Free Shadows of Doubt by Elizabeth Johns Page A

do? Mama was clearly out of her senses. She needed a diversion, and quickly. Rationalizing was getting Gwen nowhere; she tried agreeing with her instead.
    “Yes, of course, Mama, we can go and look for Edmund, but you cannot wear your night clothes. Shall we return upstairs and dress you?”
    Her mother nodded blankly, apparently happy that Gwen was finally listening to her. Gwen hoped the older woman would grow tired or wake up. Fortunately by the time they had returned upstairs and she’d sat her mother on the bed, her mama did not resist being tucked in.
    Gwen returned to her own room, sat on the edge of her bed, and began to cry. Her mother was worsening and she had no idea of how to help her. She would send for Mr. Norman tomorrow, but was unhopeful of any help.
    She found herself unable to return to sleep, and longed to rise and paint to help her clear her head, but could ill afford the expense of lighting a taper for the rest of the night. Instead, she wrote a letter. Somehow writing the words helped her imagine she was not as alone in the world as she felt.

    Mr. Abbott,
    Mother is worsening. She has begun falling and wavers much in her gait. Her memory is unsteady. Some days she looks at me as if she doesn't know who I am. Other days she asks after my father, or for my brother who died in the war. She is mostly normal during the day, but night times reveal a completely different character, one who seems to reside somewhere thirty to forty years past.
    I have little hope for her improvement.   I fear by the time my letter reaches you, my mother will have passed to our Maker. Mr. Scott had previously offered a teaching position for me at a local girls’ school—the one I used to attend. I would have room and board and a small stipend. It is more than I had hoped for. I will take over his teaching duties there when the arrangements are finished. Perhaps on one of my days off, we may visit again one day.
    Write soon. I want to know everything of America. Do they truly use slaves? Are there savages? What do they eat? Are there large cities like Bath and London?

    I enjoy reading your letters, I can picture River’s Bend in my mind. Does it look like this?

    Sincerely,
    Gwendolyn Lambert

    Mr. Norman, the apothecary, arrived early but proved to be of little help. He had no idea what was happening, or how to assist with her mother’s attacks.
    “I have heard described that mad patients often have a peculiar time of day, but there is no prescribed treatment aside from sedatives and restraints if violence ensues.”
    Gwen grew more disheartened with every word he spoke.
    “At the very least we may give her some sedating drops if she becomes uncontrollable. Otherwise, it will only worsen, I'm afraid,” he advised.
    Gwen nodded, already accustomed to those fateful words.
    “Miss Lambert, it is perhaps time you considered an institution.” These dreaded words were whispered. “There is a possibility she might become violent.”
    “No! I promised her,” Gwen said adamantly. “I will not consider it. If it becomes difficult again, I have the drops now.” Any institution for which she could possibly scrape together enough money and put her mother into it would not do more than house her and lock her up. Mama would be neglected and starved, and would likely die of something more heinous and violent than that which she currently suffered.
    Mr. Norman looked at her with pity but nodded and left quietly.

Chapter Seven

    “Mr. Abbott! Mr. Abbott!” a shrill voice called from a distance.
    Oh, no , he thought. Mrs. Bradley. He had been taking a quick dip in the river, and he seriously contemplated diving headfirst back into it to avoid his neighbour, but it was not quite dark enough.
    “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Abbott! Is that you over there?” Mrs. Bradley’s plump person had rolled out of the carriage, picked up her skirts and was hastening towards him.
    Andrew quickly donned his sweat-soaked shirt. He did not mind the lady,