"Good evening," I say, marching in.
"Good evening," he says, standing.
Emily looks stricken."Oh, miss, I was just . . . just . . ." "Emily, I have some business to discuss with Mr. Kartik just now, if you wouldn't mind."
Like a shot, Emily is running for the house.
"What did you mean by your comment tonight?"
"I simply asked if you had a pleasant evening. With Mr. Muddleton."
"Middleton," I correct him."He is a gentleman, you know."
"He looks like a fop."
"I'll thank you not to insult him. You know nothing about him."
"I don't like the way he looks at you. As if you were a piece of ripe fruit."
"He doesn't do anything of the sort. Wait a moment. How do you know how he looks at me? Were you spying on me?"
Chagrined, Kartik buries his nose in his book."He did look at you that way. In the library."
"You threw those rocks against the window!" Kartik jumps up, the book forgotten. "You allowed him to touch your hair!"
It's true. It was much too unladylike of me. I'm embarrassed but I'm not about to let on to Kartik. "I do have something to tell you, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to hear it."
Kartik scoffs."I'm not feeling sorry for myself."
"A good night to you, then."
"Wait!" Kartik takes a step after me. I'm gloating. It is unattractive, but there it is. "I'm sorry. I promise to be on my very best behavior," he says. He falls to his knees dramatically and pulls an acorn from the ground, holding it to his neck."I beg of you, Miss Doyle. Tell me or I shall be forced to kill myself with this mighty weapon."
"Oh, do get up," I say, laughing in spite of myself. "Tom has a patient at Bethlem. Nell Hawkins. He says she suffers from delusions."
"That would explain her confinement in Bethlem." He gives me a smug smile. When I do not return it, he says contritely, "Sorry. Please go on."
"She claims she's a member of the Order, and that a woman named Circe is trying to find her. She says she's driven herself mad to keep Circe from getting to her."
The smirk vanishes. "You must see Nell Hawkins straightaway."
"Yes, I've arranged it already. Tomorrow, around noon, I shall read poetry to Nell Hawkins and find out what she knows about the Temple. Was he really looking at me that way?"
"What way?"
"Like a piece of ripe fruit?"
"You'd best be on your guard with him," Kartik says.
He's jealous! Kartik is jealous and Simon finds me . . . delicious? I am a bit giddy. And confused. But no, mostly giddy, I find. "I am quite able to look after myself," I say. I turn smartly on my heel and smack directly into the wall, raising a bump upon my forehead that will probably remain forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, DRESSED IN MY GRAY flannel suit and a felt hat, I join Tom at Bethlem Royal Hospital. The building is impressive. The front has a portico supported by six white columns. A windowed dome rests on top like a bobby's hat. I can only hope that Tom cannot hear the hammering of my heart. With luck, Miss Hawkins will unlock the mystery of the Temple for me.
"You look quite presentable, Gemma, save for that bruise on your forehead," Tom says, peering at it. "How did you get that?"
"It's nothing," I say, pushing my hat lower on my forehead.
"No matter. You shall be the prettiest girl in Bethlem," Tom says.
Ah, lovely to know that I shall be prettier than all the lunatics. I've got that going for me, at least. Poor Tom. He means well. He's been much nicer to me since Simon's obvious interest. It's almost as if I'm human in his eyes. Perish the thought.
I decide to pity him and answer without an unruly tone. "Thank you. I am looking forward to meeting Miss Hawkins."
"Don't expect too much, Gemma. Her mind is tortured. Sometimes she does and says outrageous things. You're not used to such sights. You must steel yourself."
I have seen things you would not believe, my dear brother,
"Yes. Thank you. I shall take your advice to heart."
We walk through a long corridor, windows on our right and doors on our left. Ferns hang in baskets from the ceiling, giving the hallway a bright feel. I don't know what I expected a lunatic asylum to be like, but I did not imagine this. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was entering one of London's exclusive clubs. The nurses pass us by with a quiet nod, their stiff white hats perched atop their heads like day-old meringues.