Blue Damask (3 page)

The doctor chuckled.  “You should be packing.”  He leaned forward, the thick file in his hand.  “Start with this.”

     Mr. Marshall met her at the station.  He was easy to find among the milling travelers who hurried like ants across the walkways and between the trains.  He was one of the few people standing still.  His little bowler hat and thin mustache set him apart from the feathered fedoras and thick beards of the Austrians.  She merged with the crowd until she reached him.  Her bags were heavy and she had refused the doctor’s offer to help her carry them from his car to the train. One of Marshall’s orderlies took both her bags with one arm, but when he stretched a hand for her briefcase she moved it out of reach.  “I will carry this one myself.  Thank you.”

     He said, “Lord Sonnenby is already aboard,
fraulein
.  Jones and Davies will take him in shifts.  We have a private car and you will have your own compartment to sleep and dress.”  He bowed from the waist and extended an arm toward the door.  He made as if to hand her up to the waiting conductor, but she leapt the short distance without letting him touch her.  The conductor tapped his cap and she stepped past him. 

     Jones or Davies was ahead of her and she followed him to the small compartment that would be her home for four days.  He set her bags on the lower bunk and adjusted the blinds that covered the large window behind the dressing table. 

     “Thank you.”  She ended the last word with a questioning lilt and he smiled.

     “Jones, ma’m.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Jones.  Please tell me, where is Mr. Sinclair?”

     “Lord Sonnenby is in the center of the car, where the seating is.”

     “Very well.  Then I will join him.”

     “Yes ma’m.”

     She stepped back against the wall so he could squeeze into the narrow corridor.  The train blew its whistle.  She wanted to be seated before the train began moving as there was no graceful way to stay upright as the cars jerked to follow the engine.  One would have to brace against a wall or some other kind of support until the movements became smooth and regular.  She disliked looking unbalanced to passers-by.

     Elsa closed the door to the tiny room and passed through the corridor to the center of the private car.  Glass windows with heavy drapes separated the seating area from the walkway.  A sliding door bisected the windows.  Elsa was not sure if the proper etiquette was to knock, or if such a courtesy was not necessary. She had ridden in trains many times, but never in a private car.

     Better to be assertive. She tried the handle.  The door was locked.  She tapped at the window and the curtains were parted by sausage-sized fingers.  Mr. Davies blinked at her then let the curtains fall back.  The door made a clicking sound and the lock was released.  Elsa entered and sat on the empty bench seat facing Davies and Lord Sonnenby.

     Davies locked the door again by reaching a huge arm across the aisle.  He was a hulking presence in the small compartment.  His broad shoulders took of half the seat and his thick nose took up half his face.  He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and wore his hair very short.  He stared politely out the window; grinding his jaws every so often as if he wished he were eating.

     Lord Sonnenby was watching her.  He had been cleaned up and shaved since the last time she had seen him.  His dark hair was cut shorter over his ears, but a long forelock was combed up and over his forehead.  He smelled like soap, though the straightjacket had a wet canvas odor that could not be masked by washing. His brown eyes blinked at her, but showed no emotion whatsoever. There was no glimmer of appreciation of her appearance, no curiosity, no interest.

     Elsa gave him a slight professional smile, not too eager nor over-friendly.  She knew that the upper class British were not as affable as the Austrians.

     The straight jacket remained firmly buckled.  He appeared used to it, if not completely comfortable.  He did not fidget or strain at the straps but sat very still.

     The whistle blew again and was followed shortly after by the expected lurch and a metallic slide as the cars began to move along the tracks.  Sonnenby planted his feet as wide as the hobbles on his ankles would let him to keep from rolling from the seat, and Davies placed a practiced hand on his shoulder to keep him upright until the car’s movement smoothed. The rumbling puff of the engine made introductions unseemly so she waited until the lurching was over and the steady clack of the wheels implied that the journey had begun in earnest.

     “My name is Elsa Schluss, Mr. Sinclair.  Do you prefer to be addressed as Lord Sonnenby?” she asked.

     Sonnenby stared at her for a moment, then turned his head to look out the window.  She looked at Davies.

     “He don’t speak much, ma’m,” he said.

     “I see.”  Elsa set her briefcase down beside her and opened it.  She took out her writing pad and a sharp pencil and wrote that down.

     “No one calls him Sinclair,” Davies continued in a helpful voice.

     She wrote that down, too.  The sliding door shook and Davies leaned forward to unlock it.  Mr. Marshall entered, looking first to Sonnenby then to her.  He took off his bowler and hung it on the hook by the window before sitting beside her.

     “
Fraulein
,” he said by way of greeting.  He adjusted his collar and then his sleeves, pinching at the cuff links.

     “Mr. Marshall,” she nodded.  She tucked her pencil behind her ear and closed her notebook on her knees.

     Marshall said, “Can you tell me about your plan to cure Lord Sonnenby?”

     “Cure, Mr. Marshall?”  Elsa’s English was excellent but it was not her first language.  She tried not to frown as she struggled to understand exactly what he might mean. Mental illness was not cured like an infection.  Surely he knew that.

     “Treat him for his condition,” he offered.

     “Ah.”  Elsa shifted on the seat to turn her body to face him for conversation, but used the opportunity to put a few more inches between them.  “It is customary to talk to the patient and explore the areas of his experience that may have caused the trauma that broke his mind to begin with.”

     “Talking therapy.  I have heard of it.  It is what they are calling ‘analysis’.  Are you going to analyze Lord Sonnenby?”

     “I am.”

     “You are aware that such therapy requires the patient to speak to you.” His tone was derogatory.

      She bristled.  “I am aware, Mr. Marshall.”

     He sniffed and she saw him set his jaw.  His hand began to tap his knee in time with the swaying of the car.  He looked across the compartment at the opposite wall between Davies and Sonnenby.  Elsa tapped her own knee in time with his to mirror the behavior and create a physical dialogue she would use to engage Marshall.  Sonnenby turned his head from the window and glanced at both of them.  His brow wrinkled when his eyes touched both sets of tapping fingers, and he glanced up at Elsa with the first sign of interest.

     She suppressed a smile.  Lord Sonnenby was alert and intelligent.  “Perhaps if we removed the restraints he would be more inclined to converse,” she suggested.

     “Davies will be the judge of that.  Certainly both men must be in the compartment if he is to be unbound.”  The tempo of his tapping increased.  Obviously this idea agitated him.

     Elsa slowed her tapping
to calm him
and after a few seconds Marshall’s tapping slowed to match hers.
 
“That would defeat the purpose of therapy, Mr. Marshall.  I will need privacy with the patient or he may never speak of his troubles.”

     “You may have time with him alone, but he must be restrained.”

     “He is quite immobile now.  Perhaps we could begin.”  She stopped tapping and Marshall’s fingers paused over his own knee.

     Davies agreed with a nod.

     Marshall stood and reached for his hat.  “Very well.  As I said, good luck.”  To Davies he said, “Stand outside the compartment while she is in here with him.”

     The train swayed as the tracks curved.  The two men who could walk departed the small chamber.  The bound man watched them go.   When the door slid shut he turned his eyes on her.

     As soon as the door clicked shut Elsa put down her notebook and pushed herself over to the other seat.  “Mr. Sinclair…Lord Sonnenby.  Let me help you feel more comfortable.”  She motioned for him to turn so she could reach the buckles on his back.  He twisted in his seat, turning his back to her, but craned his neck with his chin over his shoulder so he could watch her fingers.

     “They will be angry if you make a commotion.  You know that,” she warned as she worked the first buckle at the back of his neck.  “They will come in and truss you tight like a goose.”  She met his eye before flipping the leather on the next buckle.  “And then we will not be allowed to talk alone.”

     His arms loosened with the third buckle.  She paused there to see what he would do.  He rolled his shoulders and flexed his arms.  He took a deep breath and then another.  He was not unbound, but the jacket hung limply on his shoulders and arms.  He could move, though his hands were still inside the overlong sleeves and she had not released the buckle that would remove the jacket completely.

     She felt his arms beneath the canvas and tried to rub them to increase the circulation around his elbows where she thought the restraints may have been pinching him.  He turned and glared at her.  She removed her hands from his body.

     “Will you not speak to me, Mr. Sinclair?”

     He stared daggers at her.

     Elsa pursed her lips.  She had been met with many reactions from her patients, but none had been this hostile.  In fact, the most common reaction when she gave a warm smile to a melancholy veteran was tears.  Many called her “
mutter
” or “
liebchen
”.  She spent more time trying to disengage from needy men than trying to engage them.  She put her hands in her lap and sat up straight.

     “I am trying to help you.  Are you not more comfortable with the loosened straps?  If you are ending this conversation I will alert Mr. Davies.”  She moved like she would stand and knock at the curtained glass.

     “No.”  His voice was a deep baritone.  “Don’t.”

     She sat back.  “I won’t,” she promised.  “Do you prefer ‘Mr. Sinclair’ or ‘Lord Sonnenby’?”

     His eye twitched at ‘Lord Sonnenby’.  He did not like wearing his father’s name.  She lowered her voice.  “Perhaps ‘Henry’.”  Sometimes a regression to childhood helped.  She did not know if his childhood had been happy.  His file only mentioned expensive boarding schools and educational travel.  Perhaps his mother had called him ‘Henry’. 

     His eyes deepened and then glistened at the mention of his given name. He quickly turned his face away from her to hide them.  So.  He loved his mother.  Mother called him ‘Henry’.  A good start.

     “Please call me ‘Elsa’,” she said to his back.  “It may seem a bit forward, but we do not have the luxury of time.  Surely you are aware of your government’s intent.  Its representative, Mr. Marshall, has asked me to prepare you for this duty to your country.  Are you aware of the details?”

     He nodded.  At least he was responding to her now.

     She leaned forward and touched the one buckle that remained fastened across his back.  He shuddered.

     “Are you sorry to leave England?”

     “Do not touch me.”

     She removed her hand from the buckle.
She leaned across the short aisle between the seats to pick up her notebook.  She would interview his back, then.  She took the pencil from her ear. She waited until his breathing returned to normal, then asked softly, “Are you in pain?”

     He flexed his arms, his shoulders bunched beneath the canvas and he twisted and lurched to his feet.  He towered over her, glaring.  The neatly combed forelock fell over his eyes and the muscles over his jaw bulged.  His ankles were strapped, his arms lost in the long sleeves could not reach her, but Elsa felt a twinge of fear.  She saw the powerful soldier now, not the injured man.

     She leaned back against the seat and glanced at the door.  Sonnenby had made no sound.  Davies would not enter without a signal.  She looked up at him and told herself to be calm.  So far she had learned more about him from his body than from his mouth.  Jumping up and standing over her was shouting.  Body shouting.  He was answering her question.  This was a dialogue.

     She swallowed and forced her own eyes to speak to him.  “Very well.  I understand.”

     He swayed as the train rocked.  It was hard to balance with ankles bound and arms useless against his body.  She prepared herself to catch him if he started to fall.  She was a tall woman and came from sturdy peasant stock.  She could catch him and lay him down gently on the seats if it came to that.  She readied herself as he swayed again.

     His face relaxed and he sat down across from her where Marshall had been sitting.  He looked out the window for a moment, then back at her.  “Help me escape,” he said.  “I will pay you double what he,” he jerked his chin at the door, “is paying you.”

     “I am committed to helping you escape from your troubles,” she answered carefully.  “But I do not work for money, so you cannot buy my help.”