Free A Death in the Asylum by Caroline Dunford Page B

to station the car,’ said Bertram in a low voice.
    ‘This isn’t suitable!’ said Miss Wilton.
    We began to mount some shallow steps. It took enormous effort and I had to concentrate on each pace forward. Without Mr Bertram’s support I am sure I would have fallen.
    ‘I shall tell the desk clerk she is a distant relative acting as your companion.’
    ‘Bertram, you cannot do such a thing!’
    ‘Beatrice, it was your journalistic zeal that dragged poor Euphemia from her sickbed.’
    ‘The girl is malingering. She is enjoying every moment of this.’
    I leant heavily on Mr Bertram’s arm and did not enter the debate. In the end he escorted me to my chamber. I was not put in the servants’ quarters, but the desk clerk had judged to a nicety my situation and Miss Wilton’s disapproval. I was in one of the smaller rooms reserved for poor relatives of rich patrons. Compared to even my rooms at White Orchards it was pure luxury. Mr Bertram informed me he had left orders for my supper to be delivered to my room and I was not to think of anything but getting well until tomorrow. ‘And if you feel worse at any point promise me you’ll ring for the hotel doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Bea to check in on you before she retires.’ He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘It wouldn’t be proper for me to … She is most concerned for your welfare.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said, wishing he would leave so I could rest by the glowing fire.
    ‘She is one of those ladies who does not find travel easy.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘She didn’t mean anything by … I’m sure when you know her better …’
    ‘I’d very much like to lie down, sir.’
    ‘Of course. Of course. If there is anything you should need the reception clerk has orders to supply you with … well, anything. Please don’t worry about the bill. I feel it was wrong of me to bring you when you are still so unwell. I didn’t understand Dr Simpson fully. Beatrice assured me she had talked to him – you both being females – and it was understood you were well enough to travel.’
    It was clear nothing less than drastic action would move him and so I made my way across to the bed and began to untie the laces on my boots. Mr Bertram fled.
    A good supper, a fine night’s sleep and I was prepared to face them at breakfast in the morning. I had expected to eat in my room, but the clerk rang up to tell me I was expected downstairs. My head was clearing and I was looking forward to seeing Bea Wilton’s face when she learned she was to sit at a table with me.
    When I arrived she was midway through a lecture to Bertram. She did the only thing a lady could do under the circumstances of finding herself sitting alongside her potential fiancé’s housekeeper and ignored me.
    ‘Moral therapy began as far back as the 1790s,’ she continued. ‘It’s quite fascinating and based around a lot of the Quaker thoughts. You know of them, of course?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Bertram, focusing intently on his boiled egg. He had yet to cap it and was showing all the nervousness of a man who was unsure if he would shortly be attempting to consume a running yolk in front of a lady he hoped to impress. In his shoes I would have ordered my eggs scrambled and did so to a passing waiter. He nodded, but also sniffed slightly displaying to a nicety his understanding of my station at this table. Bea broke off to beam at him.
    ‘It’s all about exercise and doing very routine and ordinary things. The hope is that those afflicted will be able to find a way in society in time.’
    Bertram sliced off the top of one oval with such force he knocked the top onto the cloth. ‘Good gad! You mean they let them out?’
    Bea gave a trilling little laugh. ‘Oh not the ones from the best families. They do tend to be the worst, don’t they? I wonder why?’
    I refrained from enlightening her.
    ‘No, Bertram, the ordinary people, so they can be useful. Some of these institutions even have things