“Malady?”
“I say malady,” he deflated slightly, “but truthfully, as it is a malady of the mind . . . the more accurate description would beinsanity.”
He whispered the word softly, but it reverberated nonetheless like a struck gong—insanity, insanity, insanity.
Leah’s lungs froze, shock rooting her in place.
“’Tis a terrible curse and a blight that we Carnegie men have fought diligently to conceal,” he said. “But our women . . . they appear normal andarenormal, but after they birth a child . . .”
His voice drifted off.
“It’s a terrible affliction,” he continued, “as if the act of giving birth damns them to madness. My mother experienced this. Before my birth, she apparently was a cheerful, sensible woman. But after . . . she became deranged. My father hired a nurse to oversee her care at home. And after a few years, her health improved enough. I remember her as a kind but fragile woman. Soft-spoken with gentle hands. But after Susan’s birth . . . my mother never recovered. Her fits of hysteria threatened Susan and myself, so much so, my father had to commit our mother to an asylum. She died there when I was seventeen.”
Oh.
Leah could scarcely breathe.
The vision of a younger Fox rose before her eyes. A quiet boy with sad blue eyes, missing his mother’s touch.
“Did ye ever see her again? Before her death?”
“Aye. Once.” Fox turned to her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My father would visit our mother on the first Saturday of each month. Every time, Susan and I begged him to take us along, as he assured us the sanatorium was a pleasant place. As kind and good a facility as he could find, he would say. Finally, he relented when I was fifteen. Susan was four. I was desperate for Susan to meet our mother, for her to form memories like mine. But what we found . . .”
Fox drifted off, swallowing, eyes looking past her.
He was shaking, Leah realized. From cold? Or memory?
Her arms literally ached with the lack of holding him.
“I sincerely hope no other child ever has to witness such a thing,” he rasped.
“Was the asylum not a gentle place then?”
“The asylum itself was lovely, an elegant building with compassionate staff. My father had not exaggerated that. He ensured my mother was well-cared for . . .”
“But?” Leah prompted.
“My mother . . . it was ghastly,” he whispered. “My soft, gentle mother—the one who had sung me lullabies and kissed my hurts—had turned into a wild-haired, unwashed woman who screeched and howled. Worse, she showed no sign of recognition. Not for my father. Certainly none for us as her children. She shrieked and lunged for Susan, babbling about needing to pet my sister’s golden hair. It took two orderlies to hold her back. It was truly harrowing. Susan, of course, was traumatized and cried the entire journey home. And that was it—my sister’s one and only memory of our mother. It haunted her, of course. She had nightmares for months afterward and would crawl into bed with me, as she feared her ‘mad mamma’ would steal her away.”
Leah’s heart broke. “Oh, Fox. That sweet lass.”
She knew the helplessness of attempting to comfort a much younger sibling. To compensate for the loss of a parent, gone far too early.
“I only learned years later, from my uncle, that my maternal grandmother had suffered something similar,” Fox said softly. “When she found out, Susan swore she would never marry, as she couldn’t bear the thought of going insane after childbirth. She refused to risk it. And for a long while, she held to that promise . . .”
Silence.
The storm had settled into a steady, sleeting rain. Thunder still rumbled, but it lacked the power to rattle the earth.
“But?” Leah prompted once more.
“But . . . Susan fell in love. Madeline was the result. Susan—” His voice broke. “Susan did not escape the family curse.”
It was too much.
Leah crossed the space between them, instantly wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her forehead to his throat. Anything to still his trembling, to offer him what warmth she could, wishing she could soothe his pain.
A great gusting breath left him.
