EIGHTEEN
EIGHTEEN
Henry raked a hand through his hair and pulled the ends taut. After the second confrontation with his aunt yesterday, when she’d demanded to see the parcel the boy had delivered and Henry refused, she’d taken to playing the pianoforte—often—and loud enough that it seemed to reach him in any corner of the house. His head pounded, and he fought against a deep feeling of guilt. She only played the songs he knew to be his uncle’s favorites, and he could feel her anger and disappointment by how purposefully she struck every note.
Sitting at his desk in the study, Henry stared at the thin stack of papers from Dr. Stafford. The papers were yellowed and stained, and the faded ink of the notes made by the doctors and nurses from the old Bedlam made the reports difficult to read. But he’d read them all, several times. He had hoped to find answers, but even the admittance form left him with more questions.
Patient name: Vivian Sarah Northcott
“Sarah,” Henry repeated on a tortured whisper. His younger sister had been named Vivian after their mother, but everyone but their mother had called her Sarah.
Sex: FemaleAge: 13
The number splayed him. She was too young, and after seeing the conditions at the old Bedlam, he doubted she’d had anyone there to protect her.
Heshould’ve protected her.
His aunt hit a loud, dissonant chord on the pianoforte, and it felt like a knife to his temple.
Scrubbing a hand across his forehead, he ignored his aunt and read on.
Admitted: 21 June 1805
Eight months after their mother was admitted. Henry’s indifference toward the woman who’d given him life was not lost on him. But he was certain the guilt he felt toward Sarah would last his lifetime.
Rank or profession:Sister to the Right Honorable Baron Northcott
Henry had been fifteen, and not ready to take on the burden of a title.
Family history:Father deceased. Mother living—treated for insanity in 1804.
So the doctors knew that their mother had been treated for insanity, but there were no other details given. Is that what Dr. Stafford wanted to discuss with him?
Henry let out a heavy breath. Always more questions than answers.
Continuing, he read,
No history of insanity on father’s side. Mother’s side unknown.
Henry’s mother had been an only child, the daughter of a poor French aristocratic family. From what Henry had been told, his parents had claimed their union to be a love match, but the Northcott family had disapproved of the connection. When Henry’s grandfather discovered they’d secretly married, he had cut them off. Henry’s father had supported and then bankrupted their family through gambling.
Facts indicating insanity observed at the time of examination: Patient is slight and girlish, and appearance and hair were in disarray upon arrival. Eyes are wild and vacant. Patient tried to attack the nurse upon admittance.
Henry ran a hand down his face. More violence.
Just like your mother, the voice inside his head whispered.
Henry clenched his jaw and read on.
Facts communicated by others: Family reports the patient refuses to speak and is prone to hysteria and screaming during sleep.
Henry read the last line over again. He couldn’t remember his sister’s screams nor any hysterics. They slept in separate rooms, but surely he would’ve heard something or been called to comfort her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, welcoming the pain. Why couldn’t he remember? He could remember his mother’s hysterics; they haunted him in his dreams.
He needed answers. He needed ... hope.
His aunt missed another chord. The sound bit into the back of his ears, and his neck cringed against the sting of it.
Just once, he wanted to know a modicum of peace, when secrets didn’t haunt him around every corner, trying to upend his existence.
An odd, light tapping reached his ears during a short-lived break in his aunt’s playing.
It couldn’t be rain; the sun had finally pushed through the clouds for the past few days.
Henry sat up straighter and listened intently.
Tap. Tap. Tap. There it was again.
Gathering up his papers, he put them in the bottom drawer of his desk and locked it. Then he followed the sound, which had grown more persistent.
He stopped at one of the two large windows and stared down at the top half of—
“What the blazes?” Henry muttered.
Bradbury’s hand was pressed against the glass, shading his eyes as he scanned the room. He startled when his eyes met Henry’s middle.
Bending down slightly, Henry undid the latch and pulled up on the window. “What the devil are you doing?”
Bradbury scowled up at him, his hands on his hips. His hat sat atop the large rose bush next to him, and the bottom of his boots were speckled with dirt from trampling through the back garden to get to the window.
“Paying a call,” Bradbury said with an exasperated breath. “Now move over so I can climb in.”
“Use the front door,” Henry said.
Bradbury huffed. “I did, but your ogre of a butler said you were not receiving callers and shut the door.” He shot Henry an annoyed glare. “Now move.”
Without waiting for Henry to comply, Bradbury propped both hands on the windowsill and lifted himself upward until he could swing one leg over the opening.
Henry stepped back, then offered a hand to help his friend the rest of the way in.
Henry’s frustration—no, anger—that had been building was beginning to crackle and burn. He’d never felt such a way toward his aunt, who was keeping him like a prisoner inside his own home.
Many doors. Many locks.The voice echoed Henry’s thoughts from Guy’s Hospital.
A chill scraped like stone on steel across his spine.
“You know,” Bradbury said, leaning his top half back out the window to retrieve his hat from the rosebush, “when you said you were going to meet me at our club later, I did not understand that to mean an entire day later, nor that I would have to be the one to come in search of you.” His eyes snapped with annoyance as he brushed the dirt and leaves from his clothing.
“I was ... ” Henry let his words trail off, not knowing what to say. He was growing tired of all the secrets.
His aunt’s angry playing filled the silence.
“I think it’s time you tell me what is going on,” Bradbury said, all the frustration and annoyance gone from him. “The parcel yesterday? Your guard dog of a butler? The ...” He nodded toward the study door, wincing as Henry’s aunt hit a minor chord. “What has been brewing inside this house?”
Henry shook his head, struggling, and probably failing, to keep his frustration and near exhaustion from his expression. He truly was growing tired of keeping it all in.
But he must.
“I cannot say,” he replied. There was more than his own reputation at stake.
The corners of Bradbury’s mouth dipped into a frown, but he nodded.
His look of disappointment hit like a cudgel to Henry’s gut. His secrets were going to cost him his friends one day.
“Well, then,” Bradbury said, blowing out a breath as he looked around the room. “Should we use the door or the window?”
“We?” Henry asked, flummoxed.
Bradbury huffed and looked to the ceiling. “Always about the details with you.” He stepped closer to Henry and patted him aggressively on the shoulder. “We made a promise to take Miss Latham for a driving lesson, and now that the sun has finally come out, it’s a perfect day for a ride in the park.”
“You made that promise,” Henry replied, not entirely sure why he was fighting an opportunity to escape his house.
Not to mention, see Arabella, the voice whispered.
Henry’s heart picked up its pace.
“Again,” Bradbury said, throwing up his hands. “It’s always about the details with you.” He stared Henry down. “You are just as complicit in all this as I am. After all, you were the one leading her around inside the club.” Bradbury paused. “As a matter of fact, when did you realize it was her?”
“From the start,” Henry replied, making Bradbury scowl. “The only way to get her out was to show her that blasted betting book that you made that wager about.”
“Would you just come?” Bradbury moaned. “Do you know what will happen if Lady Bixbee hears I was riding around alone with Miss Latham? That meddlesome matron is your problem; I do not want her to be mine.”
That was yet another problem he would have to resolve along with Dr. Stafford and his sister. Everything was a muddled mess.
“Let’s go,” Henry said, letting out a frustrated breath and nodding toward the door.
“Good,” Bradbury smiled, and they started for the door. “Also, I shall need to borrow your phaeton.”
An unexpected chuckle found its way out of Henry’s chest. It sounded odd yet felt restoring. “Perhaps your next winnings should go toward purchasing a more dependable conveyance.” Henry always seemed to be giving Bradbury a ride to somewhere.
“And deprive you of my company?” Bradbury scoffed. “Admit it, Goosey. You like having me around.”
Henry shook his head and chuckled as they left the study. His friend was right, but that didn’t also mean that Bradbury was not a complete miser.