Free The FitzOsbornes in Exile by Michelle Cooper Page A

past, and one woman (presumably a patient rather than a member of staff) asked why I wasn’t wearing my tiara.
    The matron’s mind was on sterner matters. “Mrs. Chester is delusional,” she said, frowning over a file. “As are many of our patients, but she’s rather …  insistent that others go along with her beliefs, no matter how ludicrous. She got into a very nasty argument this morning with our receptionist, claiming that her son was the King and demanding he be addressed as Your Majesty. ”
    “Ah,” I said. “Er … well, she’s lived with our family for a very long time, and she may have been a little confused about—”
    “She threw a stapler at the girl,” said the matron, giving me a severe look.
    “Well, that was very wrong of her,” I said, my voice somehow taking on the exact tones of the matron.
    “Indeed,” she said. “And so we really must—Oh. Here’s our head therapist.”
    I shook hands with the head therapist, thinking that surely all the therapists must deal with heads. At any rate, she was very enthusiastic about her job.
    “Well, Your Highness, this is lovely!” she cried. “To take such an interest in the well-being of your … I believe Mrs. Chester was your housekeeper? You see, we find our residents settle more easily if they can take part in familiar activities, so I was wondering if Mrs. Chester might like to help out in the kitchen. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
    Not if you want your meals to be edible , I thought. And the image of Rebecca let loose in a room full of sharp knives gave me the shivers. The matron must have been thinking along the same lines.
    “I really don’t think—” she began, peering over her spectacles.
    “Or hobbies?” the therapist went on, leaning forward and tucking her clasped hands under her chin. “What gives Mrs. Chester pleasure in life?”
    Screaming at people? Throwing staplers at them? “Well, she is very fond of her son, Simon,” I offered. “Perhaps if she could have some photographs of him in her room …”
    “Oh, but she does! And her son is most welcome to telephone or visit as often as he likes. I must say, she also seems to be getting on very well with her roommate, which is wonderful , because her roommate can be rather …” The matron cleared her throat, and the therapist hurried on. “But is there anything else? Does Mrs. Chester enjoy music or nature walks or sewing?”
    I thought hard. “Um … well, she’s quite religious. Is there a church service she could attend on Sundays? And if a clergyman could visit her, I’m sure she’d pay attention if he told her not to throw staplers at people.”
    “Of course!” said the therapist, beaming. “She can join the group that walks over to St. Jude’s each Sunday—they’re supervised, of course. And I’ll ask the vicar—a lovely man—if he can pop in and see her. What an excellent idea!” And then she went on about the clinic choral group that Rebecca might like to join, and how she was thinking of converting the old scullery into a meditation room.
    “I expect you’d like to see Mrs. Chester now,” interrupted the matron. I couldn’t think of any polite way out of it, so I was shown into a sitting room that smelled of disinfectant, where I had a short, strained conversation with Rebecca.
    “Do you need anything?” I asked. “More clothes or … or books or anything?”
    “My son brings me everything I need,” she said haughtily. She was wearing a sober gray dress and had her hair scraped back and coiled in braids above each ear, which made her resemble the second Mrs. Rochester more than the first. I can’t say she looked happy, but when had she ever? She seemed well fed and clean, and she hadn’t thrown anything at me. Was happiness—the long-term sort of happiness, not momentary bursts of it—even possible for Rebecca? I had a glimpse of what it might be like to be her: to have given up everything for love and then be