Page 29 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

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.”

“Understood,” Doctor Grantham said briskly, opening the file once more and noting Gideon’s words—at least he hoped that’s what he was doing. Then he closed the file and got to his feet. “Well then. Now that business is taken care of, I shall take you to her.”

“Take me—” His words died as Gideon stared at the man, his heart suddenly beating too hard, too fast.

“Surely you did not come all this way to see me and not visit her?” There was an edge to the doctor’s voice. Gideon could hear the challenge in it clear as day. You nigh on accuse me of heartless treatment, yet you will not set eyes on her?

He did not need the doctor’s opinion of him to know he was a coward, but Dr Grantham did not have the threat of such an end hovering over his future. The good doctor might know how the woman had treated her two little sons, who she had been certain were possessed by demons determined to murder her and take her to hell, but he’d not lived it. They’d been small children, scared and confused by a woman who ought to love them, but who told them they were wicked like she was, that they possessed an evil spirit instead of a soul, that their hearts were rotten and that their insides writhed with maggots.

It was a wonder Damian was as sane as he was. Five years his junior, Gideon had escaped the worst of it, for Papa had confined her to her rooms and brought people in to care for her when he was still a toddler. Until that had gone wrong.

Gideon steeled his nerve. Five minutes. He could manage five minutes. He wasn’t a child any longer, but a man. His mother was sick. It was not her fault. She knew not what she said or did.

“Of course. I would be grateful if you’d take me to her,” Gideon replied, relieved that his voice was steady.

The doctor nodded. “This way, Mr Bramwell.”

The Grand Hotel Building site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 28th July 1816

Damian Bramwell, Viscount Rivington, glared at the man in consternation. “Devil take the fellow, what do you mean he’s not here? Everyone tells me he eats, breathes and sleeps this blasted building site. He’s been hounding me to speak to him, and when I arrive as demanded, he’s buggered off.”

The man, who had introduced himself as Mr Ludlow, rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’m right sorry, my lord. I’m afraid he ain’t never took a day afore now, but he said he had private business that wouldn’t wait.”

“Private business, eh?” Damian repeated, considering this. That Gideon might do something as wild and self-indulgent as have a pretty little ladybird tucked away somewhere snug was so laughable he dismissed it at once. His poor brother didn’t have private business, which meant one thing. He’d gone to that bloody asylum, the pitiable fool.

“That’s what the note said. That were it, weren’t it, Mr Ridley?” Ludlow called across the site to a small hut where a man had appeared in the doorway.