Page 100 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
She knew she had been rescued, miraculously, by one of the grooms at the Heath—-or so she had been told. But her behavior had been wild. She had been brought to Bedlam by order of the local magistrate and confined amongst the mad for attempting suicide. No one, not even Jonathan, had believed her tale of being pushed. But it was all most strange. She had always thought that one could not be admitted to the hospital without the recommendation of one of the patrons.
Each day she had paced the floor, waiting for someone to help her, to obtain her release. That much she recalled quite clearly. It was the day that she had collapsed in her cell that was fuzzy in her mind.
She tensed with the effort to remember. Visitors. That disgusting old hag, her gaoler Belda had been displaying her to visitors again- the foolish Lord Arthur Danby and his simpering mistress, Charmelle. Then Jonathan had come with the dire news he could not have her released. When he had gone, she had tried for the sake of her babe to eat-
The stew! Poisoned! Phaedra drew in her breath with a sharp gasp. How could she have forgotten the pain that had wracked her, ripping her apart. Her stomach yet burned with the reminder.
She opened her eyes, and this time she managed to sit up, clutching her abdomen. She felt so weak, as if her very life had been drained. Her fingers froze, the realization creeping over her. She ran her hands over the region of her womb, slowly at first, then more urgently, praying for just one butterfly whispering of life there. But she felt nothing except an aching emptiness. Her lips parted, a shriek of denial echoing off the indifferent walls of her cell.
Belda’s bewhiskered chin appeared at the grating. “Stop that infernal racket. What ails yer?
“My babe,” Phaedra wailed, desperately seeking some assurance that it could not be true.
But Belda’s smug smile confirmed her fears. “Aborted,” she said, “And a good thing, too. There are enough bastards to fill the world.”
An inhuman scream tore past Phaedra’s throat, a sound she hardly recognized as her own. She tried to lunge to her feet, wanting to fling herself at the bars and claw out the old woman’s hateful eyes. But she tottered and fell back upon the bed, a prisoner of her own weakness.
Belda shrank back from the window, muttering, “And the wench would have us believe she isn’t mad.” But Phaedra barely noticed the woman’s retreat as she buried her face in the pillow and wept.
The sobs that wracked her frame seemed as if they would never end. But when her tears ceased at last, she felt nothing. Her heart was as empty as her womb. With the miscarriage of her child, she seemed to have lost her indomitable spirit as well. She ceased to count the hours. Limp as a cloth doll, she swallowed the food that Belda periodically forced down her throat. But as the days passed, she somehow regained strength; it was as though her body had turned traitor, surviving in spite of her will to die.
One morning as Phaedra stared listlessly at the walls, Belda came in and flung a gown at her. “Put this on.”
Phaedra allowed the garment to drop to the floor.
“I said put it on, you fool.” Beida snatched up the dress and shook it at her. “Don’t you understand? Yer gettin out today.”
Phaedra turned her face to the wall. “Leave me alone.”
But Belda seized her and rent the shift from her back. “I’ve stood enough of your nonsense. I’ll be mighty pleased to see the last of you, my fine lady, and that’s the truth.”
Belda roughly dragged the gown over Phaedra’s head. Phaedra experienced enough annoyance at the feel of the woman’s hands upon her to thrust Belda’s fingers away and straighten the garment herself.
“Why they are letting you go beats all fire out of me,” Belda said. “As if one inmate escaping wasn’t bad enough, they have to go setting another one loose.”
Although Phaedra evinced not the slighted interest, Belda continued to rant, “That lunatic who thought she was Marie Antoinette vanished only days ago. I don’t know how she managed it. One of the visitors must have helped her. Sometimes I’m not certain where the maddest ones are-locked in here or out there on the streets.”
Still shaking her head and grumbling to herself, Belda went out of the cell. It occurred to Phaedra that she had not even bothered to ask who was coming for her. It could not be her grandfather. He might even be dead by now, for all she knew.
A hope stirred inside her, the first genuine feeling to penetrate the numbness she had wrapped herself in. James. Could it be possible that he had returned and somehow-
The hope was immediately dashed when the cell door opened to admit Jonathan. His sallow features were suffused with color, the flush in his cheeks appearing to be more than merely theresult of the brisk autumn air. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
He clasped Phaedra’s hands between his own. “I have come to take you home, my dearest one.”
She regarded him dully, but Jonathan did not seem to notice her lack of response. He produced a cloak, which he wrapped about her shoulders, his fingers clumsy and trembling. “Come. Let me take you out of this dreadful place.”
Although she was not quite steady on her feet, Phaedra resisted his offers to carry her. When he escorted her through Bedlam’s main gallery, the scene that had once so horrified her no longer seemed real. All the slack mouths, the blank stares, the emaciated arms straining against chains, gesturing toward the visitors like performing monkeys-it was like gazing upon one of Hogarth’s disturbing sketches of London’s dark side. Phaedra remembered what Beida had said about Marie and experienced a brief surge of satisfaction. She was glad that Marie had escaped. Wherever the poor creature had gone, it would have to be better than remaining here.
Phaedra felt exhausted by the time they emerged into the street, and she permitted Jonathan to lift her into his waiting carriage. She sank back against the squabs. In the early days of her confinement at Bedlam, she had longed for nothing so much as the sight of the sky, the feel of the sun upon her face. Now she shrank from the light like a wounded animal.
As they rumbled away from Bedlam’s walls, Phaedra felt grateful for Jonathan’s silence. He had made no mention of the loss of her babe. But then, he had ever been a man of great sensitivity and consideration. He appeared content to sit opposite her, gazing at her with a feverish glow of happiness in his eyes. She wished she could demonstrate more thankfulness for his rescue, feel something besides this leaden despair that weighted her soul.
The progress of the carriage seemed painfully slow. After some time, Phaedra roused herself enough to glance out the window. Frowning, she realized the coach’s dilatory movement was owing to the fact they were heading into the city’s crush of traffic, not away from it.
“Jonathan, this is not the way to the Heath.”
“I know that. I am taking you to my home instead.” He could not quite meet her eyes. Phaedra thought she understood why.
