Page 71 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“But my uncle,” Wrexham persisted, too terrified to allow himself hope until he was certain.

“On having spoken to a nurse who tended to your uncle in his last days, I have come to certain conclusions, but I am afraid they are not happy observations.”

“Go on,” Wrexham said, his voice hoarse as his heart picked up speed.

“After hearing the nurse’s firsthand experience, and reading the doctor's file associated with your uncle—and truly I do not wish to know how Mr Knight got his hands on that private document—it is my professional opinion that your uncle was driven to madness. He appears to have been an opium addict when the malady struck, a habit he was unable to give up. This habit, far from being curtailed as I would have insisted upon doing, was readily indulged in. This, combined with what I can only describe as consistent cruelty and mockery on the part of those in whose care he found himself, are at the root of his supposed madness. That is to say, my lord, I do not believe your unfortunate uncle’s condition is anything you need to concern yourself with. You have nothing to fear.”

Wrexham let out a sound he was mortified to note sounded horribly like a sob and covered his mouth with his hand. Oh God. Oh God. Not mad. Not mad. It took him several moments to compose himself as thoughts of a future he’d believe lost to him crowded in his mind and, at the centre of it all, was Emmeline.

“If you needed any further reassurance, please believe me when I tell you, I find nothing in your family history, or in yourself, that leads me to believe you are in the least danger of losing your faculties. No more or less than any other man, at least, for we none of us know what the future holds. But there is no reason yours ought not to be a bright and fulfilling one.”

The doctor’s voice was gentle, reassuring, and in that moment, Wrexham could have hugged him. As it was, he sat very still, struggling to compose himself.

“You cannot know—” Wrexham managed, shaking his head.

“My lord, I run an asylum. It is the kindest and most welcoming place I can make it for those troubled souls who find themselves at home there, but I promise you, I understand the fear you have lived with these past years. Now, you can let that go.”

Wrexham laughed, a startled, breathless sound. “Thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and most of all, I must thank that overbearing, interfering father-in-law of mine. I fear he will be the bane of my existence, but that I have an existence to look forward to is, in no small part, thanks to him. So I will bear it with good grace.”

“That sounds like the best course of action, my lord. Fighting Mr Knight strikes me as a wearying and futile endeavour.”

“You are a wise man, Dr Boniface.”

“I feel confident in returning the compliment. Now, if that is all?”

“No,” Wrexham said, sitting forward, his hands grasping the chair arms, reassured by the strong English oak beneath his palms. He’d faced a good many truths over the past days, so he may as well face one more. “There’s something else I’d like to know.”

Chapter 20

Dear Mr Berrycloth,

I was so pleased to receive your letter this morning and to make the acquaintance of my husband’s secretary. Have you held the position long? What a patient man you must be.

I shall not be coy about my situation, for I do not doubt you are aware of the details of my husband’s private affairs, or else you would have little to occupy you. You are certainly aware of the deal I struck with Lord Kilbane concerning the letters.

I thank you kindly for forwarding his comment, but more so for your own. You cannot know how very much I appreciated your kind words. Dare I hope I have found an ally? If I might count you as such I shall be the most fortunate of women, for Mr Bright has been such a dear fellow. I confess it surprised me to read your description of him as a sober creature, for whilst he was terribly grave upon our first meeting, it took very little encouragement to involve him in my plans. Indeed, he has become quite indispensable to me. I cannot think what I should do without him. I have asked him and his wife to accompany me to the theatre this evening to thank him for all he has done. Shocking of me, I know, but if the Marchioness of Kilbane cannot be shocking, what is the point of the title?

Whilst I never burn correspondence—unless it is prudent to do so—I have mentally consigned your last letter to the fiery furnace, as you suggested. I will keep writing to my husband, as well as to you, for I feel we shall get along splendidly together.

You also asked me if there was the least thing you could do for me. There is. Please, could you discover if Lord Kilbane reads the letters I write to him, or if he casts them on the fire as he told me he would do? I know it will depress my spirits dreadfully if it is the latter, but I must face the truth, whatever it may be. I have never been of a mind to hide from reality, and I do not intend to begin now. So, tell me all, Mr Berrycloth.

Your friend and ally,

Lady K

―Excerpt of a letter from 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) to her husband’s private secretary, Mr Gilbert Berrycloth.

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

Emmeline stared out of her bedroom window and forced herself not to turn back to the clock to check the time again. Wrexham had been talking with Dr Boniface for well over two hours and she was sick with anxiety. Not that she thought the doctor could find anything wrong with her husband’s mind, but the entire day seemed to stretch before her, littered with pitfalls and dangers. Assuming Dr Boniface was satisfied—which he had better be or he would have her to reckon with—there was still the ordeal of executing her father’s plan.

Before Wrexham had lost his sight, it had been his habit to visit his tenants on the last Saturday of the month. He had confided to Emmeline that riding out over his own land, seeing the crops growing and the landscape changing with the seasons, had been a profound pleasure, and he had felt its loss. However, he wished to return to doing as much as he could, and visiting his tenants would certainly fall under that heading. It also offered her father an opportunity to lay his trap.

In some regards, it appeared her husband had been a creature of habit. On returning from his visits, Wrexham would leave his horse at the stables and walk the short distance to the Buck’s Arms with Humboldt for a drink. It was a popular pub and by early evening would be thronged with the locals; a good place to catch up with anyone he had not seen during his visits. Wrexham had usually arrived by five p.m. and, whilst the pub was quiet, would spend the next hour going over any issues with Humboldt. His duplicitous steward, Mr Thompson, would arrive later. Once business was done, Humboldt and Thompson would leave and Wrexham would stay, often until closing. Emmeline gathered from speaking to the staff at Cawston that this habit had endeared him to his tenants and the locals, who appreciated that they could approach his lordship directly. From everything she had heard, Wrexham was very warmly regarded and respected, and his accident and subsequent disappearance from their lives had been a heavy blow to everyone on and around the estate.

His staff had reacted with delight to the news that his lordship intended to revive this habit and so, naturally, the news had spread like wildfire. Which meant that the duke and Lord Cecil would know, too.

Emmeline’s father had received information this morning that the duke was staying with a Mr Whittleton, a prosperous landowner and an old crony of the duke’s, who lived in nearby Aylsham. She did not doubt that Lord Cecil was with him. So, their trap was set, and now they only needed to execute it… if Dr Boniface ever deigned to let her husband leave his blasted study.