“Of course, Sir James,” the innkeeper said, bowing his head.
James led Cecilia outside as George Romley pulled the carriage around to the front of the inn.
The sky turned dark gray as the carriage progressed up the road, even though it wasn’t a long drive from the inn and through the village to Camden House. It was just a matter of turning a corner and the scene that stretched before them looked desolate, matching the gray skies encroaching upon them. The road, built as part of a dike for a canal, ran three feet above the surrounding countryside with scarcely a tree in sight. Up ahead, on an island rising above the surrounding landscape, stood a rambling gray stone and brick mansion with chimneys stuck up on various slate roof levels in seemingly random, gothic fashion.
Unlike the surrounding landscape, trees and shrubs filled the property. Leaves fluttered and plants swayed in a wind that threatened to bring rain clouds over the area. There was only one approach to the mansion, a newer-looking brick bridge over the straight canal that ran beside the road.
“Are you certain you wish to become a patient here?” James asked Cecilia as the carriage turned to cross the bridge, the horses’ hooves clapped loud on the brick surface.
“Yes, more than ever, now that we know of Mrs. Montgomery’s condition.”
The corner of James’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Alastair deserves his happiness for all he does for people. Though knowing Alastair, it wouldn’t matter to him if the child were born out of wedlock.”
“I’d have to agree. But think, James, what should occur if Soothcoor were found guilty? His title and properties could be stripped away. That should have far-reaching effects on all of his charities.”
He nodded. “They would evaporate in an instant and the ghouls of society would be only too happy to make up stories to pervert everything good he has done to evil.”
Cecilia put her hand on his. “We shall not let that happen.”
The carriage drew up before the grand dark oak door to the mansion as clumps of patients, with their matrons and orderlies, made their way into the house ahead of the coming rainstorm.
A broad-shouldered man came to meet their carriage, one hand on his head to hold his hat in place in the increasing wind. He handed Cecilia out of the carriage and took the portmanteau from James, gesturing them up the stairs before shouting instructions to Romley to drive the carriage to the back of the building to the stable yard. He then hurried up the stairs to join the Branstokes in the entrance hall.
“That storm came up quite rapidly,” Cecilia observed. She shivered and clutched her cape around her as a crack of thunder shook the windows. She looked up as if to see the roof come crashing down on them.
“Yes, they have been doing so this season,” the man said. “Sir James and Lady Branstoke, I presume?” he said. “This way please.” His arm extended toward a small room to the left, no doubt formerly a cloakroom.
Cecilia glanced about the grand hall with its high, arched ceiling braced with ornately carved oak ceiling beams. It was a long room with a stone floor. Chairs—mainly Tudor in style—dotted the room in small groupings. Beyond the little room where the man directed them was a pair of large wrought iron gates that could shut off the entrance to the rest of the mansion. At that moment, they stood open, and patients and their guardians walked through them deeper into the mansion. Cecilia caught the glances of those who passed her along with their whispered words, no doubt wondering about her identity.
“Before you meet Dr. Worcham, I will introduce you to Mr. Turnbull-Minchin, our superintendent. He will ask you some questions and then take you to meet Dr. Worcham. Is that agreeable?”
Cecilia nodded faintly while James responded with unusual vigor, “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it.”
Looking down, Cecilia held back a smirk at James’s manner, so unlike him. What was his intention?
“Sir James and Lady Branstoke, this is Superintendent Mr. Turnbull-Minchin. Sir James and Lady Branstoke, sir, to see Dr. Worcham,” the majordomo said as he bowed himself out of the room. The frizzled-haired, middle-aged man behind the desk rose on hearing their rank.
“Sir James, Lady Branstoke, please come in,” he said. He gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk.
“We’ve come to see Dr. Worcham,” James said, ignoring the chair and standing behind Cecilia. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, yes, and you will. Just a few questions, please, for registration purposes.” The man tried to smile pleasantly. He dipped his quill in ink. “Now, full name and direction, please.”
“Cecilia Houghton Haukstrom Branstoke,” Cecilia said softly.
“Lady Cecilia Houghton Haukstrom Branstoke,” put in James, “granddaughter of the Duke of Cheney.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “I see,” he said. “Age?”
“Six and twenty.”
“Home?”
Cecilia looked up at her husband.
“Summerworth Park, in Kent, outside the village of Ingleston,” Sir James supplied.
“You have come quite a distance,” Mr. Turnbull-Minchin said.
