Page 47 of Silence of Deceit
“Audrey.” He had not meant for his tone to be so deep and final, but it had been. She and her maid had stared at him, their lips parted. Hugh leaned forward.
“This is no Shadewell. This is a public asylum. People are not mistakenly sent away here.”
She was not deterred. Not that he’d really thought she would be. “I will make my own decisions, Hugh Marsden.”
And so, when their small conveyance approached the long drive off Lambeth Road, toward the stark, blocky institution, he had sat back and saved his breath.
A solid brick, ten-foot wall and intermittent iron fencing surrounded the yard and the three-story neoclassical monstrosity. The wide lane fronting the hospital teemed with foot and carriage traffic, all the passersby taking not so much as a sideways glance at the place. Carrigan pulled to the curb as the only way in would be on foot through a slim gate fronting the entrance court. Assuring Greer that she would be just fine, Audrey left her with Carrigan and approached the gated lodge with Hugh. A guard posted there inquired after their business and when it was clear they were visitors, allowed them entry.
On the far side of a tree-lined court, wide steps led to a columned portico. Hugh noted Audrey’s silence as they walked toward it, their shoes crunching over the small stone gravel.
“Have you been here many times?” she finally spoke, her words noticeably tremulous.
“Several,” he replied. “There are wings for the criminally insane. They are kept apart from the other patients.”
Her pace slowed, and Hugh was forced to stop and turn back to her. Her stare was hinged on the grand entrance, and she seemed to be taking deeper breaths than usual. It was not as panicked as she’d appeared at Shadewell, but similar.
“Audrey,” he said softly, then, before he could stop himself, extended his hand.
Her eyes lowered from the building to his gloved hand. She then peered at him. “You’re not going to tell me to go back to the carriage?”
“Would you if I did?”
“No.”
“I did not think so. Take my hand.”
Her lips pressed against the smile trying to form as she slid her gloved fingers through his. They resumed walking, Audrey quickly shifting her hold from his hand—which was certainly too intimate—to the crook of his arm. They took the steps, and an attendant met them on the portico.
“We are looking for Doctor Warwick,” Hugh said, and because they needed a reason, and because Warwick might scatter off into the depths of the asylum should he hear a Bow Street officer was looking for him, he added, “My sister and I are searching for a convalescent home for our dear poor mother.”
Hell, now he sounded like Sir.
The attendant nodded and showed them into the entrance lobby, which opened ahead to a main stairwell.
“Wait here,” the man said, and then departed.
“It’s enormous,” Audrey whispered, still holding his arm. She then whispered, “Brother.”
Mischief lit her eyes, and Hugh stifled a grin. “Yes, well, dear sister, only the best for our beloved mum.”
She pinched him through his coat just before the attendant returned with another man. He was likely in his middle thirties, with blond hair, handsome looks, and a direct stare. He wore a charcoal suit and waistcoat, a neckcloth and winged collar, and had the starched expression of a man with a thankless, exhausting job. At his arm, Hugh felt the duchess tense. This was indeed Warwick.
“Good day and welcome,” the doctor said. His eyes landed on Audrey, then shifted to Hugh before darting back to her again. He blinked and frowned. “I am told you are here in regard to your mother?”
He likely recognized Audrey but could not place her. To her credit, she bit her tongue. They were much too close to the front doors to risk coming clean with the truth. The attendants here were used to handling all manner of problematic men and women, and with one word from Warwick, could easily shunt them out the door.
“Yes, doctor, this is a rather difficult topic for us.” Hugh lowered his voice. “If we could discuss the particulars somewhere more private?”
With the flair of a stage actress, the duchess whisked out a lace kerchief and pressed it to her nose before sniffling. Hugh fought a roll of his eyes and a bark of laughter. Doctor Warwick assured them he quite understood and led them to his office, just past the entrance lobby. When at last they were closed inside a private room, the windows of which overlooked the portico, front court, and the slate gray November sky, Hugh shed the act.
“Doctor Warwick, am I correct that you were superintendent at Shadwell Sanitorium in Northumberland several years ago?”
The doctor had come to stand behind his desk, and now, his fingers pressed into the polished wood surface.
“That is correct,” he said, slowly and skeptically, likely still wondering if this was about their mother. “Are you familiar with that institution?”
“I am.” Audrey released Hugh’s arm and stepped forward, across the carpet. “Doctor Warwick, you may not recognize me, but I was a patient at Shadewell when you were superintendent.”
