by Libba Bray
It is all I can do not to bolt from the table, for I’m trembling all over. Somewhere in Bethlem Hospital sits a girl who might be able to tell me everything I need to know, and I must find a way to get to her.
“What can be done for such a case?” Mr. Conrad asks.
“She does take some comfort from poetry. The nurses read to her when they can.”
“Perhaps I could read poetry to her?” I volunteer, hoping I don’t sound as desperate as I feel. I would do anything to see this girl. “Perhaps she would find some comfort in speaking with a girl of her own age, that is.”
Simon’s father raises his wine to me. “Our Miss Doyle is a very kind soul.”
“She is our angel,” Father says.
No, I’m not. I am a wretched girl for deceiving them so, but I must see Nell Hawkins.
“Very well, then,” Tom says grudgingly. “I shall take you tomorrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AFTER DESSERT HAS BEEN CLEARED AWAY, THE MEN are ready to have their brandy and cigars in the study while the women retire to the parlor for tea and talk.
“Mother, I believe Miss Doyle would like to see the portrait of Grandfather,” Simon says, catching us on our way in. I’ve heard no mention of this painting.
“Yes, of course. We shall all go,” Lady Denby says.
Simon’s smug smile falters. “I should hate to take you away from the fire, Mother. It is a bit drafty in the library, you know.”
“Nonsense, we shall bring our shawls and be fine. You really must see dear George—he was painted by a Cotswold portraitist of great renown.”
I don’t know what has just occurred, but I gather that Simon has lost.
“Here we are.” Lady Denby leads us into a spacious room dominated by a painting as large as a door. It is a hideously ornate depiction of a barrel-chested man astride a horse. He wears a red jacket and looks every bit the country gentleman off to the hunt. At his heels sit two obedient dogs.
Simon nods to it. “Miss Doyle, may I present my grandfather, Cornelius George Basil Middleton, Viscount of Denby.”
Grandmama makes a spectacle of herself fawning over it, though all she knows of art could fit inside a thimble. Still, it makes Lady Denby proud. She moves on to an objet d’art upon a mantel, forcing a maid who was cleaning a grate to stand waiting, brush in sooty hand.
“What a beautiful painting,” I say diplomatically.
Simon raises an eyebrow. “If by beautiful you mean to say silly, overdone, and grotesque, then I accept your compliment.”
I stifle a laugh. "The dogs are quite distinguished-looking.”
Simon stands beside me, and I feel that strange current again. He cocks his head, taking in my comment and the painting. “Yes. In fact, perhaps I could claim them as kin instead.” His eyes are so blue. And his smile is so warm. We are standing only inches apart. From the corner of my eye, I can see Grandmama and the others touring the room.
“How many of these have you read?” I ask, moving toward the bookshelves, pretending to be interested.
“Not many,” Simon says, falling into step. “I’ve a great many hobbies. They take up much of my time. It’s my duty to see after our interest in Denby, the manor and such.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, continuing my slow promenade.
“Are you attending Admiral and Lady Worthington’s Christmas ball, by any chance?”
“Yes, I am,” I say, walking to the windows overlooking the street.
“I shall be there as well.”He catches up. Here we are, side by side again.
“Oh,” I say. "How nice.”
“Perhaps you will save me a dance?” he asks shyly.
“Yes,” I say, smiling. "Perhaps I will.”
“I see you’re not wearing your necklace this evening.”
My hand springs to my bare neck. "You noticed my jewelry?”
Seeing his mother occupied, he whispers in my ear, “I noticed your neck. The necklace happened to be there. It is very unusual.”
“It was my mother’s,”I say, still blushing from the bold compliment. “It was given to her by a village woman in India. A charm of protection. I’m afraid it didn’t work for her.”
“Perhaps it isn’t for protection,” Simon says.
I’ve never thought of that. "I can’t imagine what else it could be for.”
“What is your favorite color?” Simon asks.
“Purple,” I answer. "Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” he says, smiling. “I might have to invite your brother to my club. He seems a good fellow.”
Ha! “I’m sure he would enjoy that.”Tom would leap through rings of fire for the chance to go to Simon’s club. It is the best in London.
Simon regards me for a moment. “You’re not like other young ladies my mother trots before me.”
“Oh?” I say, wincing, desperate to know how I’m different.
“There’s something adventurous about you. I feel as if you have a great many secrets I should like to know.”
Lady Denby notes us standing at the windows so close. I pretend to take an interest in a leather-bound copy of Moby-Dick that sits upon a side table. The spine crackles when I lift the cover, as if it’s never been read. "Perhaps you wouldn’t really want to know them,” I say.
“How do you know?” Simon asks, repositioning a ceramic figurine of two cupids. "Offer me a test.”
What can I say? That I suffer from the same delusions as poor Nell Hawkins but that they are not delusions at all? That I’m afraid I’m one step away from the madhouse myself? It would be so nice to confide in Simon and have him say, See, that wasn’t so very bad now, was it? You’re not mad. I believe you. I am with you.
I let the chance pass. “I have a third eye,” I say breezily. “I’m a descendant of Atalanta. And my table manners are inexcusable.”
Simon nods. “I suspected as much. That is why we’re going to ask you to eat in the stable from now on as a precaution. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all.” I close the book and turn away. “What terrible secrets do you have, Mr. Middleton?”
“Besides the gambling, carousing, and pillaging?” He falls into step behind me. "The truth?”
My heart skips a beat. “Yes,” I say, turning to him at last. “The truth.”
He stares into my eyes. "I’m frightfully dull.”
“That isn’t true,” I say, moving away again, looking up at the enormous bookcases.
“I’m afraid it is. I am to find a suitable wife with a suitable fortune and carry on the family name. It’s what they expect of me. My wishes don’t enter into it at all. I’m sorry. That was far too forward of me. You don’t need to hear my troubles.”
“No, truly. I’m happy to listen.” I am, strangely enough.
“Shall we retire to the parlor?” Lady Denby asks. With a sigh, the maid resumes her scrubbing once the ladies have gone. Simon and I follow slowly.
“Your flower is slipping, Miss Doyle.” The rose, pinned to my hair, slides to my neck. I reach for it just as he does. Our fingers touch for a moment before I turn away.
“Thank you,” I say, completely flustered.
“May I?” With great care, Simon secures the flower behind my ear. I should stop him, lest he think me too permissive. But I don’t know what to say. I am reminded that Simon is nineteen, three years my senior. He knows things that I do not.
There’s a tap at the window, followed by another, harder tap that makes me jump. “Who is throwing rocks?” Simon peers out into the hazy dark. He opens the glass. Cold air rushes in, raising gooseflesh on my arms. There is no one below that we can see.
“I should join the ladies. Grandmama will be worried about me.”
Making a hasty retreat, I nearly trip over the maid, who never even looks up from her scrubbing.
It is well after midnight when we say our goodbyes and emerge into a night alive with stars and hope. The evening has been a wild jumble for me.
There is the good—Simon. His family. The warmth they’ve shown me. My father regained. Then there is the sobering prospect of meeting Nell Hawkins at Bedlam to see if she holds the key to finding the Temple and Circe. And there is the curious—the rocks thrown against the window.
At the carriage, Kartik seems agitated. “A pleasant evening, miss?”
“Yes, very pleasant, thank you,” I answer.
“So I noted,” he mutters, helping me into the carriage and pulling away from the curb with a bit too much gusto. What ever is the matter with him?
Once my family is safely to bed, I don my coat and dash across cold, hard ground to the stables. Kartik sits reading The Odyssey and having a cup of hot tea. He is not alone. Emily sits near, listening to him read.
“Good evening,” I say, marching in.
“Good evening,” he says, standing.
Emily looks stricken. "Oh, miss, I was just . . . just . . .” “Emily, I have some business to discuss with Mr. Kartik just now, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Like a shot, Emily is running for the house.
“What did you mean by your comment tonight?”
“I simply asked if you had a pleasant evening. With Mr. Muddleton.”
“Middleton,” I correct him. "He is a gentleman, you know.”
“He looks like a fop.”
“I’ll thank you not to insult him. You know nothing about him.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you. As if you were a piece of ripe fruit.”
“He doesn’t do anything of the sort. Wait a moment. How do you know how he looks at me? Were you spying on me?”
Chagrined, Kartik buries his nose in his book. "He did look at you that way. In the library.”
“You threw those rocks against the window!”
Kartik jumps up, the book forgotten. “You allowed him to touch your hair!”
It’s true. It was much too unladylike of me. I’m embarrassed but I’m not about to let on to Kartik. “I do have something to tell you, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to hear it.”
Kartik scoffs. "I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”
“A good night to you, then.”
“Wait!” Kartik takes a step after me. I’m gloating. It is unattractive, but there it is. “I’m sorry. I promise to be on my very best behavior,” he says. He falls to his knees dramatically and pulls an acorn from the ground, holding it to his neck. "I beg of you, Miss Doyle. Tell me or I shall be forced to kill myself with this mighty weapon.”
“Oh, do get up,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “Tom has a patient at Bethlem. Nell Hawkins. He says she suffers from delusions.”
“That would explain her confinement in Bethlem.” He gives me a smug smile. When I do not return it, he says contritely, “Sorry. Please go on.”
“She claims she’s a member of the Order, and that a woman named Circe is trying to find her. She says she’s driven herself mad to keep Circe from getting to her.”
The smirk vanishes. “You must see Nell Hawkins straightaway.”
“Yes, I’ve arranged it already. Tomorrow, around noon, I shall read poetry to Nell Hawkins and find out what she knows about the Temple. Was he really looking at me that way?”
“What way?”
“Like a piece of ripe fruit?”
“You’d best be on your guard with him,” Kartik says.
He’s jealous! Kartik is jealous and Simon finds me . . . delicious? I am a bit giddy. And confused. But no, mostly giddy, I find.
“I am quite able to look after myself,” I say. I turn smartly on my heel and smack directly into the wall, raising a bump upon my forehead that will probably remain forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, DRESSED IN MY GRAY flannel suit and a felt hat, I join Tom at Bethlem Royal Hospital. The building is impressive. The front has a portico supported by six white columns. A windowed dome rests on top like a bobby’s hat. I can only hope that Tom cannot hear the hammering of my heart. With luck, Miss Hawkins will unlock the mystery of the Temple for me.
“You look quite presentable, Gemma, save for that bruise on your forehead,” Tom says, peering at it. “How did you get that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, pushing my hat lower on my forehead.
“No matter. You shall be the prettiest girl in Bethlem,” Tom says.
Ah, lovely to know that I shall be prettier than all the lunatics. I’ve got that going for me, at least. Poor Tom. He means well. He’s been much nicer to me since Simon’s obvious interest. It’s almost as if I’m human in his eyes. Perish the thought.
I decide to pity him and answer without an unruly tone. “Thank you. I am looking forward to meeting Miss Hawkins.”
“Don’t expect too much, Gemma. Her mind is tortured. Sometimes she does and says outrageous things. You’re not used to such sights. You must steel yourself.”
I have seen things you would not believe, my dear brother.
“Yes. Thank you. I shall take your advice to heart.”
We walk through a long corridor, windows on our right and doors on our left. Ferns hang in baskets from the ceiling, giving the hallway a bright feel. I don’t know what I expected a lunatic asylum to be like, but I did not imagine this. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was entering one of London’s exclusive clubs. The nurses pass us by with a quiet nod, their stiff white hats perched atop their heads like day-old meringues.
Tom ushers me into a wood-paneled parlor, where several women sit sewing. An older woman, slightly disheveled, concentrates intently on playing the piano, tapping out a childlike tune and singing along in a soft, shaky vibrato. In one corner stands a cage that houses a beautiful parrot. The bird squawks. “How are we feeling? How are we feeling?”
“They have a parrot?” I whisper. I’m trying to keep my composure, to make it seem as if I visit asylums every day.
“Yes. Cassandra is her name. She’s quite the talker. She picks up a bit of everything from our patients. Botany, navigation, nonsensical ramblings. Soon we shall have to cure her as well.”
As if on cue, Cassandra screeches out, “I am a great poet. I am a great poet.”
Tom nods. “One of our patients, Mr. Osborne, fancies himself a poet worth a small fortune. He is quite affronted by our efforts to keep him here and writes daily letters to his publisher and the Duke of Wales.”
The older woman at the piano stops suddenly. Extremely agitated and wringing her hands, she approaches Tom. "Is this all a dream? Do you know?” she asks in a worried voice.
“I assure you this is all quite real, Mrs. Sommers.”
“Are they going to hurt me? Have I been wicked?” She pulls at her eyelashes. A few come away in her hand.
A nurse in a starched white apron flits over, stops her. "Now, now, Mrs. Sommers, what happened to our lovely tune? Let’s come back to the piano, shall we?”
The hand near the woman’s eyelashes flutters like a wounded bird and spirals down to her side. "A dream, a dream. All a dream.”
“You’ve just met Mrs. Sommers.”
“So I see.”
A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache approaches. His clothes are slightly rumpled and his hair will not lie flat, but otherwise, he seems quite normal.
“Ah, Mr. Snow. How are we today, sir?” Tom asks.
“Fine, fine,” the man answers. "I’ve sent a letter to Dr. Smith. He’ll soon have my case well in hand, well in hand, well in hand. I shall attend the dance. I shall. I shall, sir.”
“We shall see, Mr. Snow. First there is the matter of your conduct at the previous dance. You took quite a few liberties with the ladies. They were not appreciative.”
“Lies, lies, all lies. My solicitor shall see to it, sir, eh, what? Lies, I tell you.”
“We shall discuss it. Good day to you, then.”
“Dr. Smith has my letter, sir! He shall rectify my reputation!”
“Mr. Snow,” Tom explains
as we make our way through the sitting room. “He has a habit of letting his hands wander during the dances.”
“Oh,” I say. I shall try to avoid dancing with Mr. Snow. As we walk on, Tom offers a polite hello to all he meets. Considering what a beast he is at home, it is quite surprising to see him here, kind and controlled. I’m proud of him. I can’t believe it, but I am.
By the window sits a tiny creature. She is such a slight thing. Her face is gaunt, though I can see where she was once a pretty girl. There are dark circles beneath her brown eyes. She rakes thin fingers through her hair, which has been pulled back into a topknot. Tufts stick out all over, making her look quite a bit like the parrot, Cassandra.
“Good morning, Miss Hawkins,”Tom says cheerily.
The girl says nothing.
“Miss Hawkins, may I present my sister, Miss Gemma Doyle. She would very much like to meet you. She’s brought a book of poetry. The two of you could have a nice chat.”
Silence again. Nell’s tongue slides along her chapped lips. Tom looks at me as if to say, Are you sure? I nod.
“Very well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted whilst I make my visits, eh?”
“How do you do?” I say, taking the chair directly opposite. Nell Hawkins goes on raking her hands through her hair. “I understand you’ve been away at school.” Silence. “I am also at school. Spence Academy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Down the room, Mrs. Sommers continues her abuse of the piano. “Shall I read some from Mr. Browning? His poetry is quite soothing, I find.”
The parrot squawks. "Keep to the path. Keep to the path.”
I make a great show of reading Mr. Browning.
Tom leaves the room, and I close my book. “I don’t believe you are insane, Miss Hawkins. I know about the Order and Circe. I believe you.”
Her hand stops for a moment. It shakes.
“You need not fear me. I want to stop Circe. But I need your assistance.”
Nell Hawkins’s eyes seem to see me for the first time. Her voice is high and scratchy as tree branches knocking against a pane in the wind. "I know who you are.”
The bird squawks. “I know who you are. I know who you are.” It sends a chill down my spine.
“You do?”