The Gentleman's Madness

The Gentleman’s Madness

Summer Devon and Bonnie Dee

Copyright 2017

Smashwords Edition

duet publishing

reprint

Dedication

To our incredible editor, without whom we wouldn’t even be able to speak the English language--and who dictated this to Summer. No, too late now. You can’t change your mind on this one.

Chapter One

1887, a suburb of London

John thought he’d known despair after the electrical treatments at the previous asylum. Here at Fairpark, the series of hot- then cold-water dunks had pushed him to an even lower point. And then, life seemed worse when several experts examined his privates while discussing any strange attributes—apparently, men like himself pointed to the left. The embarrassment had been excruciating.

This morning proved his situation could sink to a deeper level of hell.

They’d taken away his pens and pencils because, they said, he might stab himself. The paper and ink remained, but unless he used his fingertip, he’d lost the ability to write.

The shuffling of feet, the scrape of the door lock told him someone had returned to his solitary cell—more than one person. Maybe they’d come to remove the ink for fear he’d drown in it.

He almost called out, What do you want? Instead, he lay silent, the blanket pulled over his head. Several pairs of shoes shuffled into his room, those filthy filii scortorum, and he tried to conjure better insults than sons of whores, but Latin curses would not be enough to carry him through this session.

He’d concentrate on solving the simplest formulae while they did whatever they had planned. Yes, some simple mathematical formulae. Anything more complex would require a pencil and paper, and God knew when he’d hold a writing implement again.

Thank you again for allowing us to tour your facility, Doctor, a man said quietly. We have access to Bethlehem and other public asylums, but my students are glad to observe a more exclusive institution.

Exclusive, my arse. John tried not to listen. They’d go away soon enough. But then he heard his doctor’s voice.

This is Mr. J.G., Dr. McAndrew said. He is twenty-five, has finished at university and was actually an occasional lecturer and providing tuition for students when an incident led to his family admitting him to Dr. Maxwell’s facility to be cured. Another unfortunate event brought about his transfer here to Fairpark. You have read the basics of his case, I hope, gentlemen?

Oh Christ, how many men were gathered in his small room?

He’d thought that, at the very least, his transfer to Fairpark meant there’d be no students. Though he had trouble breathing, John stayed hidden under the scratchy wool blanket, like a sulky child hiding from monsters.

You would tempt fate by deciding the removal of pens could be the worst this new place had to offer, he scolded himself silently. Let this be a lesson to you, Gilliam.

The droning doctor described the brutal attack Mr. G. had made on an attendant in the previous institution, leaving out the fact that the attendant had assaulted John. Perhaps they’d thought it was a mutual sexual act. Because, yes, of course, the doctor was explaining about John’s underlying disease: The deviant sexual practice is likely caused by congenital inversion during the birth.

John slowed his breathing, an exercise Dr. Abernathy had taught him—they weren’t all such horses’ arses as this McAndrew.

…and he was caught in the act by his father who, loving his son, hoped to bring about a permanent cure for Mr. G’s condition…

John didn’t often lose his temper these days. Punishment came fast when one did, particularly when one had been diagnosed as aggressive. But their intrusive presence now, after this morning’s humiliation, proved too much for his temper. No more pens in his life. He’d been reduced to nothing more than a trembling child hiding under the covers. No. He must fight for what little he had left. Not dignity, but a faint shadow of it.

He drew the blanket from his face, down to his shoulders, too aware of his undressed state. Dr. McAndrew, if you must speak of my illness and symptoms as if I am deaf, please be so good as to do it outside of my room.

He looked over the group of four men. Earnest, well-educated men. As he had once been, but nothing like him any longer. His voice trembled, but he didn’t shout. There is no reason one should be forced to listen to one’s diagnosis. And then he lost all words. Familiar blue eyes met his, widened with shock, then pity and, worst of all, contempt.

The day’s pain suddenly increased beyond physical torment.

Stanhope, he whispered.

Stanhope hadn’t changed much in the last few years. He still wore his hair too long, and the shadow of freckles touched his nose.

You look well, John said, pretending that his old friend had answered. I know the same cannot be said of me. I had heard you were going into medicine.

Stanhope stepped back so he was at the rear of the group. The blank look he gave John now held no recognition. Except he gave a sharp glance to either side, probably to ascertain no one gazed at him with repulsion—as if John’s condition of madness was contagious.

Oh, do not pretend you don’t know me. John sat up, heedless of his naked torso. The dark rage boiled now. "For pity’s sake, that is too much. We were best of friends at school. No, gentlemen, not like that. He was spared any sort of perverse desire. Please, you must learn to hide your disgust better than this, especially you, Stanhope, if you hope to deal with patients who possess more intelligence than turnips."

McAndrew stepped forward so his black jacket was all John could see. Mr. G., you must calm yourself.

He should, he knew. Instead, he rose from his narrow iron bed and wrapped the blanket tight around his shoulders. They had taken all but his drawers from him, and he knew he looked silly standing there, a skinny, crow-nosed fool, no doubt red-faced and staring. If he hadn’t been mad before, he had become so; he had nothing left. They had taken his pens, and now they stripped him of his past.

I have nothing left, he told them all, looking at Stanhope, whose gaze had dropped to examine something on his sleeve. "Apparently, even the inside of my brain is tainted. With despair, I should think. But no disease, no aberration is nearly as grotesque as pretending you do not know your old friend. You leave me with nothing."

He should retreat and shut his mouth, but he knew that if he stopped railing, he would begin to weep. Anger kept the tears away, and he refused to cry in front of Stanhope and the rest of these gawping, muttering gentlemen.

Attendant! McAndrew didn’t shout, but the word held menace. Maybe John would have heeded the threat two hours earlier. Perhaps he would have heard it if he’d gotten some sleep the night before, but they’d been playing some sort of sleep-and-wakening game with him, seeing if they could wear him down.

Attendant, now!

The other men shuffled back to make room for the big oaf in gray who came into the room, moving far too quickly for a hulk like that. Remove Mr. G to the restful room.

Mr. Gilliam. My name is John Gilliam, John shouted at them all. I still exist.

The large gray-covered arms came around him, fast but not rough. He fought against the hard bands of those enormous arms, but they only tightened around him, catching his own arms helplessly at his sides. Too much like the man who’d attacked him in his sleep only a week earlier at Dr. Maxwell’s Asylum, and John began to panic, his heart beating erratically.

Hush now, sir, a voice said next to his ear.

Give me one good goddamn reason why I should.

The attendant didn’t answer as he expertly shoved John’s hands and arms into restraints.

I hate this, John said. He stopped fighting and allowed himself to be strapped and buckled into the jacket, which had been designed to calm the hysterical. Yes, that fairly described him at the moment.

At least the others had moved on, out of the room, so he could let go of the anger. I fucking hate this all. And he let the tears fall.

The attendant said, Yes, sir, and with a firm hand on his shoulder, marched him passively out of the room and down the hall.

Today is not a white-letter day for me. John talked just to hear his own voice rather than their footsteps, which echoed in the long, empty hall. Or rather, the attendant’s boots thumped. John’s bare feet, his ineffectual flesh, merely slapped against the floor. They went into the stairwell, and now their steps shuffled and clapped on the iron steps. Do you know where the term black-letter day came from?

He didn’t expect an answer, but the attendant said, No, sir.

Rather than think of his lost dignity, of the scorn in Stanhope’s eyes, of his own idiotic response, of anything to do with his proclivities or the fact that the large, ignorant bear of a man who held his shoulder had complete power over him, John began to babble. A black-letter day is an unlucky day, one to be recalled with regret and sorrow. The Romans marked their unlucky days with a piece of black charcoal, and their lucky ones with white chalk.

As always, knowledge soothed him. That small bit of the ancient past in his head connected him to the rest of the human race, to all that he had learned and all that he would someday return to. He could breathe without sobs again. And think, thank the good Lord.

If I can think, he said to no one as he waited for the figure of doom next to him to fumble with the jangling circle of keys, I am not lost after all. I shall survive.

Yes, sir. The attendant fitted the right key into the lock, and iron scraped against iron.

John’s storm had passed. I suppose I will have to ask McAndrew to forgive my outburst, he said, wishing he could wipe the tears and mucus from his face. He tried hunching his shoulder, but that didn’t reach the worst of the mess on his cheek.

You might, later. The attendant’s voice was mild and deep. So far the man hadn’t shouted or barked, a pleasant change from most of the asylum’s staff.