Page 60 of Lord of Loyalty

Goodwife Cartwright frowned. “You were in a complete stupor when you came in—it was impossible to get any sense out of you. The soporific was to calm you, when you became too excitable. You’ve seen yourself, sir,” she added, turning to Will, “how little it takes for the whole hospital to be in an uproar.”

“Of course, I spoke no word of sense at the start.” There was an unmistakable edge to Isobel’s voice. “I’d just been abducted, stolen from my own back garden and drugged, then smuggled away in the death cart before being dumped in this dreadful place.”

“That was not my understanding.” Goodwife Cartwright looked uncomfortable. “This lady was brought in by a concerned relative, a respectable-looking gentleman who made a generous donation to the hospital. The young lady was in a pitiful state, physically exhausted—the man said he’d been caring for her at home, but she’d run away. As soon as she came to her senses, she started raving about abduction, and legacies, and the death cart. It just sounded too fantastical. The inmates here are prone to all kinds of imaginings.”

Will held the woman’s gaze and raised a questioning eyebrow.

She swallowed and looked at Isobel again. There was a long pause before she said, “So, he lied to me?”

He nodded, his lips pressed together in stark disapproval. Call it what one liked—this woman had accepted a bribe to ask no questions about Isobel’s condition. He’d risk the queen’s displeasure and ask Leicester to pull some strings to get this place looked into. Particularly the way it was run, and the moral fiber of its officials.

“Goodwife Cartwright—the man in question is a trickster of the worst kind. To call him mean, grasping, and vicious would be to understate the case. He’s already made one attempt on my life and is even now being sought by all the constables, street children, and watchmen in London. I can bring you written testament to that fact, should you need it—and let me assure you, I’m far better connected than Hubert Pike. Now, give me a paper to sign, and we’ll be gone.”

The keeper’s wife made a great show of shuffling through documents. “I’ll send for the young lady’s clothes, that she came in with. She can dress in there.” She pointed to a side door.

At least they hadn’t sold Isobel’s things. Will looked down at her feet and was shocked to see she wore no shoes. These lunatics were deprived of all comforts, everything that might be familiar to them. How could there be any cure, any recovery, when they were treated like this?

Isobel gave Will’s hand a squeeze. He clung to her delicate fingers, not caring what anyone thought. He never wanted to let her out of his sight again. The self-recriminations, the guilt, loss, loneliness—all these things had eaten away at his soul until it was in tatters, and he’d no idea if he’d ever be whole again.

A girl appeared, was given her orders by Goodwife Cartwright, and disappeared off. Will shuffled one-handed through the papers that had been laid out on the table, refusing to relinquish his hold on Isobel. He had to, however, when she was taken off into the neighboring chamber to be dressed.

He took up the quill and signed the paper placed in front of him, then met Goody Cartwright’s eyes. Aye, suitably cowed, as she should be. However, he must remember it was not the institution at fault, as much as those who ran it—and quell his ungentlemanly urge to take the woman out onto the sward and dump her in the fishpond.

“Had you more in the coffers, could you improve the lot of the inmates here?” he queried.

Her chin went up. “Changes could be made to their diet, and their clothing replaced more frequently, I suppose. One might be able to afford sweet rushes for the floor more regularly, also. I could think of many other things, given time.”

He’d expected to see her eyes narrow with greed, but they did not. He removed a gold angel from his purse and placed it on the table. “Then allow me to make a donation. Be certain, if you accept it, another visit will be made, either by myself or one of my connections at court, to ensure the money has been spent wisely.”

She gaped at him a moment, then—for the first time since he had set eyes on her—smiled.

“Forgiveness is a virtue, and righteousness is its own reward. I bless you for your generous gift, and humbly apologize for our mistake. We endeavor to do our best here—both by God and by our patients—but we’re not infallible. Only the Lord can see through deceit, and He will doubtless punish Master Pike in his own way, without you needing to lift a finger.”

He held her gaze, refusing to release her until he was assured of her sincerity. He only blinked when the click of a latch presaged Isobel’s return.

She was still wearing the rather grubby coif beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. It took him a moment to realize the reason for it, and when he did, he was tempted to seize back the coin he’d offered to Goody Cartwright.

Pity moved him so powerfully, it was all he could do not to crush Isobel into his arms and run his hands over that shorn head, kissing every inch of exposed skin. Pike would pay for all he’d made her suffer—by the rood, he’d make him pay! Giving Goodwife Cartwright a curt nod, he seized Isobel’s hand and strode to the outside door where he could suck in the air he so badly needed.

Beside him, Isobel, too, was gasping for air.

“I don’t know how long I was in that place, but I ofttimes feared I’d never see the sun again. Others were released for exercise, but not I. Doubtless because I insisted that I was innocent of insanity, I was considered troublesome. Having you here with me now, feeling the sun on my face, is all I believe I will ever need.”

She had such courage. And possibly more faith in him than he had in himself. “I’m so sorry we argued. You should never have been put through this.” He raised a hand to her head, his thumb caressing her brow. “Your beautiful hair. How distraught you must have been, my poor darling. But it will grow back. Even if it does not, our queen has set a fashion for wearing wigs.”

He looked deep into her eyes, translating every nuance of her expression. He knew he could kiss her again, and she’d not object—he knew he could offer her his love, and that it would be returned.

But before he could speak, she was pulling away from him, her body tense, her green eyes wide. Following the direction of her frozen stare, he saw a familiar figure stalking towards him across the grass.

Hubert Pike.