“I assure you, we will take excellent care of her ladyship,” the director said to James. “I am only sorry to hear that she has proven insensible to the remedy of fresh air and change of scene that you have provided her here,” he added, looking around. “And I hope that we may, in due course, nurse her back to her full capacity.”
James smiled coldly. “Her ladyship’s reason has entirely broken down. She cannot ever return home, no matter what progress she makes in your facility. Do we understand one another?”
The director, who had been genial, now adopted a graver mien. “We do indeed, sir. Say no more. I will see to it that she is comfortable and well attended, but we shall not anticipate her leaving Milverton House.”
“Correct,” James said. “And we will not require correspondence from her. It would only upset my sons.”
“Naturally,” the director replied, nodding. “These are sad cases, but you must put it behind you now. She is in good hands, and no longer your concern.”
He bowed, lifting his hat as he made his good-byes. Just before he reached the carriage, J. J. emerged from the house, clutching a small carpetbag, Tiberius holding her firmly by the arm.
“Do not forget your other patient,” he called. The director turned back.
“Ah yes. The young woman you telegraphed about. Melancholia, you said?” He peered at J. J., who looked downcast, her eyes fixed upon the stones at her feet. “Yes, I see it. We will be happy to take her into our care. I will write within the week to let you know how we get on. She looks young and healthy enough. I am certain she will respond well to treatment.”
Stoker started forward, clearly about to protest, but J. J. flashed him a warning look as I put a hand to restrain him.
We stood upon the step as the director leapt into the carriage, slamming the door behind him. The driver sprang the horses and they were away. Tiberius guided James back into the house and Stoker turned to me. “Would you care to explain?”
“I owed J. J. a story. She pointed out to me that I have been significantly less of a friend to her than she to me, and I wanted to rectify the situation. So I arranged with Tiberius that she would be committed to Milverton House for a period not to exceed a fortnight.”
Comprehension dawned on his face. “Nellie Bly,” he said, invoking the name of the intrepid American journalist who had recently spent ten days in an asylum, emerging to write an exposé on the treatment of the insane to clamorous acclaim. And not only acclaim; it was hoped that the brutality of the situation of those locked up for theirmental woes might be mitigated with proper reform. Already, some institutions were exchanging small, dark rooms and inhumane treatment for sunshine, fresh air, and a little human kindness, and J. J. was determined to accomplish the same in England. Thus far no female journalist had possessed the courage of Miss Bly, but J. J., for all her sins, was never one to shrink from a challenge.
“Precisely,” I affirmed to Stoker. “It required only enlisting Tiberius to help.” Committing a woman to an asylum was, under the present laws, a matter of terrifying ease. It wanted only a man of standing to swear to a woman’s mental state to have her held against her will. And if the man chose, he could have her liberated with equal simplicity. Tiberius had promised to ensure J. J.’s timely release from the asylum.
“I am surprised you got him to agree,” Stoker told me.
I smiled. “J. J. and I appealed to his better nature.”
“I wasn’t aware he had one.”
“He feels responsible for the way matters ended—and for the fact that I was very nearly killed. This is an opportunity for him to help do some real good for once. Perhaps he might make a practice of philanthropy.”
The entire system was one calculated to accommodate abuses of the worst kind, and I was happy to see J. J. championing the cause of the unfortunates who had been locked away from the world. I had little doubt she would effect great things.
“Who knows?” I said to Stoker. “Perhaps she will create such a sensation that our laws will be changed to help those who are most powerless.”
“The very laws that helped us to lock up a murderer,” he countered.
“Her husband did that. We just suggested it,” I reminded him. “And would it really have been a better thing for her to have been arrested?Tried by a jury? Hanged in a public execution for all to see? What would that have done but feed sensationalism? It would not bring back her victims and it would only have created new ones in her children as they suffered through the trauma of having a mother made so notorious.”
“They will suffer for not having her love, her presence,” Stoker said wistfully, looking up at the façade of Cherboys. He had been only twelve years of age when his own mother died, and I wondered if he felt her presence here.
“Is that why you never come back here?”
He nodded slowly. “Sometimes, when I turn a corner too quickly, I imagine I can smell her perfume or hear the rustling of her skirts. A fantasy, perhaps.”
I tucked my arm through his. “Come. Let us walk to Dearsley churchyard. We can cut late roses for her grave. It is time you put your ghosts to rest.”
•••
Over the next few days, the remaining guests departed. James mapped out a plan to visit his sons’ schools in turn to explain as much as he could to them, whilst Pietro arranged for Beatrice’s body to be taken to Italy to be buried. Tiberius was able to have Lorenzo’s casket disinterred, and so Lorenzo d’Ambrogio would at last lie in the land of his fathers, his sister at his side. Perhaps this would bring peace to them both. And to everyone’s astonishment, Merryweather accompanied him. He had shown a flair for pastoral work, providing gentle comfort to Pietro in his hour of grief, as well as a surprising capacity for practical detail. There was still one last thread remaining unwoven to this sorry business, but I did not trouble Merryweather to explain why Beatrice had gone to see him the day she died. It was simple enough to imagine what had transpired. There was no erstwhile dalliance with Merryweather, only a grieving sister who had gone incognita to payher respects to the grave of her brother. Whether Merry had discovered her wandering in the churchyard or found her in prayer inside St. Frideswide’s, it did not matter. She had concealed her true purpose with that particular brand of charm I should always associate with Beatrice d’Ambrogio Salviati. Besides, I was rather abashed at having suspected Merryweather of such indelicacy as an inappropriate flirtation with a married woman. I had grown fond of him, and it occurred to me as we discussed his imminent departure that I should miss him as he embarked upon his travels.
“It will do the boy good,” Tiberius said with a shrug. “He has never been abroad and he might learn a thing or two. Besides, the vicarage is still under repair and I have given permission for him to engage a curate. The new fellow can preach Sunday sermons for a while.” So Merry set off with Pietro for Italy to lay Lorenzo and Beatrice to rest and perhaps to experience some Continental consolations in time.
After they had gone, a melancholy quiet settled over Cherboys. Stoker and I packed up our things, prepared to take our leave the following day. I was less than pleased that the Megalosaurus was to accompany us, but there were worse things lurking in the garden at Bishop’s Folly already, I reflected. Patricia the Galápagos tortoise, for one. And Stoker was delighted to take possession of his childhood playhouse once and for all. He spent the whole of that day cleaning it meticulously and overseeing the packing of the beast. He returned to the house late, taking dinner on a tray in his room, and I wondered if he were perhaps avoiding me.
If he were, I could not blame him. It had been brought home to me during the course of this investigation that for all my skills as a lepidopterist, I was rather lacking in one or two other areas. I had built myself a fortress, stone by stone, each hewn from my upbringing and experiences in the world. Meeting Stoker had caused my defences to crack—to crumble entirely, I had thought. But the return of HarrySpenlove in our previous adventure had shaken me badly. Stoker had accused me of not trusting him, but how could I when my confidence had been so grievously tested? My judgment had been wrong, catastrophically so, with regard to Harry. How then could I rely upon it ever again? How would I ever be able to fully trust any man when I had been so incredibly mistaken about that one?
