Lying to Mary was the only way I could discover the truth. It was clear that she would never tell me about her mother, that we could never discuss whether her mother's ailment was behind her reluctance to start a family, but I needed to know the truth. If I knew that it could be inherited and she feared she would have a tainted child, then I would suggest adoption. If there was nothing wrong, then I would ask the doctor to find a way to tell her, maybe even suggest that motherhood would be good for her. I could see from the tenderness in making the baby clothes that Mary wanted to be a mother. Whatever the block was, I would remove it without causing her any pain. She had suffered enough.
My appointment to see the hunting lodge cancelled almost as quickly as it was made, I bought a ticket first to London and then on to Bishopton the next day. The servant's ball had been a good excuse to take off and Mary had been distracted with making sure the arrangements were perfect. As long as I was not discovered, there would be no harm in my dishonesty. If Mary did discover the truth, I did not think she would forgive me.
I understood her fear though, who would want a lunatic for a mother? I'd grown up with a father who was a gambler and a scoundrel, my father's reputation was always in front of me. Mary's place in society was even more perilous and what was worse, she actually cared what people thought about her. She was forgiven for her former life as a companion because she was beautiful, sweet and virtuous, but the slightest marr on her character would see the doors of Society close on her. There were some no doubt who could not wait to see her fall.
Learning about her mother's insanity had brought my wife into sharp focus. I had started to understand my little Sphinx better. The outrage that Daniel had committed against her was another piece of the puzzle but still something was missing, something that made her an enigma even to me. Slowly throughout our marriage, I had peeled back her secrets, learning more about who she was but her confession about Daniel had cut too deep. I could see the pain it had caused her and I hated myself for pushing her to it. I feared if I pushed her further, if she knew I knew the truth about her mother, she would not recover from the revelation.
I opened and closed my fists, watching the colour change in my knuckles, and thought about my next act of revenge against Daniel Mordaunt. The sound beating I'd given him had been a short-term solution for my anger, but it was not enough. The years Mary has suffered with her shame alone, there was more retribution needed. Physical pain was not enough, I would make Daniel Mordaunt think death was a far kinder fate by the end. I would have to take revenge from afar, Mary's kind heart would be unable to sanction the deeds I had in mind.
My brooding interrupted by the ticket inspector cheerfully checking my ticket and wishing me a good day. It was strange to snap back into social niceties after plotting another man's downfall.
This time in Bishopton, I stayed in the relative comfort of the Grand rather than the shabby Black Lion. I remembered my first visit to the town, tracing the steps of my missing wife, I had been full of confusion and desperation. Mary had come up here four times since then, her visits clouded by mystery and sadness. I pretended not to care about these secret visits but I longed for her to confide in me, I wanted no secrets between us. I wanted to lay my soul bare to her but held back, knowing she was unable to do the same.
I rarely felt nervous. It was not an emotion that had been taught or encouraged in my childhood. However, as I walked through the grim gates of Chestnut Lodge I felt a bubble of apprehension. A sneaking feat nagged at me. What if the truth was not what I wanted? The hatchet-faced matron did absolutely nothing to soothe my nerves. I signed the visitors book, wishing that I could use a false name in case Mary ever noticed it. At least the good doctor accepted cash for his silence.
"You wrote saying you needed to speak to me," he said, pouring me a sherry. "Do you have any concerns about you wife?"
"Should I have concerns?" I said, pretending to be occupied with the colour of the sherry.
"A question to answer a question," the doctor said smugly. "How interesting."
"I am not here because I am concerned about my wife's health," I said. "But I wanted to ask about her future health, if we were to start a family."
"She still doesn't know that you know about her mother?" he asked.
"Now you are answering a question with a question," I said. "But no, and I pay you handsomely to keep it that way."
The doctor nodded and pressed his fingers together thoughtfully.
"Your wife wrote to me recently and asked the same question."
My stomach gave a twist.
"And what did you tell her?"
"That although many diseases of the mind are inherited, I thought in this case that it was unlikely. Her mother's madness was triggered by a very tragic set of circumstances and I do not perceive the same weakness of mind in Mrs Wilkes."
He paused and looked thoughtful.
"I do understand why she is scared, given what happened with her mother."
"Go on," I said.
"Yes, we never got into the specifics of poor Mrs Taylor, did we? Let me see," the doctor said, flipping open a file.
"It was very tragic. All brought about by the death of her son."
"Mary had a brother?"
"Yes, the boy was only 6 months old. The nursemaid was distracted while giving the baby a bath and the poor infant drowned."
"How awful," I said.
"Well the Taylors were as distraught as you can imagine and the young nursemaid could not live with her guilt and hung herself the very next day," he said, turning the pages. "Mrs Taylor became more and more obsessive of her daughter, unwilling to let her out of her sight."
"Understandable," I said.
"But as melancholia gripped her, she became convinced the only way that her and Mary could be together was through death."
I said nothing, but listened with mounting horror. The doctor continued to read the notes dispassionately.
"She roused her daughter in the middle of the night, took her from her bed out into the garden. Carried the child half-sleeping to the bridge by the river and went over together."
My poor Mary! What terror she must have felt in that cold, dark water, in the arms of the person she trusted most to protect her. That was the shame she carried, that was the fear she had, that was why she could not share her burden with me. I felt sick for knowing the truth, for prying into a secret so dark that it would forever cast a shadow on her. I understood and wished I didn't.
"Fortunately her governess had noticed her missing and roused the rest of the household," he continued. "They were both pulled out of the water in time, but I believe the child had nightmares afterwards."
She still does, I thought.
"And that is why Mrs Taylor came here?" I asked.
"Better than an embarrassing court case for attempted murder."
Embarrassment. Shame. The reason that Mary's father flitted from county to county, teaching her to hide her mother's madness and run from her problems. Yet there must have been some tenderness on his part, to visit his wife so frequently when she had committed such an awful act and make his daughter do the same.
"You are wondering what makes me think your wife does not suffer from the same malady?"
I wasn't but now my interest was piqued. I nodded.
"I have known Mrs Wilkes since she was that scared little girl who had almost been drowned. I've seen the challenges she's faced: her mother's affliction, her father's agonising death and her plunge into poverty to pay for her mother's treatment. She faced all this and more with a mental resilience rare for her sex," he said, with just the right amount of pomposity. "And now she clearly has a devoted husband at her side? You'll steer her well."
"Yes, I will," I said.
I would share her burden without her knowing. I would shield her secret from the rest of the world. I would give Mary the love and devotion that she deserved. That was how I could protect her, that was how I could show my love for her. Mary could never know the depths of my love, but I would know. I would know that there was no bounds for my love for her.