Flowers From The Storm (6 page)

Maddy felt somehow as if she should be there, offering what help she could to them. She found herself instead inside the door of her parlor, in her own little house. Her papa lifted his head, smiling.

“Home already, Maddy girl?”

“Oh, Papa!” she said.

His smile faded. He sat up. “What is it?”

“I hardly know—I don’t—” She gave a little dry moan, holding onto the doorknob. “He’s dead, Papa!

He was killed in a duel this morning!”

Her father sat very still, his hands poised over his wooden symbols. After a long, silent moment, he said,

“Dead.”

The word had a hollow sound. Maddy sank to her knees beside him, leaning her head in his lap. “It is—such a shock.”

His fingers rested on her hair. She hadn’t put on her bonnet today; she wore her hair in the same braids she’d worn last night. He stroked lightly up and down the nape of her neck. He touched her cheek and caught the single tear that had escaped.

Maddy lifted her head. “I don’t know why I’m—why I should be weeping! I didn’t even like him!”

“Didst thou not, Maddy girl?” he asked softly. “I did.”

He went on stroking her hair. She rested her cheek against his leg, staring off into the corner of the room.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I just cannot seem to believe it.”

Blythedale Hall looked to Maddy like a handsomely decorated cake, with soft salmon-colored brick set off by straight pilasters and arched curves of pale stone frosting. Cousin Edward’s new retreat included a large piece of Buckinghamshire countryside, with a rose garden heavy in Tenth Month blossoms, a herd of fallow deer roaming the open park, and black swans gliding serenely on the lake, all legacies of the impoverished baronet who had sold it and now carefully maintained for the calming and beneficiary effects upon Cousin Edward’s patients.

Papa’s cousin Dr. Edward Timms supervised Blythedale in the most modern and humane manner. Each of his charges had his own personal attendant; a wholesome restraint was imposed only in the most intractable cases and removed as quickly as practicable. He was dedicated to his work, describing the therapies and management in enthusiastic detail in between cutting up bacon for himself and inviting Papa to take another kipper or more coffee.

Maddy could hear a woman crying—a most disturbing and audible sound—but Cousin Edward seemed not to notice it, and after a while it faded away. She sipped at her coffee, trying to arm herself for the tour ahead: her first view of the place and people, and a description of her position.

Cousin Edward had assured her that the duties were of a supervisory nature, rather than heavy work.

There would be an experienced attendant to serve Papa while she was occupied, and altogether it had seemed impossible to refuse Cousin Edward’s invitation to come and assume his wife’s managerial functions while she was confined with her third child, on the expectation that if all went satisfactorily, the post might become Maddy’s permanently. The offer appeared especially propitious after the disappointment of the letter regarding the mathematical chair, from one Henry Brougham, regretting that the funds pledged by the Duke of Jervaulx had been withdrawn and the chair endowed by another source, a gentleman who wished to remain anonymous but who preferred a different candidate to Mr.

Timms.

And verily, Buckinghamshire and Blythedale seemed perfect in the autumn morning, with sunlight warming the newly painted marigold-yellow walls of the dining room, sparkling off the silver and fine porcelain plate that had been surrendered by the penniless baronet along with the paintings and furniture.

The house smelled of fresh wax and new hangings. Nothing dismal had been allowed to remain, Cousin Edward pointed out.

Everything was peaceful and pleasant, if far too sumptuous for Maddy’s notion of Quakerly virtue. But the surroundings were fitted up to the well-bred tastes of Cousin Edward’s patients. There was only that distant sound of weeping to mar the opulence, coming again through the closed doors like some lost and grieving daylight ghost.

“Shall we begin, Cousin?” The doctor wiped his mouth and lifted the bell at his elbow. “Janie, call Blackwell to escort Mr. Timms to the family drawing room.”

The maid curtsied, spreading her apron, and vanished. Papa’s aide arrived a moment later, the whole procedure a clockwork silence. After Maddy had seen him off, Cousin Edward escorted her to his office on the first floor.

“The mail.” He nodded toward a basket on his desk. Cousin Edward had the same soft, comfortable, placid features as her father, but his dark eyes were quick and intelligent, his mouth pursing often. He did not strictly adhere to Plain Dress or Plain Speech. Though there was no collar on his coat, it was made of visibly costly fabric. If he seemed pleased with himself, Maddy supposed that he had a right to be, as the most successful member of the Timms family, with a flourishing practice in his medical specialty and his fresh, enlarged and luxurious premises at Blythedale.

“That will be one of your duties,” he said, “sorting the post directly it arrives. Open mine and leave it in the basket; whatever is addressed to the patients must be added to their files.”

She looked up at him. “Copied, dost thou mean?”

“No need for that. Simply open and file the letters themselves. Or if you feel that the contents are important or unusual, bring them to me. On occasion, an edited version isn’t amiss.”

“Excuse me—I’m not certain…” She touched the pile of mail. “Dost thou intend that the patients aren’t to have their letters?”

“It’s imperative that we maintain our clients in a state of complete tranquility and quiet at all times. Close communications with families is bound to overexcite. We recommend that the relatives not write at all, but as you can see, they will insist.”

“Oh,” Maddy said.

“And I remind you that none of the patients presently under care are of our persuasion. I must request that you refrain from using the Plain Speech. Some of them find it offensive to be addressed so familiarly.” He flushed slightly under Maddy’s grave stare. “We may use it among ourselves, of course—there is no question of that. But perhaps it would be best to have a policy of restricting it to the private rooms.”

“I shall try, but—”

“I’m sure you can do it. Take your cue from me. Just let me get my casebook—we’ll introduce you to everyone first. We’re like a family here; it’s important that you always think in that way. I feel myself a father to every poor soul who comes to Blythedale. And you’ll find the patients very like children. Think of them as such, and you won’t go far wrong.”

“Yes,” she said. Somewhere in the house, several tenors had taken up a cheerful rendition of some song, while a man began shouting unintelligibly, hysterically, over the notes.

“You’ll grow accustomed to it,” her father’s cousin said, smiling a little. “Some are recovering, but some are very ill.”

“Yes,” she said, and drew a breath. “I understand.”

There were, at present, fifteen patients at Blythedale Hall, fifteen unfortunate ladies and gentlemen who were yet fortunate enough that their families would pay for their residence and treatment at the most lavish private lunatic asylum in the country. With the excellent reputation of Dr. Edward Timms for moral and medical therapy, Blythedale was even more exclusive than Dr. Newington’s Ticehurst House in Sussex. Families were not encouraged to visit at Blythedale, but anyone without a personal connection to a patient was welcome at any time to tour the asylum with the attendance of an aide. The house had nothing to hide behind its walls, nothing inhumane or degrading. The most up-to-date treatments of wholesome diet, cold baths, calming routine and rehabilitating entertainment were practiced in an orderly atmosphere at Blythedale.

The ladies sewed and walked in the rose garden, played battledore, took soothing herbal teas, sometimes were allowed to sketch outdoor scenes. The gentlemen followed the same regimen, except that in place of sewing, they had gymnastics and chess and the selection of books provided in the library, and might walk as far afield as the home wood to collect flowers and leaves for the ladies to sketch.

Everyone who was capable could attend weekly scientific lectures and play cards, and there was an Anglican vicar who conducted services for all but the most unruly.

Blythedale was singular and forward-thinking among asylums, Cousin Edward informed her, in that a particular effort was made to mix the sexes in a normal social atmosphere, which the one-to-one ratio of attendants made both plausible and safe. He took her first to the drawing room, where the singers were gathered around a flutist. The terrible shouting had stopped, but one of the tenors wore a strait-waistcoat, its white sleeves tied behind his back. His attendant, a wiry, muscular young man with a look of the farm about him, stood close by. As Maddy and Dr. Timms entered, the patient gazed at her hopefully.

“Have you come to take me home?” the man in the strait-waistcoat asked her. “I’m supposed to go home today.”

“This afternoon,” Cousin Edward said, “Kelly will take you for a walk.”

His face began to color. “But I must go home! My wife is dying!”

Cousin Edward glanced at the attendant. Kelly said, “Let’s sit down and rest, Master John.”

“She’s calling me. I am the redeemed of Jesus Christ!” The man flung himself forward. Kelly caught him deftly by a strap on the back of the waistcoat, hauling him reeling off-balance. “I
am
the redeemed of the redeemed of the Lord! My wife died for
me
! She sacrificed her life for
me
! I’m
saved
, do you hear me, sir?
I tell you I’m
—”

His voice kept rising, going faster and higher as Kelly tugged him toward the door. The rest of the patients, three other men and five ladies, appeared unconcerned, except for one of the tenors, who began to laugh. A girl, young and quite lovely, dressed in an elegant gown, sat staring out the window without emotion, while next to her a woman bent over her sewing, rocking and whispering. The tenor’s laughter died away, and he bit his lip with an apologetic look at Maddy.

The wild shouting went on, growing distant, but Cousin Edward began to introduce her to each patient, whether or not he got a reply, and then to the patient’s attendant. He made notes in his book, and handed it to Maddy to read the details.

“Miss Susanna’s illness is melancholia,” he said. “It troubles her very deeply. How do you feel today, Miss Susanna?”

“I’m fine,” the girl said listlessly.

“Do you care to sing?”

“No, thank you, Doctor.”

Mind is full of apprehensions
—Maddy read.
Suffers torments from the most trivial thoughts
—

poor appetite, restless sleep
—
talks of suicide, attempted to destroy herself by drowning—formerlywas happy and willing in common feminine pursuits
—
melancholia followed upon disturbances inmenstruation brought on by overstimulation of the mind with excessive schoolwork andintellectual endeavors, diverting blood flow from nourishment of female organs
.

He smiled and patted Miss Susanna’s shoulder and moved on. Maddy was introduced to Mrs.

Humphrey, who suffered from dementia and progressive idiocy. The lady smiled cheerfully and asked Maddy if she were one of the Cunninghams.

“No,” Maddy said. “I’m Archimedea Timms.”

“I saw you in India.” Mrs. Humphrey had about her the slightly sour tang of an unchanged baby. “You took my clothes off.”

“Oh, no. Thou art—you’re mistaken.”

“At half past six.” Mrs. Humphrey nodded. “That would be hats.”

Does not recognize husband or children
, the casebook said.
Dementia and progressivedeterioration of intellect precipitated by onset of the climacteric disease of women
.

“Please help Mrs. Humphrey to her room for attention,” the doctor said to her attendant. He had a little frown between his brows. “I must ask that you be more vigilant of hygienic concerns.”

The patients in the drawing room represented the most manageable of Blythedale’s inmates, Maddy found. Master Philip, the tenor, felt fuzzy, and his food tasted strange. He laughed whenever he heard something sad, he told Maddy, which was very upsetting to him. He giggled as he said it. Lady Emmaline roundly insisted that she was an orphan, a foundling who had lost her family to the guillotine, in spite of Cousin Edward’s gentle suggestion that her parents were Lord and Lady Cathcarte, who resided in Leicestershire very much alive. But her navel was disappearing, Lady Emmaline informed him stoutly, as if that proved her case.

Beyond those in the parlor, other patients were confined to their rooms behind doubled doors, the outer of heavy wood, the inner of iron bars. Most of the furniture had been removed except for the patient’s bed and a cot for the attendant.

Mania
, read the book,
dangerous and destructive
—
derangement and breakdown precipitated bythe overstudy of religion
.