Page 67 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“Wrexham,” she said, reaching for his hand and holding on. “Who is that?”

“That, my love, is Dr Boniface, and he has come to decide if I am a lunatic or not.”

Chapter 19

My lady,

I hope this finds you in excellent health.

I recently received a letter from Mr Bright, who sounded delighted by the most ambitious plans you have outlined to renovate Connaught Place. To illustrate his obvious excitement, I must explain that I have never once received correspondence from him that was not devoted entirely to financial affairs. Men of business are, by nature, sober creatures, but the way he described your eye for colour and flair for design was most remarkable. I await more information about your progress with bated breath.

Unfortunately, that is not the sole reason for this missive today. Lord Kilbane bid me contact you to ‘demand you cease writing endless letters’. I have pointed out that as this is the crux of the agreement he made with you, he has no right to make such demands, and you have no reason whatsoever to do as he bids. However, as I am in his employ, I am duty bound to obey him in all things. Having done as he asks, I suggest you cast this scrap of paper onto the fire where it belongs and carry on, regardless. I am, of course, merely a lowly employee and in no position to advise either you or your husband.

If there is the least thing I can do for you, please remember, I am at your disposal.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane (daughter of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) from her husband’s private secretary, Mr Gilbert Berrycloth.

23rd of February 1845, Cawston Hall, Cawston. Norfolk.

Wrexham felt his wife’s scowl. How, he was uncertain, but he had become attuned to her moods and knew immediately that she was vexed.

“Papa, you cannot be serious,” she said, confirming his suspicions by her less than conciliatory tone.

“Why not?” her father replied, entirely unruffled. “If I wanted to build a bridge and someone opposed the plans on safety grounds, I would have reports done to show whether they were sound. Well, the duke has done his best to insinuate that Wrexham is mad. All I am doing is endeavouring to prove the opposite to counter his claims once and for all.”

“I suppose that sounds reasonable,” she said grudgingly. “But how do we know this man can be trusted? For all we know, he’s in the duke’s pocket.”

“Emmeline!” her father said in shock, but Wrexham felt only a wave of adoration for this woman who would not even let her own father act unless she was certain it was in her husband’s best interests.

“I beg your pardon, Dr Boniface,” Emmeline said stiffly. “I mean no offence, but the duke has already turned my husband’s steward of five years against him, and I do not know you at all.”

“If I might speak,” Mr DeBeauvoir said. “You can trust him, Emmeline. I give you my word. I know you have heard all the horrific tales of the way asylums are run and the poor devils who dwell within them, but Dr Boniface’s establishment is nothing like—”

“He runs an asylum?” she exclaimed, and Wrexham jolted as she grabbed hold of his arm, clinging to him as if she feared they would drag him off before her eyes.

“Emmeline, you silly goose. Surely you do not believe your own father would do that to me?” he said, seeking her hand and covering it with his own.

“N-No,” she said. “I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.” “Lady Wrexham,” said an unfamiliar voice, who Wrexham assumed must be Boniface himself. “I should like to put your mind at rest. In the first place, I should never commit your husband unless he was a danger to himself or others, or wished to be committed, as many of our patients do. That is obviously not the case, and whilst I still need to interview Lord Wrexham, I can find no outward signs of lunacy in the very reasonable sounding man before me, and they are generally very easy to identify, so I beg you will not fear me or my methods.”

“You do understand the idea is to prove he is sane, Emmeline,” her father said, sounding a little exasperated.

“Obviously,” she retorted, though she did not sound at all reassured.

“Do you doubt I can do it?” Wrexham asked with a wry smile. Emmeline hit him. Not hard, but it seemed to answer the question. He grinned. “Very well, doctor. Lead on and let us get this over with.”

23rdof February 1845, Beverwyck, London.

“Must you go?” Aggie said with a sigh.

Fred smiled at her, and her heart did a ridiculous lurch. Heavens, she was a ninny, but there was no help for it. She loved him, even to the point of asking stupid questions, because of course he must go. The university had reopened, and he was due to catch the train back to Oxford.

“I wish I could say no,” he replied ruefully. “But the other fellows will be here shortly. We’re all travelling to Paddington together.”

Aggie nodded, making a mental note to be well out of the way before those idiots arrived. How Fred bore them she did not know, but apparently his friends weren’t bad sorts, just ‘a tad excitable’ and ‘occasionally reckless.’ If Aggie had her way, she’d invite them to be reckless enough to jump out the nearest upper floor window, but she held her tongue on that point. Besides which, she couldn't think of anything at all when Fred took her in his arms.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, his eyes shining with everything he felt for her.

How he did it, she did not know. After that initial declaration, he had been the perfect beau. He simply said what he felt without a qualm, telling her how very much he loved her, of his plans for their future, and never missing an opportunity to compliment her beauty, or her cleverness. He was so much braver than she was, and so very good. Fred wore his heart on his sleeve and cared not a jot what anyone thought of it. Sometimes that frightened her. He was just so very perfect, and she… was not. Fred was entirely honourable, decent and loyal, and the very best friend. Except they were not just friends anymore.