one who writes of ton gossip but rather a serious journalist who writes stories on political and economic issues.”
“How does a madhouse qualify as either?” Dez asked sharply.
“The story has become more personal for me,” Jefferson revealed. “My fiancée, Miss Blair, teaches at Stone Academy, and is close friends with Miss Stone. Miss Stone’s father passed away several months ago, leaving her the school—and nothing to her worthless brother. When Miss Blair arrived one day, Miss Stone was nowhere to be found. Her brother was there and said that she had left him in charge and he would be the new headmaster.”
Jefferson shook his head. “I know Miss Stone through my fiancée and she would never have walked away from Stone Academy, much less left a fool in charge of running things. I discovered Stone had his sister sent to Gollingham Asylum and began researching the facility and its staff, trying to find out how and why Miss Stone was placed there.”
“I knew Miss Stone,” Anna said. “Patients were not allowed to speak to one another but we did so on rare occasions. She was a lovely woman but stayed in trouble with the staff, much as I did, because she rebelled against the treatments.”
Jefferson grimaced. “I have learned of some of those treatments.” He paused. “Would you be willing to speak to me about them? And the conditions at Gollingham?” He looked at Dez. “I have already learned from my investigations that you and Lord Morton have been able to remove his daughter from the place and that she was granted an annulment from Lord Jergens.”
“You are remarkably well informed,” Dez said.
Jefferson shrugged. “I have a way with people, drawing them out. And when that doesn’t work, I have learned a sufficiently greased palm will loosen all manner of tongues.”
She turned to her husband. “We should help him.”
“I agree,” Dez said quietly. “We will share what we know with you, Mr. Jefferson. I have had a Bow Street Runner working on our behalf. I will have him summoned.”
He rang for Johnson and told the butler to send a message to Haggard to return at once.
“While we wait for Mr. Haggard’s arrival, I will answer your questions,” Anna said.
“Thank you, Lady Torrington. I am writing a series of articles exposing the treatment of patients in madhouses, as well as how they came to be there. A goodly portion of patients institutionalized are women, placed their by husbands or fathers who did so to silence their voices or opinions. Females in our society are naturally rendered more vulnerable based upon our laws. If not submissive?” Jefferson shrugged. “They are controlled in these asylums, whether sane or not.”
“They are terrible places. At least Gollingham was,” she began. “Our nights were spent in cramped, cell-like rooms with poor ventilation. They would tie us to the beds with ropes, saying that prevented anti-social behaviors and kept us from harming ourselves or one another.”
“With a straitjacket?” Jefferson asked.
“Sometimes. Those would bind our arms to our bodies and prevent movement but we were still often bound to the beds in addition to being restrained by the straitjackets. Left to soil ourselves.”
“How did the staff treat you?” he asked gently.
“Brutality and neglect were common. We were constantly told we were demented and that there was no cure for what was wrong with us. We were merely to be confined, away from our families and society. We were abused both physically and mentally. The food mostly consisted of a gruel broth, with the occasional spoiled beef provided. Dirty, undrinkable water accompanied each meal.”
“How did you spend your days?”
She swallowed. “In silence. Sitting upon hard benches for twelve hours or longer. Waste was everywhere. Rats scurried about freely.”
“Were you punished for speaking to others?”
“Always,” she said vehemently, her insides tightening.
Dez took her hand, stroking it with his thumb, calming her.
She continued to answer Jefferson’s questions until Mr. Haggard arrived. Dez gave the runner permission to share all he had learned and the two men spoke back and forth quickly, sharing information.
“I don’t need your permission,” Jefferson said, “but I would ask your blessing. I am ready to go to print with this.”
Anna turned to her husband. “If we can help even one woman . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He nodded and looked to the journalist. “Go ahead.”
“I will protect you as best as I can, Lady Torrington,” Jefferson said. “I will not name you as a source regarding what I will write but your name will be mentioned