If you were rich, that is.
But I’d also read plenty about the atrocities that often took place at these private institutions. With no governing council to keep a sadistic owner in check, the people inside fell under his complete control. Trapped behind wrought-iron gates and green lawns and lovely brick walls, the helpless patients were subjected to cruelty, experimentation, and unspeakable, indescribable barbarity.
After giving the order to release me, Dr. Carson bustled from the room, followed by the matron, who murmured something about a Mrs. Caldecott and surgery. A broad-backed guard in a quasi-police uniform of dark blue cloth, epaulets, and gold buttons unlocked the leather bonds at my wrists and ankles.
A young nurse rolled in a primitive wooden wheelchair. “Name’s Hannah, if’n it please you, miss.” She maneuvered the bulky conveyance close and patted the seat. “Now take your time. Don’t want you goin’ all muzzy-headed afore me and Sergeant Peters can get you settled.”
I started to refuse the chair, hoping if I walked . . . maybe I’d get a chance to run. But the instant I sat up, my vision went splotchy. I felt as though every drop of blood in my head had suddenly surged down into my gut. I gagged. Thankfully my stomach was empty and I only dry-heaved into the metallic pan the girl hastily retrieved.
Cheery and chirpy, Nurse Hannah’s voice drilled into the back of my sore head as she wrinkled a pert little nose. “Forgive me, miss,” she said. “But you look like someone’s painted your skin with lead, like in those old queen days. And I bet ye’re powerful thirsty. Most of ’em are, comin’ off of the new drug.”
New drug. I recalled, then, Carson’s bragging. He’d dosed me with heroin. Freaking heroin.
Hannah hurried back with a metal cup of lukewarm water that smelled and tasted of dirt and the pipes it had traveled through. I downed it in three slugs. It was so delicious, I moaned.
A veil draped from the girl’s white cap, covering the back of her upswept, dirty-blond hair to the shoulders of her black dress. A high collar and full apron were bleached a brilliant white and starched crisp as a potato chip. When Hannah gave me a reassuring smile, her apple cheeks gleamed from a recent scrubbing.
The guard leading, our group of three wheeled out of the room. I craned my neck around to look up at the girl.
“Um . . . Nurse Hannah?” I figured polite was the way to go here. “Excuse me, but do you know what happened to my . . . servant? The boy who was brought in with me? Tall fellow with glass—?with spectacles? His name is Douglas, and—”
“Wouldn’t know, miss,” the girl cut in. “Men are taken to D and E wings, they are. We nurses aren’t allowed over on that side. And I’d never break the doctor’s rules. No, never that.”
Her gaze slid from mine to skitter across the carpeted floor and floral-papered walls. The round cheeks flushed to crimson.
She’s lying. Why would she lie about that?
No clue. But Doug was here, somewhere. I just had to find him . . . somehow . . . and get us the hell out.
In the corridor, electric sconces lined the walls, interspaced with soothing paintings of country meadows and flower gardens. The air smelled sweet. Too sweet, as if the myriad bouquets that topped a series of narrow tables barely concealed a whiff of decay.
As we rolled along, Sergeant Peters didn’t say a word, though Nurse Perky sure kept up her end of the conversational stream.
“Yer awful lucky to be here, miss,” she said. “Some of the other hospitals . . . Oh, you don’t even want ter know. Had an aunt what was in Bellevue. That were a horrible place.” She patted my shoulder in what I assumed was meant to be reassuring. “Not to worry, though. Our Dr. Carson’s a right genius, he is. Here at Greenwood, we treat our patients like human beings. The doctor insists on all the most modern treatments. Some of the other docs in town even come here to study his methods. And he’s come up with so many new ways to help all these poor souls . . .”
Hannah waxed on about the amazing Dr. Carson as we passed bright, elegantly appointed rooms lit by electric chandeliers. Marble fireplaces, plush carpets, and luxurious furniture filled each space. And the people who populated them appeared well dressed and calm, as if they’d just popped in for a little chat.
But there are bars on the windows, I noted. And as we neared another doorway, I heard sobbing. Hannah sped up, but I caught a glimpse of an older woman kneeling in the center of an oriental carpet. Ignored by the others in her area, the woman rocked back and forth, hands pressed to her temples as she wailed incoherently.
The cries quickly faded as we crossed the brick-lined breezeway that led into the next wing. I squinted at the darkened, expansive lawn. Strewn across grass still brown with winter were groupings of ornate iron benches and tables. An evening breeze blew by, bringing with it the sweet scents of daffodil and narcissus and freedom.
“See how nice it is here?” Hannah went on. “It’s a far cry from where I live, I can tell yer that. Me and my Freddie’s building? Smells like sauerkraut and soiled nappies most ’er the time. Course we ain’t been blessed with one o’ our own yet. See, my Freddie, he’s gone out on the fishin’ boats for weeks and . . .”
Hannah droned on as the mute Peters removed a ring of jangling keys from his belt. As he unlocked the door to the next wing, I gnawed at a cuticle, hiding a frown. Locked. Dammit.
This corridor was identical to the last, though here, the doors were all shut. Hannah trailed off as two nurses and a man in surgical whites pushed a covered gurney down the hall toward us. Beneath the rattling of metallic wheels, I could hear a woman’s soft, slurred cries.
“No,” she moaned. “Please! Do not do this to me. Where is Albert? Where is my husband? I demand you get him at once!” Her head rose from the flat pillow. “Albert!” I winced as the desperate cry echoed off the scalloped ceiling. Sobbing, babbling, begging, she cried, “Please. Wait. Just . . . just wait. I’ll be good, I swear it! I shouldn’t have spoken out. I know that now. Please, allow me to speak with my husband. Please.”
The nurse at the head of the gurney leaned down and whispered something in her ear. The sheet writhed and twisted. I saw, then, the leather bonds strapped at wrist and ankle. Loose curls the color of autumn leaves cascaded over the sides of the gurney as the woman whipped her head back and forth.
“Mrs. Caldecott,” the nurse snapped. “Control yourself. Your husband has, in fact, given his full approval for the procedure. Signed the papers this very morning, he did.”