“I don’t think so. Goodness, the only person old enough might be Abe Plaskitt, our gardener.”
“I see.”
Mayhew tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, merely following up a theory.”
Frederick was still reluctant to tell the man about the secret stairway, not ready to make that news public. Perhaps because he thought he might yet use it to his advantage. Or perhaps because he feared revealing it might somehow endanger Miss Lane.
As Rebecca descended the stairs and looked down upon the hall below, she saw Dr. Fox in his blue frock coat sitting with a companion near the fireplace.
Noticing her, the doctor stood. “Ah, Miss Lane. May I present my wife, Mrs. Jane Fox.”
Rebecca walked over, footsteps echoing until she reached the plush carpet. She curtsied. “How do you do.”
Mrs. Fox inclined her head in return, her expression friendly and interested. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lane. My husband tells me you are an old friend to the Wilford family.”
“Yes, we have that in common.”
Dr. Fox smiled in acknowledgment. “We have just returned from a stroll and were about to order chocolate to warm our bones. Will you join us?”
“Thank you, yes. That is very kind.”
Rebecca sat down and began chatting with the woman while her husband ordered their drinks.
Mrs. Fox was a pretty, petite woman with a pleasant demeanor, dressed simply in olive green.
When Dr. Fox sat back down, Rebecca said, “Sir Frederick mentioned something about your medical specialty. Could you tell me about your practice?”
“Yes, if you’d like. I have an asylum for people suffering from various mental and emotional disturbances. You may have heard me called a ‘mad doctor.’”
Rebecca had heard Thomas Wilford refer to him as such, but didn’t acknowledge it. Instead she said, “Sir Frederick describes you as a highly reputable physician with new and humane methods.”
The man nodded, eyes warm. “Frederick understands me. I detest the termsidiot,madmen, and the like. For centuries, ignorant people, many with little or no medical training, have mistreated or imprisoned those with mild hysterias, restless agitation, and even common melancholia. Some make no distinction between the truly insane and a merely nervous patient, for whom confinement should continue no longer than necessary. Often such dear souls are harmless, yet have been forced to endure barbaric practices like purging, shackles, ice baths, narcotics, and worse.”
“My dear,” his wife protested gently. “Miss Lane may not wish to hear all the gruesome particulars.”
“Ah. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” Rebecca said, swallowing back the queasiness his words had caused. “I asked and find it most fascinating.”
Their cups of chocolate arrived along with a plate of crisp almond biscuits. For a few minutes the conversation turned toother topics: the history of the hotel, the enjoyment of their holiday, the many games of chess they had played, and the strange disruption of Ambrose Oliver’s death.
When Mrs. Fox finished her chocolate, she set down her cup and said, “Will the two of you excuse me? I have ordered a bath.”
Her husband rose and helped her to her feet. “Of course, my love.”
Mrs. Fox turned to Rebecca and said earnestly, “Please do continue your discussion without me. My dear husband is always glad to find someone who is genuinely interested in his work.”
Rebecca smiled at the woman, happy to oblige them both.
Dr. Fox sat back down, and Rebecca said, “You had begun to tell me about your asylum.”
He crossed one leg over the other. “Yes. Woodlane is a hospital for the curable and a comfortable retreat for the incurable. We offer compassionate, therapeutic, moral treatment.”
“Forgive me, but what does that mean?”
He entwined his hands over one knee. “As opposed to places like Bethlehem Hospital, or ‘Bedlam,’ which primarily restrain the severely deranged, my specialty is providing professional guidance in a safe environment to help the anxious or depressed, and those suffering from manias or hysterias. We employ gentle, long-term treatments to restore mental, emotional, and spiritual health.”
