday, and I was concerned."
Charlotte took a seat in the parlor as tea was brought in. The warm, familiar scent of it was reassuring. "There was a runaway curricle, but no one was hurt."
"I'm surprised word reached you already, Mr. Farnsworth," Alicia piped in. "Surely, the news of our little mishap hasn't been in the papers."
"No, rest assured, dear lady," Jason said, taking a seat. "I have other friends on this street and heard the news when taking coffee this morning. But I am relieved to see no harm has come to either one of you." He turned to Charlotte. "Are you up for some riding today?"
"I'm afraid my days of leisure have come to an end, thank goodness." She thought that sounded rude the moment it was out of her mouth. "Not that I haven't enjoyed the time we've spent together, but as I mentioned to you before, I'm used to being a working woman. And now that I have a task at hand, I am eager to accomplish it to the best of my abilities."
"Does that mean you're shutting me out of your busy new life altogether?" Jason asked, sipping the tea he had poured himself from the tray. "I don't think I could stand such banishment."
Charlotte laughed. "Don't be silly. It simply means that you have to find some other amusement for the time being."
"What about supper tonight? It seems as if it has been ages since we've eaten together."
Alicia coughed politely, and at Charlotte's glance, she nodded her approval. Charlotte pursed her lips. Jason and her aunt were waiting for her to acquiesce, but Charlotte had absolutely no desire to give Jason the wrong idea about their relationship in case he was beginning to care for her.
More importantly, she didn't want to cause Reed a moment of jealousy—not after learning about Celia's dishonorable actions. It was certainly not the way to win his heart.
"We dined together recently, as I recall. Besides," Charlotte added as Jason started to brood, "I have other people to see, people who've left calling cards since the night of the party." In truth, she didn't intend to go out with anyone except Reed.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get ready for an appointment."
"May I give you a ride?" Jason asked, standing up with her.
"I've got my aunt's barouche," Charlotte told him and continued to resist even when he pushed the matter.
"I'm going into town anyway," he insisted. She was beginning to get annoyed when he flashed a winsome smiled and shook his head.
"I meant no offense. I just wanted to spend a few minutes more in your company. However, I can see I've overstayed my welcome; not wanting to wear it out completely, I'll be off. I'll call on you again in a few days; the supper invitation still stands of course." And he was gone.
"He pulled foot in a hurry," Charlotte remarked, relieved.
"Hm," Aunt Alicia agreed, "I wonder if you've finally offended the boy."
* * *
Charlotte was welcomed more warmly when she returned to t
he hospital. Superintendent George Mason met her at the front door precisely at ten o'clock, ushering her into his office.
"My only rule, and this is for your safety," he added, showing his yellow teeth, "is that you stay with a staff member at all times." He promptly headed off to fetch the doctor.
She waited, feeling a little nervous, occasionally hearing footsteps along the corridor, until finally a man came striding through the office door.
"I'm Dr. Pridgen. I understand you wish to speak with me."
Charlotte assessed the man, in his mid-forties, slightly graying at the temples, with a kind face and active, intelligent eyes. Charlotte felt that here, at last, was someone who would understand her project.
"I'm working on an article for the Boston Post," Charlotte responded, offering him her hand. "Thank you for taking the time to see me."
"Please, have a seat." He merely leaned on the edge of the superintendent's desk. "Mr. Mason is a little overprotective," he said, with a slight shrug, "but I can find the time to discuss my work with a pretty journalist."
Charlotte felt a blush creep up her face.
"I was hoping to gain your clinical perspective on how treatment is working for the criminally insane. Is there ever a possibility of recovery and release into society? Furthermore, I'd like to learn what type of criminals are sent here and what is the duration of their treatment; are any sent again to prison after they are released or do they go to trial? And are any ever sent home?" She stopped to take a deep breath.
"My, you do want to know a lot. I assume you have some paper handy."
With that, the good doctor launched into a long discussion of every aspect of the institution that he headed. Charlotte could barely keep up with him. Until finally, he offered her a tour of the facilities.
She wasn't entirely certain she wanted to see the patients, but knew it was her duty to observe how they lived if she was to write as thoroughly as she wanted. She closed her notebook, picked up her reticule, and preceded the doctor out the door.
"That's everything," Dr. Pridgen said, about forty minutes later, as they left the dining hall and the permanent wards behind. "You've seen it all."
"I have, indeed," Charlotte said.
Her mind was a-whirl with the sights and sounds of the hospital. The institution was terribly overcrowded, though the staff had no control over that and looked to be doing their best to make the patients comfortable.
She'd seen any number of treatments—men and women strapped in chairs and cuffed to their beds, patients shaved bald, others screaming, some quiet, some immersed in water up to their necks, and many who seemed utterly normal as they read books or played music or talked with each other.
However, as they headed down the last staircase, she noticed a wing in which they had not ventured.
"Just storage," Dr. Pridgen said. "I hardly ever go down there myself. Cleaning supplies, dry goods, etc. The superintendent handles all supplies."
"Doctor!" A nurse came hurrying down the stairs after them. "We need your assistance immediately."
"I'm on my way." He looked at Charlotte, a flicker of doubt on his face. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all. You've been more than generous with your time. I'll make my own way to Mr. Mason's office."
"It's straight along there," he said pointing toward the front of the building.
Charlotte nodded and began heading in the direction he indicated as he hesitated a moment, watching her. She gave him a last smile and picked up her pace. Then she heard him go up the stairs with the nurse.
Later, she would attribute it to her writer's instinct or her woman's intuition—she wasn't sure which—but Charlotte knew she had to take a look down that last hallway. It just didn't sit well with her not to see everything.
Quickly and quietly, she retraced her steps. There was a series of storage rooms as Dr. Pridgen had said, rooms that previously housed patients before the second and third stories were built. But at the far end, there was one room that had an old-style door with bars built-in at eye-level, resembling one from the House of Corrections nearby. It was closed and visibly secured by a large padlock on the outside.
Scarumph. Charlotte thought she heard a noise inside, something scraping on the floor, and it made the hair on the nape of her neck stand up. She took a step forward, thinking to take a quick look through the bars, when a voice boomed out behind her.
"Here now, what are you doing down there?"
She froze, terror-stricken for a brief second. Then she took a deep breath and turned to face the unfamiliar voice, grateful at least that it wasn't the unpleasant countenance of Superintendent Mason.
"I'm Miss Sanborn, a reporter for the Post. Dr. Pridgen was giving me a tour when he was called away."
The man appeared to be a custodian, holding a pail in one hand and a mop in the other.
"Does Mr. Mason know you're here?"
"Yes, of course. In fact, I'm on my way to his office now. I guess I lost my way."
"You must be lost if you think Mr. Mason would have a room such as that for his office." The man snickered at his own levity. Charlotte smiled. She knew how to handle him.
"If you tell me your name and what you do here, I'll put you in my article." She flipped open her notebook.
"In the paper and all?" The man's voice was awestruck.
Charlotte smiled. She quickly jotted down his personal information, then gestured nonchalantly at the room beside them. "Can you tell me what this room is used for?"
He screwed up his face as if still debating whether to speak with her. Then he relaxed, obviously thinking a moment of fame was worth the risk.
"It's usually empty," he told her. "I was keeping my pails and brooms and the like in there until not long ago. Then Mr. Mason says to me to clear it out and toss in some bedding. And then we put in the latest bloke waiting to get the black gown."
"The black gown?" she asked.
"Yeah, to be sentenced, you know?"
Charlotte nodded, unable to repress a shiver. There was something odd about it. Dr. Pridgen had lied to her, unless he didn't know there was anyone there. But he was the head doctor, how could he not know?
"Why is this patient here? How long is he staying?"
The man shrugged. "I asked the very same thing. I don't care for my storage room being taken over. Mr. Mason says to me, 'As for his length of stay, that's entirely up to him.'" The janitor gestured toward the room, indicating the person inside. "He's suffering from demen... demen—"
"Dementia?"
"That's it," the man said, setting down his bucket, "and Mr. Mason goes on, 'Until he remembers who he is, a criminal guilty of murder, then he can't be sentenced.' But it makes no never mind, he tells me."
"How is that?" Charlotte asked, curious now to see into the room, which she thought looked more like a prison cell than a hospital room, at least from the outside.
"Mr. Mason says he can either spend the rest of his life in there," he hooked a thumb at the locked room once more, "pretending to be someone he's not—"
"You mean suffering from delusions," Charlotte offered.
The janitor shrugged. "Mr. Mason said 'pretend,' I'm sure of that. Or," he continued, "he can be cured of his dementia and return to the courts where he'll more than likely be bagged for life in the boarding school."
"The boarding school?" Charlotte asked.
"Ay, you know, the state penitentiary. That's if he's not the guest of honor at a necktie sociable, so to speak." He mimed a man being hanged, pretending to pull a noose up above his own head. "I guess Mr. Mason is right. It makes no difference. A cell is a cell."
With that, the janitor stepped aside, allowing her to look through the bars. She had to stand on her tiptoes and felt somewhat foolish, even ashamed, as though she was viewing an animal in a cage.
Peering into the gloominess inside the locked room, with the only light coming in from behind her, she could just make out a huddled form, leaning against the bare wall opposi
te. He rested on top of what appeared to be a crude straw mattress on the concrete floor. Murderer or not, the cell looked as though it wasn't fit for animals, let alone people.
As her shadow fell across the man, he turned, and Charlotte saw clearly the wretched and dirty face of her younger brother.
Chapter 26
Charlotte fled the building and ran through the immaculately groomed gardens until she reached her aunt's carriage. Once inside, she tried to calm the panic, but she couldn't clear her head of the image of her brother, filthy, his hair matted, staring at her with incredulous eyes, and then simply lifting one finger to silence her.
She had stifled the cry that had been on her lips and had backed away. Shaking slightly with shock, she'd told the custodian that she was feeling ill and left as if all the hounds of hell were after her. She had to find Reed at once. Then she thought about the telephone.
"Casey," she addressed her aunt's driver, "as soon as we cross the channel, please stop at the first large office building you see. Anywhere you think there will be a telephone."
The journey back to Boston proper seemed interminable, though it was only minutes. Casey pulled up on a commercial street, and Charlotte alighted from the carriage, recognizing nothing but heading toward the large stone facade of a bank. With little preliminary discussion, she demanded that they call Malloy and Associates.
It wasn't long before she had John Trelaine on the line. It was the oddest thing she had ever experienced, hearing his crackling, disembodied voice as he told her that Reed was out but was expected to return momentarily.
"I'll be there shortly. If you see him, John, tell him it is an emergency. Tell him I found my brother in the Lunatic Hospital."
She closed her eyes and prayed that Reed would have returned by the time she got to Scollay Square.
* * *
Charlotte paced the flawlessly appointed lounge, unable to sit and starting at every sound. When she'd arrived ten minutes earlier, the doorman informed her that John had left to search for Reed. Just when she didn't think she could stand to wait any longer, she heard him enter.
The Defiant Hearts Series Box Set Page 35