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Jane Bonander

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WINTER HEART
Winter Heart
JANE BONANDER
Copyright
Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 1996 by Jane Bonander

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For more information, email
[email protected]
.

First Diversion Books edition May 2013.

ISBN: 9781626810334

Dedication

For my sister Dr. Suellen M. Rundquist. Professor of English linguistics—she knows why.

Could the dark secrets of those insane asylums be brought to light… we would be shocked to know the countless number of rebellious wives, sisters and daughters that are thus annually sacrificed to false customs and conventionalisms, and barbarous laws made by men for women.

—Susan B. Anthony
and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, 1861

It is a very fashionable and easy thing now to make a person out to be insane. If a man tires of his wife, and is befooled after some other woman, it is not a very difficult matter to get her in an institution of this kind. Belladonna and chloroform will give her the appearance of being crazy enough, and after the asylum doors have closed upon her, adieu to the beautiful world and all home associations.

—Lydia A. Smith, 1864-1871,
institutionalized in New York and Michigan

Prologue
Prologue
California, 1846

What kind of sick mind would give an infant away to a stranger?

Even in his wildest, most dismal nightmares, Cecil couldn’t imagine it. His throat worked with emotion when he realized the infant the older woman held was staring at him. He knew he was a fool, but he felt the babe was scrutinizing him, sizing him up. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, circled with a rim of brown. Intelligent eyes. Probing eyes.

Certainly he was giving the babe far more credit than he deserved, he thought with a cynical lift of his brow. After all, the tad was only weeks old.

Beyond the platform, the whipster whistled as he watered his team. Soon the stage would be ready to leave again. There wasn’t time to dicker or to be rational.

“I’ll pay any price,” he told the woman.

Standing beside him, his wife expelled a disgusted sigh. “You’ll do no such thing! Why, the idea of taking in a breed …”

The rest of her tirade fell upon deaf ears. Cecil wanted a son with such intensity, it would have been impossible to explain it to anyone, especially his nagging wife. “Zelda, you and I will never have another child of our own. I want a son.”

“You want a son,” she mimicked, her voice derisive. “I don’t care what you want, Cecil Fletcher, I’m not taking in a breed and caring for him as if he were my own.” She sniffed, a sound that ended in an unladylike snort. “What will people think if we show up with someone else’s half-breed bastard?”

Cecil ignored her, accustomed to her harping. He usually gave in to her, and she expected it. He would surprise her this time. “If we take him in, he won’t be a bastard. He’ll be our son.”

“May the Lord forgive you, Cecil.
Think!
Think what this will do to Emily.”

All he had to hear was his three-year-old daughter’s name, and he went soft and vulnerable inside. Even so, Zelda’s threat did nothing, for he’d been waiting for her to mention Emily. It often brought him around to his wife’s way of thinking, but not now.

His beautiful Emily. A crushing pain squeezed his chest, and he wondered if it was his bad heart or his love for his daughter. God had played a cruel trick on all of them, for she was perfect in every way, except for her mind. Even when she was a baby, months old, her eyes hadn’t had the quick intelligence of the boy before him. She wasn’t an idiot by any means, but she’d been slow to develop. Slow to walk, slow to talk, slow to train. Sometimes painfully so. His heart squeezed again.

Cecil had been willing to try once more, but Zelda had kept him from her bed for years, reluctant to chance having another child, fearing the flaw would be repeated. Praying he would be forgiven the blasphemy, Cecil decided God was capricious.

“Despite her shortcomings, Zelda, Emily will be overjoyed at having a baby in the house. We both know that.” There was no deterring him. “We will take this child and raise him as our own, and you’d best get used to it.”

She gasped. “How dare you speak to me that way, Cecil. How
dare
you!”

He didn’t have to look at her to know that her narrow lips would be pursed so tightly they would nearly disappear. And there would be a mutinous look in her eyes as well. He would pay dearly for this, but it was worth the risk.

Digging into the pocket of his waistcoat, he retrieved a double eagle, then turned his attention to the woman who had offered him the baby.

“How much?” He had three double eagles on him. Sixty dollars was a small price to pay for a child; an embarrassment.

The woman’s black eyes snapped. “Children should not be bought and sold like cattle. They’re priceless.”

Cecil frowned at her incongruous behavior. “Why do you want to get rid of him, then?”

The anger in her eyes was replaced by pain. “Because it’s better than leaving him somewhere to die.”

Her accent was thick; he could barely understand her. “But I want to give you—”

“No money.” She thrust the baby at him. “Just take him and go away from here.”

Cecil took the child and held him close. Though wrapped in heavy blankets, he felt solid. Strong. They exchanged glances again, and Cecil gave the boy a grim smile as Zelda muttered her dissent beside him.
You will need your strength, Son, but I promise I will love you enough for both of us.

Fletcher Ranch. Sierra Nevada Mountains
California, 1858

“Tristan Fletcher!”

From his perch in the oak tree, Tristan cringed at the keening sound of his mother’s voice. He stopped carving his initials in the trunk and sheathed his knife. If she found him with it, she’d take it away from him, as she had most of his treasures.

Closing his eyes, he leaned against the tree and tried valiantly to shut her out. Ever since Pa’s death she’d been especially mean. She’d boxed Tristan’s ears, pinched his arms, and spewed enough words of hate at him to break the strongest servant. But he wasn’t a servant. At least he hadn’t been one until Pa died.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to work. When he worked she appeared satisfied and didn’t bother him. Now, with Emily gone to a special school, his mother was more demanding of his time.

Tristan missed his sister very much. One of his earliest memories was of Emily rocking him to sleep in a big rocking chair by the fire. She had adored him from the day they’d brought him home. They had been close companions since the time he’d been old enough to feed himself. They’d done everything together. Played the same games. Enjoyed the same things.

It wasn’t until his best friend Lucas, the foreman’s son, had brought it to his attention that Emily was so much older than he and should enjoy completely different activities that Tristan had imagined she might be different.

She was a great artist; that’s what Tristan thought, anyway. She could draw anything he asked her to, and it would miraculously appear on the page. Even when Zelda had raged at Emily, she could be calmed by taking pen in hand and moving it across a sheet of paper. But even then they couldn’t let Zelda find Emily sketching. Emily’s pictures were, well, on the dark side, and Zelda hated them. She didn’t understand that drawing made Emily feel better.

Zelda. If she ever imagined that he referred to her by her given name, he’d see the inside of hell long before he died. He couldn’t help it. She was no more his mother than the mare out in the pasture.

Today he avoided her because he’d wanted to go fishing with Lucas and she’d refused to let him. He’d learned that he rarely, if ever, got to do what he wanted, but there was a place inside him that refused to back down gracefully. He’d felt that way a lot lately: angry, moody, itching to disobey, despite her threats. He thought it was because she’d sent Emily away. No other reason came to mind.

He would pay for his ornery attitude, and it would hurt, but for now, he reveled in her frustration and her fury.

Something jabbed his calf.

“There you are, you worthless half-breed. You’ve tried my patience one time too many. God will punish you for sneaking away and hiding from me, just you wait and see.”

Tristan often wondered about this threatening God of hers. It wasn’t the same one his father had worshiped, for Pa had spoken of him kindly, even though his eyes were sad when he did so.

Zelda poked him again with the broom handle, hard enough to leave a bruise but not hard enough to break anything. He’d learned long ago not to react, even though it hurt like the devil. Gooseflesh rose on his skin as the pain radiated through his body. He clamped his jaw shut, swallowing any sound of discomfort.

“Get down from there before I make you sorry you ever came to live with us.”

He was already sorry. He ached to rub his sore calf, but resisted the urge. Why did Pa have to die? Tristan had never said it aloud, but he wondered why death couldn’t have taken her, instead.

“Why can’t I go fishing?”

“Fishing? You lazy slug. You don’t want to work, that’s what’s wrong with you. Besides, all your kind are alike, lazy, good for nothing. Now, get down from there before I take a belt to your backside.”

Tristan stiffened. He wouldn’t ask again. He would never allow her to find his weaknesses, for he instinctively knew she’d feed on them. A militant anger spread through him. He had six more years before he could leave this place and go to college, then he’d be three thousand miles from her harping tongue.

“Did you hear me?”

How could he not? Her strident voice penetrated the air like a freshly honed blade. He continued to ignore her, climbing higher into the tree.

“Get down here this instant! There’s work aplenty around here, and your share is collecting dust.”

Tristan wanted to run away. Escape. Before Pa died, they had talked about it. Pa had brought the subject up, knowing Tristan would be tempted once he was gone. He’d made Tristan promise not to leave home until it was time, no matter how much he wanted to.

It hadn’t been easy, but for Pa, Tristan would have walked through fire. He only wished Pa were alive. He missed him very much, and with Emily gone off to school, he felt completely alone.

Chapter 1
1
Trenway Asylum, Upstate New York
February, 1875

Daisy coughed into her handkerchief, knowing without looking that what was there would be blood streaked. In a few moments, she would meet Dinah Odell, and the plan Daisy had devised would be put into motion. She would not follow orders and place Dinah in the punishment box. With the matron leaving on holiday, who would know? Daisy had other plans for Dinah.

Her lungs ached, had for weeks. She was weak and frail, barely able to carry out her duties. For her, life was at a close. For Dinah, it was just beginning. She had to convince the child. Child. A smile cracked her dry lips. Though they were only six years apart in age, Daisy felt ancient. It was the consumption, of course. It had ravaged her body almost beyond recognition.

The night before, she’d stood in front of the mirror and wept. Her small breasts sagged; her hipbones were so sharp she was surprised they hadn’t penetrated her skin. The hair that had once been her pride and joy was no longer red but a lackluster carrot color, and it hung in lank strands around her face. She had lost most of the curls that had once grown thick and red low on her belly. What was left was dull, almost gray. She would never know a man’s love, a man’s passion. She would die dried up like a withered spinster because of the damned disease. She’d even cursed God, for who else was to blame if not He?

Reaching into her apron pocket, she pulled out the letter from the employer who had been going to release her from this hellish job. His proposition was generous, and a stunning surprise. She couldn’t fathom why someone would offer so much. She reread the last page, still filled with awe.

…and because our mutual acquaintance, David Richards, has recommended you so highly for the job of caring for my dear sister, I offer you something as well: marriage—in name only, of course, you have my word as a gentleman—in exchange for five years of faithful and compassionate service. At the end of that period of time, to guarantee your comfort for the remainder of your life, I will present to you a generous monetary settlement in the amount of…

Daisy read the amount again, knowing it was a fortune. A bounteous sum. Had she been healthy, she would have taken it. Had she been healthy, she would have married the devil to get out of this place. When Dr. Richards had approached her with the opportunity, he had assured her that Tristan Fletcher was an honorable man. Marrying a stranger was daunting, but it was done all the time. She had a cousin who had married a rancher in Wyoming, sight unseen. She was happy enough.

But Daisy knew she was dying; nothing would change that. Dinah was not. She was young and vibrant and full of life. She shouldn’t languish in this godforsaken place.

It had been at that moment that Daisy had quietly put together her plan. But knowing the spirited Dinah as she did, she knew an arranged marriage would not sit well, even though it was temporary and worth a great deal of money.

Daisy held the sheet of paper by the corner over the candle flame, watching it turn to ashes. Whatever kind of life awaited Dinah Odell beyond these grim asylum walls was immeasurably better than the one she faced inside them.

A clock somewhere in the cavernous building sounded eleven bells, the echo reverberating dismally, reminding Daisy that the sooner she got Dinah out of this place, the better.

She found the other letter, the one she’d written exonerating Dinah of all guilt, and tucked it into the hidden pocket in her travel bag, the one she would give Dinah. Daisy had many things to tell Dinah, so many things to say. Her mind wasn’t working as it once had. She hoped she would remember everything.

With difficulty because of her weakness, she closed her travel bag and went to meet Dinah in the remote storage room.

“It’s the only way, dear.”

Dinah stared in horror at the black metal discipline box, tearing her gaze from the shackles at the bottom. She remembered the times she’d felt the cold, cruel metal bite into the tender flesh at her wrists and ankles. Even now, they throbbed at the visual reminder.

Nurse Jenkins leaned against the wall, her face pale and drawn, her eyes swimming with feverish tears. She was thin and frail and appeared far older than her twenty-six years. She coughed and doubled over, clutching her stomach.

Dinah pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if doing so would banish her sympathetic pain. It wasn’t possible. Fear, gratitude, and compassion clogged her throat. “But to willingly take my place, Daisy. Why?”

Daisy Jenkins coughed again, the sound deep and painful. What she brought up was pink and frothy, and she folded it into a handkerchief. “It means your survival, Dinah. I have little time left.” She took a deep breath, one that rattled from her lungs. “You’ve seen how weak I am. I can barely carry out my duties here. I couldn’t fool the matron another hour let alone another day.” Coughing again, she scanned the room with her fever-laden eyes.

“I detest this place and everything it stands for. I would rather die saving you than live another moment having to serve the matron’s whims.”

The flickering candlelight hollowed out her already sunken cheeks, making her appear cadaverous. “You don’t belong here. I know it and Matron Doppling knows it. You’ve been punished for being a free spirit. I’ve seen how you hide your pain behind your tough facade.”

She laughed, but it turned into another fit of coughing. When she recovered, she gripped Dinah’s arm until she caught her breath. “Had you not been so gently born and raised, you’d have had a successful run on the stage.”

Dinah was unable to watch Daisy’s swift deterioration. “I didn’t know I was that transparent.”

“To no one but me, perhaps. You’re a chameleon.”

It was true. Dinah had held on to her sanity in large part because of her ability to become whomever her jailers thought she was. If she could make them laugh, so much the better for her. Unfortunately, most of them thought she was merely cheeky. In part, they were right. But she also kept her spirit alive because to lose it meant to die. Death was a constant. It visited the inmates daily.

“You’re here because Martin Odell wanted to get rid of you. Don’t forget that.”

At the sound of her uncle’s name, thoughts of freedom became elusive, shuddering through Dinah like flickering aspen leaves in the wind. She kept her face turned away so Daisy wouldn’t sense her feelings. “Yes, I know. But if Martin discovers I’m gone, he’ll just find me and drag me back.”

Since the untimely death of her parents, Martin had changed. No longer the doting uncle, he had first put her dear sister, Charlotte, away, claiming her fits required treatment she couldn’t get at home.

That in itself should have been a warning to Dinah, but how would she have known? Since childhood, Charlotte had been sickly, and grieving for Mama and Papa had weakened her more. Even the doctor who came to call agreed that Charlotte would get better care in a sanitarium. Dinah had no way of knowing then that the sanitarium was actually an asylum for the insane, the very one from which she was now planning to escape.

It wasn’t until Charlotte’s death that Dinah discovered what kind of place Trenway actually was. Even so, it was hard for her to believe her sister had intentionally taken her own life. It was no wonder that Martin wanted Dinah out of the way. Her caustic tongue and fearless need to discover the truth about Charlotte’s death had prompted her uncle to pack her off to the asylum, too. How effortlessly he’d done it! No one had questioned his motives or her state of mind. Not even the doctors.

“Yes,” Dinah repeated, her heart heavy, “he’ll just find me and bring me back.”

“Not if he doesn’t know.”

She swung around. “How can he not discover I’m gone?”

“Oh, he may. Eventually.” Daisy dug into her apron pocket and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to Dinah. “In the meantime, you’ll be long gone, safely away from here.”

Dinah took out the letter, read it, sifted through the other items in the envelope, then dropped into the chair by the old, battered desk. “Your train ticket is in here. And money. You want me to take your new position?” A fresh flood of fears surged through her. “I couldn’t get away with it. They know your name, don’t they?”

“Of course. But things change, dear. I’ve been meaning to write them and explain why someone else is coming in my place, but I’ve just not had the strength. Anyway, you’ll think of something. You’re a clever girl.”

Dinah stared at the letter in her lap, running her fingers over the page. “I couldn’t get away with it,” she repeated.

“You can and you will. Would you rather stay here? Think about it. You have no future here. None.”

Frowning, Dinah bit down on her lip, knowing she couldn’t bear to stay behind asylum walls if there was any chance at all she could escape. Every day she felt as though she were suffocating. “I know, but—”

“You have a wonderful sense of humor, Dinah, and your instinct to survive is the only thing that has kept you sane. After I’m gone, there will be no one here to act as a buffer between you and the matron.”

Dinah blinked, hoping to stem her tears. “But if I leave, you’ll die.” She was suddenly struck with an idea. “Why don’t we both leave? Oh, Daisy, let’s both go!”

With the effort of one scaling a rocky cliff, Daisy hiked a bony hip onto the edge of the desk. “I’ve already thought of that. I would only slow you down. Whether you want to believe me or not, I’m going to die. The efforts required to travel would be too much for me. Trust me, Dinah, I’m not trying to be a martyr. I have very little time left, and I think it’s important that at some point, a body be found they can assume is yours.” She pressed her handkerchief over her mouth. “We’re of similar height. Though your hair is a more vibrant red than mine, it’s comparable.”

“But you’re not going to die this minute, you’ll—” Her argument was broken off by another fit of Daisy’s coughing. This time, she actually slumped to the floor.

“Daisy!” Hurrying to her side, Dinah lifted her head into her lap.

Daisy’s eyes were bright. “I don’t have much strength left, Dinah Odell. Or time.” Her voice was but a whisper, her breathing labored and bubbly. “Do this for me. Do this for
all
women.”

“But, how can I possibly pass myself off as a nurse?” Dinah had a sense of panic. Her dreams of freedom dwindled further amidst the harsh reality of what Daisy wanted her to do.

“It’s not so difficult. All most patients need is a lot of understanding. And love.”

“But what if she’s truly insane? What if… what if she’s violent and mad and I’m not able to control her?” Suddenly the whole idea of escape seemed ludicrous. Farfetched. Fanciful.

“You’ve seen what goes on here, Dinah. Just remember that physical punishment never makes things better. It only compounds the problem.” Daisy coughed again and her eyes rolled back, exposing the jaundiced whites.

“Oh, Daisy. Dear, dear Daisy.” A breath-robbing tightness seized Dinah’s chest as she stroked Daisy’s hair.

Daisy’s coughing became worse. “I won’t last until morning. If you don’t do as I say, they will somehow find a way to blame you for my death. And your uncle will gladly join the throng. At least leaving will give you a good head start.”

Each word was spoken with great difficulty. Dinah had to bend close to hear. “Count on that, Dinah. In spite of my efforts to be deceptive about our relationship, the matron has seen how familiar we’ve become. Were I to leave you here, she would exact her most heinous punishment on you.

“She’s gone for a few days to visit her no-account son, Edward. Now is the time to do this. Freedom is yours.” Although her words were halting and barely audible, the message was clear.

Dinah said nothing. She sat on the floor and rocked Daisy in her arms long into the night, as a mother holds a dying child, grateful that no one disturbed them.

Freedom is yours.
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d prayed for release from the hell hole in which she now found herself. Thoughts of her sometime suitor, Charles Avery, flicked through her mind for the first time in weeks.

How childish she’d been all those months ago, when she thought he might intercede on her behalf with her uncle. She’d been just a girl then. A little girl who thought of parties and dresses and sweet kisses stolen on balconies. She’d clung to those sappy notions, wanting the sort of life her mother once had because she knew of nothing else.

That had been over a year ago. Such things no longer found a place in her mind; she had all she could do to think about survival. But to escape …

Daisy had been scheduled to leave the asylum for her new position in California, and at first, Dinah had thought she was meeting her to say good-bye. But when Daisy told her she meant Dinah to escape, Dinah could not have imagined the extent of her plan.

Dinah closed her eyes. California. The entire charade was worthwhile if it got her to California. Unfastening the top of her prison gown, she reached inside and pulled out Charlotte’s diary, which she carried close to her body for safekeeping.

With Daisy’s feverish head in her lap, Dinah opened the journal. Charlotte’s spidery scrawl leaped out at her, causing her heart to lurch in her chest again, as it did each time she saw the writing.
He was here again today, my Teddy was, promising to take me away. To California.

Dinah flipped to the last entry.
He has abandoned me and our unborn child. I have no reason to go on living.

Tears blurred Dinah’s vision, so she closed the book, returning it to the pocket Daisy had stitched inside her tattered camisole. Poor, darling Charlotte. Dinah hadn’t had the chance to say good-bye. Yes, maybe it was worth the risk if it got her closer to finding out what had really happened to Charlotte. She might have been weaker than Dinah, but she wouldn’t have killed herself. Even Daisy hadn’t been able to find out exactly how Charlotte had died.
I have no reason to go on living
didn’t automatically mean she’d taken her own life, did it?

Once again her gaze found the black metal box. She shuddered, for the box looked like a macabre black coffin. Even the lid came down and latched like a coffin lid. But instead of a silk lining and a fine pillow for one’s head, there were noisy shackles for the limbs. Cold, heavy, iron shackles.

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