Iris entered a large foyer with the guard, the sand her boots had collected crunching against the stone floor. She stared at the furnishings: the rosewood benches, the seashell-patterned wallpaper, the lush colors of the oil paintings in their gilt frames, the dangling chandelier, the white marble staircase that spiraled up to the second floor. She wondered how such style could be wasted on the deranged, then remembered that she was considered deranged herself.
A stout woman approached them. She was not wearing a nurse’s uniform but a simple alpaca dress and gaiters. She had the red, puffy cheeks of someone who used too much salt on her meat. A massive ring of keys was tied around her waist. Iris looked at the keys and recognized their authority. She had once worn her own ring of keys.
The woman looked Iris up and down, then nodded at the guard, who untied her hands. “I’m in charge of you,” she announced. “Follow me.” Her voice had a slight Irish brogue and not a modicum of warmth. She led her through an arched door into a great hallway, rooms on one side and a bank of windows on the other. Benches were set up against the walls. The hallway was nearly deserted save for an old woman in the near distance, who sat on a bench in widow’s weeds, her arms folded, rocking.
The woman with the keys glanced back at Iris. “I am the matron of this asylum,” she announced. “I have a lot of responsibility and I don’t have time for problems. You’ve entered the women’s ward. There are nineteen women here, and nineteen men in the ward opposite from us. Dr. Cowell believes in symmetry.”
Iris followed her without a word, all the while rehearsing to herself exactly what she’d say to her once they were alone. Bits of sand fell from her dress as she walked.
“You are never to go to the men’s ward under any circumstances,” the matron continued, “nor are you allowed to bring any man into yours. But Dr. Cowell believes that your life here should imitate, to the greatest extent possible, life in the world of the sane and balanced. So you are permitted to sit across from one another at the table when you have your meals, and you are allowed to engage in polite fellowship with them during your courtyard time. You may play cards or checkers, although you are not allowed to bet on the games, not even using shells as currency. And you will be supervised at all times.”
She swept a hand along the hallway. “All the corridors where our patients live are single-loaded, which is much more expensive than double-loaded, but the benefit is that the nurses are more able to supervise you, and the conditions are less crowded. Also, by having the rooms on only one side of the corridor, a nurse need never turn her back on a patient.”
When they reached the room at the end of the hallway, the matron paused and fiddled with her keys. She opened the door and ushered Iris inside to a tastefully arranged room, with a cottage bed, a dresser, a small desk with a mirrored gallery, and a straight-backed chair. A large pitcher of water sat on a washstand. A porcelain bowl was placed on the floor between the stand’s cabriole legs. The walls were painted Shaker blue.
“Every detail of this room has been designed by Dr. Cowell. He picked out the dresser design himself, in New Orleans. And the walls are blue because Dr. Cowell believes this particular color calms the mind.”
A window faced the sea. It had no glass but was lined with bars. Iris stared out at the beach. The boy and the black man were gone. Only sea oats and calm water and circling gulls remained. The guard on the ship had treated her well. And even this woman, brusque though she was, did not speak to her as though she were mad. Perhaps they sensed she was different from the others? Iris turned from the window and kept her voice calm and steady.
“You seem like a kind and wise woman. And though your position here is one of authority over me, I would like to speak to you as one woman to another. There has been a mistake. I do not belong here. I am here simply for the act of defying my husband, who is a man of most indecent character.”
The matron pointed at the desk. “The patients want to move the desk over to the window. That is not its place.”
Iris took a step toward her, tried again. “I am sure that my family in Winchester has no idea what has happened to me, in the confusion of the war. If you could please contact my father, who is the minister of a Methodist—”
“Breakfast is at seven, dinner at one o’clock, supper at seven. Bells will announce all meals. If you are not on time, you will miss these meals.”
“Please! Listen to me—”
“We have china plates here. A bowling alley. A billiard room. An icehouse, five milk cows, Cornish game hens. A citrus grove and a vegetable garden. And despite the embargo, we still manage to provide sugar on occasion, as well as beef.”
Iris rushed to the woman and sank to her knees. All composure was gone now. She grasped at the hem of her dress, begging her to please listen, her tale spilling out in a crazy manner now. Any person entering the room would have seen a strict, stout woman standing with arms crossed, and a lunatic kneeling before her, wild-eyed, desperate, clingy, and hysterical.
The matron wrenched the hem of her dress free of Iris’s hands. “Get up, collect yourself, and show some gratitude. Your husband paid thousands of dollars to send you here. He must love you very much, although I can’t imagine why.”
Iris let go of her dress. She stood slowly. Felt herself harden inside as she glared at the woman. “Love me very much?” she asked. “On the contrary, my husband hates me. And I hate him. He is one of the most vile people on this planet.”
The matron fumbled with the keys at her waist.
“I have better things to do than listen to the rantings of a new lunatic.” She found the key she was looking for and glared at Iris. “Do you know what happens to the stubborn ones, the defiant ones? The ones like you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“They get the water treatment. It stimulates circulation to the brain. The lunatics scream and moan and beg as they are dragged away to the water treatment room. When they’re dragging you away, you won’t feel so proud.”
“What is the water treatment exactly?” Iris asked calmly, although her hands trembled.
The matron glanced at Iris’s hands, saw the fear revealed there, and smiled. “You’ll see,” she said, and left the room.