A Heart Deceived (30 page)

“Mum? Mum? Whyn’t you come for me, Mum? I done like you tol’ me. Be quiet! Don’t tell me. Make her stop. Make her stop!”

“Me stockings are too tight. They choke me, they do. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!”

Miri sped ahead, drawing a small measure of security from Mr. Graves’s broad back. The depth of insanity hidden behind those doors disturbed her like nothing else. What a blessing she was not locked in with—

Sudden understanding stole her breath, and she gasped. In the midst of the most hellish place on earth, she’d been granted peace and safety in the company of women neither mad nor violent. Her cellmates were dreadfully disfigured, nothing more.

One stunning thought shone brighter than the rest: God knew exactly where she was and had provided accordingly. Though the standards differed from what she expected, it did not negate the provision. The very name of the asylum took on a whole new meaning. No matter where on earth she or Roland or Ethan may be, they were not out of God’s reach. Her trust level swelled, and she mouthed a silent “thank You” to the One watching over her.

The frenzied noises faded as they wound through the maze of corridors and locked gates, but her heart didn’t pound as hard as the first time she’d passed this way. Peace held her as securely as the irons on her wrists.

At last they entered a room smelling of camphor and something that left an immediate brassy taste in her mouth. Mercury, perhaps? Many jars and instruments lined a rack of shelves, most unidentifiable—except for the one clutched by a singular-looking man in a long, white jacket.

Miri retreated a step.

“No, no, come on in. There’s nothing to fear in here,” he said.

Liar.

The man who spoke held a silver pair of shears, shinier than those she used in the garden, though every bit as large.

And sharp.

Sandwiched between two guards, Ethan stumbled up the last two steps on a twisting staircase. He flung out a hand, catching himself before falling.

“Move on!” the guard behind him snapped.

“If speed’s what you want, then take off the chains.”

A whip cracked an instant before a searing stripe opened across his shoulders.

“You say something, bait?”

Ethan arched his back but kept his mouth shut. Better to save his venom for Thorne. No doubt that’s who had summoned him—finally—from below. How long he’d been in here was hard to say. Days and nights didn’t exist in Newgate. Only pain. Time was measured in beatings and blood.

He squinted as they crossed the corridor. A torch burned in a sconce near the door. After the blackness of his cell, the light hurt.

One guard led him into a chamber while the other remained on watch outside. A table with two chairs totaled the sum of furniture in the small room, but a booming voice filled it completely.

“Ethan, lad!”

Caught up in a bear hug, Ethan winced until the man let him go. “Reverend, you are a sight for sore eyes—and I do mean sore.”

Newton laughed. “At least they’ve not beat the humor from you. Sit.” He nodded at one chair while he sank onto the other. “I didn’t think it possible, but you look worse than last time we met, boy.”

Ethan smirked, the side of his face stinging from the sudden movement. He could only imagine how he must look, let alone smell. “What are you doing here?”

“Saint Matthew writes that our blessed Lord said,
‘I was naked, and ye clothed Me; I was sick, and ye visited Me; I was in prison, and ye came unto Me.’
You just provided an opportunity to carry out the work of our Lord.”

“Glad I could help out.” Ethan shifted in the chair, and his shoulder burned a retort.

“Hah!” Newton slapped the table. “Salty as ever, eh, boy?”

The reverend’s voice thundered like a squall at sea, but to Ethan it sounded as comforting as a mother’s coo. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this man. “How did you know I was here?”

Newton rubbed a hand over his bald pate and sat back. He appeared as relaxed in the depths of Newgate as in the pulpit at St. Mary’s. “There’s nothing God can’t reveal.”

Ethan’s brows rose. “God
spoke
to you?”

“Speaks to me all the time, boy. Through His Word.”

“Right. So you read in one of your gospels that Ethan Goodwin’s in Newgate. Go visit him.” Some of the venom he’d stored for Thorne spilled out. Instant remorse hit him hard, and he looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say—”

“No offense taken. Prison has a way of sharpening a cynical edge, even in the mildest of men. And you were never mild to begin with. I heard about you on the streets, lad. Talk spreads faster than the pox in Old Nichol.”

He jerked his face back to Newton’s. “What were you doing in that hellhole?”

“Jesus came to storm the gates of hell, boy. What better place to stir up a tempest of a revival? Why … I owe it to you for bringing Old Nichol to my attention.”

Ethan snorted. Not many would be so thankful for an introduction to that place. “You’re incorrigible. You know that, don’t you?”

A grin dawned on the old man’s face, deep crevices appearing at the sides of his mouth. “That’s not the first time I’ve been called such, and I daresay not the last.”

“So tell me then”—Ethan leaned forward, trying hard to ignore the hot sting of the lash marks on his back—“what is the talk?”

Newton cast a glance at the guard by the door, then nudged his chair closer. “Word is you killed a man. Your friend Will Brayden.”

Slamming both fists on the table, Ethan shot up. “I did not!”

“Watch it, bait,” the guard warned.

Ethan blew out a long breath and slowly sank, welcoming the accompanying pain. But inside, he yet raged. “I swear to God, I didn’t do it.”

“Swearing to God holds eternal consequences, son.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

The reverend’s eyes bore into his, as if Ethan stood before the living God in flesh.

“I did not murder Will Brayden. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Not yet, anyway.” Without willing it, his hands curled into fists. “But if I ever get my hands on Thorne—”

“On whom?” asked Newton.

“Nigel Thorne.” He spit out the name like a bad piece of meat.

Newton cocked his head. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“He’s the one who killed Will.”

“Hmm …” Newton studied the ceiling and went back to rubbing his head. “That does present a problem.”

“Why?”

“Thorne’s dead himself.”

Ethan flinched, the news a direct hit. The trouble that man had caused him in life would be manifold with his death.

He thought it, but Newton spoke it. “So you’re charged with a murder you say Thorne committed. It’ll be your word against a man who can’t defend himself, and a lawman at that. I have a feeling the judge will see it as a desperate attempt on your part. Were there no witnesses?”

Despair grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. “None,” he whispered, sinking back.

Neither of them spoke. What else was there to say? It was hopeless. And what of Miri? She’d never know what happened to him. He hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye.

A rap on the door broke the silence.

“Time’s up,” said the guard.

“Don’t fret, lad. If anything, you’re in the best position of all.” Newton rose and rested his big hand on Ethan’s head. “When we’re at our weakest, God’s at His strongest. We serve a powerful God, boy, and last time I checked, He was still on the throne. Do you believe that?”

Did he?

Ethan closed his eyes. He had to.

God was his only hope.

32

Miri’s eyes locked onto the scissors gripped in the man’s hand. Her newly formed peace played tug-of-war with fear, and she retreated another step.

“Oh, do these make you nervous?” The man laid the shears on a table behind him. “There. Now come. Let’s chat.”

Her gaze traveled from the man’s hands to his face. His skin, the color and texture of porridge, suggested he’d suffered a particularly vile case of the pox in the past. A distinct bone structure stood out in contrast to dark eyes that sank in. It appeared his skeleton thought it should make an appearance before being closeted away in some casket.

“Don’t be timid.” He smiled, his flesh stretching tighter over his jawline.

A skeleton that talked. Miri shuddered.

“You see, my dear, I like to get to know my patients first.”

“Before what?” She didn’t want to know, really, but the words tumbled out nonetheless.

“Before treating them, of course.” He nodded at Graves. “Remove her shackles, and then you are dismissed.”

Graves produced a small key, and she held out her hands. Her arms floated upward when the heavy cuffs came off.

The man in the white jacket pointed to a chair with wide armrests. “Have a seat. We shall get to know one another, shall we not?”

Other than his ghoulish appearance, he appeared to be a gentleman. Rubbing her wrists, she crossed the room and sat.

“You are Dr. Pembernip?” she asked.

“One and the same,” he answered.

“I am—”

“Yes, I know. Miss Miriall Brayden.” He lifted a brow. “I wonder if you are as interesting as your brother.”

She leaned forward. “Please … how is he?”

“Delightful!”

Miri blinked. Roland and delightful mixed together like lemon juice and milk.

With his chuckle, Pembernip’s jaw moved as if it had become unhinged. “Your brother put Alf out of commission in record time. Record time! Which reminds me, I must apologize for your lack of proper admittance. Alf usually handles such matters. I am here only once a week.”

He angled his head toward her hands. “May I?”

Her wrists did look bad—skin rubbed raw, swollen and red. And the man did have
doctor
attached to his name. She bobbed her head. “Very well,” she said.

He examined one wrist, then the next, his touch probing yet light. “Those irons should have been taken off days ago.”

“I should never have been admitted in the first place, Doctor. My commitment is based on lies against my character, my behaviors, even my virtue.”

He reached for a jar of ointment on the table beside him. “One man’s lie is another man’s truth, my dear.”

“You don’t understand. The men who put me here did so out of spite and ignorance. I am not mad.”

Dabbing a bit of the gel on one of her wrists, he did not look up when he answered. “It’s always our adversaries who are the mad ones, is it not? Other hand, please.”

Her skin felt soothed even if her emotions did not. If nothing else, at least the doctor knew what treatment to offer.

“Clearly you can see that my sanity is intact,” she said.

“I would suggest that sanity is an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” He paused, looking up, his dark eyes wells of mystery. “We are all mad in some respect, especially when the cause is perceived as sufficient.”

Miri sighed. She was getting nowhere.

Pembernip released her hands and screwed the lid back onto the jar. The scent of lanolin lingered long after it was sealed.

“Now then, for your own safety and comfort, you’ll find a gown on the other side of that screen.” He pointed toward a woven bit of wicker framed in a corner. “Though you are housed with a gentle lot, which I must say was a rare act of nobility on behalf of Mr. Spyder, the rest of the inmates would as soon skin you alive to get their hands on such a fine dress.”

Miri glanced at her plain jaconet skirt. This was fine?

“If you don’t mind,” he said.

Of course she minded. The man was as crack-brained as those he attended. Still … with no immediate possibility of escape, the wisdom of blending in might be the better part of valor. She rose, taking her time to cross the room as she studied its one window. The bars were too narrow to crawl through, too strong for her to bend, unless she might find a metal rod somewhere for leverage.

“Sorry to rush you, Miss Brayden, but you are not my only patient today. Move along, if you please.”

“Of course.” She stepped behind the screen, hidden from view but not from hearing. “About my cellmates—”

“Tut, tut, they’re family now, not cellmates. You may call them sisters.”

She cringed as she undid the buttons on her bodice. Sisters? “Right … well … they are obviously not the most beautiful of women, yet I find no fault in their mental capacities.”

“Bravo, Miss Brayden. An astute observation and very, very correct.”

“Correct?” She forced the coarse gown over her head and, fingers shaking, fumbled with the drawstring at the neck. “You admit to it, then?”

“I detect an element of surprise in your voice, if not disdain.”

“Should I not scorn the fact that you have locked up perfectly normal women—aside from their looks, that is?” The fabric chafed against her skin as she emerged from behind the screen. Rage threaded along each finger, pulling her hands into fists. “That’s insanity! Why would you—why would anyone—commit such a heinous act?”

“Now, now, don’t fret so. It’s not good for your constitution.” He approached her, cautious in step and touch, and gently laid a hand on her arm. “Please, sit back down. I shall explain, I promise.”