Flight of the Earls (41 page)

“Reporters? The
New York Daily
, eh?” He returned their credentials and nodded for them to move forward.

As they ventured across the plank to the steamship, Clare felt the full weight of Andrew on her shoulder.

“Please don't do this,” she pleaded.

“Don't ask me again,” Andrew snapped.

“Over there is a bench inside where you won't have to see the water.” They were only a few steps away, but when they arrived, he nearly collapsed onto the wooden seating.

The woman next to them drew her children close into her arms. “He doesn't look right,” she said with disgust.

Clare scowled at the woman and put her arm around Andrew and stroked his face as the ship lurched and began its short journey across Hudson Bay.

Being in the steamship brought back memories of her passage across the Atlantic and the depth of illness she suffered. Yet was there ever a day on her trip as difficult as this one was with Andrew? She felt incapable of placating his hysteria and could only hope the trip would end soon. As it turned out, Blackwell's Island was the last stop on an elongated loop the steamship was navigating, and by the time they arrived at the boat landing, Andrew's nerves had completely frayed. Fortunately, there was a doctor aboard, who tended to him during the last stretch of the trip.

Finally, the boat drifted into the landing and the nightmare drew near its conclusion as the rope tethered them to shore. The doctor received permission to leave before anyone else, and they bore Andrew away from the dock, each to one side of him, as he dragged along. Clare was already dreading the return trip to Manhattan.

For Clare, the day was overwhelming. Today's news about her brother. The anxiety regarding Maggie's state of mind. And now having to deal with Andrew's condition. What more could she bear?

As it turned out, the doctor was also en route to the asylum and generously offered to share his carriage, an offer they promptly accepted.

Now, away from the water's edge, Andrew's recovery was swift, although he remained mired in embarrassment. The doctor, who was an Englishman as well, tried to downplay Andrew's reaction by suggesting hydrophobia, as he described it, was a common malady.

“There's only one proven way to overcome it, I'm afraid. The simple act of bravery you performed today. That's what's needed. It's a fear to be faced.”

“I wouldn't use the word
brave
in describing what just happened,” Andrew said. “Hopefully, Doctor, you don't have plans to commit me.”

The doctor smiled as if in courtesy but became somber. “You've never been to Blackwell's asylum, have you?”

They shook their heads, and glancing out the windows of the black cab, Clare could see the vast, gray walls of the buildings approaching.

“It is a despicable place, if I'm being honest. Devoid of all humanity. As physicians we do our best to treat our patients with care. But we're mostly overrun. I apologize for my lack of manners. You are here in the capacity of reporters? Isn't that what you told me?”

“The
Daily
,” Andrew said.

“In that case, I hope you have the courage to write what you witness.” He pulled out a silver pocket watch as the horses were drawn to a halt. “Quite late, I'm afraid. Good day to the two of you, and sir, I wish you better returns.”

The physician's dire description was corroborated the moment they entered through the sweeping doors of the fortification. The stench of feces, urine, and vomit emanated from every pore of the building.

Having passed by the hallways of the woman's wing, Clare had already heard and seen enough slivers of horror to have drained herself completely of whatever enthusiasm she had to see Maggie. In its place now was unfiltered dread.

Never in full sight of visitors, but caught in glimpses around bends and far ends of hallways, they saw pale, thin arms reaching out of cells, patients restrained in hideous buckled jackets, and the haunting sounds of clanging chains, moaning, frightful laughter, and emotional agony.

In Clare's mind one clear thought was paramount: She would not leave this place without her sister.

After many false turns, they were finally directed to a processing chamber, where an ogrelike woman behind an imposing wooden counter greeted them with the callous disinterest of someone who loathed their position.

They were ignored as she scratched away on paperwork. After a while, Andrew cleared his throat. When that didn't work, he tapped on a bell that caused her to raise her head with some clear irritation.

“We're trying to find a patient.”

“And you are?”

“I'm Andrew Royce from the
New York Daily
and this is . . . Clare.”

“And on what authority?”

Clare handed Andrew their paperwork and he placed it before the woman, who pulled out spectacles attached to a chain and perched them on her nose.

After a few moments, the woman looked up from the papers. “What name?”

“Margaret Hanley.” Clare stepped forward.

The woman dragged over a large leather-bound book, opened it, and thumbed through pages. “Hanley, you say?”

Clare's anxiety rose with each page turned, and she watched with intensity as the women's finger slid down the list of names.

“No, I'm afraid not.” The woman closed the book and shrugged.

“What do you mean you can't find her?” Clare said. “She has to be in there.” However, fear crept into Clare. Maybe they had it all wrong. Perhaps Greta met Maggie somewhere else.

“What about your uncle's name?” Andrew said to her. “Could it be under that?”

“Yes,” Clare said, her hope flooding back. “Try in the name of Margaret or Maggie Feagles.”

The clerk gave her a wry expression. Then grudgingly she opened the tome, and sifted through the pages. “I'm afraid. She's not here. No one here by any of the names you mentioned.”

Clare's lips began to quiver and she fought to hold back the tears.

“Are you certain?” Andrew asked. “It's quite important.”

“Yes. I am sorry for you.” The clerk's tone had softened. “But there is nothing else I can do.” Then she raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “I thought you were here for the newspaper? Is this someone you knew personally?”

“Thank you,” Clare said, defeated.

Andrew pulled her into him and put his head close to hers and then turned to leave.

“Wait.” Clare thought of something insidious and in some ways hoped she wasn't right. “Excuse me, miss. Can you look up one last name for me, please? The name is Margaret O'Riley.”

The book opened again, pages were turned, and Clare scrutinized the clerk's every slight facial expression.

Please, God. Let me see Margaret. Let me see her once again.

The woman paused and pursed her lips in surprise. “Well, there is a Margaret O'Riley, after all.” But then her countenance fell. She looked up to Clare with an expression of charity. “Perhaps this is not the same woman.”

“Tell me,” Clare said. “What does it say?”

“We get quite a few O'Rileys in here, as you can imagine.”

“What is it?”

“It's all right, Clare,” Andrew said.

“It's not all right. Tell me what it says.”

The woman glanced to Andrew and then back to Clare. “The record shows a Margaret O'Riley being admitted on January 17th of 1845. Over two years ago. Checked in by her husband, a Mr. Gorman O'Riley, based on his claims she tried to kill him with an ax. This was witnessed by a Mr. Patrick Feagles.”

“I want to see her. Now.” Clare felt her blood rushing to her head.

The clerk kept reading, her lips moving as she did. Then she closed the book, this time for the last time. “I'm afraid that won't be possible.” She removed her spectacles. “It says she was inconsolable in confinement and refused to eat. I'm sorry. But she died six weeks later.”

Clare sank into Andrew's arms. There was profound grief in her pain. She had believed with all her heart she would see Maggie today.

Almost immediately, the hope of expectation was replaced by something deep and onerous, bubbling to the surface of her being. Black . . . black.

It was approaching.

Chapter 39

The Chamber

Clare's dreary discovery had throttled her soul. Entangled by the putrescent cobwebs of her circumstances, she struggled to find a doorway out of the darkness, but there was no light to be found.

This journey down the chasm of melancholy shifted direction after a few days and veered through a landscape more sinister in nature. She drifted through murky waters to the banks of another emotion, depraved and tenebrous, tentacles that slowly reached into the forgotten caverns of despair.

There, billows of anger sifted in through the haze and in the distance a building drumbeat summoned a beast of murderous intentions: hatred, unforgiveness, and the sweltering shadows of revenge.

Depravity streamed through her veins. She yearned to rage wildly against her oppressor. To feel the blade of revenge to penetrating flesh.

Despite all efforts of encouragement from Daphne and Andrew, Clare curled in bed, knotted in grief, motionless and without purpose, begging to be left alone in her misery.

Most revolting to her was Andrew's desire to pray over her, to read her Scripture, and to speak of God's promises. Clare wanted only to spit out the very thought of a benevolent God existing in this corrupt world. She knew what He was now. He had played her the fool and abandoned her for the last time. He was no different than her father and now she would trust no one.

Through the fog of her depression, Clare had some awareness that Andrew was intending to preserve her life before the bottom fell out of her dreams. He was keeping her byline in print, conducting interviews, and writing her stories by day, working at the newly launched mission at night, and sharing the duties of caring for her with Daphne and even Cassie at times, insisting that she never be left alone.

Through the blurred vision of the world outside, all filtered through her misery, Clare could vaguely discern that Andrew was wearying under the burden of this task. Perhaps it was her concern for him, or maybe it was the silent cries of her remaining family back home that helped her to pierce through her veil of gloom. Regardless of the source, after a few weeks, the winds began to blow away the haze, and the burden of waking up lessened with each day.

It was a particularly bright morning when Clare felt inclined to rise from bed, slide out the drawer of her oak wardrobe, and pull out Maggie's drawings, something Clare thought she would never again have the courage to do.

The sight of Davin, Ronan, and Caitlin sketched by Maggie's hand caused her to choke with emotions, but the sight of her brothers and sister caused her to smile as well.

Then she noticed something.

“Oh, you're up, Clare,” said Daphne as she came out from her room with her shoes in her hands. She saw the drawings and put her arm around Clare's shoulder. “I'm sorry, dear. I didn't know.”