Madness (18 page)

 
But after a week of busying herself in the cell and trying to hate him for what Simon had supposedly done, Gabrielle could block her ears to his seductive tones no more.

With a sigh, she rose from the bed and stood the corner to listen to him.
 
From listening to him, it was only a small step to looking for a hole in the plaster, through which she might be able to speak to him. At least she could try to get some answers...

“Simon?”

He had seemed to know it was her at once. “Gabrielle, Gabrielle. I told you that you would flee from me in horror. But I’m not mad. I’m not mad. I know all my sums, I know the days of the week, if only someone could give me a calendar. I’m not mad. It was Brumaire when they brought me here. But no. The revolution is over and even the Emperor is no more. Gone to St. Helena. Thank God. He thought he was Julius Caesar, revising the months of the year, changing the calendar. But he failed. Just like Caesar was assassinated, his own generals turned upon him in the end.

“You see, I’m not mad. Won’t you please help me? I can hear you. I know you’re a good, kind, loving soul. You can’t possibly want me to stay here when I’m not mad. When I’ve done nothing wrong.

"I admit I’m not always very well, but I’m not mad. Not a monster, though they've most likely told you the most appallling lies, if they've
 
even dared admit that I exist. Please help me, darling. I know it’s you. I can smell you, hear your voice when you speak to your sister Lucinda. Please help me, Gabrielle. It's been so hard, and getting harder."

She tried to step away, already feeling lured into his web, which he seemed to weave effortlessly with his words and deep, thrilling tones.

“Please, darling girl, I know it's you. Please, you have to help me. Get me some untainted food, something to help me clear my mind and be able to--”

“I can’t help you,” she said that first day. “It isn’t permitted. Besides, my cousin refuses to let me aid you in any way. He doesn’t believe a word you say. He told me of your crimes--”

"You mean what they said I did. There's a difference," he said sharply.

"Aye, but what they said is so horrible—"

“The question is, what do you believe?” he asked, insinuating a couple of fingers into the plaster hole she was kneeling near, so that he almost touched her cheek. She leapt back like a scalded cat, but then found herself almost reaching out for him with her own hand.

“What does your heart tell you? You held me in your arms, Gabrielle, and told me you wouldn't forsake me no matter what. Yet now, only a few days later, you won't even speak to me through four inches of wall?"

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Oh, I don't blame you, pet. I can probably guess what it is they are accusing me of. What is it, murder, rape? I’ve debauched my own sister and her children or some such?”

She hung her head.
So it was true...

“Whatever it is they've told you and your cousin the good doctor, Antony, it's all nothing more than a string of vile fabrications to ensure that no one in their right mind would want to help me.

"But I swear to you by all I hold sacred, I’ve done nothing that warrants being left here to rot. If my brothers were alive they would move heaven and earth to get me out of here. But they’re gone, all gone. I’m the only one left, and the war has taken me as well.”

She rose to her full height and began to pace in between the narrow cot her sister lay on, and the pockmarked wall.

“The war has been over for years. There is no purpose being served by keeping you here any longer for whatever reason they might ever have—” She broke off, not wanting to feed his fantasy.

Antony had said that would be most dangerous, for it was easy to get swept up in all of his ravings, thinking there was some sense in the madness.

"Please, you must listen now, while I'm still lucid. I'll have to eat again soon, and then—"

"I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't." She snatched up her things and fled the cell as if madness were contagious.

And perhaps it was, for after another week of Simon reciting poetry and snippets of conversation whenever she weakened and decided she just had to speak with him for a moment, she began to think that even if he had done everything he was accused of, the man from the past who might have done what was claimed was certainly
 
not the same as the man now.

After all, the war brutalised and dehumanised. She had seen it with her own cousin Michael. In fact, he had cut himself off from everyone he knew except Dr. Blake Sanderson, who had been helping to heal him, because he had been so convinced he would corrupt everything he touched with the blood on his hands from the war. He had been delusional, haunted, for a very long time.

Eventually he had married his wife Bryony and been reintegrated back into his family, but he had declined to resume his earldom even though he was the eldest of the Avenels.

Randall as the youngest of five boys had never imagined he would become the Earl of Hazlemere, but he was doing an admirable job. As an independent with Radical leanings in the House of Lords, he was considered a political force to be reckoned with, though he has spent only a short time in the House since their father had died.

Randall too had done things of which he was ashamed. Everyone did. Well, if they lived long enough…

She knew Lucinda had been ashamed of her marriage to Oxnard, and she herself was ashamed of the way she had never stood up to her brother Chauncey, even though she had known him to be envious and vindictive, hell bent on taking whatever he could from his more prosperous cousins the Avenels and the Drakes.

He had tormented Randall, and Isolde Drake and her family, she knew. When Randall and Isolde had married, Chauncey had very nearly ended up ruining them with scandal. Only for their hasty marriage, who knew what would have happened to poor Isolde.

Her own ruin did not seem so terrible now, for she had never had such high expectations of her life and role in Society as Chauncey had. She was happy with the clinic, and Antony was certainly most dedicated to the poor rather than the pleasures of the
Ton
, as were most of his Rakehell friends.

She sighed as she reflected on the choices people made, and how one simple act, or course of inaction, could lead to the most dire consequences. For instance, if she had dared to speak her mind to try to set Chauncey on a better course, perhaps she and her sister might not be in their present predicament now.

If she helped Simon, she might certainly bring a world of trouble down on her head. But equally unsure would be the result of doing nothing. In fact, she was certain he would take his own life if she did not.

She might well be in peril if she helped him. But how could she ever live with herself if she did not?

After another week of conversing with Simon through the wall, Gabrielle's course of action became more clear. He never deviated from his tale so far as he was able to recount it through his seizures and pain.

He was either the best actor and liar in the world, she decided, or a man truly telling the truth. His story was the same no matter how much she tried to trip him up by asking probing questions about subjects that did not set him writhing in agony from the pain in his head.

Her cousin Michael had told her he had endured mental as well as physical torment due to the war. Sarah Deveril's husband, known as Alexander, had also suffered an impairment of his memory as a result of what he had endured. She did not know the particulars, but it was clear that the long years these men had spent doing battle with Napoleon had left them with an enduring legacy of pain and suffering which might take years to be alleviated, if ever.

But that was not to say she was not willing to try to help him….

As they spoke, plans began to formulate in her mind, ideas so daring, she even shocked herself. Yet if she had ever imagined even two years ago that she would be working at a clinic for fallen women while she aided her beloved sister, an inmate in Bedlam, she would have deemed it impossible.

So while they conversed, she set about with a will to try to lay the foundations of her plan. They both worked from either side of the wall to enlarge the hole between the two cells that so she could smuggle some untainted food in.

They had communicated well enough the first few days through the crack in the wall Simon had desperately rammed his fingers into in an effort to get her to pay attention to him. Since then, they had found another more promising hole in the nearest corner to the door, less visible from it when they were working, and easily covered with the bedstead once they were done for the day.

He scraped diligently every day with a metal spoon she had given him, and together they worked feverishly to get the opening large enough to fit more than pieces and fruit and small parcels of bread, meat and cheese.

“The opium is only making my condition worse. Please, if I could be free of the addiction, the seizures wouldn’t be so bad. I’ve been a wreck since the day we met, trying to hold out untll you found me again, but getting weaker by the day as a result."

"But if you're already locked in, why bother to go to such lengths as to drug you so heavily?" she asked again.

"They give it to me to keep me docile, suppress my memories, but they don’t understand what it does to the body.
 
I’ve been like this for five years now, and my seizures and tremors are getting worse."

"I know," she admitted at last, and began to dig on her side in real earnest now. For the more he tried to wean himself from the medicine and remember his past life, the more excruciating his agony became.

"Thank you, thank you so much," he gasped when he saw her spoon thrust in straight through to his side, and back out again, taking a goodly hunk of plaster with it.

She gathered it up quickly and stuffed it into her basket to dump it outside in the courtyard under his window once she was safely outside so no one would suspect anything if they came in to look at either cell. If they ever moved the beds to discover the hole, she could claim no knowledge of it.

He said after a time, "You are a most remarkable woman. Incredibly resourceful.
 
I hate to put you and your sister in even the remotest peril like this, but you’re my last hope, Gabrielle. I know you have no reason to trust or even like me, but I’m begging you, this is a medical condition, not a character weakness, and —”

“It’s all right. I’ll do it, I'm going to help you somehow,” she agreed, her last doubts not fully assuaged, but unable to bear his suffering any longer. There was only one way to arrive at the truth, and that was to not just take anyone's word for it, but actively seek it for herself.

“What did you say?” he gasped.

She touched the plaster, cold and chill, and tried to recall the heart of his hard muscular body the night they had lain in each other's arms in the asylum bathing chamber below.

“I said I’m going to help you, Simon. I believe in you. I’m sorry I doubted you. That I let my cousin try to dissuade me from doing the right thing. I apologise for being weak, and allowing myself to grow frightened of you when I had no reason to be.