In the evening, Tom carries me into the parlor to sit by the fire.
"You've a surprise visitor," he says.
With me in his arms, he pushes open the parlor doors. Simon has come without his mother. Tom puts me on the settee and covers me with a blanket. I probably look a fright, but I can't seem to care.
"I'll have Mrs. Jones bring tea," Tom says, backing out of the room. Though he leaves the doors open, Simon and I are on our own.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. I say nothing."You gave us all quite a scare. How did you end up in such a dreadful place?"
This Christmas tree has dried out. It's losing its needles in clumps. "We thought perhaps someone wished a ransom. Perhaps that fellow who followed you at Victoria wasn't a figment of your imagination after all."
Simon. He looks so worried. I should say something to comfort him. I clear my throat. Nothing comes. His hair is exactly the color of a dull coin.
"I've something for you," he says, coming closer. He pulls a brooch from his coat pocket. It is decorated with many pearls and looks quite old and valuable.
"This belonged to the first Viscountess of Denby," Simon says, holding the feather-light pearl brooch between his fingers. He clears his throat twice."It's over one hundred years old and has been worn by the women in my family. It would go to my sister, if I had a sister. Which I don't, but you know that." He clears his throat again.
He pins it to the lace of my bed jacket. I understand vaguely that I am wearing his promise. I understand that things have changed greatly with this one small gesture.
"Miss Doyle. Gemma. May I be so bold?" He gives me a chaste kiss, very different from the one the night of the ball.
Tom returns with Mrs. Jones and tea. The men sit speaking jovially, while I continue to stare at the pine needles drifting to the floor, sinking into the settee, the weight of the brooch holding me down.
"I thought we might pay a visit to Bethlem today," Tom announces at lunch.
"Why?" I say.
"You've been in your bedclothes for days. It would do you good to get out. And I thought perhaps it might change Miss Hawkins's status if you were to visit."
Nothing will change her status. A part of her is trapped in the realms forever. "Please?" Tom asks.
In the end, I relent and go with Tom. We've another new driver, Jackson having disappeared. I cannot say that I am surprised by this. "Grandmama says that Ann Bradshaw is not any relation to the Duke of Chesterfield," Tom says, once we are en route."She also says that Miss Bradshaw fainted when told of these accusations." When I neither confirm nor deny this, he continues. "I don't see how it could be true. Miss Bradshaw is such a kind person. She's not the sort who would mislead someone. The very fact that she fainted proves that her character is too good to even entertain such an idea."
"People aren't always what you want them to be," I mumble.
"Beg your pardon?" Tom says.
"Nothing," I say.
Come awake, Tom. Fathers can willfully hurt their children. They can be addicts too weak to give up their vices, no matter the pain it causes. Mothers can turn you invisible with neglect. They can erase you with a denial, a refusal to see. Friends can deceive you. People lie. It is a cold, hard world. I do not blame Nell Hawkins for retreating from it into a madness of her own choosing.
The halls of Bethlem seem almost calming to me now. Mrs. Sommers sits at the piano, plunking out a tune filled with wrong notes. A sewing circle has been set up in a corner. The women work their pieces intently, as if they are sewing their salvation with each careful stitch.
I'm taken to Nell's room. She's stretched out upon her bed, her eyes open but not seeing.
"Hello, Nell," I say. The room is quiet. "Perhaps if you left us," I say to Tom.
"What? Oh, right." Tom leaves.
I take Nell's hands in mine. They are so very small and cold.
"I am sorry, Nell," I say, the apology coming out like a sob."I am sorry."
Nell's hands suddenly grip mine. She is fighting against something with every bit of strength she has left. We are joined, and in my head, I can hear her speaking.
"She . . . cannot. . . bind it,"comes her whisper. "There ... ."s still. . . hope,"
Her muscles relax. Her hands slip from mine. "Gemma?" Tom asks as I bolt from Nell's room and head straight for the carriage. "Gemma! Gemma, where are you going?"
It is fifteen past five o'clock when I secure a cab. With luck, I shall make it to Victoria Station before Felicity and Ann can board the five forty-five train to Spence. But luck is not on my side. The streets are congested with people and vehicles of all sorts. It is the wrong time of day for hurrying.
