I, weak from so long in restraints, explored my new accommodations as best I could. They were large—larger even than my parents’ back at home. The first thing I noticed was the relative quiet. I could still hear the asylum around me but it was less prominent. The smell and fear were lessened within my room also. It was relatively clean, and no bugs nor mold climbed the walls.

I was drawn to the fireplace. Someone had started the fire and the space was already warming up. I stood with my back to it and looked out into the room. By the fire was a settle with a tall back that trapped the heat and kept away the drafts within the room. Just on the other side of that specialized warming bench was a sitting area with furniture that was worn but nicely made. There was even a desk with a stool, stationery, a choice of quills, and an ink pot. A square table and wooden bench completed the reception area. Although they were not new, the furnishings had not been there long, and I envisioned some family’s parlor stripped bare of all their worldly possessions. I wondered what visitors I would be receiving to warrant the set up. At the far end there was a real bed with a plush mattress that smelled fresh and a bed curtain to close it off from prying eyes and sickening drafts.

The only other piece in the room was an armoire. Since I was freezing in my shift, even with my back against the burning fire, I was hopeful when I noticed it. I risked leaving the hearth to check it for extra layers. It was empty and I quickly made my way back to the heat source. I pulled the settle close—it was much lighter than it appeared—and stretched my legs out, putting my bare feet as close to the coals as I dared.

I must have fallen asleep. A loud clang woke me. I was relieved at the level of noise it made. No one would be able to sneak up on me, even while I slept. The clang was followed by a low but loud scrape as the crossbar slid open. The door itself swung open soundlessly. Although the room was nicer than the cell, the door was still locked from the outside. I was still a prisoner.

Kneeling, I peered over the back of the settle, terrified of my visitor’s identity. Making a mental note of the fireplace poker’s location, I knew I could get to it should Turnkey enter.

A pile of garments with legs entered first, followed by a proper, young woman in a respectable dress. The doctor came in after, looking at me suspiciously. A short discussion and possible disagreement arose between them. In the end, the woman must have won because the doctor left, closing the door behind him.

“I think Judith and I can handle one half-starved, half-frozen girl without protection,” the young woman muttered after seeing me peeking. She swiftly joined me by the fire and held out her hand. I took it. It was warm and soft and instantly I knew that I liked this woman.

Judith, who I assumed was behind the moving wall of cloth, made her way blindly to the bed and was spreading out the various pieces. She came over to the fireplace, stirred it with the poker and then added a log. Although it had died down, the coal bed was hot and the lumber had no trouble catching.

The woman who wasn’t Judith pulled me from my seat and examined my face and hands. “There’s nothing to do about your hair except wait. They are terrified of lice and each new resident is shorn within minutes of arrival. If you lived in the commons, they’d do it every week. Now that they know you’re a woman of means, they will allow it to grow back. Don’t fret. I shan’t let them cut it again.”

She slipped a white sleeping cap on my head before shaking her head and removing it. “Not near warm enough without hair underneath.” She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. “I didn’t want anyone to see my first attempt but you will freeze to death with nothing on that head of yours.” The knitted cap was form fitted and soft. Next she added an indoor cap. “Put a bonnet over that and no one will even notice that you’re bald. Goodness, how I go on with you standing there in only a shift. Come. Let’s see if any of my dresses will fit. They aren’t as fancy as what you’re accustomed to, and a few years old in cut and style, but they’ll have to do until yours get here. Are you used to ladies corsets or still wearing children’s shapers?”

I stared at her. It was the most conversation I had heard from anyone since my nightmare had begun. I shook my head no.

“No stays at all? Well, you’ll have to start with lady’s since my childhood shapers are long gone.” She had me step into some drawers and slipped a new chemise over my head, letting me put it in place before pulling off the old, dirty shift. No less than five petticoats were added. Then the corset came. Once it was tightened and straightened, I couldn’t breathe but I was getting warmer. One underskirt, overskirt, blouse, bodice, and jacket later, and I was dressed. I sat on the edge of the bed as Judith pulled on my woolen stockings and buttoned up the ill-fitting boots. I was surprised to see my breasts peeking from over the bodice top, hidden from view by the lacy chemise to anyone but myself. They were surprisingly rotund compared to the last time I had seen them.

The young women helped me stand again and they seemed pleased with their work. I wondered what I looked like. These were so much more grown-up than Papa had let me wear. I couldn’t breathe although I found the tightness and many layers mildly comforting. It made me feel strong. Secure.

“I am Hester Federick, the doctor’s wife.” I was a little taken aback since the doctor was so old and ugly and Hester was anything but. She was barely eighteen, shapely and fair. Her hair was plain brown—not dull—and was styled nicely on the top of her head. Her face was round and its features were wide to match. Taken separately, her large eyes, wide nose, and broad mouth might have been ugly, though together they seemed right.

“Judith, serve Lady Winmoore her tea.”

“Ramillia.” I tried to find my voice. I had been silent for so long, not wanting to incur the attentions of the doctor during our sessions. I cleared my throat and said a little louder, “You may call me Ramillia.” I wanted so much to hear my Christian name, not surname, from her lips.

Hester smiled. It was generous and kind. She took my hand between hers and patted it. “You and I are going to be the greatest of friends, Ramillia. I will come to see you every day for afternoon tea. If you need anything, just let me know. Your treatment prior to this…well, let us never speak of what must have been quite an ordeal.” She shooed the subject away with her hand as if it no longer mattered. “This is your room. No one comes in here without your permission. Absolutely no men are allowed as it would be inappropriate for a young woman of your standing to receive male visitors in her bedroom.”

Hester pushed me back. I sat in the settle again; she smoothed my dress and rubbed her knuckles down my cheek. I think she was trying to be motherly, except mine had not acted that way, so it was odd. As she stared at me, I felt a flush growing up my cheeks to meet her touch. I felt…warm and tingly. I felt a desire that would become commonplace, that Hester would touch me again. She pulled her hand away reluctantly.

Judith brought in a tray and poured hot water through the strainer with its crushed tea leaves. Giving it time to steep, she put a scone on the dainty plate beside my cup. My mouth watered. It looked like a princely feast compared to the flavorless gruel I’d been force fed. When I’d been allowed to eat, that is. My stomach growled in a most unladylike manner.

Hester chuckled. When I tore my gaze from the scone, her eyebrows were raised. She had asked a question but so caught up was I in my food fantasy, I hadn’t heard. She repeated herself, “Do you have any hobbies? Needlework, crocheting, silhouettes?”

I shook my head.

“You need something, dear. What did you fill your days with before?”

“Books,” I whispered, knowing it wasn’t proper for a young girl to fill her head with such things. I harbored a secret desire to go to university but I wouldn’t admit it to Hester.

“You like to read? We will have to check with your betrothed for his approval before any books can be brought for your consumption. I have some ladies magazines barely six months old I can send up that no one could take issue with. Anything else?”

Thinking I should say something to improve Hester’s opinion of me, I admitted, “I was learning to play the pianoforte before…” I let the word hang, not knowing how to end it.

Hester nodded as if that hobby was more suitable, graciously passing over the pause. “A pianoforte is a large order. I will see what I can do.” She pressed an envelope into my lap and whispered, “Sir Julian Lawrence sent an impressive stipend for you and has promised to spare no expense if he thought it might ease your time here. You are lucky to have such a fine and wealthy man as your fiancé.”

Hester admitted that she hadn’t been able to keep the doctor from reading my letter. She apologized and left me staring at the package of parchment, my scone completely forgotten.

 

Sir Julian Lawrence, my distant cousin, was a knighted gentleman and had attained the highest rank a man without peerage and in trade could gain. He was a doctor on the wealthy side of town and he specialized in the treatment of women. There was a rumor that he also treated poor women and prostitutes, regardless of whether they could pay or not. His criteria for patients was his own and had not to do with money. The education he had and his refusal to accept payment marked it as a hobby and, as such, was respectable. No true gentleman had to work. He could not claim to have any profession and still be thought of as refined.

I remembered him as he had dined with us a few times. He had bought my hand when I was little except no one mentioned it and it had fallen to the back of my mind. I thought about him with his letter in my hands and had a hard time recalling his face. He was an Englishman of Italian descent with money but no peerage. His dark curly hair was all I could pull from the depths of my memory. I wondered if it was still dark or if the gray had crept in. Would I, like Hester, be married off to an already old man? Sir Lawrence must have been forty, maybe even fifty, by now.

Though I had little of him in my memory, he seemed to remember me distinctly. His words were kind and gentle and read as if we were familiar. Making apologies for taking so long to find me after the tragedy and for being away on business that dreadful night, he assured me that I had done nothing wrong. Sir Lawrence wrote that I was innocent, while at the same time, addressed the death of my parents as unavoidable. I read that part several times. Using their names confirmed my parents were dead, just as the doctor had stated. He lamented not being present to witness their deserved deaths—even expressed pride in my strength and will.

My father had not mistreated me, not that I recalled. He had scarcely been a part of our lives. It was only because we dined together every evening that I knew Papa at all. He did not deserve to die. My mother had been cold, but not cruel. I had not killed them, could not believe it of myself and did not like reading that he thought they deserved what happened. The desire to throw my sole earthly possession into the fire was overwhelming, yet I resisted destroying it and put it in the writing desk.

Whatever my true feelings were concerning Sir Lawrence did not matter. He was my betrothed. He had promised to save me from this place and make me his wife, no matter what my mental health or legal status was determined to be. Until he managed to do that he swore that I would want for nothing.

Thaddeus lived with him now, as I would, when Sir Lawrence and I were wed. Neither would be allowed to see me until I was freed. They would both write and Sir Lawrence begged me to answer their letters. He was sending trunks filled with all new clothes. He wanted me to dress as a lady, not a child. I did like that idea. It had been immodest the way Papa had Mama dress.

The next letter insisted on a few peculiar daily routines, asserting that exerting myself daily to the point of perspiring was healthy. A book was sent detailing the exercises he suggested. I was to bathe every day at a minimum. He was paying to have running hot and cold water piped into my own private bathroom, not the terrible running water of the city houses. Admitting he was likely paying for the doctor to have the same privilege, Sir Lawrence was to put in a water station building on the hospital grounds that had its own water well and heating mechanics. He found it well worth the money to have me clean, healthy, and well looked after.

True to his word, “my” trunks arrived—overflowing with gowns and dresses, skirts and bodices, bedclothes, and undergarments. I had never seen any of the items and they certainly weren’t mine from my home. They came with a seamstress, who trembled with fright at being locked in the room with me. She took my measurements, her fear of displeasing Sir Lawrence overriding her fear of me and left with the items that needed altering.

Hester came in for teatime and would not rest until she had me dressed in the finest items. She fingered the details of each piece not chosen and put them away in the armoire and trunks. Hester assured me they were the latest fashions and very expensive. Her longing was so obvious that I offered to let her have one. I was tall for my age and they would probably fit. She declined, saying it wouldn’t be right. When I suggested Hester wear one for tea, her eyes lit up. It would be our secret—playing dress-up. Plus, I had no mirror. How was I to know how fine they were and how nice they looked without her to model them for me?

I sold her on the idea.

We had a grand time at tea, though it was cold by the time we got around to drinking it. Neither of us minded.