MY EYES ARE barely open when the guard’s upon me, pulling me to my feet. The blank mercy of dreamless sleep is quickly overtaken by the reality of my tiny cell, the stink of stale urine, the ache in my chest. I feel a sick scraping when I breathe too deeply, and wonder if something inside of me has been broken.
My body keeps fighting by instinct, though the guard only laughs at my feeble struggles. We pass another barred cell some yards down a skinny corridor, where Dorothy still lies asleep. Silently, I wish her many hours of uninterrupted slumber.
I’m dragged up a short flight of stairs to a flat trapdoor in the ceiling. We emerge, blinking, into a windowless, white-walled room. An ominous stain stretches across the wooden floor, nearly reaching my feet in their sodden slippers. But I’m more frightened by the table at the room’s center: long, flat, bristling with leather restraints. The guard lifts me onto it with no more trouble than he’d have had with a baby.
My mind flashes back to George, lying on his cold table in the west wing. It seems impossible that there ever existed a person who loved me as much as he did, who could protect me from the world.
“There, you’ve shut up a minute,” the guard is saying, securing the bonds around my feet. “Clever of you. It’ll go easiest that way.”
When the door swings open, I can see enough clean white light to guess that it’s at least midday. A man enters the room wearing a slightly overlarge dark suit. The lamplight beams dully off his large signet ring, and in his hands he holds a tray. On it lie white bandages, a scalpel, and a length of tube.
“Where is Mr. Temperley?” I say, my voice spiking with panic.
“Keep your voice down, Miss Randolph,” the man says in blandly soothing tones. “This process will be far more comfortable if you don’t struggle.” He nods, and the guard leaves the room.
I watch him go, tasting acid at the back of my throat. “Please, let me speak to him. I’ll be good. You don’t need that scalpel; he’ll tell you. Please…”
“Mr. Temperley is gone for the day, tending to business in Bath. And besides, he’s the one who prescribed your treatment.”
He cuts methodically through the stays of the straitjacket, until my left arm can be pulled free. It looks small and pale, like it belongs to someone I do not know. The pitiful limb is pulled straight and belted to the table.
The man’s fingers run over the tube, the bandages. They settle with a featherweight touch on the shining scalpel. As he lifts it, I bring my eyes back to the white expanse of my arm, its unbroken skin. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.
There’s a knock at the door. My eyes snap open and fly to the man’s impatient face. He seems to weigh his options a moment before sighing and replacing the scalpel gently on the tray.
He opens the door partway. “What is it, Mr. Cosley?” His voice is sharp.
“The girl has a visitor. Waiting now in Mr. Temperley’s study.”
The doctor huffs loudly. “Can it not wait? I have very specific instructions.”
“He’s some kind of legal fellow—perhaps best if we leave the girl in one piece, at least until he’s seen her.” Cosley laughs as the doctor casts an indifferent look back at me.
“Yes, I suppose so. Make her presentable first.”
I’m flooded with dumb, animal relief, so that I can barely stand. The two men untie me, drag me to my feet, pull the jacket off the rest of the way. A clean gray dress is found and given to me. After they turn their backs, I slide it over my skin, so sensitive with fear that it tingles as if slapped.
I’m praying that it’s Mr. Simpson. I can think of no one else. The two men flank me on the silent walk toward Temperley’s office. And when I see his face, brooding in the underlit anteroom, my heart swells with painful gladness. I break from Cosley’s light grip and run straight into William’s arms.
He allows me to hold him a moment, before detaching himself and stepping back. “Good afternoon, Lady Katherine,” he says with careful politeness. His eyes on mine bring me back to myself.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson.” My dirty fingernails are fisted into my palms, out of sight. Mr. Simpson silently takes in my ratted hair, my shock-white skin, before putting a firm hand out to the doctor.
“Thank you for harboring Lady Katherine in this difficult time. My clients and I take great comfort in knowing that she was given proper treatment and rest. But now I must get her home to Walthingham.”
“I had no such information from Mr. Temperley,” the doctor says suspiciously. “The girl will stay here until we’re given express orders otherwise by him.”
Mr. Simpson draws himself up. His eyes grow bored and his jaw juts. “Sir, I am the solicitor acting on behalf of the Walthingham estate. Understand that I have the full authority of Walthingham at my back, and am therefore authorized to remove Lady Katherine from your care at any time.” With a sharp snap he opens his flat leather case, removing a piece of paper from within. He passes the thing beneath the doctor’s skeptical eyes, and I hold my breath. I feel if I try to lend my voice to his, it will do no good.
The doctor’s tone is more conciliatory now. “All the same, I prefer that we wait until the Temperleys return. It won’t be long now, Mr.…?”
Mr. Simpson returns his cool gaze. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m Mr. Campion himself—I’m operating under his express orders.”
That’s when I know for certain that Mr. Simpson is operating under no one’s orders but his own. The doctor falters for a moment, and then looks at me. He hardens on seeing my hopeful eyes. “Maybe so, but I must insist you go nowhere without talking to Mr. Temperley. He will answer to your employer if there are objections to how we handle the patient’s release.” As he exits, he calls back to Mr. Cosley, “Please stand outside the door, and do not let them leave until Mr. Temperley has returned.” Cosley follows him out and shuts the door. A lock scrapes in the keyhole.
Mr. Simpson turns to me, his cool mask fallen and his eyes warm with concern. “Katherine, please tell me you’re all right,” he says in a whisper.
I nod, worried a sob will escape me. “I’m fine now, now that you’re here. Henry did this to me. I can’t even tell you all that I know of him now.”
He doesn’t pull away from me, from my hot whisper, though I know I must stink from my confinement. “Little of what you can tell me is news,” he says into my ear. “For a while now I have suspected your cousin was not what he appeared to be. I had it on good authority, in fact, though it took me far too long to believe it. But we can’t dwell on that now—first we must escape this place.”
“The document you showed them, ordering my release?”
“A bluff. A convincing one, I thought, but no, I have no authority here. Which Mr. Temperley will be very aware of, once he returns. Now, quickly—any ideas on how we can get out?”