Chapter 8
The Price of Compassion
Though the temptation to go back to work and stay there all night just to spite Hetty and her interfering hostess was strong, Gideon took their advice. For once he slept well, though he woke early enough to see the sun rising over the horizon.
Gideon wanted nothing more than to ignore the contents of the letter he’d received from Hollywell House, too. He told himself he could go to his building site and pretend nothing was amiss, but as he readied himself for work, he knew it was a lie.
There was nothing for it. He would have to take the day off and deal with the problem himself.
Readying himself as quickly as possible, he hurried out of his rented rooms above the cheese shop on the promenade and went to hire himself a horse.
From there, he made his way to site, leaving a brief explanation of his absence and written instructions for Ridley and Ludlow of the progress he expected to see by tomorrow morning.
By six o’clock he was well on his way to Hollywell House. The sultry heat of yesterday had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and the morning was cold with thick grey clouds tumbling in an uncertain sky overhead.
He made good time, arriving on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells as a distant clock struck ten.
Hollywell House was an elegant building, large and well-proportioned with large windows that looked out upon countryside and well-kept gardens. Anyone who did not know might think it only a gentleman’s country residence.
It was not.
Gideon handed his mount into the care of a groom and walked around to the front door.
His stomach clenched, his heart thudding dully in his chest, and for a moment his courage almost failed him.
It wasn’t as if anyone but him would know if he didn’t go in.
And if Damian found out, he’d not care either way.
Except that Gideon would know he’d backed out, and it went against every grain of moral fibre he possessed. Like it or not, he was the only one prepared to do a damned thing, so he’d better get it over with.
A smiling nurse in a pristine white pinafore apron greeted him as he opened the door and went inside.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Doctor Grantham,” he said, trying to ignore the disquieting smell and the faint but unmistakable sounds of weeping.
“Is the doctor expecting you?”
“He wrote to me, asking me to come,” Gideon explained, jumping as a bellow of rage came from upstairs, followed by a short scuffle and then silence. The nurse didn’t so much as bat an eyelid.
“Ah. Then, if you would come this way, I shall ask if he can see you now.”
Glancing warily at the stairs, Gideon nodded and followed her down the hall.
She asked him to wait in a comfortable parlour, furnished with taste and everything in the latest style.
Neat piles of newspapers occupied a small table, and the window offered a view of the entrance and the front gardens.
It bore every resemblance to a respectable family’s parlour, and yet the air felt heavy and charged.
That unsettling smell, somewhere between boiled cabbage, damp, and carbolic soap, lingered insistently and Gideon knew he’d smell it on his clothes long after leaving.
The walls of the room felt too near, his desire to bolt increasing with every tick of the blasted clock that shredded what remained of his nerves.
Wiping his damp palms on his coat, he jumped as the door opened.
“Dr Grantham,” he said in relief, striding forward to take the man’s hand.
The doctor was a serious looking man in his fifties, with iron grey hair and sad blue eyes.
Gideon always sensed the fellow was on the edge of despair himself, though he did his best to help the wretched souls whose only safety was to be found in this place.
They were the lucky ones, he knew, for it could be much, much worse.
“Mr Bramwell, come through.”
Gideon followed the man to his office and sat in the visitor’s chair as the doctor took his place behind an enormous oak desk.
“Can I offer you tea?”
“No, I thank you,” Gideon said at once, wanting to get whatever it was over with as quickly as possible.
Grantham sighed and reached for a folder, which he opened, scanning the notes quickly and then closing it once more.
“I’m sorry to have written to you as I did, but I felt it was for the best,” he said, meeting Gideon’s eyes.
“Is she worse?” Gideon didn’t know why he asked, the answer was inevitable, but he felt the need to say something, to give some show of caring, though he could not do so in truth. What he did, he did out of a sense of guilt, of responsibility and morality, not because he cared.
“I’m afraid so. Her paranoia has become such that she believes we are all trying to kill her. Last week she attacked the nurses, leaving one badly bruised and scratched. I understand that your relationship is somewhat strained—”
Gideon let out a bark of laughter. He had not meant to do so, but the words understated the case so dreadfully that he could not help it.
Grantham winced but carried on, undeterred. “We felt it might be prudent to ask you to speak to her, to reassure her.”
“What you mean is, you needed to get me here to prove how bad the situation is, and you wish me to be aware of her accusations, so I don’t get the idea in my head that you really are trying to do away with her.”
Dr Grantham bristled but Gideon put up a placating hand.
“Please do not take offense. I do not blame you for it. In your position, I would do likewise if a client began throwing about such accusations, no matter how unstable. But I am not a fool, I pay you handsomely to keep my mother comfortable. It would not be in your interests to do away with her, no matter how troublesome she is.”
The doctor sat back in his chair and let out a huff of wry amusement. “I had forgotten how direct you are, Mr Bramwell. You are correct, obviously, but that is not the only reason I have brought you here. I need your permission to continue with your mother’s care.”
“My permission?”
“She is a danger not only to herself but to my staff. This means constant vigilance, time which we cannot spare. She is not our only patient. Therefore, we ask that you allow us to restrain her, for at least part of the day, and at times when she becomes unmanageable.”
A shaft of something sharp and icy lanced through Gideon’s chest. The desire to spring from his chair and run away like a child was hard to resist. Why was it him here, making these decisions?
His mother had been out of her mind before he could walk.
She had never been a mother to him, never been kind, quite the reverse, why in hell should he bear the responsibility?
The trouble was, Damian would tell him the same thing: to put her in a cheaper asylum and forget her. But Gideon could not do it. He’d seen the alternatives, and he’d have not put a dog in such a place, let alone a woman who was already suffering the torments of hell in her own mind.
“No.” The word was harsh, uneven, but he got it out. “There must be another way. If things are so bad, can you not drug her? At least she might find a little peace that way.”
The doctor sighed. Gideon could not tell if his expression was sympathetic or merely calculating.
He had always respected the man, but the constant increases in fees of late made him wonder if the doctor was considering the place more as a profitable business than the sanctuary it was supposed to be.
“Drugs are expensive and administering them is not always easy. She is not eating or drinking as we would hope,” he said, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture.
There was a sensation akin to ropes sliding about Gideon, tightening around his neck, his chest, catching at his wrists and binding him, trapping him deeper in this bloody mire. The place would bleed him dry if this kept up.
“You mean if I chose not to have her restrained it will cost me more money.” It was all he could do not to snarl the words, and he attempted to prise his stiff fingers from the arms of the chair where they had attained a death grip.
Breathe, he told himself, don’t get yourself wound up and say or do something you’ll regret later.
“Please understand, Mr Bramwell, I am not trying to blackmail you, only asking for your guidance on how to proceed. We will, of course, follow your wishes, but I cannot pretend that having her restrained is not the most economical solution for you. The more care she needs, the more it costs.” To give him his due, Gideon thought the man looked weary.
What must it do to a doctor, a man one presumed hoped to cure his patients, to work day in, day out, in such a place?
If he had a grain of compassion, it must eat away at him.
There were no cures, though, only management.
Yet Gideon did not wish to feel empathy for the man.
He wanted a solution, but there wasn’t one. There never would be.
Gideon surged to his feet. The urge to reach over the desk and grab the man by his lapels and demand he do something was boiling in his blood.
His temples throbbed, his chest tightening and he fought to keep control.
No. He would not allow it, not give in to rage or let his worst inclinations rule him as Damian did.
The fear that his brother, or he, might one day end in a place like this was an ever-present terror that woke him in the dead of night.
What would he wish for if that happened?
A gun to the head, he thought savagely, immediately regretting his own cruelty.
Kindness, he realised with a sick twist of his guts. Compassion.
He turned back to the doctor. “You will not restrain her unless there is no other alternative, and she poses a threat to herself or others. Administer what drugs you deem necessary to keep her calm, but only if there is truly a need. I beg you will treat her with kindness and dignity, allow her to make whatever choices are still hers to make.”