Twisted Tale of Stormy Gale (5 page)

For no reason except that I wanted it and couldn’t bear to leave it, I folded it carefully and stowed it in my bag as well.

Shoving back the sorrow that threatened to engulf me, I picked up the sheaf again, determined to unravel the mystery that was getting more mysterious by the second. This time, under the pile, I noticed a tan leather journal. Tamping down a tiny niggle of guilt, I opened the worn, smooth cover to read.

Chapter Five

Bethlehem, September 15, 1823

If I wasn’t insane before, staring at these walls is making me feel that way. I know I shouldn’t complain. At least I have private quarters, miniscule though they may be. Some of the ladies here (whose husbands are not as generous with the hospital as my parents have been) are just piled together like stones, sometimes five to a room. The worst part of it is that many of them seem perfectly ordinary. It is said within these walls that some are no more than victims of their husbands’ anger. Maybe they were disobedient, maybe they strayed, but they seem so normal. I suppose I seem normal as well.

And I suppose it’s not so bad, really. Sometimes, for those of us who have the capacity to enjoy it, they hold dances in the great hall. During the day they let us into the yard for a while. It’s nice to feel the sun on my face. Father and Mum feel they know best, so here I must remain, with the other unfortunates, until my diseased soul is cured. I don’t know when that will be, because I know what I saw. It didn’t “seem” real. It
was
real. I am so tired, all of the time, tired.

Bethlehem, September 28, 1823

It seems strange that three months have gone by since I first arrived. It feels like forever, yet no time at all. Today was difficult for me. For a fee, several times a month they allow people fascinated by the macabre to come in and stare at us, even in the curable wing. Today was such a day. I can’t say why it bothered me more today, to have them stare and point. I have heard that the incurables are sometimes poked and prodded with sticks. It is a wonder that these visitors are not required to stay here as well. Wouldn’t it seem that only a wicked mind, a broken soul, could delight in another’s misery so?

Most of the time, it feels as if it all must be a dream, or a nightmare. But I know, too, that this is my punishment. Not for being a lunatic, or diseased, or possessed by demons, or for any of the reasons doctors give for my being here. No, I’m being punished for not saving those children. I had the chance. I could have done something, but fear stopped me. And now, here I am. Unable to search. Unable to convince anyone else to search.

Would that I could close my eyes just once and not see her dirty little face, her oft belligerent, brave countenance in my mind. Would that I might sleep one night through without waking, wondering if they suffered a fate far worse than mine. Would that I…

Bethlehem, November 11, 1823

They tell me that I seem to be responding to treatment. Before last month, it had been limited to mustard plasters or leeches. The leeches are disgusting creatures, but those treatments are mild compared to those of some of the other patients. Because my condition wasn’t improving, the doctors have moved to something entirely new called the tranquilizing chair. I…I do not like it. I will do whatever it is I need to do and tell them whatever it is they want to hear in order to not have it again. If I supply the proper answers to their questions, perhaps there will be an end to this.

I have not seen Mother or Father in quite a while now. I understand their not wanting to be here, and hope, for their sake, that the speculation and gossip of the ton had…run its course. I know I’ve embarrassed them. And I know they fear that I have ruined my chance of ever finding a suitable wife, but I cannot find it within me to mourn that fact.

I just want to go home now. I long for the freedom to ride my horse, to go outside when I choose, to eat what I like. Yet at times I wonder, would freedom be better? Will I even be truly free until I know about what happened to Molly and the boy? I cannot stop my brain from imagining some new horrors that they might be subjected to. If I could just know they were all right, I would be all right.

Bethlehem, November 23, 1823

I’ve settled into a routine of lies for the past month, denying my eyes and what I know to please the doctors here. To the point that I’d almost even convinced myself. I’d begun to hope that, rather than replaying that day over and over, rather than obsessing about it and what I could have done differently, that maybe as time passed, the event would be less affecting, that maybe I could go on as if it never happened. But in a moment of clarity—and they seem to occur less and less of late—I realize that I don’t want to forget. I need to remember, need to write down my thoughts about that day in the event that all these “treatments” make me lose sight of my thoughts altogether, in order to preserve the truth, so that if I ever get out of this place, it will serve as a reminder. But not today. I can’t face it this day. Tomorrow, then.

Bethlehem, November 24, 1823

I suppose I should really start at the beginning, and the beginning was January 2nd of that same year. I hadn’t ever really noticed the urchins on Fenchurch Street. I am sure they’d always been there, but preoccupied with my own import, I’d never truly seen them before that day. They were a part of London, part of the setting, no different than the cobbles or the vendors or the gloomy winter weather, and as such, I paid them no mind.

On this particularly cold day, I was on my way home, wrapped snugly in my heavy wool greatcoat. Scurrying down the street, arms full of sketches I’d done that week at my art lessons, I was looking forward to a blazing fire in the hearth and a cup of warm chocolate. Distracted, I tripped on a loose stone and landed hard, vellum flying everywhere. Cursing my stupidity, I looked around to see if anyone had noted my mishap. Three grubby, solemn-faced children milled nearby. One of them, a girl, stepped forward and silently began picking up the scattered sketches. I stood quickly and began to scoop some up as well, mumbling my reserved but polite thanks (though, to my everlasting shame, I clearly remember hoping that the filthy little thing didn’t smudge them).

Once they’d all been gathered up, I held a hand out for the ones in her possession. The girl boldly met my eyes with hers and I finally, really looked at her. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Her frame was thin, too thin. Dark shadows under her eyes gave her the look of someone far older than her years. She lifted her pointy little chin haughtily as I stared. Her navy-blue eyes snapped with pride, daring me to judge her. She handed me the drawings without a word and, with the bearing of a miniature queen, turned to go. Something made me reach out for her scrawny little arm, but I stopped as she flinched.

“It’s all right, child. I just wanted to give you a coin for your help.”

“You aren’t much more than a child yerself, are you, Master? But I’d be ’appy to take yer coin,” she responded blithely.

The two children behind her, a small red-haired boy and another towheaded lad, moved forward then, hands out. I looked at them, noting how pale they were, and that all three were trembling.

“You tremble. Are you afraid of me, then, children?” I asked them gently.

The girl snorted and replied, “No, sir. Mayhap you didn’t notice, but it’s bloody cold out ’ere.”

I realized then that none of them had coats or gloves and suddenly my world tipped. The scenery came to life and the background became the foreground. I dropped the sketches onto the street and stripped off my coat, tossing it over the girl’s shoulders. She swam in it, and it could have wrapped her three times around, but she closed her eyes and buried her face in the neck. I stripped off my scarf and waistcoat, wrapping up the little redheaded boy next, and gave the yellow-haired child my gloves and hat. I pulled the purse from my belt and handed it over.

“Get something hot for dinner, will you?” I said and picked up my drawings to leave. Turning back, I called over my shoulder, freezing myself now, “I’ll be back later in the week!”

“Sure you will, sir. We thank you fer the clothes and coin, though,” she said, her face filled with acceptance and an understanding that humbled me. Then they scampered off with the small sack of coins, chattering with excitement.

I kept my word. In fact, I went back once every week, dropping off food each time—mincemeat pies, loaves of bread and even coins when I could. The three soon became a dozen, and I would sketch them and tell them stories. During this time, I became especially attached to the little girl I’d met that first day, Molly. She was full of piss and vinegar, and I admired her greatly. Although she remained wary and a bit reserved, every time I came when I promised I would, she seemed to trust me a little more. There was something special in her. Something that both humbled and surprised me. I was in awe of the way she took the younger children under her wing. The way she was so willing to share when she had so little. I found myself wishing I was as strong as she was, as good as she was. I spent a fair amount of time thinking how unfair it was that she never really had a chance in this world. In truth, I spent even more time hoping that someday I would be able to give her that chance.

As the weeks passed, I got to know all of the children to some degree, learned their names and their favorite foods so I could smuggle the most wanted items from Cook if I had the chance.