The Plan (A Secret Past - Volume Four): A Secret Past, #4

By Norah Black

Volume 4 of the A Secret Past series

Clara has spent twenty-three years watching life pass by from her family’s country estate while they enjoyed all the pleasure and company available to the wealthy in 1920’s America.

Now, after a day that has already put Clara through the emotional wringer, Martha has discovered her deception.

Clara is sent away - far, far away, where she is cut off from everyone and everything she’s ever known. Clara is left to wonder about Trudy’s fate, as well as whether or not Robert ever thinks of her still.

Her visitors are few and far between, leaving Clara alone in the struggle to hold onto her sanity. Will she survive…?

Note: Parts of A Secret Past were previously published as Clara’s Secret.

Also includes a Sneak Peek at an upcoming novel!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roja Publishing
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536557350

Book preview

Volume 4 of the A Secret Past series

Clara has spent twenty-three years watching life pass by from her family’s country estate while they enjoyed all the pleasure and company available to the wealthy in 1920’s America.

Now, after a day that has already put Clara through the emotional wringer, Martha has discovered her deception.

Clara is sent away - far, far away, where she is cut off from everyone and everything she’s ever known. Clara is left to wonder about Trudy’s fate, as well as whether or not Robert ever thinks of her still.

Her visitors are few and far between, leaving Clara alone in the struggle to hold onto her sanity. Will she survive...?

Note: Parts of A Secret Past were previously published as Clara’s Secret.

Also includes a Sneak Peek at an upcoming novel!

Volume Four

Clara tried to turn doorknob and force the door open but the lock held. So she began banging on the wood and calling to be let out. She did not know what hour it was nor did she care if she woke the whole household. Maybe someone would come to her aid or at least explain to her what was happening. It didn’t take long for her to admit that nobody was coming to help her or that Martha would almost certainly be there to stop anyone who tried.

She sank to the floor and began crying, leaning against the door in the process. All the anguish and frustration she felt at meeting her mother came bubbling to the surface as well, loud and powerful sobs that shook her entire frame. She clung to the locket at her neck, holding on as if it was a buoy and she was in danger of drowning. But she must have pulled on it too hard. The locket came away in her hand. She tried to put it back on but the fastening had broken and a fresh wave of tears and sobs overpowered her.

Where was Trudy? Or Helen? What had happened? How had they been found out? Who was coming to get her in the morning and where would they be taking her? Why was she always the last to know about anything and everything? She had been quiet and accepting for too long and now that she was ready to search for answers on her own, the structures for keeping that from happening were in place and too strong for her to fight against.

She looked at the locket in her hand. It shimmered in the moonlight streaming through the window. She ran her thumbnail along the rim as she’d seen her mother do earlier and it popped open. It took a second to find the right angle and catch the moonlight, but then she saw her father’s face again, staring at a point off to the side of the photographer. But to Clara, it looked like he was trying to avoid looking at her, trying to avoid acknowledging her. And suddenly she was violently angry.

She clamped the locket shut and threw it across the darkened room with a frustrated and guttural release of the breath she’d been holding in her lungs. It must have hit the drapes or something else soft because she didn’t hear it land. Clara wiped the tears from her eyes and stood on shaking legs, breathing deeply and fighting the urge to scream once more. What had she ever done to deserve anything she’d had to endure? If her aunt seemed to despise her so much, why hadn’t she been sent to an orphanage ages ago? Her thoughts flew to Robert who was probably only just arriving at his cousin’s home. How would he find out she was gone and when? He had promised to call in a few days and begged her to arrange things with Helen so they could meet in the garden again.

She crossed to the bed but bumped into something before she got there. Feeling her way in the dark, she managed to find the lamp on the table beside her bed and light it. There was a small trunk sitting on the floor but the latches wouldn’t open. It was locked. She glanced around the room and noticed how sparse it looked. Her handful of books and papers on her desk were gone. She walked over and pulled open the drawers but they were empty. She pulled open the door of her closet to see that the few articles she’d kept in it were absent. She hadn’t been particularly attached to anything except the dresses Helen had given her.

She gasped as a twinge of fear pinched her chest. She twisted slowly to find that, indeed, her jewelry box was missing from its place atop her dresser. Seeing it didn’t stop Clara from rushing over and checking each of the drawers as well as the floor around the large piece of furniture, pulling it away from the wall to see if it had fallen or been moved. The jewelry box wasn’t the only thing not to be found in the dresser. The drawers were empty, explaining why it had been so easy to move. In fact, the only things left in the room that she could tell were the sheets on the bed and the drapes at the window.

Clara flopped back on the bed after kicking the trunk. The pain that shot through her foot had the unexpected result of clearing her mind. The trunk was far too small to fit everything that had been in her room. She didn’t care about any of it except the jewelry box with Robert’s letters. She thought of searching for the locket but no longer wanted it. She pulled the small handbag open and fished out the photograph of her mother and Martha, placing it carefully on the pillow beside her. She didn’t want that anymore either. She wanted Robert.

The wind picked up outside and a rattling noise caught her attention. Propping herself up on her elbows, Clara looked over to the window. A small branch was tapping against the glass. She would climb down. Even though she’d never climbed a ladder, let alone a tree, Clara was determined that she could and would make it through the window, down the tree, and across the yard to the road, where she would walk in the direction of the Robinson’s house, asking along the way until she found it. After everything she’d learned and done that day, Clara knew she was capable of far more than she or anyone else had ever given herself credit for.

Pushing aside the drapes, Clara heard what she assumed was the locket hit the floor with a dull thud. She ignored it and leveraged herself against the sash to push it up. Checking the latch to be sure it wasn’t locked she braced herself and tried again. The window did have a tendency to stick when the weather became humid, but it was still early in the season for that. She banged against the frame to loosen it but the window still wouldn’t budge. Dropping her hands to the sill and resting her forehead against the cool glass, Clara noticed the nails piercing the bottom of the frame, securing it to the ledge.

She hit the window frame in frustration. Then she hit it again and again, because it felt so good to lose control and hit something for a change. There was a sharp pain in her right hand and the tinkling of glass hitting the floor. A small piece of the frame had splintered, shattering one of the small rectangles of glass and slicing the palm of Clara’s hand.

The thought briefly passed through her mind that, if she was willing to try, she might be able to break the rest of the window. But as she stared at the blood trickling steadily from her hand and remembered that, other than the meager lamp, there was nothing she could use to assist in the endeavor, all the energy drained from Clara and she sank to the floor once more. Pressing her hand tenderly into the fabric of her skirt, she gave up. There was no point trying to get away.

She fumbled around on the floor for the locket she’d shaken free of the drapes, pricking and cutting her fingers on the pieces of broken glass several times before locating it. She crawled over to the bed and pulled herself across it sideways. The photograph stared back at her from where she’d propped up on her pillow. She opened the locket again and placed it at the base of the photo, a bloody fingerprint obscured her father’s image.

Clara fell asleep, clutching the bedspread in her cut hand to stem the bleeding.

***

Clara was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway and the key turning in the lock. She didn’t bother sitting up. Instead she looked at the images of her parents one last time and closed her eyes again.

Clara, Martha said in a tone that was meant to be soothing and calming. Goodness, what have you been up to in here? she exclaimed over the mess. You see, even with so little, she manages to hurt herself. The mattress sunk under Martha’s weight and she eased the blood-caked bed spread from Clara’s wounded hand. The cut reopened and Martha flinched at the fresh blood.

I’m surprised you didn’t contact someone sooner, a low male voice responded. Martha was sacrifice her seat for the body that went with the voice.

You must know how difficult it can be to admit that you need professional help, especially when it concerns taking care of family, Martha lamented.

Can you have someone fetch a basin with warm water? the voice asked, ignoring Martha’s attempt at polite conversation. We should tend to this before we move her.

A few minutes later, Clara’s eyes shot open at the sting of having her hand bathed and bandaged. Look who’s awake, the man remarked with a smile. He seemed nice enough and he was gentle, taking care that there were no slivers of wood or glass in the cut before wrapping it. But there was something official about his attitude and the crisp lines of his suit that put her on edge.

When he was done wrapping her hand, he set it carefully back on the bed and addressed her. Clara, I’m Dr. Dixon from the Stockwell Asylum. Your family are concerned for your well-being and have asked that you be committed to our facility for an extended period of observation before we settle on the best course of treatment. Do you understand? Is there anything you wish to bring with you, any personal effects that you would like?

Everything she needs is in that trunk there, Martha interrupted. Young man, she addressed someone Clara couldn’t see from her spot on the bed. Would you mind carrying that down? It shouldn’t be too heavy. There was a brief shuffling noise as the man addressed lifted the trunk and carried it out of the room.

What about these? Dr. Dixon asked, his eyes never leaving Clara’s as he reached over to the pillow for the photograph and locket. Would you like to take them?

Before Martha could see what the young doctor was referring to, Clara sat up and took both in her unwounded hand. The doctor and the assistant who remained watched Clara carefully, no doubt gauging whether or not force would be needed to get her to the waiting vehicle. Martha was doing her best to play the concerned caretaker who hated admitting that the patient needed more care than she could provide but when her gaze met Clara’s, the mask slipped a little revealing a glimpse of the triumph she felt. She saw what was in Clara’s hands and her jaw clenched, the pride replaced momentarily by irritation.

Clara walked over to her aunt and held the items out to her.

Helen can have the locket back, she said, forcing the items into Martha’s unwilling hands. I don’t need these anymore.

Clara looked away, spotted her mirror and walked over to it to examine her reflection. She looked haggard, especially about the eyes. There were creases on her face from the way the bedspread had crumpled beneath her cheek as she slept. Redness and puffiness from crying didn’t help matters, and there was a streak of dried blood from where she’d pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. She did her best to straighten out her limp blouse and skirt, picking at the dried blood that marked where she’d pressed her hand to her thigh. She turned back to her expectant observers.

I’m ready now.

Dr. Dixon nodded and reached out to guide her from the room, as though she didn’t know her way through the house. Clara hesitated as she passed Martha, pondering whether it would be worthwhile to ask about her jewelry box, but when Dr. Dixon’s hand, which had merely been resting on her lower back met with that momentary resistance, it shifted position to her upper arm and he tugged to keep her moving along. She walked the rest of the way to the car quietly and let them sandwich her in the back seat between Dr. Dixon and one of the assistants. The other man drove.

She glanced over at the windows of the house and saw Helen’s face pressed to one, her expression full of sorrow and an inaudible apology on her lips. Clara couldn’t get close enough for Helen to see her and she was afraid that if she tried to say or do anything, she’d break down sobbing again like she had during the night.

As they pulled away, Dr. Dixon began telling her a little about the facility. He seemed pleased with her stoicism but also wary, like he was just waiting for her to break and lash out at them. But the closest she came to losing her control were the silent tears that slowly worked their way down her cheeks and she continued to look straight ahead.

***

The facility was imposing as the car drove through the main gates and Clara saw the daunting size of the brick building. It housed the main offices, treatment centers, common rooms, and the living quarters for most of the patients.

Dr. Dixon explained everything about her daily schedule and the policies at the institution. Because she’s there for diagnostic observation she will mostly be kept isolated except for brief predetermined periods when she will be observed interacting with select other patients. Her visitors will be strictly limited. Meals will be served with regularity and no special requests or deviation from the rules is tolerated. The few personal effects and clothes that she brought in her trunk will be provided for her use as soon as the staff can go through them to be sure they’re in keeping with the rules and they’re assured they can’t be used inappropriately. When asked if she understood, Clara simply nodded and let them usher her around while members of the staff removed her bloody skirt and blouse, washed and checked her for other injuries, and put her into the basic loose fitting dress that was standard issue for all patients.

When she was released to her room, she didn’t even bother looking around or examining the space too carefully. She knew there was nothing to see. A small, nondescript (and uncomfortable) cot was in one corner. There was a single chair beside a barred window that overlooked the decorative hedge that shielded the outside world from the asylum’s inner workings. At mealtimes, an aide would bring her a tray and stay there while she ate. Several times during the course of the day, she would be let out to use the facilities. If they judged she could be trusted, in a few days she might be allowed to borrow books from the library or other means to pass the time. But beyond that, for the foreseeable future, she was on her own.

Before they had finished addressing her, Clara crossed to the bed, lay down on top of the rough blankets, and closed her eyes. She heard the bolt sliding into place as they locked the door. She tried unsuccessfully to sleep, hoping that when she woke up she would find herself in bed at home and it would all have been a dream; and not just the asylum, but the interview with her mother too. The only thing she didn’t want to pretend was a dream was the time she spent with Robert.

She heard bells toll from a clock tower somewhere on the grounds. It had been less than twelve hours since she’d parted from Robert. Did he know yet? Did he suspect something might be wrong? Or was he still blissfully unaware that she had been spirited away at first light? Who would tell him and more importantly, how? She wanted to believe that Helen would make sure he knew the truth but she had trusted Helen to keep her absence secret and that had clearly failed. And what about Trudy? Where had she been during the whole ordeal? Something had obviously disrupted their plan, but what?

She should never have gone back into the house. She should have known better than to return to her cage after having escaped. If she’d asked, perhaps Robert would have taken her to stay with Clifton and Nora. They knew the truth about the lies Martha had been telling. Surely, they would have taken