Read Online Flowers From The Storm by Laura Kinsale - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Kinsale
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book. “And what treatments dost— do you follow?”
“The regulated schedule is the most important, of course, to instill a habit of self-discipline and evenness of mind. Complete quiet, frequent exercise to calm him, a progression of therapeutic baths, a course of reading aloud, the subject matter selected to stimulate the sluggish intellect and inspire temperance. No drawing. Pens and writing instruments seem to provoke him to the most violent excitations. Nerve tonics he’ll ingest only by force. I’m afraid we haven’t seen any progression toward the point at which he can be trusted in the drawing room with the orderly patients, but he is soon to take walks with the other maniacs in order to prevent him from feeling isolated.”
Jervaulx crossed his arms, the chain rattling upward. Maddy lifted her face and looked at him. His expression had relaxed, gone from suppressed savagery to a hint of cynicism. He looked back at her with a half-smile, tilted up on one side.
It was startling. He appeared himself again, the self-possessed aristocrat; she almost expected him to speak or nod, but he did neither. He only smiled at her, with an interest that reminded her of the roguish way he’d observed her that night he’d described her to her father. She felt suddenly certain that he did remember her.
“Jervaulx,” she said, taking a step forward. “My Papa is here also. John Timms. Thou—you worked together with him on the new geometry.”
His smile faded slightly. He looked at her very intently, his head tilted a little to one side, the way a dog would look as it tried to penetrate the mystery of some human behavior. She noticed that he watched her mouth as she spoke—but he wasn’t deaf; he’d turned instantly toward the sound of a voice.
“Wouldst thou like Papa to come and call on thee?” she asked.
He inclined his head politely in assent.
Maddy felt a spurt of excitement. He had responded with perfect intelligence to that, certainly. She glanced at Cousin Edward. The doctor only shook his head. “He’s trying to please you. Maniacs can be rather sly, at times. Ask him, in that same tone, if he’s the king of Spain.”
She would not do that; it seemed too cheap a trick. She could not believe there was only a two-year-old’s mind left behind those eyes. Instead, she said, “Thou never looked to discover me here, didst thou?”
The chain rattled faintly as he shifted. He considered her—and shook his head.
As he did it, she realized that she’d put a negative tone in her question, and cued him to answer no.
“Thou dost not understand me,” she said in disappointment.
He hesitated, with a penetrating look, and then only stood silent, his mouth a sullen curve.
“I’m sorry,” she said impulsively. “I’m so sorry this affliction hast come to thee.”
He gave her that cynical, one-sided smile. Standing straight, he reached out his chained hand, as if to lift hers and bow. Maddy automatically took it. He bent over—and suddenly jerked her up toward him, whirling her into his chest, his chained hand at her throat, his other arm crushing her back into his chest.
“The razor!” her cousin shouted. “Good God— Larkin !”
The attendant spun around, holding the water he’d just taken from the maid at the door. He dropped the pail, cascading liquid over the woven rug, and lunged toward them. But Jervaulx made a bloodchilling sound, a guttural snarl, as he held the razor blade at Maddy’s jaw.
Larkin stopped short. Maddy could see Jervaulx’s thumb against the blade from the corner of her eye, see Larkin and Cousin Edward and the maid at the door, all in a suspended moment. Jervaulx held her, his arm pressing into her waist, ruthless, his breathing a hiss through his teeth at her ear.
“Don’t struggle,” Cousin Edward said evenly. “Don’t do anything.”
Maddy had no idea of struggle. It hurt, the way he held her; she could feel herself no match for the strength of his grip.
“The regulated schedule is the most important, of course, to instill a habit of self-discipline and evenness of mind. Complete quiet, frequent exercise to calm him, a progression of therapeutic baths, a course of reading aloud, the subject matter selected to stimulate the sluggish intellect and inspire temperance. No drawing. Pens and writing instruments seem to provoke him to the most violent excitations. Nerve tonics he’ll ingest only by force. I’m afraid we haven’t seen any progression toward the point at which he can be trusted in the drawing room with the orderly patients, but he is soon to take walks with the other maniacs in order to prevent him from feeling isolated.”
Jervaulx crossed his arms, the chain rattling upward. Maddy lifted her face and looked at him. His expression had relaxed, gone from suppressed savagery to a hint of cynicism. He looked back at her with a half-smile, tilted up on one side.
It was startling. He appeared himself again, the self-possessed aristocrat; she almost expected him to speak or nod, but he did neither. He only smiled at her, with an interest that reminded her of the roguish way he’d observed her that night he’d described her to her father. She felt suddenly certain that he did remember her.
“Jervaulx,” she said, taking a step forward. “My Papa is here also. John Timms. Thou—you worked together with him on the new geometry.”
His smile faded slightly. He looked at her very intently, his head tilted a little to one side, the way a dog would look as it tried to penetrate the mystery of some human behavior. She noticed that he watched her mouth as she spoke—but he wasn’t deaf; he’d turned instantly toward the sound of a voice.
“Wouldst thou like Papa to come and call on thee?” she asked.
He inclined his head politely in assent.
Maddy felt a spurt of excitement. He had responded with perfect intelligence to that, certainly. She glanced at Cousin Edward. The doctor only shook his head. “He’s trying to please you. Maniacs can be rather sly, at times. Ask him, in that same tone, if he’s the king of Spain.”
She would not do that; it seemed too cheap a trick. She could not believe there was only a two-year-old’s mind left behind those eyes. Instead, she said, “Thou never looked to discover me here, didst thou?”
The chain rattled faintly as he shifted. He considered her—and shook his head.
As he did it, she realized that she’d put a negative tone in her question, and cued him to answer no.
“Thou dost not understand me,” she said in disappointment.
He hesitated, with a penetrating look, and then only stood silent, his mouth a sullen curve.
“I’m sorry,” she said impulsively. “I’m so sorry this affliction hast come to thee.”
He gave her that cynical, one-sided smile. Standing straight, he reached out his chained hand, as if to lift hers and bow. Maddy automatically took it. He bent over—and suddenly jerked her up toward him, whirling her into his chest, his chained hand at her throat, his other arm crushing her back into his chest.
“The razor!” her cousin shouted. “Good God— Larkin !”
The attendant spun around, holding the water he’d just taken from the maid at the door. He dropped the pail, cascading liquid over the woven rug, and lunged toward them. But Jervaulx made a bloodchilling sound, a guttural snarl, as he held the razor blade at Maddy’s jaw.
Larkin stopped short. Maddy could see Jervaulx’s thumb against the blade from the corner of her eye, see Larkin and Cousin Edward and the maid at the door, all in a suspended moment. Jervaulx held her, his arm pressing into her waist, ruthless, his breathing a hiss through his teeth at her ear.
“Don’t struggle,” Cousin Edward said evenly. “Don’t do anything.”
Maddy had no idea of struggle. It hurt, the way he held her; she could feel herself no match for the strength of his grip.
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