Page 111 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“It’s not good,” Helena said frankly.

“Indeed,” Jenny agreed. She turned to Helena. “Perhaps Mr. Finchley can squire you about?”

Helena’s chest tightened in silent protest. She didn’t want Mr. Finchley to escort her anywhere. Much as she liked the man, he was a poor substitute for Justin. And, after tomorrow morning, she’d need Justin’s presence more than ever. How else, but with him at her side, was she to face the world in the aftermath of the editorial?

She rose and went to him. “Come into the light. Let me see.”

Justin obediently walked to the windows and turned to face her. She lifted a hand to his cheek on the pretext of examining his wounds; however, there was nothing clinical about her touch. Her fingertips brushed lightly over his brow and then down along his jaw to the swelling at the side of his mouth. She traced the pad of her thumb over his lower lip. “I suggest ice,” she said. “For the swelling.”

His eyes held hers, his smoke-gray gaze filled with a bewildering tangle of emotion. There was heat there and tenderness, but there was something else as well. Something which made her brows knit into a puzzled frown. It was sadness. Desolation. It flickered for an instant and then was gone, his expression shuttering.

“Do we have any ice?” Jenny moved to rise. “I’ll go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Jarrow.”

“I’ll go,” Justin said abruptly.

Helena dropped her hand from his face. She watched him stride from the room. He didn’t want to be alone with her. Foolish man. Did he really believe she didn’t know her own mind? That when things with her uncle were resolved she’d suddenly decide she no longer cared for him?

She went back to the sofa and resumed her seat beside Jenny.

“He looks an absolute ruffian,” Jenny remarked quietly. “Do you suppose Mr. Glyde looks better or worse?”

“Worse,” Helena said without hesitation.

“Good. He deserves whatever punishment Mr. Thornhill meted out.” Jenny threaded her needle. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”

The following morning, Mr. Finchley arrived at daybreak with a copy of the London Courant under his arm. They were at breakfast when he came, the table cluttered with half-filled plates, pots of honey and jam, and cups of still-steaming coffee. He sat down to join them in the empty chair across from Justin and spread the newspaper out on the table.

“Here it is,” he said. “On pages 5 and 6.”

“Have you read it?” Justin asked.

“I have.”

“And?”

“It’s compelling.” Mr. Finchley folded over the page. He looked at Helena. “Shall I read it aloud?”

She clasped her hands together in her lap. Every muscle in her body had gone tense. “If you please.”

He cleared his throat and began:

“The position of a lunatic appears to be one of the most terrible in which a human can be placed. There is, however, a still worse condition, which is that of a person of sane mind who is treated by his fellow creatures as though he were mad—of one who, being himself of sane mind, is incarcerated in an asylum intended only for the insane—who is, therefore, subjected to bodily restraint, and, still worse, to the moral and intellectual indignities consequent upon a supposed deprivation of reason.”1

Helena stared down at her hands as Mr. Finchley continued. The editorial commenced by discussing the case of a young gentleman, heir to a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, who was committed to a private asylum by his greedy relatives. Next were three more cases of ladies and gentlemen whose relatives had likewise had them committed, albeit for much smaller sums. And then—at last—the editorial mentioned Helena by name.

“Another case of this kind has very recently been brought to light. Lady Helena Reynolds, sister of the late Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton, was left an inheritance by her brother in excess of two hundred thousand pounds. In the course of the past year, her uncle, Edward Francis Reynolds, 7th Earl of Castleton, has attempted to obtain control of this inheritance by threatening his niece with committal in a private asylum.”

She listened, a sick feeling in her stomach, as Mr. Finchley read Mr. Pelham’s account of all the indignities she’d suffered at the hands of Mr. Glyde, the doctors, and the matrons at Lowbridge House. His writing was spare and efficient, reducing the particulars of her case to a bare and stark reality.

Her heart thumped forcefully in her chest. She was filled with an impending sense of panic. Never in her life had she felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable. Everyone she knew was likely reading these very same words over their morning tea and coffee. They would be outraged. Disgusted. Even those who pitied her would have no sympathy for the method she’d employed for redress. No lady, however, desperate, would ever expose herself to the press in such a way.

As of this moment, her reputation was ruined beyond all hope of repair.

Her fingers twisted together as Mr. Finchley read the editorial’s conclusion:

“Private lunatic asylums are the bane of our system. They are mere commercial speculations run for the benefit of the proprietors. All that is required for admittance are two certificates, signed by two medical men unconnected with each other, and a statement signed by a relative—too often the hungry expectant of an inheritance. Under these arrangements, any sane English man or woman may, without much difficulty, be incarcerated in a private lunatic asylum. These are but five cases following one upon the other in rapid succession. How many remain behind of which we know nothing?”

The breakfast room fell into silence. They all sat, grim-faced, no one venturing to utter a word.