FIFTEEN
FIFTEEN
Entering through the tall, black iron gate, Henry stepped into the cobblestone courtyard of Guy’s Hospital. A crawling sensation skittered up his spine, and his stomach twisted in a sickening knot. The part of himself that still believed he and his sister were incurable, like their mother, shouted for him to turn and run before they could lock him inside.
But he couldn’t—not yet. Not if there was a chance.
The nearly one-hundred-year-old gray stone building stood proud despite its age. Originally founded by Thomas Guy, whose statue commanded the rectangular courtyard, the hospital was a place to treat the incurables discharged from other hospitals.
Arabella’s words filled his head: “Dr. Stafford is a man who is fighting for humanity.”
And Henry wanted that fighting chance. He wanted to feel free to do more than brush his fingers along Arabella’s cheek and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. That touch had sent his nerves to humming, and it had taken everything he had not to lean forward and taste her lips. But if he was ever going to consider marriage, he needed to know he would not be a threat to her and that his blood would not be a threat to whatever children they would be blessed with.
Pushing forward, Henry kept his eyes on the three-story building and its three-arched doorway, avoiding eye contact with the few weary souls who passed by him.
Dr. Stafford had wanted him to come here. Wanted him to see something. Was it to recognize something in his sister’s expression that would make him believe she was still there?
A flash of his sister as a young girl filled his vision. She had the biggest, round eyes that had always looked to him for comfort, for reassurance that despite the never-ending upheaval of their lives, he would be her constant.
And look how you abandoned her to the care of others, the voice whispered.
A stab of guilt pierced Henry’s chest. He’d only been a boy of fifteen, he told himself. The title might’ve come to him, but he’d needed the guidance of his aunt.
And when you became a man? the voice asked, plunging the knife even further.
It was right. He could’ve come to see her, long before the reports of the old Bedlam had been presented at Parliament. Guilt, both hot and clammy, settled over his skin.
He deserved the discomfort this encounter would bring.
With a shaky breath, Henry entered the hospital.
The sound of his footsteps echoed in the room that stretched back like catacombs. Death, pain—he could smell it in the air, yet there was movement everywhere. People sat along a row of chairs lining the wall or were huddled in corners, coughing, wheezing, and moaning. It was a place of sickness, a place where none wanted to go unless there was no other choice. And for people like his sister, if she couldn’t be cured, there was no other choice.
A choice that would be made for him if he couldn’t find a way to help them both.
“May I help you, sir?” an older woman wearing a serviceable gray dress and a white apron asked from behind a tall wooden desk. She eyed him questioningly, which was understandable; he was the most well-kept person there. Members of the gentry didn’t go to hospitals because they could afford to have a physician come to them.
A man bumped into him, coughing and hacking into an overly soiled, blood-splattered cloth.
On instinct, Henry reached for his own handkerchief to offer it to the man, but the nurse behind the desk shooed the coughing man away and stared at Henry with a raised brow.
“Sir?”
“The Baron Northcott,” he said, keeping his tone detached and neutral, though a bead of nervous sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
Her eyes flashed with instant understanding. It had to be well-known amongst the staff that one of the patients meant for the new Bedlam was the sister to a baron. She quickly dipped into a curtsy. “Of course. If you will follow me, my lord.”
Henry nodded, relieved he had to say no more, and waited for the nurse as she rounded the desk.
Two younger nurses descended a set of stairs that wrapped around the tall desk, their arms full of linens. They shot a questioning glance at the older nurse, who came to stand near Henry.
“Stay at the desk, Mary, Alice,” she directed.
They nodded, eyeing Henry with a probing stare that made it hard to remain in place.
Careful, Beasty, the voice whispered. You wouldn’t want them to grow even more suspicious.
Henry clenched his jaw. He really was beginning to hate that moniker.
“This way, my lord,” the older nurse said.
Henry followed her to a door on the far side of the room. She reached for a ring of keys at her hip and slid one into the lock.
The door opened with an eerie creak, and she waved for Henry to enter. He tried to ignore the way his heart knocked an odd, panicked rhythm against his rib cage.
She closed the door behind her, and the click of the latch being locked into place echoed in his ears while the empty, whitewashed corridor appeared to narrow and extend in his vision.
His chest grew tight, and he bit down on the side of his cheek, needing to maintain control. He wasn’t a patient. He could leave when he was done.
“Your sister is this way,” the nurse said, making her way down the corridor.
Every few steps, he passed an arched window, filling the barren space with sunlight. He could feel the heat on his hands and face, which helped him to push down some of the panic.
At the door, the nurse reached for her keys again and unlocked it.
So many doors. So many locks.
He took a steadying breath and stepped into the next whitewashed corridor. This time there were only four windows, and the rest were doors.
A handful of nurses bustled about, their arms full of either linens or trays. Many also had keyrings about their hips.
The nurse closed and bolted the door behind them, the lock clanking into place.
Studying the doors more closely, Henry noticed each individual door had a small rectangular slot at about eye level.
“Your sister’s room,” the nurse said, stopping at the second door. She opened the slot and peered inside and then stepped back to allow Henry a glimpse.
His boots felt anchored to the floor, his chest tightening with every breath.
“My lord?” the nurse prompted.
“Is the doctor in?” Henry asked, needing a moment.
“I believe Dr. Gladstone can be made available.”
“Dr. Gladstone?” Henry asked in confusion. “I was told Dr. Stafford was her physician.”
“Dr. Stafford is one of her physicians,” the nurse replied. “Dr. Gladstone is also one of the physicians who will be at the new Bedlam.”
Henry nodded. The new Bedlam was due to open at the start of next month. His sister would be transferred there in little more than a week.
“Would you like to wait here while I go in search of him?” the nurse asked.
“That will not be necessary,” Henry quickly replied. The last thing he wanted was to deal with another doctor. “If you will unlock the door, I shall look in upon my sister and wait to speak with Dr. Stafford another time.”
The nurse hesitated, no doubt wondering why he asked for the doctor if he didn’t want to speak to him. But then she moved to comply, unlocking the door and stepping aside.
“I will have to lock the door behind you. But simply knock three times, and I or one of the other nurses will let you out.”
Henry nodded, though his nerves were screaming for him to run. It wasn’t that he feared what his sister might do, but rather his own reactions. What could he say to a sister he’d not spoken to in ten years?
“Hello, I’m the brother who abandoned you” would be a good place to start. The voice laughed.
Henry swallowed the overpowering feeling of guilt and regret, forcing his legs to enter the room. Whether his sister was incurable or not, he owed her this much.
The door closed behind him, and his stomach twisted into a sickening knot as the nurse’s keys scratched against the door, locking them in.
His sister sat on a chair next to a single bed. The walls around her were whitewashed, the linens on the bed were white, and she wore a simple dress of white, though the hem was yellowed. Her feet were bare, and her black hair had been plaited to the side.
She stared forward, not even acknowledging his presence.
A long silence stretched between them, tormenting him until he could take no more of it.
“One of us should say something to break the ice.”
He shook his head. Of all the things, it had to be Shakespeare.
His sister remained silent and unmoving.
He took a few hesitant steps toward her.“At least that is what my friend would say if she were here.” His mouth continued to run away with itself. “My friend is never one for silence. Well, she is not exactly my friend. She—she is—”
He had the sudden urge to pace. So he did. “That is to say, she is unabashedly the most perplexing, frustrating, beautiful creature I have ever beheld. One moment she has me utterly transfixed, and the next, I want to pull my own hair out.”
He stopped pacing, his back to Sarah, and pushed out a breath. “I’m rambling.” He raked a hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked so much.
Actually he could, back when he and Sarah were younger, and she would ask him to tell stories to distract her from their parents shouting. He wasn’t a great storyteller, but he’d done it. For her.
“I should, in truth, be apologizing to you.” He turned slowly to face his sister. “I have not been a good brother to you, and I have no excuse.”
Still she didn’t move.
Moving closer, he knelt on the floor before her, lowering himself enough to meet her eyes.
They were dark like his, though larger. He could see no recognition inside their depths.
“Can you hear me?” he whispered. “Sarah?”
Her eyes remained fixed forward.
Was she always like this?
His heart aching, but not wanting to give up hope, he slowly reached up and gently placed his hand on her knee. He needed to get through to her. Needed her to understand. He wanted to understand.
A knock sounded at the door.
Henry shot to his feet, his heart threatening to pound its way out of his chest. The sound of keys turning in the locks followed, and the door opened.
A thin gentleman stepped through the doorway, dressed in a very fine black, tailored jacket and a crimson waistcoat. The colors were a stark contrast compared to the whites and grays found throughout the rest of the hospital. A pair of gold spectacles sat proudly upon his nose, and he offered Henry a wide smile.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” the gentleman said, stepping up to Henry and giving him a bow meant for Queen Charlotte’s court.
Oh, let the fop kiss your boots, the voice whispered. It would be better to keep him simpering than have him realize what you are.
Henry tensed and tried to focus on taking even breaths.
“When I discovered you were visiting,” the gentleman continued, “I knew I needed to make myself available to you. Dr. Perceval Gladstone—your servant, sir.” He bowed again.
Henry nodded. “Is my sister always like this?”
The doctor looked past Henry before replying. “I am afraid we had an incident this morning, and she had to be ... subdued.”
“Drugged?” Henry asked, sharp and direct because he could be nothing else. The entire visit had been for naught. He made no claim to understand the human mind, but he couldn’t see the good in altering a person until they were a shell of themselves.
“It was for her and the other patients’ safety,” Dr. Gladstone replied with an air of self-importance.
“What was the incident?” Henry asked, doubt and fear creeping in. His mother in her madness had killed someone; if Sarah was the same ...
“She viciously attacked one of our newest patients.”
Henry’s stomach dropped, his hope all but gone. Visions of the chaos and the screaming that occurred the night his mother stabbed his uncle threatened to overwhelm him.
Dr. Stafford had said Sarah might have received the wrong diagnosis because of a lack of information. Could his belief be wrong because of the same reason? Did he know of Henry’s mother’s violent past?
Henry realized he didn’t know what his aunt and the old family solicitor had given as a reason for his mother’s admittance to the old Bedlam.
Rumor and gossip had run rampant after that horrific night, but because his uncle was a member of the aristocracy, the matter was dealt with in private, saving the reputation of one of Britain’s upper families.
All information needed to be laid bare if Henry was going to allow himself to hope.
Does that include informing the good doctor of what is going on inside your head?the voice whispered.
Henry’s blood turned to ice, chilling him to the bone.
He could never tell anyone.
“Is there anything in particular I can do or answer for you, my lord?” Dr. Gladstone asked, pulling Henry from his thoughts. The doctor’s chest was puffed out, enhancing his ridiculously overly knotted cravat.
“No,” Henry said, not trusting the man. “Good day, doctor.” He walked past the pompous dandy and out of the room.
The nurse who’d brought Henry stood outside the door, waiting for him. “Leaving, my lord?”
“Yes,” he replied, not bothering to stop and wait for her. He was ready to be out of the infernal place.
“I will take his lordship from here,” he heard another woman say from behind him.
Within moments, a nurse much older than the one before came up alongside him. She had a head of solid gray hair and deep wrinkles that ran from her cheeks to her neck. She matched his stride, not bothering to say anything while she collected her keys and unlocked the first door.
Inside the next corridor, the nurse turned hard on her heel and stared him down.
“Whatever that doctor said to you, your sister did not mindlessly attack anyone,” she said, her hands firmly planted on her hips.
“You were there?” Henry asked, crossing his arms over his chest. After seeing his sister’s current state, he was wary of trusting anyone inside the hospital without sufficient reason.
“No,” she said in a tone that implied it did not even matter. “But I know my Sarah. She would not make a noise unless it was necessary.”
My Sarah?
“Who are you?” Henry demanded.
“Nurse Maggie,” the elderly woman replied.
“Well, then, Nurse Maggie, might I ask why you have gone out of your way to tell me all this? And out of earshot from everyone else?”
She smiled, further confusing him. “You are starting to ask the right questions, my lord. And I am glad to see Dr. Stafford has finally convinced you to come.”
“Where is Dr. Stafford?” Henry asked.
“He was called to—”
The sound of a key turning in the lock on the door behind them filled the corridor, and Dr. Gladstone stepped through.
“Nurse Maggie?” the doctor barked out. “Do not bother his lordship. I am certain he would like to be on his way.”
“Of course, Doctor,” she replied in a clipped tone. She retrieved her keys and unlocked the last door for Henry.
“Thank you,” Henry said to the nurse before looking to the pompous doctor.
“Good day to you, my lord,” Dr. Gladstone called out, bowing his head as if he had just done Henry the greatest of favors. “Do not hesitate to reach out to me at any time.”
Henry doubted he would ever be so desperate. He walked out of the hospital with more questions than answers, which made his promise to visit Arabella even more difficult to navigate. He wanted to pursue a future with her but still didn’t know if he should.