“I do. I’ve hated him for years. Ever since I can remember.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. And then I recalled that others had called Peregrine “different.” Perhaps that was why he disliked his brother so intensely-if Jonathan had been held up as an example of what Peregrine ought to have been, and failed to achieve, it would breed jealousy. Frankly, I wouldn’t have put it past Jonathan to tease Peregrine unmercifully. Not after what he’d said about Ted Booker.
Finally, I replied, “He’s your brother.”
“I doubt it.”
I smiled. I had heard children quarrel in much the same vein. But then those dark eyes flicked open, and he seemed to pin me there in my chair. “I was separated from my brothers at an early age. There was little love lost between us.”
“Do you know why you were kept away from them?”
He turned his head to look out the window, agitated. “I always believed it was because my father died.”
I had the feeling that this wasn’t a safe subject for conversation. Until now, Peregrine had made good sense. Sometimes madness turned on small grievances, and I didn’t wish to provoke him into violence.
“That must have been a difficult time for you. You must have been little more than a child-” I’d meant it as conciliatory, but he didn’t take it that way.
“Later I wondered if she killed him or if she persuaded Robert to do it for her.”
That was surely a madman speaking-
There was a tap at the door, startling both of us. We turned toward it, as if expecting-what? After the briefest hesitation, I went to open it. It was Susan with another covered jar of soup.
I took the jar from her and set it on the hearth. By the time I’d spooned half a cup of it into his bowl, Peregrine seemed to have forgotten what we were talking about. I wasn’t about to bring it up again. He drank the soup without comment, and lay back against his pillows, tired enough to sleep.
I went back to my chair. I hadn’t been trained in the field of various forms of madness. We’d been more concerned with the destruction of the body, by illness or weaponry. I wished I could ask Dr. Philips for his opinion.
And now I was uneasy in this sickroom, where I hadn’t been before.
But I needn’t have worried. That was the only time my patient broached the subject of his brothers or his father’s death.
Later that evening as I sat by the fire, Peregrine cried out. It was so sudden I nearly leapt out of my skin. But when I turned toward the bed, he was lying there asleep, one arm flung out and his body half twisted to one side. I realized that he was dreaming. I heard him say, his voice muffled, “Please-,” and again, as if pleading, “Please-.” After that, he was quiet and didn’t rouse again until it was time for his soup at ten o’clock.
It was while Peregrine was finishing the cup that Timothy came to the door, knocking tentatively, to ask about his brother. But when I opened it, he stepped back, as if afraid he might find himself looking into the room beyond.
It occurred to me that the family had expected that my nursing skills were not up to saving Peregrine Graham, and they were now wondering why I hadn’t appeared with the sad news of his death. They had made no effort to send Dr. Philips to the patient. I wondered if they would have, if I’d sent down to ask for his help.
“I’m cautiously optimistic,” I responded to his question. “It’s too early to say what the outcome may be.”
It was a habit I’d fallen into, working with the wounded. Orders were to find them fit again as quickly as possible and send them back to the fighting-men were in short supply, malingerers not tolerated. I often sought to keep a man who was exhausted, still weak, or pretending he was healed when I knew very well he was not. It made no sense to me to send someone back to die his first day. And I wasn’t convinced that this patient was well enough for the long, cold ride back to that tall, forbidding house behind its high walls. As well, the building clouds at dusk had spoken of snow, and I had seen the winter birds huddled in the bare trees, out of the wind, a sign of foul weather.
Timothy nodded, thanked me, and quickly walked away.
Peregrine, who had overheard the brief conversation, said with some bitterness, “I expect they’re eager to see the back of me. Or else he’s afraid I must be well enough now to overpower you and run amok in the house.”
“We shan’t worry about that until you can overpower your soupspoon,” I retorted. For his hands shook with the palsy of weakness as he tried to drink or feed himself.
When he didn’t reply, I said, “Mr. Graham. Would you wish to see the doctor or the rector? I’ll ask for them on your behalf, if you like.”
The answer was emphatically no.
“I don’t think they are the same men you remember,” I told him. “Your mother made some mention of newcomers.”
He remained adamant.
“Would you like for me to read to you? I’m sure I can find a book that might interest you.”
He shook his head, drifting into sleep almost as soon as I took away his bowl and cup.
I debated leaving him for a while and going to my own room. I hadn’t had a change of clothes for days, and a bath would have been heaven. But I was afraid to leave him alone. I didn’t want to address the reasons why.
And so I settled back in my chair, falling asleep myself to the rise and fall of his even breathing.
I woke sometime later with night creeping through the window and the lamps unlit. As I stirred, I could sense movement from the bed, and an instant of panic swept over me.
Then I realized that Peregrine had pushed himself back on his pillows and was asking if there was any of that soup left.
I got up and drew the drapes across the window, then found and lit the lamp. Susan had brought me a spirit lamp to keep the soup from thickening, and I heated it a little before giving him the cup to drink.
His hand was steadier now, and I left him to hold it for himself.
Over its rim his eyes were speculative, and I was suddenly nervous.
“If they told you what I’d done,” he asked, “why did you allow yourself to be shut in here with me? I don’t remember much about the events leading up to my removal to the asylum. Dr. Hadley kept me heavily sedated. But I have nightmares all the same. If they are true, then I’m a monster.”
“It’s Dr. Philips now,” I reminded him. “Dr. Hadley is dead. As for my agreeing to care for you, I hardly expected a man with terminal pneumonia to present a problem. I’ve had to deal with men raving from pain and from night terrors. I’m stronger than I look. And my father would tell you I didn’t have the good sense to be afraid.” I hesitated, and then asked, “Have you tried to harm anyone since the-the events that put you in the asylum?”
He moved restlessly among the bedclothes. “I’m not a lunatic.”
“I never suggested you were-”
There was a determined knock at the door, and I went to open it. Mrs. Graham stood there in the passage. I thought her eyes were nearly as darkly circled as my own.
“Timothy tells me that my son is going to live. Is that true?”
I thought she was glad, and was on the point of telling her that he would.
But she went on with a coldness in her voice that I was sure Peregrine could hear from his bed, “I shall inform the director of the asylum to send someone to fetch him at once.”
“I don’t think he’s ready to travel-”
“Nonsense. He survived his journey here and he will survive his journey back where he belongs.”
She turned on her heel and walked away.
I shut the door slowly, not wanting to see the look on Peregrine’s face.
He said, “There’s an end to it,” in a clipped voice. I did turn then and caught the expression of despair before it was smoothed away.
His keepers came for him the next morning.
It was the first time I’d ever seen a patient of mine manacled before he was taken away. Yet Peregrine Graham was too weak to walk down the stairs unaided. It took two stalwart warders on either side, and still he was in danger of falling to his knees. Yet somehow he managed it, and I wondered if it was sheer pride.