The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie(98)

His is a typical case of haughty resentment which is festering his brain. Notice how he avoids your eyes, which shows declined trust and lack of truthfulness. Note how his attention wanders when he is spoken to, how he interrupts with an inappropriate comment or question that has nothing to do with the topic at It and. This is arrogance taken to the point of hysteria—the patient can no longer connect with people he deems beneath him. Treatment: austere surroundings, cold baths, exercise, electric shock to stimulate healing. Regular beatings to suppress his rages. The treatment is effective, gentlemen. He has calmed considerably since he first came to me.

If Ian had “calmed,” it was because he’d realized that if he suppressed his rages and abrupt speeches, he’d be left alone. He’d learned to become an automaton, a clockwork boy that moved and talked in a certain way. To violate the pattern meant hours locked in a small room, electric shocks through the body, beatings every night. When Ian became the clockwork young man again, his tormentors left him alone. They at least let him read books and take lessons with a tutor. Ian’s mind was restless, absorbing everything put in front of it. He mastered languages in a matter of days. He progressed from simple arithmetic to higher calculus within a year. He read a book every day and could recite huge passages from each one. He found some refuge in music and learned pieces he heard played, but never how to read music. The notes and staffs were so much black-and-white mess to him.

Ian also couldn’t master subjects like logic, ethics, and philosophy. He could mouth the phrases from Aristode, Socrates, Plato, but not understand or interpret them.



The arrogance of his class coupled with his resentment toward his

family has created a blockage in his brain, Dr. Edwards would explain to his enthusiastic audiences. He can read and remember but not understand. He also shows no interest in his father, never asks after him or writes to him even when it is suggested to him. He also makes no sign that he misses his dear, departed mother.Dr. Edwards never saw the boy Ian sob into his pillow at night, alone, afraid, hating the dark. Knowing that if his father came for him, it would be to kill him for what Ian had seen.

Ian’s only friends were the asylum’s servants, maids who smuggled him sweetmeats from the kitchen and wine from the servants’ hall. They helped him hide the cheroots Mac brought him and the naughty books Cameron gave him when he came to call.

You read these, Cameron would whisper, with a wink. You need to know which end of a woman is what, and what each is for.

Ian had learned that at seventeen at the hands of the plump, golden-haired maid who cleaned his hearth every morning. She’d kept their secret liaison for two years, then married the coachman and moved off to a better life. Ian told Hart to make her a wedding present of several hundred guineas, but would never say why.

That was a long time ago. Ian swam back to the present, but the present was stark and terrifying. He sat in darkness, curtains cloaking the windows, while Beth struggled to live. If she died, he might as well take himself back to the asylum and lock himself in, because he’d go mad if he had to live without her.

Isabella arrived not long later. She entered the room in a faint rustle of silk, her eyes filling as she took in Beth on the bed.

“Ian, I’m so sorry.”

Ian couldn’t answer. Isabella looked exhausted. She caressed Beth’s hand and lifted it to her lips.

“I saw the doctor downstairs,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “He told me there wasn’t much hope.”



“The doctor is an idiot.”“She’s burning up.”

“I won’t let her die.”



Isabella sank down on the bed, still holding Beth’s hand. “It happens, usually to the best people. They’re taken away to teach us humility.” Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Balls.”Isabella looked up at him, her smile wan. “You’re stubborn, like a Mackenzie.”

“I am a Mackenzie.” What a damn fool thing to say. “I won’t let her die. I can’t.” Beth moved listlessly on the bed, soft sounds coming from her mouth.

“She’s delirious,” Isabella whispered.

Ian wet a cloth and dabbed it to Beth’s tongue as she tried to talk, her voice a croak. She lapped the droplets that fell from it, whimpering.

Isabella wiped away tears as she rose from the bed and blindly made her way out.

Mac came in not long later, his face haggard.

“Any change?” he asked.

“No.” Ian didn’t look up from pressing a cloth filled with ice to Beth’s forehead. “Did you come with Isabella?” Mac gave a soft snort. “Hardly. Different trains, different boats, and she changed her hotel as soon as she found out I’d booked in there, too.”