A Madness So Discreet (3 page)

W
hen Grace woke in the morning her hair was frozen to the floor. Croomes had returned to the baths to find Marie combing it rather than administering treatments. Grace had been dragged to her room, her only dinner a day-old piece of bread tossed through the door before it was locked again. Grace had fallen asleep, her still-dripping hair hanging over the edge of her bed. The night temperatures froze them in place, and she had to pull herself free at sunrise, leaving her hair torn at the ends.

She was inspecting the unevenness when Croomes burst into her room. “That's a downright shame,” the nurse said, rubbing her shoe over the ends left behind on the stones. “You've got a fancy dinner tonight and here you've left most of your hair on the floor.”

Accustomed to the teasing, Grace kept her face blank.

“No, girl,” Croomes went on. “I'm not having a go at you. Heedson gave me a list of what he claims is the ‘well-mannered ones,' and I've got to get you looking respectable. You get a new dress and everything. I think you'll even get to have some silverware. Make sure you hold your fork right, now. And no elbows on the table.” Croomes laughed at her own joke and slapped Grace's backside on her way out.

“You too, farmer's—” Croomes's voice broke off in the hallway as she reconsidered. “Mrs. Clay,” she finished. “You're on display often enough to know the drill. God knows how Heedson's deemed you respectable, the way you go about swearing to tear the eyes out of God-fearing folk.”

“If you fear God, that's more to do with your actions than mine,” Mrs. Clay said.

Croomes huffed and her footsteps receded down the hallway before Mrs. Clay appeared at Grace's door. “I tried to squirrel away a bite for you last night, but they were watching me pretty close,” she said.

Mrs. Clay pulled the younger girl's hand into the crook of her own elbow. “So what's this dinner, do you think?” she asked, knowing full well that there would be no answer. “I don't see any room for kindness in this place, but let's put a good face on it and see, shall we?”

There was silverware. Grace was unprepared for how much it set her back to see a table set properly, and she stood still in the doorway for a moment before entering. Mrs. Clay gave her a slight push to get her into the dining room, followed by two other women she didn't know, faces pink from fresh scrubbings and wet buns pulled tightly back from clean scalps. Already seated were three male patients, who rose when the women entered, although one of them lagged slightly behind the others, not accustomed to the tradition.

“Mr. Baltingham, Mr. Crow,” Mrs. Clay said congenially, nodding toward them before she sat down. Grace followed her cue, lowering her eyes when the men glanced toward her and staring at the plate setting in front of her. It was heavy and awkward, nothing like the slight china she'd had at home, but it meant that there would be real food to eat, not only bread to grab and run with.

“I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met,” Mrs. Clay said to the third man, who reddened under her attention. “It seems we're allowed to pretend to be civilized this evening. You may as well tell me your name.”

“Moore, ma'am,” he said.

“Hello then, Mr. Moore,” she said. “I am Mrs. Clay and these ladies are Miss Holstein, Mrs. Ubry, and . . .” Her hand fluttered to Grace's shoulder for one second. “I'm sorry, I don't know our young friend's name.”

It pulsed in Grace's throat for one second, the syllable that meant her. Yet it remained halfway up, lodged like a chunk of her supper from the evening before.

There were murmured hellos around the table, and then Mr. Baltingham cleared his throat. “What's this about, then? Anybody know?”

“I believe you're all going to be used like I am, shining examples of—” Mrs. Clay began, when the dining room door blew open and Dr. Heedson came in, a half-empty wineglass in hand and one of the cooks at his heels with a tray of ham.

Heedson took his seat at the head of the table, to Grace's right. “Looks like you're all here, then,” he said.

The cook moved between Mrs. Clay and Grace to set the ham-laden platter on the table, and the wafting scent filled Grace's mouth with saliva. In her belly, the baby awakened and kicked hard, its tiny foot striking the edge of the table.

“I've handled the introductions, Dr. Heedson,” Mrs. Clay began.

“I believe I'll do my own version, nonetheless,” Heedson said, unfolding his napkin into his lap before pointing at the patients in turn. “Moore here is a syphilitic; Crow went after his wife with a pitchfork after catching her in the haymow with his brother—which hardly makes him crazy, to my mind. Baltingham's an alcoholic, Ubry's a nymphomaniac, Holstein insists that her menstrual blood is made of demons, Mrs. Clay is a cast-off wife, and
little Grace here is an aristocrat of loose morals.”

“So much for a pretense of civility,” Mr. Baltingham muttered.

Mrs. Clay's fingers found Grace's wrist. “Hello, Grace,” she said, her voice quiet and kind under the mutterings of the other patients. A shy smile swept Grace's pale features.

“All's I said was that my monthlies hurt like the devil,” Miss Holstein said, her napkin twisted tight in her hands. “And my stepfather takes me to a judge—”

“And a hundred years ago you'd have been burned at the stake,” Heedson said, cutting her off, as the cook brought out a fresh glass of wine and set it before him. “So shut your yap.”

“And if we could please not speak of such things at the table,” Mr. Baltingham added.

“Hardly a shocking thing that women menstruate, I suppose. We're not fighting for our food or being kicked at the moment. I'm happy to talk about it,” Mr. Moore said.

Heedson continued. “If I may go on—I'm confident that the group of you here are intelligent enough to understand what I'm about this evening.”

He snapped his fingers and more of the kitchen staff appeared, bringing with them food that the patients had not seen or smelled in a long time. Green beans, potatoes, gravy, warm bread, and a tray of real butter were spread before them.

“I want you all to understand one thing first and foremost,”
Heedson went on. “I'm not a bad man. I'm a man of limited capabilities in a bad situation. This hospital holds hundreds of patients, many beyond any hope of recuperation. Old methods of bleeding and starvation are not means of a cure, but rather methods of weakening the patients so as to make them more manageable for the staff.”

“Well, cheers to him who's not the bad man, then,” Mrs. Ubry said, raising her water glass in a mock salute.

“This hospital is unmanageable,” Heedson said as if she hadn't spoken. “Many of Boston's unwanted end up here; the difficult, the slow, the savage, and the truly insane all sharing space, and myself given the task of keeping the peace.”

“Can we eat?” Miss Holstein asked.

“When I'm finished speaking.”

“He's cutting us a deal, missy,” Mr. Moore said. “There's something he wants from us. And once we agree to it, we get to eat what's been put in front of our eyes, though our bellies will be yelling louder than his words here in a minute or two.”

“As I suspected,” Mrs. Clay said.

Heedson polished off his wine, leaning across Grace and toward Mrs. Clay. Grace shrank away from his shoulder and the fumes rolling from his mouth.

“What I need is simple. Mrs. Clay and the group of you here are the sanest I've got. You're the cleanest. You speak tolerably well and you can be reasoned with.”

“'Cept for Grace down there,” Mrs. Ubry chirped up. “She don't speak none.”

Heedson turned to look at Grace, his elbow touching hers. She pulled it away quickly, skin crawling where it had touched his. The glassy tint of his eyes was too familiar, and she leaned back in her chair as he spoke, the sweetness of his wined breath choking her as he followed her movements.

“Ah, but our Grace here is such a sight. Don't you think, gentlemen?”

Heedson rose somewhat unsteadily from his chair, running his hand up her arm as he moved behind her. “True, she doesn't speak, but when the Board comes to inspect this place you'll tell them what they want to hear, each of you with a sad story about your lives and how you've found refuge here. A new family, a home when you thought you'd lost anything of the sort.”

Grace's hands were in her lap, pinching each other in their effort to keep still while Heedson ran his hand up her arm, to her neck, his thumb brushing over the burn Croomes had given her. Pausing. Touching it again, with the slightest bit of pressure this time.

“Grace won't tell her story, but she hardly has to, does she? It's right here in the wideness of her eyes, the innocence of her expression, and the bulge of her belly.” His hands cupped either side of her neck, and Grace's breathing came in short gasps, even those tiny bits of air reeking of wine and his cologne.

“Dr. Heedson,” Mrs. Clay said. “I think you would do well to take your hands off the girl.”

“She inspires protection, doesn't she?” Heedson leered toward Mrs. Clay, losing his balance slightly and bracing himself against the table with one hand. “The Board will take one look at her and say to themselves, ‘What's the world to do with poor little birds like this one? Surely she's better off here than in the streets.'”

The hand still covering her burn tightened and Heedson leaned against Grace's back, his stomach pushing against her. “Someone knew well enough what to do with you, didn't he, little chickadee?” Heedson whispered in her ear.

The smell of him, the maleness surrounding her, the wine-soaked words in her ear flowed through Grace, filling the gaping hole of herself that she had trained to become only a shell, a carrier for the life within. Horror filled the chasm that had been, and every word, every utterance, every time she had stamped down her own name or bit back a cry of pain came pouring out in an incoherent shriek as she grabbed her fork, slamming it through the web between his thumb and forefinger, straight down into the table below.

G
race expected blood, but there was none. Whatever word she had meant to shriek had scraped the inside of her throat, and every breath she drew burned like fire creeping through the divots left behind. She counted two dragging breaths before Heedson started screaming. The others pushed away from the table, Mrs. Ubry going over in her chair and upending her water glass. Holstein had pulled out her bun and was wrapping her hair around her face in an effort to hide. Shocked into stillness, Grace could only stare as Heedson jerked the fork free from his impaled hand, blood finally flowing between his fingers.

Mrs. Clay was at her side, urging her from her chair while keeping a wary eye on Heedson. “Dear . . . Grace . . . ,” she was saying, the name still unfamiliar on her tongue. “Come along now, you've had a shock.”

Mrs. Clay had her by the elbow when Heedson backhanded Grace hard enough to send both women to the floor in a pile of skirts. Her belly struck first and Grace cried out as the impact rolled through her body, the baby kicking in feeble protest.

“You little bitch . . .” Heedson lunged for Grace, yanking her to her feet. Two more practiced swipes of his hand sent her head ricocheting back and forth, his blood spattering across her cheeks, her hands still protectively clutching her belly.

Mr. Baltingham grabbed Grace from behind, backpedaling her out of Heedson's reach, while Mrs. Clay wrapped her arms around the doctor's knees to stop him from following. Croomes burst in from the hallway, skidding to a halt at the sight.

“Christ in heaven, what's happened here?”

Heedson yanked a napkin from the table and began wrapping it around his hand. “Grace is what happened here, Mrs. Croomes. It appears I made a mistake when compiling the list of those I deemed reasonably sane.”

“Or maybe two,” Mr. Crow added while he calmly filled his plate, gesturing to where Holstein lay, her face wrapped in her own hair.

Marie appeared behind Croomes, red and out of breath. “I heard the fuss . . . ,” she began, then saw the blood-spattered table. “What on earth?”

“Miss High and Mighty has gone and stabbed Heedson,” Croomes said.

“That's nonsense,” Marie argued. “She's not got a violent bone in her—”

Grace's newfound voice burst forth again, feral and wordless as she bucked in Baltingham's arms. Though he meant only to steady her, he'd not released his grip and she fought against him. He let her go and she slid to the ground, wrapping her arms around her midsection.

“Get her up,” Heedson said, tucking the ends of the napkin into a makeshift bandage. “Croomes, Marie, take this girl down to the laundry and sheet wrap her. She is a harm to herself and others.”

“Dr. Heedson, please,” Mrs. Clay said, pulling herself into a chair. “Send her to the infirmary. She's had a fall and in her condition—”

“Been bashed a bit about the face too,” Mr. Crow added around a mouthful of ham. “Though that's not got much to do with the fall.”

“I'm the one who needs a doctor,” Heedson screamed, brandishing his hand as he did. “She's insane. She'll be treated as such. Croomes.” He snapped his fingers and the nurse was happy to comply, peeling one of Grace's arms away from her midsection while Marie wrestled with the other.

Grace moaned, no longer able to keep sounds inside of her now that pain was filling her core and pushing everything outward. Croomes bent her arm awkwardly at the elbow and forced her to her feet. Marie was on her other side, her grasp not unkind but tight enough to be sure she wouldn't slip free.

“Grace . . . ,” Mrs. Clay said, fingers brushing Grace's skirt as she was led from the room.

“Knew there was fight in you,” Croomes said as she propelled Grace to the laundry, her feet giving out underneath her as another wave of pain racked her torso. “No point tussling with us, missy. You done wrong and you're gonna pay.

“You,” Croomes snapped at the young girl working at the mangler. “We need us some sheets for a wrapping.”

The girl bobbed her head automatically. “Will you be wanting hot or cold, mum?”

“Oh, I think this one here is a rather hot little dish herself. Why not treat like with like? You've got some fresh on the steamer, I see. Let's put them to good use.”

The girl's eyes went wide. “Oh no, mum. Those just now went through, they're almost too hot to touch, let alone wrap a body in.”

“Nonsense,” Croomes spat. “Is it a punishment, or ain't it?” She tore the sheet from the steamer, hardly able to hold it for more than a second before it fluttered to the ground. “It'll do nicely. Hand me a pair of gloves, girl. Marie, strip the patient and hold her arms down. I imagine she'll kick up a bit of a fuss once I start the job.”

Grace's new dress was yanked over her head, the undergarments she'd been allowed for the evening rudely pulled off. Her hands snaked after them into the air, modesty still a convention she clung to. Instead, her hands met Marie's midgrab.

“I'm sorry, girl. Truly, I am. But I have a job, and it's the job I do.” Then Grace's wrists were pinned to the cold floor above her head and an envelope of heat closed around her feet.

She kicked out instinctively, her heel hooking the sheet and sending it arcing over Croomes's face before the woman could react. The nurse snagged her foot and turned her ankle inward until Grace quieted and the wrapping began.

Croomes spared her not an inch, and her practiced hands bound Grace's legs together so tightly that her kneecaps dug against each other while the heat pressed in. Steam rose from the sheet as Croomes worked, covering Grace up to her belly before calling for another sheet, hot from the steamer.

Sweat sprang from every pore, rolling down her face as her body tried desperately to shed heat anywhere it could. A fresh sheet, even hotter than the one before, draped over her belly and was pulled ruthlessly tight against the flushed skin. Marie moved Grace's arms to her sides, and they too were pinned to her ribs. Croomes worked toward her neck, wrapping Grace's hair, now wet with sweat, into the sheet. Fingers worked between the folds near her mouth, pulling apart an opening for her to breathe through.

“It's a fine mess you've got yourself in, little lady,” Croomes said. “You've had better treatment than most up till now, but stabbing a man will rouse his temper.”

The gas lamps were extinguished, one by one, the pale haloes
of light disappearing from her shrouded eyes as the women's voices receded. The darkness was complete when the first contraction came. The shock of it squeezed the first word she'd uttered in a long while past her lips as the excruciating wave rippled through her.

“No.”

I'm going to die.

She had denied language for so long, shutting down not only her tongue but her mind as well so that no thoughts could form. Her life had become a fog, one that would end soon if she found a way, yet as she writhed on the edge of true madness, her brain rejected the safety she'd made for herself, patching together a sentence to shock her into action.

I'm going to die.

The voice of her own thought was oddly familiar, like seeing an old friend on the street after some time apart. Grace stilled, listening to her consciousness, and found herself rebelling against the conclusion it had come to.

I'm going to die, and my baby with me.

Grace screamed in agony, against fate and futility, against the life she should have lived versus the one she'd been delivered into. Her cries rolled down the darkened hallways, only to dissipate before reaching anyone's ears.