The Gray Chamber Read online

  “No! Remove them.” She turned wild eyes to her uncle. When he didn’t budge, she scooped up an armful of the dead petals and bolted for the door, attempting to toss them into the hall, but two of the attendants moved to block the door, sending her sprawling back onto the rose-strewn floor as she shouted, “Get them out. Get them all out! Uncle. Uncle Boris!” She screamed his name over and over, but he left her alone with the reminder of her parents’ death. She screamed and sobbed until her wails turned to silent weeping and she curled onto her cot, facing the blank wall, begging God to rescue her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Practice what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.

  ~ Rembrandt

  Bane scowled, his gaze fixed on the unreachable island that was veiled in fog. His steps sounded hollow on the dock as a seagull’s cry pierced his thoughts along with the clanging of a ship’s bell. He marched down the dock and returned to Miss Birch, who was waiting impatiently for Doctor Hawkins while keeping a safe distance between herself and the dockworkers. “The ticket master just informed me that the first ferry left before its scheduled departure time. From what I was able to gather, some rich gentleman paid the captain a preposterous amount, but the man wouldn’t officially confirm the rumor even though he has no qualms of spreading it.” He gritted his teeth. “We’ll just have to find another means of reaching the island this morning.”

  “This is utterly ridiculous.” Miss Birch crossed her arms, emitting an exasperated sigh. “I have never heard of someone hiring an entire ferry. I mean, if it were a yacht or even a small boat, certainly, but a giant, filthy, flea-ridden ferry? Nonsense.” She checked her jeweled ladies’ watch pin. “Doctor Hawkins should be here soon, but how will we get to the island if there is not a ferry to take us?”

  Bane dug his hands into his pockets and fished around for coins, wishing he had enough to hire a ferry himself, or even a boat. Grunting at his stinging pride, he looked at his companion. “Miss Birch? Do you have sufficient funds to hire a boat? Perhaps if we combine our efforts?”

  She opened her reticule and withdrew her coin purse, giving it a shake and grimacing at the jingle of two lonely coins. “I don’t have much pin money left from my recent shopping trip, but I’m sure if we do not have enough together, the good doctor will be more than happy to oblige.”

  She dumped the contents of her money pouch into his hand, and they counted out their meager amount before approaching the nearest vessel large enough to accommodate them with a man working it. Miss Birch pressed her lace-trimmed handkerchief over her mouth and nose as the scent of rotting fish grew with every step, but Bane couldn’t fault her for it, as he had to swallow to keep his own stomach under control.

  The gruff sailor regarded them and hoisted a bucket to the rail, wide-eyed fish heads and guts sloshing to the floor of his boat, causing Lavinia to turn her head and moan into her puffed yellow sleeve, a ridiculous color to wear to an asylum. Was she trying to provoke the inmates?

  Bane cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir, would you be willing to take us to Blackwell’s Island in your—” He motioned to the rowboat, searching for the right words. “Fine vessel? The ferry departed ahead of schedule.”

  “So you think I can drop everything and attend to your needs since you are a gentleman?” He took in Miss Birch’s extravagant gown along with Bane’s plain suit, no doubt determining the price. He tilted the bucket and sent the vile scum into the East River, the splatter reaching Miss Birch’s skirts.

  With a shriek, she jumped behind Bane and clutched his sleeve. “Have a care, sir.”

  Bane murmured through his smile, “Do not offend the man, else we may have to seek passage with someone less to your liking.”

  “I suppose I could, but it will cost you,” the man replied with a rueful grin. He pulled a pipe from his pocket that had bits of tobacco sticking out of the bowl, struck his match on the bottom of his worn boot, and drew and released three puffs.

  Knowing they would need funds for the ferry to return home, Bane kept a small sum hidden in his pocket and offered the man the rest. The old sailor grunted and nodded to Bane’s stiff hat. “I’ll take that along with your money.”

  “What would you need a hat like this for?” He nearly snorted, but Miss Birch elbowed him in the ribs, reminding him of the urgency of their mission. “Of course. One hat and a dollar and a half.” He poured the coins into the man’s hand and handed over his hat, the breeze whipping through his hair.

  “There you are!” Roger Hawkins trotted up to them carrying a black leather case at his side and, without questioning what they were about, followed them into the vessel and offered his hand to Miss Birch. The old sailor assumed his position at the oars and stroke by stroke pulled them out of the dock and into the rough, murky waters toward Blackwell’s Island.

  As they approached the island, its brilliant fall hues and foggy shores evoked an admiration Bane had not been expecting. Devoid of crowded buildings and masses of people, it possessed an eerie calm. Perhaps he wouldn’t find Edyth in such a terrible way after all. Maybe Jasper Wentworth had been exaggerating to get to him. He thought of the paunchy doctor whom he fenced with on occasion who worked on the island. Bane chewed the inside of his cheek. The doctor could have been complimentary of the island because he worked at the institution. Bane shrugged, telling himself that he was most likely overthinking things, as usual.

  He turned his attention to Miss Birch and Roger, chattering on and on. Wasn’t she in the least bit concerned about her cousin? Spotting the brightness in her cheeks and the glint in Roger’s eyes, he knew they were taken with one another, but the thought that they were more concerned with impressing one another than with finding Edyth caused him to wonder if Miss Birch was a part of this elaborate scheme. Was he simply a pawn in Miss Birch and her mother and stepfather’s game to seize Edyth’s inheritance? But, looking at the blond beauty, he didn’t see any of the bitterness that her mother possessed. Perhaps her time in Paris had kept her from being poisoned by the woman’s greed.

  He returned his attention to the choppy waters, studying the shore as the fog began to clear, anxious to see her. Lord, let me be wrong. I wish to find Edyth more than anything, but I ache at the thought that she is trapped here. Not knowing what else to pray, he sank his face between his hands and sought to turn his mounting concerns over to God, but he failed miserably. “Trust,” he murmured, dredging up the proverb from the cellar of his heart. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” He exhaled his anxiety. “Make the path known. Show me the way, Lord,” he whispered, his words catching in the wind and drifting away.

  They finally reached the island and disembarked, Miss Birch gripping Roger’s arm and appearing rather green. Leaving her to Roger’s care, Bane hired a carriage that looked like it had seen far better days, but it was either that or a disgusting-looking closed wagon with AMBULANCE in faded red paint on the side.

  Passing the alms and workhouses on the right, the carriage turned down a well-kept drive that was surprisingly pleasant, with the beauty of the grounds surrounding them and the vibrant leaves gently fluttering to the earth in graceful dips and sways to find rest in the grass still damp with morning dew. Even if Edyth was here, surely he would find her contentedly working on her paintings. He smiled at the thought of his busy friend. If she wasn’t riding, she was painting, or fencing with him. Bane never knew her not to be doing something. Sometimes he rather suspected that she didn’t like being alone with her thoughts. And if she happened to be alone, she kept her hands busy with the sketchbook and stubby pencil she always kept at the ready in that giant, frumpy reticule of hers. The sketchbook thumped against his heart in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t opened it since that day in the museum when he had flipped through it, teasing her. He felt that it was somehow an invasion of her privacy now to open it without her knowledge.


  Seeing her closetful of paintings of those three reaching hands for the first time was rather disconcerting, especially the chilling underwater settings, but there were some less disturbing, set in meadows and holding flowers. There were always three, grasping, reaching, trying to touch one another. He would have to ask her why and what they meant. He understood the need for discipline and the power of practicing, but these paintings were bordering on an unhealthy obsession. He shook his head. He knew Edyth. She was not insane. She was only … eccentric. But beyond her peculiarities was a woman who possessed a compassion for helpless creatures that sometimes turned to a fierce temper when threatened. He had always admired her love for the defenseless and how she went out of her way to assist the youngest of his students to ensure that they knew how to hold and wield their weapons correctly.

  The carriage halted in front of a massive rotunda of gray stone with three-story wings jutting out from the central dome. The building was surrounded by barren trees, their branches reaching out to one another. He shook his head to dismiss Edyth’s art from his mind.

  Roger paid the driver, and they marched up the stone steps and into the building, their footsteps echoing against the largely vacant hall as they approached the tall desk that was in the front middle of the octagon tower with a small seating area to the side. Behind it, the staircase began at the base of the rotunda and crawled its way around the sides. The stairs accessed the three stories and looked to continue up to the tower’s viewing platform of the island with an opulent chandelier hanging in the center, lighting all three levels.

  “Good morning, Miss Monroe.” Roger greeted the secretary standing behind the front desk, giving her a smile that sent the young woman to giggling and blushing, which Bane noticed sent Miss Birch’s brows into a furrow.

  “Doctor Hawkins, always a pleasure. Do you have need of something from me today?” The hope tinting her words brought a glare from the woman at his side.

  “I need to inquire after a Miss Edyth Foster who should have been committed in the past week or so,” Roger replied.

  “Let me see … Miss Foster. Miss Foster.” She removed her spectacles from her desk, perched them on the bridge of her nose, and flipped through her ledger to a section in the middle. She scanned the lines with her finger, meticulously murmuring each name starting with F to herself when she passed over them. She removed her wire-rimmed spectacles and looked up to him with a regretful smile, blinking her stubby blond lashes. “I am sorry, Doctor Hawkins, but there is no Edyth Foster in my ledger. Are you certain that is her name?”

  Bane gripped the top of the desk, his fingers digging into the polished wood. “There has to be some sort of mistake. Would you mind checking again?” His hostile tone made Miss Birch tap his elbow, but he ignored her.

  The secretary pressed her lips into a thin line. “There obviously has been a misunderstanding, and not on my part. The name Edyth Foster is not written anywhere in my ledger.”

  “I suppose you never make mistakes, do you? Or were you paid for your silence? Whatever it was, I’ll double—”

  Miss Birch tugged on his arm once more, whispering, “You are insulting the woman.” She sent her an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive him. He is in love, and that tends to make even the most reasonable of men illogical. For the sake of his devotion to the maiden, would you mind checking again?”

  Miss Monroe’s expression lightened a shade, but she still made a great show of sighing and flipping through her work again before shaking her head. “As I said twice before, there is no Edyth Foster listed.”

  Bane’s fingers curled into a fist. He wasn’t certain if he should just be thankful or pursue the matter further, but the memory of the slip of paper with B.I. scrawled on it festered in the back of his mind. I need direction.

  “Perhaps she is in New Orleans as Boris said?” Miss Birch whispered to him. “Is that not a good thing?”

  “Indeed, it is far better news to discover that she has simply left the city without a word,” Roger agreed.

  Bane grunted against the facts being presented to him and decided to go with his gut. “No. She would not run from me. She is here. He must have committed her under a pseudonym.”

  “Why do you assume that my stepfather is so horrible?” Miss Birch’s chin went up. “You could be mistaken.”

  “I held Edyth’s note in my hand. The initials of Blackwell’s Island was written over and over. Does that mean nothing?” And she loves me. I know it. She would not leave me on a whim.

  “She sounds just like every other patient we have here,” the secretary snorted, and returned to her tea and newspaper, obviously deciding that Roger wasn’t worth the flirting.

  Bane turned to the doctor. “I wonder, do people ever commit women here without any names?”

  Roger scratched his chin. “Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose that could happen.” He looked at the secretary. “I’ve only been here for about two weeks myself. But, perhaps, Miss Monroe, you could do me a tremendous favor by naming all the latest women who have been committed.”

  She laid aside her paper and clasped her hands, looking up at him. “Doctor Hawkins, I have over thirteen hundred patients here, all of whom are women. You cannot expect me to remember the exact dates of when they were registered.”

  Bane crossed his arms, scowling. “So what she is saying is that if Edyth is here, and they wish to keep her hidden, they could easily do so.”

  Miss Monroe’s nostrils flared. “We are a respected establishment, sir, and I do not appreciate the insinuation of nefarious dealings happening under this roof. We take great care of our patients. Why, we even have the annual lunatics’ ball coming up just to make the patients feel more at home and to encourage their happiness. Would an institution who throws a ball for the mentally ill hide their patients?”

  Roger reached out and patted the flustered woman’s hand. “I beg your pardon. He is out of turn and, again, speaks from his passion. I will attempt to remedy his ill manners to you with an olive branch in the form of a box of sweets tomorrow. But would you scan the ledger for the admission dates of this past week to put to rest his concerns? Surely there’s not been that many women placed here in that time?” He gave the secretary a grin that clearly agitated Miss Birch, but Bane didn’t have the ability at present to worry about her tender feelings.

  “Very well,” Miss Monroe replied, a coy lilt in her voice. “But only if you promise to lunch with me today, Doctor Hawkins.”

  “It would be my honor.” He gave her a grin and a flawless bow to match.

  Miss Birch coughed into her handkerchief until Roger turned his attention to her and proceeded to pat her lightly on the shoulder, but she waved him away, choosing instead to step behind Bane, whispering to him, “He is acting like he hasn’t called on me a half-dozen times. I have never been so offended. Imagine a beau of mine behaving like I was nothing more than an acquaintance.”

  “How old is the patient?” Miss Monroe ran her finger along the desk and brushed it against her thumb, her disinterest in looking again evident in her sigh.

  “She is nearly five and twenty,” Bane replied, ignoring Miss Birch.

  With a hum, Miss Monroe removed a second ledger, flipped to the last page, and turned the ledger so Doctor Hawkins could read it. “This is our appointment book where we keep track of who will be arriving and what day. As you can see—” She slapped the book closed when Bane craned his neck to look as well and scowled at him. “For staff only, sir.” She cleared her throat and returned her focus to Doctor Hawkins. “There are only eight women marked as young or middle-aged who were committed in the past week. We also have a new set of arrivals scheduled for today.”

  “Why did she not start with this ledger?” Bane mumbled to Miss Birch, who was still huffing over the doctor’s lunch plans.

  She folded her hands atop the ledger, looking pointedly at Bane. “However, if you do not know the name of the patient, you may not visit her, especiall
y if she is one of the few people here with stipulations in place.”

  “But we just told you her name is Edyth Foster.” Bane’s voice grew with his anger.

  Doctor Hawkins clamped a hand on Bane’s shoulder. “If she is part of the latest group, I shall soon find out.” He sent a bold wink to the secretary and earned a faint gasp from Miss Birch.

  Bane drew her hand into the crook of his arm to still her from ruining everything like he had nearly done.

  “Thank you, Miss Monroe. I eagerly await our luncheon in the dining hall at noon.” Doctor Hawkins motioned them to follow him toward the front door. “Look, I will investigate this, and I will find her if she is here. I know what she looks like.”

  “I want to look with you,” Bane replied, unwilling to sit by and wait any longer. He had to do something or go mad.

  Miss Birch remained silent with her arms crossed, clearly still upset over the doctor’s luncheon plans.

  “You cannot, not with the rules as they are, but if I discover that Miss Foster is indeed here under a false name with stipulations in place to protect her identity, I will find a way to sneak you inside.” He showed them outside and pointed them down a side path. “The inmates’ promenade won’t take place until this afternoon, but you can take a gander if you wish of the grounds before the ferry departs.”

  Even though he hated the idea of leaving without Edyth, Bane adjusted his collar to block the wind and stepped out onto the gravel path. He shoved his hands into his pockets, discontent with having to wait. He was getting nowhere on the island.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be—in a light better than any light that ever shone—in a land no one can define, or remember, only desire.

  ~ Edward Burne-Jones