"I will." He put his hand on her arm. "Just as soon as you're well, I'll take you to see her -
Amelia, that is – in her new home. I'm convinced things wil work out for the best."
Veronica smiled, warmly. "More than that, Sir Maurice, I'm convinced this intervention will save her life. Or at least prolong it for some time." She glanced out of the window, as if seeing something that wasn't there. "I shall have to inform my parents."
"No need. The matter has already been taken in hand. Your parents have signed the relevant documents. Amelia is being transferred on Friday."
Veronica touched her damaged shoulder with an unconscious gesture. "I don't know how to thank you."
"By getting better. There's nothing more important now." Newbury paced back to the window.
"So what did Her Majesty have to say about the deaths of Knox and Ashford?"
Newbury shrugged. "I saw her this morning. She was sanguine. She gave little away. I suspect it draws a line under a long and complicated story, a story that I'm only now beginning to understand."
Veronica nodded. "I suppose it does." Newbury studied her expression. What was it that she wasn't tel ing him? For now, he knew, he had to forgo al such thoughts. What was important was that she recovered, as quickly as possible. "So, what next?" she asked, inquisitively.
"Next? Next we do what we always do. We return to our sedentary lives, to fine wine and cigars, to meals with Sir Charles, and to an office at the British Museum. To filing papers and writing dry academic treatise, as we await further instruction. It doesn't sound so bad, when you put it like that, does it?"
Veronica looked longingly out of the window, and sighed. "I'm not so terribly good at waiting."
Newbury's face cracked in a wide grin. "Nor am I, my dear Miss Hobbes," he crossed to where his coat was draped on the back of a chair, preparing to leave her to rest, "nor am I." He studied her from across the room. His eyes twinkled. "I'm sure it won't be long before something comes our way. Besides, it's nearly spring. It wouldn't do to miss the fine weather, stuck indoors behind a musty old desk." He located his hat, and placed it on his head with a flourish.
"You're leaving, then?"
"For now. I've had word that an old friend of mine is in town. It's high time I paid him a visit. In the meantime, you need to rest. I'll return on Friday with news of your sister."
Veronica allowed herself to sink back into the cushions of the chaise longue. "Be sure to do just that. Friday seems like an eternity away."
Newbury offered her a dramatic bow. "Until then, Miss Hobbes."
"Until then, Sir Maurice."
And without further ado, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty – Seven
Amelia Hobbes rocked back in the carriage seat, brushing the window drape aside with her hand. She stared out at the city beyond. The streets rushed by like a series of still, blinking images; grey, unfamiliar. It had been so long since she had left the grounds of the sanatorium, she'd lost al sense of time. Was it months? Years, even?
Sighing, she allowed the drape to fall back into place, casting her once more in darkness. She felt tired and weak, yet fil ed with a new sense of optimism. She had yet to see that optimism reflected in the eyes of others, however. Dr. Mason had been kind, as always, seeing her off at the sanatorium gates, even suggesting that – time permitting – he would consider making the long trip to the Grayling Institute to pay her a visit. But Amelia could see what was really reflected in his eyes: he did not think that she was long for this world. Perhaps he was right.. but perhaps not.
She knew little of the mysterious Dr. Fabian, but Veronica spoke highly of his reputation, and Amelia was well aware of his status as the personal physician to the Queen. She could hardly be bestowed with a greater honour. She had much reason to thank the enigmatic Sir Maurice Newbury, although she didn't doubt that his motives had been less than altruistic, more to do with winning the affections of her sister than with truly aiding Amelia in her plight. But that was by-the-by. Whatever his motive, Sir Maurice had given her hope: hope that Dr. Fabian might see her visions as more than just a facet of her supposed insanity; hope that in doing so, he might help her to find a way to control those visions and prevent her body from descending further into wrack and ruin. Not that there was much of her body left, she thought bitterly, glancing down at her bony knees, clearly protruding through the thin fabric of her dress.
Amelia had once been pretty, as pretty, at least, as her sister. But now, emaciated, subjected to a harsh life in the sanatorium, and covered with scars from wounds she had earned during her numerous "episodes", she looked older, worn out. There were lines on her face, dark rings beneath her eyes. And she was disgusted by her own fatigue. Above al else, she hoped that Dr. Fabian could help her to restore her energy, her enthusiasm for life, her desire to want to get out of bed in the morning. Dare she consider that Dr. Fabian might even find a cure for her? No, that was too much of a fantasy. But nevertheless, she felt the little germ of hope seed itself in the back of her mind. If she chose not to acknowledge it, perhaps it could grow unimpeded.
Tired, Amelia rested her head against the cool leather of the seat back, and closed her eyes. She would sleep now. Soon, she would have much to remain awake for.
Amelia came to as the carriage juddered to a brisk stop. She sat forward, urgently scrabbling for the window drapes. The carriage had come to rest at the far end of a long, gravelled driveway, and through the window she could see the corner of a grey, stone mansion. They were here. She felt her heartbeat quicken. This was it. Her new home. The Grayling Institute.
Amelia clasped her hands on her lap, letting the curtains fall back into place. It wouldn't do to display her impatience. She waited. Unbearable minutes ticked by, although in truth she had no way of judging how much time had actually passed. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Someone cal ed up to the driver, but the words were lost in the breeze. The footsteps approached the cab. She realised she was holding her breath, as the handle turned slowly and the door of the cab was pul ed open. Light flooded in through the open doorway, stinging her eyes. She blinked away tears, momentarily bringing her hand up to her face to shield her eyes from the glare. She had spent too long in darkened rooms at the sanatorium.
Framed in the doorway was a diminutive man, no taller than five foot four, balding, with trailing wisps of dark hair still clinging, resolutely, to his temples. He blinked up at her through the smal, wire-rimmed spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a smart brown suit, with a white collar and black tie. His face split in a wide grin. "Good morning, Miss Hobbes. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Lucius Fabian."
Amelia smiled, edging forward in her seat. "Good morning. Dr. Fabian. It truly is an honour. I -"
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No need, Miss Hobbes." He looked her up and down.
"I'm sure you are tired after your long journey. I think it best that we see you to your new rooms inside the Institute, where you can take some time to rest and recuperate. Then, later, we can talk of how we intend to manage your.. affliction." He grinned. "Come now. Are you able to walk?"
Amelia sighed. "A little, perhaps. I fear that, these days, I am rather weak."
Dr. Fabian searched her face with beady eyes. "Yes. We'l have to see what we can do about that. Now, if you can manage to climb down from the carriage, there, we have a wheelchair at hand to assist you to your rooms."