Arthur Angel listened patiently as his wife recounted the events of the last two days. He watched as her white, tapered hands gestured and pressed to her breast. He gazed at the green of her eyes as they flashed hard then grew soft with tears. He was always amazed that, whenever he came back to her after being away for any length of time, her beauty had the power to shock him all over again.
He had been glad to cut short his business trip when he had been taken ill on the first night. A piece of rotten meat, no doubt. His stomach had always been sensitive. He was glad to come home because, in truth, it was where he wanted to be the most; as near to Temperance as he could be, and with his children as solid evidence of her love for him.
But his surprise homecoming had not been as he had imagined. As he listened to Temperance tell him of Dr Danby’s visit a great sadness twisted at his heart and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. His darling girl was severely disturbed, that much was clear; he had seen it for himself. And Temperance, normally so calm and collected, was at her wits’ end.
But an asylum? It was such a gruesome word. One he had always associated with pitiable unfortunates or the lowest of criminals. How could he agree to send poor, sweet Alice to a place like that?
He could not deny that Alice needed help. For some reason, her temperament was not as it should be. He had been soft on her. He knew that. As a young child, her wild spirits had amused him, but he had always assumed she would grow out of it. That she would settle down and embrace her position in life. But it had not happened. She had attacked the doctor, for God’s sake! Arthur reached for his handkerchief to mop at his face. He did not feel as steady as he should. The illness that had afflicted him the other night had obviously not left his system. He would call for William, to bring one of his brandy tonics.
‘Arthur? Are you listening to me?’ Temperance slapped her hand lightly on the polished oak of his desk.
‘Of course I am, my dear.’ Arthur adjusted himself in his chair. He did not feel comfortable at all. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to Temperance. As he let his eyes travel from his wife’s pearly pink lips, down the length of her white throat and into the soft shadows of her bosom, she told him about a place in Bristol – ‘a private asylum, Arthur,’ – that promised to offer a cure for Alice’s affliction. ‘No one need know,’ she impressed upon him. ‘And if we don’t act now … ’ She left the sentence unfinished and Arthur felt the weight of responsibility fall upon his shoulders.
Could he truly send his only daughter to a lunatic asylum? Could he send her to a place where she would have to endure all manner of unmentionable treatments? Arthur pinched the top of his nose and rubbed his hands over his face. But what was the alternative? To lock her in her bedchamber, or hide her away in the furthest corner of the attic – Arthur grimaced – and watch her grow worse every day? His hands felt clammy, and he wiped his handkerchief across his palms. ‘There must be something else we can do,’ Arthur said hopefully. ‘A second opinion at least. Or we could send her to Bath, to take the waters.’
He knew his feeble suggestions had fallen on deaf ears when he saw a pink flush spread across, and mar, the perfect creaminess of Temperance’s décolletage. ‘If you do not agree to this, Arthur, I shall never speak to you again.’
Arthur knew then that he really had no choice in the matter.