“How d’you know it was rat?” Stone interjected, slurring somewhat.
“I found a small, bony foot,” the Irishman complained, and Lucas roared with laughter at the utter horror on Stone’s face.
“’Tis true, although the pie was actually quite tasty – very gamey. Needs must, Stone, needs must.”
“Come April and rat pie will seem most appetising after all the winter venison. Anyway, sit now you’re here and tell me if I am to have another coat ruined by Rosalind’s blubbering.”
“She was crying?”
“Spoiled my best blue this morning. I’ve never seen that girl cry, till you came along.”
“Not even when you went to fetch her from the asylum?”
The inn was quiet tonight, probably due to the snow, but the fire burned brightly and warmed all the intrepid customers…and the lonely ones.
Stone took a huge glug of ale and settled back against the hard wooden bench. “God, I have never seen such a sight. When I went to the cell, for that’s all it was, she was silent and wretched, as though all life had leached from her. Not timid, mind, just…grey. Grey and so bloody thin. Her hair was cropped to her skull and, Christ, the bones in her wrist stuck out like wooden knobs. She could hardly eat anything, and when I fed her venison stew, I thought she’d cry with delight. She didn’t, of course; instead, she ate till she was sick as a horse.”
Hell, where was his ale? He was going to need it: he couldn’t bear to think of Rosalind in such a state.
“From what I know,” Stone continued, “she was relatively lucky, as that asylum didn’t actually utilise many treatments. It was mainly a confinement place and there were no signs of the restraints that I’ve heard other places use.”
The ale arrived, and a good thing too. He needed it to clear the clogging in his throat. He felt humbled that she’d trusted him enough to tell of her past, and he gulped from the tankard, unable to speak.
“I’m not saying that some people aren’t violent in these places, but bloody Christ…so many, especially women, seem to be wrongly confined, either by mercenary families, misdiagnosis or just plain error. It’s too easy, and outside London, ’tis only the magistrates that inspect these asylums. And if you happen to get a man like Sir Hector…” Shaking his head, Stone swigged more ale. “There’s a group of us trying to get the Madhouse act revised but it’s difficult. Parliament doesn’t seem to care.”
“I’d like to assist in any way I can. As a surgeon, I might have some influence.”
“A great help. I’ll introduce you to one our leading members, a George Rose.”
The name reminded Lucas of the other overwhelming news. “She’s my Rosie. The young girl from my childhood I talked about in the carriage that Sunday.”
“I didn’t know myself till that day. Told her to tell you, but she thought you’d be disgusted by her past and her dreams.”
“She saved my life!”
“Mine as well, but she doesn’t see it thus. To her, it’s a curse, a suffering. I can understand it to an extent. She’s awoken screaming some nights, and the dreams can be incomprehensible to her – there’s nothing she can do. Imagine glimpsing someone’s future, maybe someone you love. She is incredibly strong and yet incredibly vulnerable. Don’t tell her I said the last bit – she’d cut my tallywags off.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.” Lucas sighed. “None of it. In fact, it all makes sense. I never could forget Rosie, which was why I went searching when I was younger. I couldn’t believe it when her father told me she’d died. It felt wrong, so wrong, and now I know why. Wasn’t her family name Beamhurst?”
“She changed it to her mother’s maiden name as she didn’t want the association with her father. Can’t say I blame her.”
Abruptly, two massive bowls of stew were placed in front of them, smelling meaty and wholesome. Looking up, they saw Lottie grinning widely.
“Pork stew with sage, potato and a cider sauce. Don’t worry, there’s no colcannon left.” And she winked, her blue eyes sparkling as she left them to the divine dinner.
“Lucky sod, that O’Carroll,” Stone muttered as he tucked in.
“You have Daphne.”
“No, I don’t. She’s going to Wales…on her own. Says she’s too broken, and that I should find a wholesome lass, one that doesn’t flinch from my touch and cringe at a raised voice.”
“Have you met that horse called Clover in the stables?”
“Are you suggesting we’d suit?” Stone glared, a spoonful of stew poised at his mouth.
“No, no.” He coughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. But, isn’t it like those birds Mrs Reynolds told us you used to heal as a child? Daphne needs patience and love, and hopefully, slowly, she’ll grow accustomed to you.”
“The birds always died of fright. I don’t remember saving one.”
