George said he had not realized Mrs Prout had been to Toft House before. ‘Oh yes. On two occasions, both times to discuss the organisation of charity events with your wife and some other ladies.’
Her voice was rather ugly; there was a discordance to it. George wondered if he could really shut Maud away in that terrible place with this hard-faced woman and her unmusical voice? Maud, who so loved music…?
But he embarked determinedly on the little speech he had prepared for Mrs Prout. A young relative whom the family had reluctantly decided to commit to Latchkill for a time, he said. He hoped Matron could arranged that.
‘Dear me, how very distressing for you.’
George said it was very distressing indeed. ‘I’m afraid she is sadly disturbed, but we believe it to be purely temporary. I daresay you’ll know how–how changeable young girls can be. Very excitable one moment, and deeply melancholic the next.’
‘Indeed yes. And so often a young man is the cause of it.’
George wished it was as simple as that but did not say so. ‘We thought–one of your private rooms. Just a few weeks. But proper medical supervision–sympathetic treatment–perhaps mild sedation…’ Dammit, what were the right expressions! He should have asked Sullivan. ‘And then after a little time she can return to her family,’ he said.
‘That may be possible, although I should have to see the young lady for myself.’
George had anticipated this. He said, ‘She’s in the large bedroom on the right of the landing upstairs.’
‘A private room, you said?’ asked Freda, back in the drawing room some little time later.
‘Yes.’ With the idea of establishing friendly relations, George suggested a glass of sherry might accompany their discussion. This was well received. Freda did not, it appeared, normally drink sherry–or any other alcoholic beverage–at this time of day, because of setting a good example to her nurses. But perhaps just this once.
‘My word, what very nice sherry. Cheer-ho. Well now, Mr Lincoln, I can arrange a room for the young lady, although there will be a charge, you understand.’
‘I had assumed that. I–the family–we are quite prepared to pay.’
Freda merely nodded, as if this was no more than she had expected. She looked towards the desk in the window, where Louisa used to write her letters. George had hoped Maud might one day do the same, but she never had.
‘I see you no longer have the photograph of your daughter on the secretaire,’ said Freda, and George instantly felt as if something had smacked him across the eyes.
But he said, very firmly, ‘Mrs Prout, my daughter is away visiting relatives at the moment.’
‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Lincoln, but your daughter is the young lady I have just seen in the bedroom upstairs.’
The small mean eyes met his. A flat denial, thought George. That’s what I must do. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Matron.’
‘Oh no,’ said Freda. ‘Your wife showed us all the photograph the first time I was here. I remember it very clearly–a silver frame it was, and I thought at the time what a very pretty girl. You have put the photograph away since then.’ She studied George for a moment, and then said, ‘You mentioned a stay of a few weeks in Latchkill, Mr Lincoln. But matters are not always quite so straightforward. Latchkill is not an hotel for people to book in and out as the whim takes them. Or,’ she added, ‘as it takes their families. We have to comply with the requirements of the Lunacy Act.’
George, who had not expected this, asked for clarification.
‘For a patient to be admitted, a justice must first make an order for lunacy, which must be signed by two separate doctors–neither of whom must be related to the patient or have any financial interest in him or her.’ A pause. ‘However, something might be arranged.’
‘I don’t—’