Dr. Todson's Home for Incorrigible Women Read online

  

  

  RILEY LASHEA

  Dr. Todson’s Home for Incorrigible Women © 2021 Riley LaShea

  Midnight Jasmine Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in whole or in part, in any form, without written permission of the author. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights and buying an authorized edition of this e-book.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are fictitious, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental.

  Ebook Edition April 2021

  ISBN: 978-1-955155-00-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021935930

  ALSO BY RILEY LASHEA

  Historical Romance

  Club Storyville

  Erotic Romance

  Night Falls on the Piazza

  Behind the Green Curtain

  Romantic Comedy

  The Meddling Friends Trilogy

  (The Wish List, The Four Proposals, The Island Getaway)

  Fantasy

  The Black Forest Trilogy

  (Kingdoms Fall, Magicks Rise, Stories End)

  The Innocents

  A Special Gift From Gram V

  For the women who cling to the scales.

  CONTENTS

  INCONVENIENT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  UNCOMPROMISING

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  INCORRIGIBLE

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Elements of Truth

  About the Author

  

  Chapter 1

  Caroline

  1886

  C aroline woke on the edge of memory. All vibrant hues and resentment. Contradictory, the beauty crafted by her mind’s eye and the utter rage that accompanied it. Like a delicate lyric set against a strident melody.

  Somewhere, in the far reaches of her consciousness, a thought shivered. Danced and provoked. She almost opened her eyes to see it. Almost raised a hand to reach out.

  But the stillness, warm and soft, it coddled her. Sang to her amidst the color and fury. Rolling over and under, Caroline billowed and soared, lifting out of the world. Yet, she could still feel the world beneath her, its silken, downy comforts. Somehow, she was both above and below. In her body and not in it.

  “Hello.” She heard her own voice murmur in the darkness. She couldn’t recall opening her mouth.

  And no one answered her.

  The only sound was the soft hum of a household in use. The only scent spiced honey - her own perfume. Nothing noxious to nose or ears. Only silence. And solitude. Serenity, shimmering slowly around her - seductive and sumptuous - she let it drag her back down into her dreams.

  T he sunswept hills of the English countryside burst with an outlandish display of color - reds, purples, oranges, blues, yellows - stretching in arcs and patterns as far as the eye could see only to be swallowed up in an endless cerulean sky.

  It was a deceptively idyllic setting for betrayal.

  Watching the puffy, white clouds drift by overhead from the window of the landau, Caroline knew the only souls who traveled this road were either betrayer or betrayed, or those being paid for their services - servants or commissions. Since she was neither servant nor commission, she could only assume she was one of the former, and since none of the day’s events had been planned or promoted by her, she supposed that left her only one possible role in all of this.

  Let’s overnight in the country, Dear. I’m told the tulips are not to be missed this year.

  Caroline wished she could feel some measure of surprise, a smidgeon, a soupçon, but she wasn’t addle-brained. No doubt she would prove much less problematic for Thomas if she were. She also wouldn’t be in this position, keeping calm and passive through the middle of the rolling landscape, knowing she was headed toward a firing squad. Figurative, of course. Thomas couldn’t really off her. Not without a load of questions. His one lethal plot, he had already used up. He would be a madman himself to try it again.

  I’ve told Mack to take us back by a different route.

  Dear god, she hated him. She may not have been a skilled navigator, but Caroline could tell which side of the carriage the sun was on as they left the small inn and continued moving in the same direction - away from London, not toward it.

  She could also read, and had watched Thomas as they passed the sign warning them they were entering private property. His moment of panic. The quick dart of his eyes her way. As if he feared she might suddenly know. As if it would make any difference if Caroline did know.

  Well, she knew. Had known for months. She wasn’t immune to Thomas’s hints, dropped to and for others. To friends, family, neighbors, the vicar, anyone who would listen to him talk really.

  She reads all the time. Or has her maid read to her. She doesn’t want to do much else it seems. I think she likes her stories more than real life. Said in jest.

  Yes, of course, please come for a visit. But could it wait until next month? Caroline doesn’t always allow the staff to clean. She goes through these phases. Whispered.

  If you wouldn’t mind praying a bit extra for my wife, Vicar. I worry sometimes she isn’t well. A plea for sympathy.

  ‘Setting the stage,’ they called it, from the theater lingo meaning to prepare the set for an actor about to put on a big, heart-wrenching performance. Thomas, no doubt, would emote his insides out onto the floor. He had been rehearsing non-stop for weeks.

  “Are you warm? I’ll open another window.”

  She could still run, she supposed, leap from the carriage and dash through the wayward impressionist painting that had co-opted the Surrey Hills. But what would that accomplish but to provide further evidence? Assure all those who witnessed it that, indeed, Thomas was a very put-upon man and was doing the only thing he could do given his difficult circumstances.

  No, she would not be doing him such a favor. If she had any intention of physically resisting, she would have done so back in London when the carriage pulled up with a hired driver instead of Floyd. But she was tired, frankly, of the wait. The prolonged knowledge of Thomas’s intentions for her was torment. And a bit of an annoyance, really. Like a fly buzzing nonstop around her head. If what was going to happen was going to happen, she wanted to get it over and done with, rather than wait for whatever brute squad her husband might call to drag her from her bed in the middle of the night.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Thomas was the one who was anxious, sweaty, tense, and fidgeting, demonstrated now by the swipe of his sleeve across his brow and the brisk manner with which he threw open the carriage door, causing it to groan at it hinges, the instant they rolled to a stop.

  “Private property, Sir.” The hulking man who halted
their carriage stood in Thomas’s open door, and Thomas jerked another glance Caroline’s way.

  My, what a razor’s edge he had been on all day. A shame. Truly. He probably hadn’t even noticed the flowers or the sky or that the cucumbers in the sandwiches Mary had made them the morning before were still perfectly crisp and deliciously flavorful. They went in perfect combination with the fresh-baked brown bread and hint of basil oil. If Caroline could say one thing about Thomas’s distant cousin who had come to keep house for them, and for whom her husband had been pining every moment since, it was that she was outstanding in the kitchen.

  “Only a precaution. Could I have your name, Sir?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s Ajax. Thomas Ajax.”

  “Ajax. Yeah, all right. Open the gate! Have a good day, Sir. Miss.” The hulking man stepped away, and with an unsteady nod, Thomas pulled the carriage door closed, glancing to Caroline once more.

  Caroline stared back, not sure which was more insulting, that he was doing this to her or that he thought her completely oblivious of it up until this point.

  No answers or pleas forthcoming, Thomas’s guilt at last got the better of him and he turned his eyes away.

  T he second time Caroline woke was to a song - a boisterous, spontaneous melody not far beyond the silent sphere in which she had been left.

  It’s a party

  I’m the party

  Dancing in the night so gay

  Music, food, a lady new

  Banquet, ball, a big soiree

  Eruption of laughter trailing after the lyrics, it churned some cognition out of Caroline. Blew some of the cobwebs off her gauzed brain.

  Lady new? That had to be her, didn’t it? She was the most recent arrival there. Had to be. But the lyric couldn’t possibly be a literal one. No one would be throwing her a welcome party here, a banquet, ball, or soiree.

  It was ridicule, she realized. Ridicule to go along with her confinement. They would ensure, since she wasn’t mad when she arrived, she would be by the time she left. Maybe that was the true meaning of a “madhouse,” a place where one was driven to madness.

  That seemed exactly the sort of outcome Thomas would hope to achieve by bringing her to this place.

  This institution.

  This mansion of illusion.

  This palatial country estate that looked like a dream, but could only house nightmares.

  It was a thought that required action. A fighting spirit. Whatever vim and vigor she had left inside of her. But, first, Caroline had to open her eyes. And, in trying to do so, she found her will already starting to fade. To break. To kiss her mockingly on the cheek and flit off into the atmosphere.

  It was easier to just give in. To the emptiness. To the apathy. To the sleepiness. If only for a short while.

  At some point it would wear off, whatever substance they had forced into her veins. The abyss would disappear, the lull would sharpen, and she would feel the full, brutal gravity of her abandonment. It would yank her back down to Earth with an excruciating thud.

  Prospect utterly unappealing, Caroline chose to delay it. To allow her muscles to relax and to sink once more into oblivion.

  A mile or so after the forbidding iron gate opened and closed behind them, a sprawling manor house came into view, nothing at all like Caroline was expecting. Where there should have been drab, dirty stonework and iron bars, the house was as bright as a sunray with its yellow skin and crisp white accents.

  Clouds hanging big and unnaturally perky in the blue sky behind it, Caroline waited for the winds to change. Where was England’s signature gray? Its spitting rain? The thunder and lightning that threatened to unleash God’s eternal damnation over the land?

  Ominous things should be backed by ominous skies.

  This place, with its bright exterior and green-slated dormers and gables, was a picture postcard meant to lure visitors to the Surrey Hills. Caroline could imagine its caption:

  Come! See our beauty!

  Drop your women off along the way!

  On the front lawn, those women worked, the ones who had come before her. Dressed in common, matching frocks, they had to be residents of the place, made to keep the grounds clean and ornamented so the men who rode up to dispose of their wives or mothers or daughters had something pleasant to look at. Whether that pleasant sight was the gardens themselves or so many women down on their knees was up for debate.

  “Caroline.” Disembarking from the carriage, Thomas held out a hand in the shadow of the door.

  Yes, God forbid I break my ankle on the walk to my own judgment . Caroline brushed past him, stepping onto the hard-packed dirt drive of her own free will.

  Sunlight hitting and warming her instantly, she understood the place’s appeal, even as she pulled on her sun hat to shield her eyes. The house presented itself as a retreat. A perfect country getaway. It was designed to make such an impression. An estate so lovely and charming that men like Thomas could garner respect and adoration while doing their very worst.

  You must be a saint . Caroline could imagine their society acquaintances patting him on his poor martyr head. To spring for such a lovely place for your crazy wife when Bedlam is right here in the city.

  “Mr. Ajax.” Descending the stone stairs outside the house’s tall wooden doors, a sandy-haired man in thick spectacles and a plaid-accented suit shook Thomas’s hand. “Welcome. I’m Dr. Rand.”

  “Dr. Rand? I thought I would be meeting with Dr. Todson today.”

  Yes, Thomas would think that. He would expect nothing less than to meet with the person whose name was on the plaque next to the front door.

  Dr. Todson’s Home for Women

  - the nameplate shown through the ivy in polished and beveled bronze letters. How very quaint it sounded. Not ‘Hospital.’ Not ‘Asylum.’ Not ‘Institution.’ Home . Like a place women might actually choose to be. Caroline supposed ‘Dr. Todson’s House of Torture and Neglect’ simply wasn’t good advertising.

  “Oh no, Sir. As you can imagine, Dr. Todson keeps a very busy schedule. I take care of the day-to-day matters in the doctor’s stead, including the welcoming of potential residents. But don’t worry, you’ll still have your two signatures. Dr. Todson trusts my judgment.”

  Two signatures. That was all it took. To determine a woman too much of a burden and lock her safely away from polite society. The word of her husband, or any male relation, and two doctors’ names on a slip of paper. The woman, for her part, didn’t have to do anything. Anything, that was, but exist. Caroline could state that fact with some authority, because she had lived for more than thirty-five years doing scarcely more than existing.

  “Mrs. Ajax.” Dr. Rand moved past Thomas, and Caroline gave him her full attention. Her calmest, most rational attention. He was handsome, in an offhanded sort of way, as if he worried little about it one way or the other. His gaze surprisingly soft. “I’m Dr. Rand. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How are you?”

  Some sort of polite response typically in order, there was nothing typical about this. In fact, a typical response might be considered highly atypical in the moment. Crazy even. What sort of sane person smiled a reply as she was threatened with her own commitment? Realizing there was no good option - she was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t - Caroline huffed a small breath, shaking her head, saying nothing.

  “I imagine this must be very difficult for you,” Dr. Rand gleaned from her silence, and it was a fine act, Caroline had to admit. He sounded truly sympathetic. “We’ll try to make it as painless as we can. Please.”

  Lifting an arm, he indicated the way - up the stone stairs and through the wooden doors - and, gathering her skirts, Caroline ignored both the men who flanked her, looking up at the enchanting façade of the provincial palace, with its gentle colors and climbing ivy, cursing its deceit.

  Three steps up, a small sound commanded her attention, and she glanced to the woman re-potting a plant next to the front door. Hair black, eyes black, the woman’s fac
e, slightly round and prominent of cheekbone, was striking. Soothing, in a strange sort of way. And most uncommon around London, its contours indicated she came from somewhere further to the east.

  When it met Caroline’s own, the stranger’s dark gaze seemed to commiserate for a moment. To sympathize and to try to comfort. Before thick pink lips turned up in a subdued smirk, meant for Caroline’s eyes alone, and Caroline felt the sting of her delight. This woman was glad to see her dropped off there, glad to see her marched through the front door of a madhouse to defend her own sanity.

  Bruised more by the stranger’s casual malice than by that of Thomas - perhaps, because she expected nothing better of him - Caroline tried to hold her head up. To retain her composure. She could be angry to a point, but she couldn’t let her anger overwhelm her. She had one purpose now and one purpose only, to show them she had no business being there. No business being there at all.

  “M rs. Ajax,” Dr. Rand began once they were formally seated in his parlor-like office. No desk, no examination table, just several armchairs and a fainting couch to swoon upon should the threat of her impending incarceration become too much to bear. “Or do you prefer Caroline? May I call you Caroline?”

  “Call me whatever you like,” Caroline said, and Dr. Rand’s blue eyes flicked up as a resident of the house, made to serve as assistant, entered the room with tea. Lukewarm, Caroline did hope. They really shouldn’t be arming the crazies with scalding hot beverages.

  “Thank you, Margaret.” Dr. Rand smiled as the woman left them, returning his attention to Caroline as the door closed behind her. “Mr. Ajax tells us you’ve been having some difficulties lately.”

  “What sort of difficulties?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me that.”

  “I couldn’t begin to read Thomas’s mind.”

  A most proper response. To read Thomas’s mind would be telepathy, and belief in telepathy was almost certainly grounds for immediate commitment. Of course, as a woman, just knowing the word “telepathy” was likely grounds. Even more so if they found out she had read it in the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research . So, channeling her life’s training, Caroline schooled her expression to look as insipid and clueless as possible.