“I’m sorry,” Lierin murmured quietly.
“You’re sorry!” Marelda railed, then calmed slightly and, with curling lips, sneered, “How sweetly you mewl your apologies, but I’m not one you can cajole with your simpering innocence. Have your moment of delight, dear girl, but I will see the truth come out, and I will turn every stone to see it done. When your lies fly back into your face, I will laugh with delight. Good afternoon, my dear. Rest well…if you can.”
She swept around in a swirl of skirts and, snatching open the door, departed, leaving the room still and quiet, much like a spring day after a passing thunderstorm.
Lierin was left shaken by the woman’s venomous hatred. She had no way of discerning the truth of the matter, whether the judgment against her was fair or false, but at the present moment it was difficult to imagine herself being the cause of such furor.
Chapter Three
THE Wingate carriage splashed through the water-filled ruts that pockmarked the road and turned in at the short, circular drive. Wide, rusty gates prevented further passage on the lane that circled close to the smoldering ruins of the madhouse. The porch roof hung in precarious suspension from the front of the gutted building, posing a threat to any who drew near. The smoke-blackened walls offered a similar danger. Huge sections of brickwork had been torn out when the roof collapsed, leaving a jagged silhouette against the sky and an undefinable second story. The openings of the darkly gaping windows were blurred with heat-curled strips of wooden framing and seemed to stare in bleary-eyed agony. Trees that had closely hugged the brick structure were oddly truncated and stood like giant, black-bodied mourners around a crypt. Thick trails of smoke still gathered and swirled in confused indecision, as if reluctant to make their departure from the besooted shell.
Tents had been pitched in the yard to provide temporary shelter for the outcasts, and a pair of attendants were struggling to rig up support for a large tarpaulin that was being raised in the back yard near the small cookhouse. A campfire had been built in close proximity to the remaining structure, which was barely large enough to accommodate the attendants, much less the inmates. A few demented souls displayed a fixed fascination with the flames and were discouraged from going too near by the stout, grim-faced matron who exerted her authority by means of a long, heavy switch, which she wielded with impartial fervor, sometimes catching those who had found bowls and gathered to await the distribution of food. The confusion of these innocents was closely comparable to the bewilderment of the ones who milled about in a dazed stupor, oblivious to everything around them. Others of a more violent nature had been chained to heavy stakes pounded into the ground.
The sight in the yard did not cheer Ashton’s heart, for he saw the inmates as a pitiful bunch, whose treatment apparently depended on the whims of the staff. In good conscience he could never condemn anyone he loved to such a fate. Indeed, he was already forming an aversion for the switch-wielding matron, and he wondered if he would find himself embroiled in an argument before he concluded his business here.
He descended from the carriage and stepped with Hiram to the rear boot where they began unloading baskets of food, clothing, and wares. One of the attendants called a greeting and came at a run to open the small gate as they approached with their burdens. Following belatedly at a slower, halting pace were a few childlike wards. As Ashton pushed through the gate, they clapped him on the back and welcomed him as if he were a long-lost friend. He gave them each a basket, and the caretaker directed them to take the goods to the cookhouse. They hurried off, happy to do his bidding.
“There’ll be more of the same coming in a few days,” Ashton informed the gray-haired orderly. The man wore a perpetual harried look and seemed to be unaware of the raw blisters on his forearms and hands until Ashton gestured to them. “You should see to yourself.”
The man raised his arms and stared at the burns as if seeing them for the first time, but he dismissed the sores with a shrug. “They give me no pain, sir. Most o’ these poor folk canna look after themselves.”
There was a hint of a Gaelic burr in the way he rolled his r’s. “When they’ve had a bite to eat an’ a place to sleep, I’ll see to meself.”
Ashton almost flinched as he heard the switch hit its mark again, and he could not resist a sardonic comment. “By that time, your charges will have no hide left to worry about.”
Bemused, the man followed Ashton’s directed stare and saw an example of the woman’s treatment for himself as she lashed another with her willowly whip. “Miss Gunther!” he barked sharply. “Have ye no ken what these folk might do to ye should they take a notion? An’ seein’ as how ye’ve ignored me, I’d be inclined to turn me head.”
The matron seemed taken aback by his threat and reluctantly dropped the switch. Satisfied, the gray-haired man faced Ashton again and held out a hand in introduction. “Name’s Peter Logan, sir. I’ve been workin’ here at the asylum for the last year or so, an’ now with two o’ the staff gone, I’m in charge now, much to Miss Gunther’s displeasure.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop in dismay. “Before this happened, I was thinkin’ I was doin’ a wee bit o’ good at improvin’ the plight o’ these poor wretches.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Peter Logan stuffed the tail of his overlarge wrinkled shirt into his trousers, hesitating a moment before he answered. “I canna say for sure, sir. We were all asleep save for ol’ Nick, who was makin’ the night rounds, an’ I’d guess he’s off somewhere runnin’ in the woods.”
“Were any killed?” Ashton questioned, watching the trails of smoke drifting from the blackened shell.
“After takin’ count we figured there’s a full half-dozen o’ the wards missing. We canna find a trace o’ old Nick…and another ran off this mornin’. I guess he couldna endure the lot o’ madfolk loose in the yard an’ himself fenced in with the best.” His mouth turned grim. “O’ course, we canna know for sure till we stir through the ashes just how many we should have.”
Ashton gave a wry smile of distaste. “I’d just as soon learn they escaped.”
“Ye durna share a common view, sir, an’ it warms me heart to see that there’s a kind soul or two left in this world.”
“Has someone been out here complaining?” Ashton asked.
The man laughed shortly and shook his head. “About anyone ye’d care to mention, sir. A Mr. Titch was out here pokin’ around this mornin’. He was wonderin’ about the possibility o’ me wards escapin’ into Natchez and neighborin’ towns, an’ what dangers the good citizens o’ the area were in.”
“I fear Horace Titch has nothing better to do than make matters worse and cause whatever trouble he can.”
The attendant gazed furtively about, then lowering his voice, leaned close and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Seein’ as yer heart’s in the right place, sir, I’ll tell ye a thing or two what will straighten yer hackles an’ maybe the sheriff’s when he comes out.” He tapped Ashton’s silk-vested chest with a hairy knuckle. “I’ve got me suspicions, all right. I found where some fuses were set over there by the part that isna completely burned. I’m thinkin’ t’weren’t no accident, sir, but a deliberate act against these poor people here. An’ another thing…I scrubbed the floor in the cookshack meself yesterday, an’ when I come in there this morn’n, there was blood on the floor in front o’ the hearth an’ marks like somethin’ had been dragged through it. The poker had fallen into the fireplace, an’ a large knife was missin’ from the table. I’d be guessin’ there was some mischief done in there, but I canna be sure, an’ ’tis only yerself, sir, that I’ve talked with about it.”