Page 7 of The Shadow Key

Henry’s stomach sinks. He is, if not wholly experienced, familiar with the type. Has he not treated criminals in Bedlam on request of Bow Street often enough? Still, he wants to advise his host that he is no mad-doctor, that he has no wish to take up that mantle, but the older man is speaking again.

‘You must forgive me for not mentioning it before when I wrote to you but I confess, I feared you would not accept the role.’

Henry suppresses a sigh, for the man suspects correctly. But then, what choice did he have, in the end?

‘I do not believe there can be much done except to keep her comfortable,’ his employer continues. ‘I care deeply for Gwen, and ask only that you ensure her continued care, to ease any distresses as and when they arise.’

Distresses. It is a mild word for what Henry knows is really meant. He thinks of those poor wretches in Bethlam Hospital, confined to their cells. Their tortured screams, their fearsome violence. No amount of leeching or blistering or any other of those more barbaric customs can help them. Indeed, Henry is positive such treatments only make matters worse.

‘I shall do my very best,’ he says now. ‘Madness cannot be cured, after all, only managed.’

At the fireplace Powell shifts on his feet.

Julian inclines his head. ‘I am comforted you agree. But,’ he adds, ‘my telling you of Gwen was merely a prelude.’

‘Prelude?’

‘I wished to warn you of Linette.’

Henry waits. Julian reclaims his port and takes another sip, an earnest expression in his dark eyes.

‘My ward –’ he stops, corrects himself – ‘the woman who used to be my ward, is very dear to me, but a strange creature with little interest in the pursuits many of her position take enjoyment from. Linette has no great talent for music or dancing or embroidery, nor languages either except that of this country and our own. Indeed, no governess could manage her, and I’m afraid that in my fondness I let her follow her inclinations a little too far. She spends all her time immersed in the business of the estate, refusing the help of my agent and our fellow landowners, and her relationship with the villagers is … Well, it is all rather unbecoming. Her temper, too, is questionable. Indeed, she has a sharp tongue when she chooses to use it and is not an easy companion. I confess, it makes me wonder if something more sinister is at play.’

Henry represses the urge to quirk a brow.

‘Not all females,’ he says carefully, ‘are suited to the more genteel of pursuits, or conform to ladylike manners. That does not make her mad.’

Powell shifts from one foot to the other once more. Julian, it appears, does not notice.

‘But there is something unusual about her,’ he persists, and the expression on his face is full of concern. ‘She flouts convention at every opportunity. She really is very wild. At six-and-twenty I rather hoped she would grow out of it, but time has only made her worse …’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘Gwen was the same age when she first began to exhibit signs. Truly, I worry about Linette a great deal.’

Henry contemplates this. ‘Does insanity run in the family? Beyond Lady Gwenllian, I mean.’

Julian hesitates. He looks troubled by the idea.

‘On the Tresilian side, no. On the Cadwalladr, I can’t be sure. Emyr, her grandfather, was prone to moods of melancholy but …’ he trails off. ‘Gwen’s condition, however, cannot be denied, nor the fact that Linette acts so strangely.’ Julian shakes his head. ‘As I say, I worry most dreadfully. I hope, as her physician, you will keep an eye on her when business takes me back to London tomorrow. It would bring me such comfort.’

Thoughtfully Henry takes a sip of his port. He had received very little information about either woman in Julian’s letter offering him the position as Penhelyg’s physician:

You would be required to undertake the treatment of Lady Gwenllian Tresilian of Plas Helyg, a genteel widow of general ill-health and delicate constitution. Further attention is to be given to her daughter, together with the estate’s servants, as and when required. In addition, you would be prevailed upon to undertake the treatment of the residents of Penhelyg, acting in the capacity of village doctor.

Henry had sneered vehemently at first. While the role of a physician holds far more respect than that of a surgeon and the potential for a much deeper purse, Henry always found it an unexciting enterprise, preferring the ever-changing halls of Guy’s Hospital and then, later, the thrill of attending cases under Bow Street’s jurisdiction. In London he had been a celebrated surgeon, a lecturer of science. Though the salary offered in Penhelyg was amply generous, for Henry, a village doctor was a great step down indeed. But when it became clear no other offers were forthcoming – each of his queries was met with cold hard silence – Henry realised he had no choice but to accept. As the weeks leading up to his departure passed, he allowed himself to become accustomed to the notion, had conjured in his mind a woman suffering from nothing more than maidenly swoons, or perhaps a weakness attributed to the effects of childbirth on account of the daughter mentioned. He had imagined an entitled pompous woman, or perhaps a mulish one, and as for the daughter … well, he had assumed she was a mere child. Now he finds she is mistress of this great estate and – quite possibly – touched by the same affliction as her mother.

What on earth have I agreed to?

‘I shall watch her keenly, Lord Tresilian, of that you can rest assured.’

Belying his concerns Henry uses a mollifying tone, one he has employed in the past with troublesome elders who presumed to tell him how best to conduct his treatment of their kin. It happened often when they saw his age. His lordship, though, flushes with pleasure.

‘Thank you,’ he says warmly. ‘I’m most gratified, most gratified indeed.’

Henry nods his rejoinder, takes a sip of port; as he places the glass back down upon the marquetry table he marks the butler’s gaze lingering on him – unfriendly, hard as hail.

‘May I ask?’ Henry ventures now, tearing his own gaze away. ‘You said that Linette was your ward?’

Julian nods. ‘Until she attained her majority. But as owner of Penhelyg’s mines I’ve maintained a presence here, and I’m still a trustee of the estate. As a consequence I take some responsibility for the needs of both herself and Gwen. Linette does not leave the village, after all.’

‘Not ever?’

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