Would he think less of her when he learned the full extent of the indignities to which she’d been subjected? Would he feel that it tainted her, somehow?
It was how she felt herself. As if she’d been stained with a foul substance that couldn’t be washed away.
Justin’s hand fell from her back when they entered the parlor. He stood nearby as she situated herself on the sofa, but he didn’t sit beside her. He would have had to displace Jenny. Instead, he strolled to the coal fireplace at the opposite side of the room and leaned against the carved mantelshelf as he had the previous evening.
Mrs. Jarrow brought them tea and Jenny poured. Helena’s hands were trembling too badly to hold the teapot.
Mr. Pelham took no more than a sip before he returned his teacup to the tray and withdrew a small notebook and pencil from an inner pocket of his coat. He looked at her steadily. “I can ask you questions, if you prefer, but it might be easier for you if you simply started your tale at the beginning.”
Helena moistened her lips. “Very well.”
The gilt-trimmed clock on the mantelshelf chimed eleven o’clock.
When it chimed twelve, she was still talking.
Mr. Pelham occasionally asked a question or requested clarification, but the majority of the time he merely listened—all the while jotting notes in his little book.
“You describe the first treatment at Lowbridge House as a cold water treatment,” he said at one point. “Can you explain what that entailed?”
Helena nodded. “If you like.” She folded her hands in her lap. They were shaking quite out of control. “The matrons at Lowbridge would put me into a tub filled with ice cold water. There was a…a sort of lid. It had a hole in one end for a person’s head. It allowed them to keep a patient in the cold water for as long as they pleased. Mr. Glyde said—”
Mr. Pelham raised his head from his notebook. “Mr. Glyde was present during this treatment?”
“Yes. It’s part of the reason my uncle employs him. Whenever I resisted one of the treatments, he would take me by the arms and shake me into compliance. Then, when I was quite subdued, he would drag me wherever it was I’d been ordered to go. At Lowbridge, when I wouldn’t…when I wouldn’t undress and get into the tub, the matrons called him. He—” She broke off, briefly losing her composure.
Jenny took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s not decent. You shouldn’t have to repeat it.”
“It’s your choice, my lady,” Mr. Pelham said quietly. “But know this: you are not alone. I’ve spoken to countless others, both men and women, who have been subjected to equally appalling treatments at private asylums just like Lowbridge House.”
Helena gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “It’s all right, Jenny. I need to finish.” She gently extricated her hand and folded it back in her lap.
She wanted to do this on her own, without clinging to Jenny or Justin. It seemed somehow important that she maintain a sense of independence—of control—in the telling of her story, however illusory that control might be.
“Mr. Glyde was outside with the carriage,” she continued. “The matrons summoned him and, with his help, they…they stripped me down to my shift and…forced me into the tub. They put the lid over me, trapping me inside.” Her voice trembled, but she kept on. “There was n-no way to get out. I was frozen. Numb. I b-begged them to let me go, but it only strengthened their resolve to keep me in the water. Mr. Glyde said he knew of a lunatic who’d once been kept in the cold baths for three days straight.”
Mr. Pelham looked up at her, his expression grave. “How long were you kept in the bath?”
“Two hours, that first time.”
“And subsequent cold water baths?”
Helena shot a brief glance at Justin. He was still standing by the mantelshelf. His arms were crossed, his jaw hardened. Even from a distance, she could see the rhythmic spasm of a muscle working in his cheek. “Three, maybe four hours,” she said. “One loses count.”
“Were these cold baths always administered at the asylum?” Mr. Pelham asked.
“Yes. It was only the bleeding and the electrotherapy that were done at Grosvenor Square.”
“By Dr. Collins, Lord Castleton’s private physician?”
“That’s correct.”
Mr. Pelham’s pencil flew across the pages of his notebook. She wondered if he was writing in shorthand. “I’ll need you to describe those treatments as well,” he said. “I understand it’s difficult.”
Mr. Finchley withdrew his pocket watch and looked at the time before dropping it back into the pocket of his waistcoat without a word. He’d remained silent throughout the interview, sitting nearby with a notebook of his own in which he occasionally jotted something down.
“Are you able to go on?” Mr. Pelham asked her.
Helena assured him that she was. She spent the next hour telling him everything about the other treatments to which she’d been subjected. The leeches and lancets which had bled her until she was faint and listless. The purgatives which had left her sick and weak. And the electric shocks which had terrified her almost as much as the ice baths at Lowbridge House.
“Dr. Collins had an electrotherapy machine,” she said. “A portable device in a wooden box. I don’t know quite how to describe it. It operated by magnet, I think. He would turn a little crank on the side of the box and it would produce a jolt of electricity. He applied it with a pair of brass handles placed over a wet piece of sponge.”
“Where on your body did he apply it?” Mr. Pelham asked.
“My arms or my…my legs. The shock wasn’t severe, but if he turned the crank very fast, he could make it stronger.”
Justin made a low sound of displeasure from his place by the mantel. “It sounds more like torture than medicine. All of it does.”
“It’s quackery,” Mr. Finchley told him. “Plain and simple.”
“Finchley’s right,” Mr. Pelham said. “Unfortunately, anyone with enough coin can purchase an electrotherapy machine. They’re advertised as being capable of curing every ill, from cancer to toothache.”
Jenny’s lips thinned with anger. “It looked like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. An infernal contraption, operated by a doddering old fool. And after every treatment, Lord Castleton would appear in the room with that dratted paper.”
Helena well remembered. “He promised that everything would stop if only I’d sign it. He so desperately wanted that money.”
“Did your courage never fail you?” Mr. Pelham asked.
She gave him a puzzled frown. “You think it was courage that kept me from signing? I assure you it wasn’t. I was never more frightened in my life than in the months after my brother disappeared. By the end, I would have signed anything my uncle put before me, and gladly. But I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d already gone too far, you see.”
Mr. Pelham’s face was inscrutable. “You believe he would have put you away regardless.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know he would have.”
“Do you think she’s all right?” Finchley asked.
Justin crossed the parlor and sat down. Helena had retired to her room to rest. Pelham’s interview had exhausted her. She’d been left pale and drained, still trembling long after he’d gone. “No. I don’t.”
“Perhaps you should go to her.”
“Miss Holloway is with her,” Justin said. “Her presence has made mine rather superfluous.” He was unable to keep the twinge of aggravation out of his voice. Since their arrival at the house in Half Moon Street, Miss Holloway had supplanted him as Helena’s advocate and protector. She seemed to feel it was her right to always be at Helena’s side.
“Ah. Well, I suppose it’s for the best. Given what’s transpired, Lady Helena will appreciate the support of another female.” Finchley slipped his notebook and pencil back into the inter
ior of his coat. “We’ve asked the unthinkable of her, you know. Most ladies can’t speak about their bodies—or anyone else’s—without falling into a faint. Even Keane’s wife, as sensible a female as you’ll ever meet, refers to chicken breast as chicken bosom. It’s ridiculous, but there it is.”
Justin was unable to be philosophical about the matter. His blood was still boiling at the thought of anyone putting their hands on Helena. At her description of how Glyde had forced her out of her clothing and into the cold bath, he’d been hard pressed not to charge out into the street, find the blackguard, and tear him to pieces. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep his countenance.
“Ladies are delicate, by nature,” Finchley went on. “I suppose that’s what I admire about Miss Holloway. She’s a strong, efficient female, with no nonsense about her.”
“She’s a managing female.”
Finchley set his spectacles more firmly onto his nose. “Not every fellow wants to go about rescuing damsels in distress. We can’t all be heroes. Some of us aspire to nothing more than a congenial companion with whom to share the yoke of life.”
“How appealing you make it sound. Share the yoke of life, indeed. As if you were two oxen.” Justin leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. “Good God, Tom, you need to get out more.”
“This from the fellow who was obliged to find love through a matrimonial advertisement.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Finchley’s brow furrowed. “You do love her, don’t you?”
Justin sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss his feelings for Helena with Tom Finchley. The man was his best friend. Practically a brother. But the bonds of friendship only stretched so far. “I care for her. Very much.”
“But you don’t love her.”
Justin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a long moment. “I often wonder if I’m even capable of the emotion.”
Finchley’s face set into a meditative frown. It was the exact expression he wore when puzzling over a particularly thorny legal issue. “Perhaps you merely don’t recognize it. Neither of us has had much experience with loving anyone or being loved in return. I know I haven’t.”
“Nor I,” Justin said. “What a depressing pair we are.”
“I don’t know,” Finchley mused. “We seem to have done all right between us. And who’s to say? Love might well do more harm to our lives than good. It’s the cause of endless strife. I can tell you that much from my experiences in the law. Violence, murder, mayhem. All committed in the name of love.”
“I’d as soon have loyalty,” Justin said. “It seems a far more valuable quality.”
“Loyalty is essential, yes. And friendship wouldn’t be amiss. It’s steadier. Less volatile than love.”
“Precisely.”
“Are you and Lady Helena friends?”
“We are. Quite good friends, or so I have reason to hope.”
“Huh.” Finchley considered this. “Since you’ve said that, I’ll admit that, in addition to friendship, I wouldn’t disdain a small degree of tenderness from a woman. A soft word or look.”
“Or touch.”
“That, too.” An ironic smile flickered in Finchley’s eyes. “No doubt I should follow your example and find a proper wife.”
Justin regarded his friend with reluctant amusement. “And if you did…would Miss Holloway be a candidate for the position?”
“What?” Finchley’s ears reddened. “No.” He shook his head. “No. She’s far beyond my reach.”
“She’s a lady’s companion.”
“Who happens to be a distant cousin of the Earl of Castleton.”
“I beg your pardon,” Justin said. “My hearing must be defective. For a moment, it sounded as if you said you couldn’t court a woman because she’s distantly related to a member of the peerage. You. The man who facilitated my marriage to an actual earl’s daughter.”
“It’s not the same.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“Your father was a baronet,” Finchley retorted in irritation. “Mine may well have been the village drunk. Or worse.”
Justin was ready with a sharp reply, but he had no opportunity to utter it. The door to the parlor pushed open before he could speak and Helena stepped in. She’d changed into a fashionable black silk walking dress trimmed in embossed velvet. A plumed velvet bonnet was clutched in her gloved hand.
Both he and Finchley immediately rose to their feet.
“Forgive the interruption,” she said.
Justin’s gaze swept over her. She was still pale, but she was no longer trembling. Indeed, she looked rather determined. “You’re not interrupting anything.”
“Were you unable to rest?” Finchley asked.
“I’ve had enough of rest.” Helena lifted her chin a fraction. “I would like to go for a walk.”
Justin went to her, his voice low. “Now?”
“If you please.”
He gave her a long, assessing look. “Very well. I’ll fetch my hat.”
Helena took Justin’s arm as they exited the house and proceeded to walk along Half Moon Street in the direction of Green Park. They kept a sedate, comfortable pace, as if they often strolled along together in the heart of fashionable London.
“I’ve resolved not to cling to you anymore,” she said.
He glanced down at her. “Any particular reason?”
“Aside from sparing your poor arm?” She stared straight ahead. “I’m sick to death of being such a frightened, poor-spirited creature.”
“There is nothing poor-spirited about being afraid. You’ve had ample cause.”
“Perhaps. But such fears have touched every aspect of my life. I’ve been so frightened, and so angry about the injustice of it all. It’s changed me. I scarcely know who I am anymore.”
Justin made no reply. His eyes had grown distant, as if he were contemplating some troublesome dilemma of his own.
She walked at his side in silence, her silk and velvet skirts swaying gently with every step. Half Moon Street was a small and rather quiet street, lined with narrow, elegant houses. Two young gentlemen in plaid trousers were walking together toward Piccadilly and a severe-looking nurse was pushing a perambulator toward Curzon Street. Other than that, the street was deserted.
At least, it appeared to be so.
If there were suspicious characters lurking about, she certainly didn’t see them. Not that Mr. Glyde was likely to be hiding behind a lamppost in the broad light of day.
“Do you truly believe such feelings can change a person?” Justin asked abruptly.
Helena took her time responding. She had a sense that his question had more to do with his own demons than with hers. “Yes, I do. Fear and anger shouldn’t be the guiding principles of one’s life.”
“What’s the alternative? To forgive and forget?”
“Ideally.”
His gaze rested on her face. “Can you forgive your uncle for what he’s done to you? Can you forgive Mr. Glyde?”
“Mr. Glyde? Definitely not. But my relationship with my uncle is rather more complicated. He wasn’t always the man he is today.”
“No?” Justin sounded skeptical.
“Indeed. When I was a girl, I thought him a jolly fellow. Whenever he came to visit, he’d hide treats in his pockets for me to find. He was always bringing me little presents. A paper fan or a miniature horse carved out of ebony. Once, when I was very small, he even brought me a spaniel puppy.” Helena smiled slightly to recall it. “My father objected, of course. He didn’t want anyone to spoil me. But Uncle Edward insisted I be allowed to keep her.”
“You have fond memories of the man.”
“Despite everything, yes. I do.”
“But you can’t forgive him
.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. Possibly not ever. But I must find a way to get past it and go on living. I can’t allow the pain they’ve inflicted to pull me down into the mire.”
“It won’t. You’re too strong for that.”
“I’m not strong, Justin. I’d already half given up by the time I met you. The night of the storm, when you found me on the cliff’s ledge, I was quite prepared to die.”
“You were terrified. And understandably so.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged quietly. “But I can’t continue being terrified. Even if there’s cause. I have to find a way back to the person I was before this nightmare began. If I don’t, my uncle and Mr. Glyde will have won.”
That night, they visited the Haymarket Theatre. The only production Mr. Finchley had been able to procure tickets to on such short notice was a new play entitled The Lamented Friend. It was billed as a comedietta, but there were not many scenes which inspired humor. The storyline featured an unhappy widow who, though lately married to a marquis, did nothing but lament the loss of her dear departed first husband. The audience hissed their displeasure far more than they laughed or applauded.
With Jenny’s help, Helena had dressed carefully in an evening gown of blue glacé silk with deep triple flounces and short laced-trimmed sleeves. The heart-shaped neckline was fashionably low, revealing a greater expanse of her bosom than she’d ever displayed in Justin’s presence—unless one counted the night he’d stripped her out of her wet clothes.
It was nothing more or less daring than what she’d worn on previous visits to the theatre, but it nevertheless made her feel vaguely self-conscious.
“I’d be more comfortable with a bertha,” she’d told Jenny. A lace bertha collar was wide and round, attaching at the throat and covering the neck and shoulders. Many ladies paired them with their dresses.
“Why? Your bruises have faded well enough. The ones that haven’t are well-hidden by your gloves and your sleeves.”
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