Madhouse Bride 1

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Julian Ravenscar was not drunk. Not even bosky. Maybe a little mellow, or well to live. Therefore, when driving towards his country house after a ball he had escaped from shortly after midnight, he was certain that he was not dreaming to see a slender figure descending from an upper storey of a house on the outskirts of the city.  A figure which he was not too drunk to guess was female, even if it was in male garb.

The house was a messuage, surrounded by a stone wall, but one side of the wall was partly taken by the side of the house, a blank, windowless wall save for a tiny window in the gable up under the roof.

The rope was not long enough.

Julian drew his gig to a halt, and got out.

“I don’t think you’re a burglar, young lady, and if you are eloping, your swain has deserted you. But if you would care to drop, I will catch you, and then, you will owe me a story whilst I drive you to wherever you want to go.”

There was a soft gasp, and then the figure dropped. Julian caught her securely and set her down. She was trembling violently.

“I hate heights,” she said.

“Then I salute your bravery, if not your common sense,” he said. “Have you luggage?”

“There should be a bag I dropped; it’s not much but it’s all I could muster.” Her speech was educated, well-modulated; she was plainly  reared as a lady. Julian saw the shadow of the bag and picked it up, and slung it under the seat. He climbed back into his gig, to extend a helping hand. She climbed up behind him, and he clicked his tongue to the horses to walk on.

“I’m not mad,” she said, defensively. “At least, I don’t think so; not now the laudanum and the red mushrooms have worn off.”

“Well, that’s an intriguing opening,” said Julian. “My name’s Ravenscar; Julian, Viscount Ravenscar. And as you gasp, I see you know the name.”

“You have a certain reputation, my lord,” she said. “But somehow, I expected you to be dark and brooding, maybe with a duelling scar, not to look as if you walked out of a depiction of a Botticelli angel.”

He laughed.

“Oh, now I have to take that as an honest assessment, though I assure you, I’m anything but angelic. I do have a duelling scar, but I never show it on first acquaintance. You see, it’s underneath me when I am seated. Not romantic at all.”

“But probably very painful.”

“Oh, it was. I was a stupid young chub and hot-headed and my opponent was kind enough to merely chastise me at, as he said, the seat of my idiocy. It was a stupid duel for a stupid reason, and I lived to thank him for his forebearance. I don’t usually tell people that, though, but a confidence for a big confidence. What is your name?”

“Anne Bonnet,” she said, defiantly.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“You don’t seem very piratical.”

“Not Bonnie; Bonnet, with a French pronunciation. My father’s father got out from the Revolution before it got too bad and managed to transfer a good part of his fortune as well, to use as a startup stake in his new land. He invested in industry. I’m an heiress, which is why all this came about. When my parents died in a coaching accident, I was at school, and I found myself withdrawn at the end of the term to live with my mother’s brother and his wife. Uncle Thomas and Aunt Amelia.  And at first, I was pampered, which was not what I was used to, not allowed to lift a hand, a stifling sort of life, but I did not complain, I thought it was their way of displaying grief, and it would have seemed ungrateful. Then, one night, my hot chocolate was a little bitter, and I woke, cold, in a garret with an old dress my only thing bar a thin nightgown, being chivvied into working to scrub the floor and stop my foolish delusions that I was someone.  Well, I worked hard, trying to make sense of what was happening; and this… alternated. And some days, I had strange waking dreams, which my aunt later admitted was applications of that red toadstool with white spots.  And apparently, I started undressing in front of the vicar and other upright citizens, and so I was committed. The house I left was a private lunatic asylum for troubled girls; and some of them are, but I think there are others like me who have been put away for their inheritance.”

“The devil!” said Julian. “I believe you; it was desperation driving you to escape.”

“I’m afraid that if I spend too much time with other mad people, I will also go insane,” said Anne.

“Yes, quite,” said Julian. “Would you like to be my mistress?”

“I don’t know,” said Anne. “I don’t know you well enough to consider whether it would be worthwhile throwing up my reputation for you; though I suppose my reputation is in tatters already because of my supposed madness.”

“Which proves you more level headed than most of the population,” said Julian. “And most young women would have said ‘yes’ without thinking.  I am going to do what I can to help you, because I’m impressed by your bravery and dignity about the whole affair. but I am not sure where to start, and moreover, I am not entirely sober. How did you escape?”

“I made myself be passive, and just sit, until they stopped watching me,” said Anne. “I shared a room with another girl, in a huge four-poster bed. She’s an arsonist, which was nervous, so a lot of my passivity was dozing, so I could be awake at night to watch her.  We are… were… kept on a low dose of laudanum, but I managed to switch out the contents in the bottle for our room with water, and I gave Jenny a heavy dose whilst I had none on some nights, so I could investigate the room. The window is over the garden, but I climbed on top of the tester canopy, and the roof was beams and plaster.  And I spent time cutting away the plaster with the edge of the coal shovel, which I sharpened on the fire surround. When I had a hole big enough to crawl through, I found it went into the attic, and there are trunks and trunks, belonging to years and years of girls and women. And the window overlooked the street. So, I constructed a rope from what old linens I found in the attic, working at night. Fortunately, Jenny is also stupid. She noticed nothing. And the ceiling is dirty enough not to show a hole near the wall.”

“You’re enterprising. I take it you found your rather old fashioned male attire up there?”

“Yes, it was what gave me the idea. I did not think I could climb a rope in a gown. I stuffed a few into my bag, and underlinen, but I don’t have much.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

“Well, to be honest, I had not got that far,” admitted Anne. “I found a pipe – for playing, not smoking – in one trunk, and I thought that I might go into the city and beg, with music, and raise enough to eat. It’s not very satisfactory as plans go, is it?”

“It’s a start, if nothing else, and you would be free, which is better than otherwise,” said Julian. “However, for now, you are coming to my house, where you can recover your sangfroid, and we can plot.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I’m intrigued by your story, outraged at the unfairness, and impressed by your resourcefulness. And I’m bored. Which is probably the main reason; and I’m drunk enough to be honest about it.”

“Well, thank you for your honesty.  If they find you have me, they will make you send me back, you know; I am a minor.”

“I’m sure we can get over that; but we will plan tomorrow.”

 

 

The moon shone down on the gracious house they approached up a drive. It had the characteristic ‘E’ shape of an Elizabethan mansion, with fantastical twisted chimneys, and tiles under a portico around the roof with gothic lettering on the glazed tiles.

“They are a lovely bright turquoise with gilded lettering, in daylight,” said Julian, seeing her trying to puzzle it out. “It says ‘Numquam tangas corvum quiescentum,’ which means ‘Never touch a resting raven.’  It’s a more whimsical version of the old ‘Nemo me impune lacessit,’ or ‘Nobody offends me with impunity.’”

“Or, in other words, you are harmless until offended.”

“Precisely. And your relatives offend me.”

“I… I should be your mistress in gratitude.”

“No, Anne Bonnet, you may be no pirate but I think I’m going to loot you.  I will need you to rehearse me on every detail about your family because I’m going to open by asking to see my bride, because your father arranged our marriage. That ought to put the cat among the pigeons.”

“I can copy his handwriting,” said Anne. “Would that help?”

“Undoubtedly! I am going to marry you, because I have to marry sometime, and I don’t think you will ever bore me.”

“You had better sleep on that thought; you might change your mind when you are sober.”

“I don’t think so, but you are wise to suggest it. Right, hop out and take your bag; I’ll be back in a moment. My groom is waiting to see to my horse, but we’ll introduce you to as few people as possible at first.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Julian. I want you to call me ‘Julian.’”

“Yes, Julian,” said Anne.

Julian drove his gig round to the stableyard, where the dozing groom who was waiting for him took over. “Sorry to leave it to you, I have things to do,” said Julian, surprising the man. Not so much for the apology; the viscount might have a reputation for rudeness to others of his kind, but he was unfailingly polite to his servants, and often left Robbie, the groom, sleeping in his bunk to see to his own horse and put his vehicle in the coach house. The grooms had quarters in a block between the stables and the coach house, but the viscount had standing orders that one of them was on duty at all times in the stable itself. He could sleep in a bunk there, pegged into the wall against the tack-room, but since horse thieves had got in and managed to set the stables on fire when Julian was a small boy, his father and he had wanted a man in the stables at all time to raise the alarm, a bell above the bunk, against any trouble. Robbie Hobson claimed the privilege when his lordship was out, being the same age as Julian, and having fought the fire beside his master’s son, to get to the horses, and lead out such as they might. Robbie had privileges beyond the normal grooms for his work that day, having mounted the old viscount’s favourite bay to ride the animal through flames, getting burned himself in doing so, whilst Julian led the frightened beast.  Both had been burned, but Robbie had a scar on his face and neck, from a burning beam. The bay had survived the experience to the delight of the boys, but many of the horses had not. Robbie knew that Julian also heard the screams of the dying horses in his head at times. Robbie woke at the slightest sound, but often his master would tell him to go back to sleep.  Usually when the idiot aristos – Robbie’s idiom – had irritated the viscount, who found currying his horses soothing before going into the house.

Robbie wondered what had happened; his lordship was in a brown study over something, and the gathering of what the staff referred to as ‘Stormcrow’ about his face. Robbie shuddered. When irritation moved into Stormcrow, someone was going to be very unhappy indeed.

 

Unaware of his childhood crony’s ruminations, Julian collected Anne from the front steps, and led her to the front door.  He tapped lightly rather than wake the house with the great door bell, and the door swiftly opened, a greeting dying on the lips of the young man who opened it.

“Jem,” said Julian, “I need your help. I’ll probably need Robbie’s as well, but for now I need secrecy.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Jem Watkins, his eyes wide. His master was usually punctilious in calling him ‘Watkins,’ and only used his first name when he had trouble.

“This young lady, who is a lady, a maiden, and quite unimpeachable, is all in from her exertions in escaping from… well, from being mistreated. I want you to wake up that parlourmaid you’re courting – Meggie, ain’t she? – and tell her to be quick and quiet, and shift her things to be Miss Bonnet’s maid, in the nursery, and to be quick about seeing that there’s decent bedlinen. You can light a fire; warm for the time of year it may be, but the child is half in shock,  and there’s nothing like a cheerful fire. Meggie is to wait on her, and prepare her food. You can tell your mother about it in the morning so she can connive to make sure that Miss Bonnet is not compromised. I’m going to marry her, but I don’t want a thread of scandal. You can tell anyone who asks that I have a witness to a crime in protective custody, which is true enough. And you make sure Meggie doesn’t look at her askance for being clad so; it was the only way she could escape. She has gowns with her. And bring something for her to eat; hot milk or chocolate and something she can eat easily, I doubt she’s been fed properly.”

“Gruel or scrag end stew with beans,” said Anne. “Thank you, Mr Jem, and please apologise for me to Meggie in case I fall asleep before I can make my appreciation known.”

“I’m Watkins, miss, and I’m sure Meggie will be glad to see to your needs,” said Jem Watkins, who knew a lady when he saw one, and so he would make clear to Meggie, and to his mother, Mrs Watkins, the housekeeper. “Oh, my lord, what have you got yourself into now?”

“Someone poked a drowsy raven,” said Julian, with a whimsical smile. “I’ll sort myself out for bed, but I’ll sort out a meal for the lady first for you to take up; then you can truthfully say it was me messing in M. D’Aubert’s domain.”

Watkins grinned.

The French cook could wax irritable if his kitchen was disrupted, but could hardly complain about the master doing so.