“I’m not. This morning, I selfishly thought my scars were the problem. But, and I never thought I’d say this, they aren’t, are they?”
She shook her head but still bit her lip, not looking him in the eye. He wanted to take that poor bruised lip and kiss away the hurt, but there were deeper wounds, he realised, and they were going to take more than a kiss.
“I think,” he said, “I think we need to sit. Rosalind, do you remember when I told you about the laudanum and Billy? ’Tis often easier to speak of some things when not facing one another.”
He scrutinised the room. Chaise: too soft. Mahogany tub seat: too uncomfortable. Leather armchair by the fire: perfect.
Taking hold of her cold hand, he led her to it and seated himself. The chair was large and plush, and he gently held her waist, pulling her back, until she sat on his lap. She was tense and upright, so he gently caressed her spine, his fingers moving with a circular motion over the wool of her dress.
“You are a beautiful, vivid, intelligent woman, Rosalind. You make me laugh. You make me forget everything bad that has ever happened to me. But you project such a lightness of being that people do not look deeper, do they? I want deeper, Rosalind. You can tell me anything. In any order. In any way. Words, sentences, names. However you like, but please, tell me.”
He waited silently. He would stay here all night if that was what she needed. Two sections of her hair had indeed fallen down, leaving a third sticking up incongruously, so he unpinned it, smoothing the sleek locks with his fingers.
“I haven’t cut my hair for six years. Well, I trim the ends to keep them straight, but I willnevercut it.” It was obviously important so he didn’t reply with some pithy comment on female vanity; he waited.
“My father… No, I won’t start there… I don’t know where to start.” He waited some more. “I have a problem, Lucas. It’s a strange problem that not many people have, although I don’t know how many people have my problem. As I said, ’tis a strange problem.”
He frowned but kept silent.
“My mother died when I was twelve. It was just my father and I for two years.”
He could feel a quiver running through her body.
“My father thought my problem…unmanageable…so when I was in my fourteenth year, he sent me…he sent me to a place that would cure my problem, or so he said. More likely, he wanted to forget I existed.”
A dread struck at his heart. Could she suffer from epilepsy? Often, families hid relatives with this strange disease, and although it made no difference to his love, nothing would – the life expectancy was short, too short.
“Did he send you to relatives?”
“No, no. He sent me to…” She stopped, and her hands twisted in her skirt, staining the pretty rose with black ink, so he reached around to still her movement, his large palm engulfing hers. She didn’t seem to want to continue, so he gently moved her hair out of the way and with all the ruthlessness of an army general, he began a besiegement. It started with a gentle kiss to the nape, progressing to a caress of her shoulder.
“Where did he send you?”
“An asylum. He sent me to an asylum.”
Rosalind felt his body tense behind her at her blurted words. She wanted to turn, to see his expression, but he’d been right: it was easier not to – easier to just listen and feel.
“They made us cut our hair so we wouldn’t catch lice. Not merely short, but shorn close to our heads. We always had to wear grey. I hate grey. And noise. It was always so noisy. There was a woman who screamed, screamed all night. They gave her laudanum, but she just sobbed instead, and then that disturbed everyone else, and they would scream, and it would go on and on, an endless circle of noise. Some prayed, yelling to God for mercy, or for death and I couldn’t…I couldn’t listen to it. I had to listen to other things. There are always other things – the heavy step of the guard, the birds outside chirping in freedom, Mrs Tadlow’s low whispering, and then beyond those things to the silence behind. Without finding that silence, I would have gone mad.”
She stuffed a fist into her mouth and bit hard, unable to continue, but warm fingers gently pulled it away and she flinched as soft lips kissed the ragged bite marks.
“I was luckier than others. I had Mrs Tadlow.”
“You spoke of her before, a family friend.”
“That…that wasn’t quite true. We shared a room. She…she saw ghosts and she would speak to them. Her sons had her committed, and I imagine it was quite easy for them to do it, as she was very…open about her ghost-talking. You’re a surgeon, Lucas, and you must know that it only takes a document to confine someone. But I don’t remember anyone seeing me. My father probably greased a few palms – he was good at that.”
“How long were you there?”
“Five years.”
“Oh God, Rosalind.” He pulled her tense body tight against his, and she was suddenly enveloped by the smell of mint and soap. The normalcy and the familiarity of the scent washed through her, calming her spirits and bringing contentment, if only for a moment.
“Rosalind. The man who forced a kiss on you, was it also at the asylum?”
“A guard, in the first month.” She heard him swallow, and she imagined his brow creasing as he drew conclusions.
“Did you dream of the asylum last night? You cried to be let go.”
