The Escape (A Secret Past - Volume Five): A Secret Past, #5

By Norah Black

Volume 5 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, Clara’s confusion at Robert’s actions as he left her room at the asylum grows when she receives word that he and Helen are engaged.

Feeling hurt and betrayed but refusing to give up hope, Clara settles into devising a plan to get herself out of the asylum unassisted.

Before she can put her plans into action, she gets a visit from someone entirely unexpected.

Will this strange visitor be the answer to all her prayers…or the final reminder of her cruel reality…?

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: 9781540198136

Book preview

Volume 5 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, Clara’s confusion at Robert’s actions as he left her room at the asylum grows when she receives word that he and Helen are engaged.

Feeling hurt and betrayed but refusing to give up hope, Clara settles into devising a plan to get herself out of the asylum unassisted.

Before she can put her plans into action, she gets a visit from someone entirely unexpected.

Will this strange visitor be the answer to all her prayers...or the final reminder of her cruel reality...?

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

Also includes a Sneak Peek at an upcoming novel!

Volume Five

For a few hours, Clara had let herself believe that she had something to look forward to, that her days at the asylum were numbered and she would be happy to leave. But the manner of Robert’s departure left her confused and afraid. She eagerly counted the days that passed immediately after his visit, trying to convince herself that he would return and explain himself. As the days became weeks, Clara stopped counting. Dr. Dixon had ceased his habit of spending mealtimes with her and dropped off their discussions of Freud and the other German thinkers and philosophers that he’d introduced her to. She wanted to believe it was because he was ashamed of what having been caught helping she and Robert, but one afternoon she decided if must be because their time together had served its purpose. He’d been sent to earn and build her trust so he could exploit it when the time came.

The next time she saw him, he came to her door while an attendant stood watching her poke at her midday meal. Motioning for the aide to leave them, Dr. Dixon entered, waiting for her to set aside the tray and give him her attention. She’d only managed to swallow a few bites but her skills at rearranging the food on her plate made it look like she had consumed far more.

Dr. Dixon opened his mouth to speak however when he glanced down at Clara’s sorrowful expression, he simply pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. She hesitated to take it. In the end, he placed it on her lap, took up her abandoned food tray, and walked out.

He had to escape from that look in her eyes. It would be one thing if she looked at him with the anger and defiance that flashed when her aunt had been to see her. But those were either gone entirely or she had buried them so deeply that they might as well be gone. And he hated himself for the part he played in what he saw as breaking her.

But Clara wasn’t broken, at least, not entirely; it was just her heart and it was just for now. The envelope hadn’t traveled by post; it had been delivered to the asylum for Dr. Dixon to pass along to her. He’d left the note with instructions in the opened envelope so she could see that it was her aunt’s familiar handwriting. There was no letter or note for Clara herself, just a clipping from the newspaper announcing the engagement of Helen Davis to Robert Flint. There were no details about when the blessed wedding would take place or who was invited. She was sure that information would follow at some point. Martha hadn’t shown any mercy yet so Clara knew better than to expect any in the future.

Her tears fell silently on the thin newsprint even as she fought to reassure herself that it must be part of a larger plan on Helen’s part. Whether or not she could still believe the promises and words of devotion that Robert had whispered in her ear while they had lain on her tired mattress, Clara knew with absolute certainty that Helen would never go through with the wedding. They may have learned that they were only cousins, but they had been raised as sisters and in spirit, sisters they remained.

Whenever she was finally released from the asylum, she could count on Helen to comfort her if Robert had in fact betrayed her. It would be on Helen’s shoulder she cried and confessed that she shouldn’t have let herself get carried away so easily. It was Helen who would tell her that though it might feel hopeless at times, Clara could and would be happy; if anyone deserved it, it was Clara.

So Clara let herself cry for a while and then dried her tears on the announcement, balling the flimsy page up and leaving it to be taken out with the scraps of her dinner. She saw smudges of the ink on her fingers and the questioning air of the aide suggested she must have gotten some on her face as well, but she held her head high and set her jaw, waiting until she was taken to the facilities to dampen her sleeve and wipe her eyes properly.

She might have thought that Robert would fill that aching void in her chest but she saw that even in his absence, it hadn’t returned. The ache she currently felt was different, something she knew would heal with time. He hadn’t been the missing piece after all; he had only helped her to find it within herself. Whatever happened, however much he might have hurt her, she smiled as she reflected on what he’d given her. She would be happier with him in her life, but she now knew she would always be happier simply for having known him, for having found herself through him. He hadn’t used her; she’d used him. She could say goodbye if she had to, but she mostly just wanted to say thank you.

Of course, the epiphanies and resulting contentment of an afternoon proved poor consolation in the face of uncertainty of prolonged imprisonment and isolation. Clara reverted to her earlier habit of observing the staff around her in their comings and goings, bending her mind and her will to the task of getting herself out of the asylum. It might take years, but patience was something Clara had in excess.

Clara was most surprised when Dr. Dixon’s face appeared at the small window to her room one morning, accompanied by Dr. Thompson. She couldn’t hear what the two were saying but there was a lot of nodding before the partition was replaced and Clara was left to ponder what it meant.

Was she going to be moved? Would she wind up in the same facility as Amelia? Was that even something she wanted? She thought back on the day she’d met her mother. The facility had been progressive in their attitudes and methods that after however long she’d spent in her current room, were an attractive option. Clara also wondered what a possible move might imply. Was Martha moving her because she felt she’d won, that the approaching wedding had left her feeling triumphant enough to be magnanimous to transfer somewhere more tolerable? Maybe it showed that Martha was capable of feeling something like guilt or remorse and the move was some sort of recompense. But Clara couldn’t bring herself to believe either possibility. Martha would wait to indulge herself after the wedding had taken place and even then, neither pity nor guilt struck Clara as emotions Martha was capable of feeling.

Clara’s pondering drifted back to her mother’s relationship with Martha and what had passed between them. The way Martha referred to her sister and what happened spoke to something more than just scandal, ruined reputations, and being tainted by association. Clara’s curiosity was roused once more but where before the need to know drove her, this time it was centered on a way to pass the time. Perhaps the answers to her escape lay with the story of what had happened all those years ago. Although, there would likely be several opportunities to escape while she was being moved or from the other facility itself; the progressive institute didn’t seem to have the same concerns as far as keeping its patients under lock and key.

Several more days passed with no word from or sign of either Dr. Dixon or Dr. Thompson. Perhaps the latter had been to the asylum on unrelated business and was only taken to see her because of his curiosity, having met her so close to her own institutionalization.

Then one day the partition moved again revealing both Dr. Dixon’s and Dr. Thompson’s faces. Clara tried to catch their eyes but they left without warning and with no sign of if or when they’d be returning. She went back to reading her book. It wasn’t an especially compelling tale but it did include scenes of a prison break that hit a chord with Clara given her predicament. It opened her mind to the logistics of more than just escaping her imprisonment. If she did get away, how would she elude recapture? Where would she go? What would she do for food, money, lodging?

When she heard the distant bell tolling the hour that signaled the midday meal, Clara closed her book and set about preparing for the aide who would bring her food, wondering which it would be today (whomever it was, they were running a little late).

Dr. Dixon opened the door bearing her tray. It was the first he’d really taken the time to meet and hold her gaze since everything had transpired with Robert and the remembrance of that day brought a twinge of pain to her chest. She was healing from the emotional blow; she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully recover from the disappointment and just as the suspicion had crept in before, a flame of hope persisted in flaring from time to time. Pulling the bundle of letters Helen had returned to her, she would read through them urging the flame to catch and burn away the doubt, warm her numbing heart again.

Dr. Dixon cleared his throat. I hope you don’t mind having some company this afternoon, he said, handing her tray over to her. She presumed he was speaking about himself and shrugged, examining the day’s fare instead. He could talk at her if he liked but she hadn’t decided whether she would respond.

When she glanced up, she noticed that he had gone back to the door where Dr. Thompson was leading Amelia in. She held his arm tightly and he patted her hand reassuringly.

Clara started to object but ultimately held her tongue. A second chair was brought into the room and Dr. Thompson eased Amelia into it. A tray was brought in for her as well. Amelia’s eyes stayed fixed on Dr. Thompson as he edged towards the door, nodding to her encouragingly.

Do you think you two will be all right alone? Dr. Dixon asked Clara as he stood with his hand on the doorknob. We’ll be just outside here in the hallway if you need anything. All you have to do is knock.

Clara ran her eyes quickly over the timid figure of Amelia. Her posture was a little hunched as she sat balancing her food tray on her lap. She would start out looking at Clara but her gaze would drift to the wall and run along the lines where ceiling, walls, and floor intersected, the confining boundaries of the room. Clara recognized the mental assessment Amelia was making and the way her grip on the spoon from her tray tightened. It was something Clara could picture herself doing in every room she entered for the rest of her life; it was the way someone who had once been caged calculated the odds of escaping, plotted routes out of a confined space, oriented themselves to find the angle at which they had the best view of anyone coming for them.

We’ll be fine, she said confidently, smiling for Amelia’s benefit rather than out of any sense of gratitude toward Dr. Dixon.

He nodded and left them to their meal. Clara and Amelia silently set about the process of eating.

In an effort to show that she was not bothered by Amelia’s presence, Clara set about eating her meal and not just pushing the food around as she had been doing with increased frequency. It was a skill her mother shared. Amelia used her fork to prod at the bland fare before her, but mostly watched Clara.

With an unexpected clang, Amelia lifted the tray from her lap and set it on the foot of Clara’s bed. I don’t know why I let them talk me into doing this, she muttered as she rose from her chair in order to pace and wring her hands. You don’t want me here... Can’t exactly blame you... Never even suspected you were alive... Should have known better, though... Why I let Martha... Should have written him... Too late to make a difference now... Been too long...

Clara carefully set her own tray aside and rose, approaching Amelia with caution. She hadn’t thought very much about how that meeting with her mother had impacted her mother. She had wanted to know what had happened between Martha and Amelia and who her father was because she was curious and looking for answers about herself but she had never stopped to wonder what her reappearance would do to Amelia.

As she reached out to take the older woman’s hand, Amelia stopped and stared at Clara’s outstretched arm, startling Clara and causing her to pause. Amelia tentatively took hold of Clara’s hand, examining it. I never even got to hold you after you were born... Never felt you grip my finger with your hand. She looked up from their joined hands. "She took it from me; she took it from us." There were tears in Amelia’s eyes as she looked at Clara.

Why? Clara whispered.

Because of what I took from her.

What did you take from her that could possibly justify that?

Your father, Amelia said with a catch in her voice. Her eyes drifted to Clara’s neckline, searching for the locket. Clara almost regretted that she didn’t have it with her anymore but refrained from telling Amelia what she’d done with it. She was mildly ashamed of the tantrum she’d indulged in that night.

Amelia reached out for the chair she’d abandoned a few minutes earlier and Clara helped lower her into it. She didn’t want to press too hard but she could sense she was on the edge of finally knowing the rest of the story and she wouldn’t let herself be backed away again; she was going over whether it took pushing, pulling, or jumping to get there. But after more than twenty years, Amelia willingly led her daughter where she needed to go.

Your father’s name is Arthur. Arthur Nicholson. He and Martha met while I was traveling with one of our aunts. It was a trip she had meant to take with her husband. But he wasn’t well enough to go. After he died, she asked both Martha and I to join her. Martha never cared much for that sort of thing though. She didn’t mind going between the usual seasonal spots, Newport, the city, the country estate; but she was too timid about the prospect of ocean travel and was willing to sacrifice a trip to Europe. So I went and she stayed. And she met Arthur.

Clara had been standing beside Amelia’s chair, her own out of reach. Instead of letting go of her mother’s hand to move her chair, Clara quietly dropped to the floor, pulling her legs up underneath her and leaning against the seat and Amelia’s thigh.

It was a match that both our parents and his approved. By the time I came back from Europe, they had already been engaged for a few weeks. It was several days before I actually met him at a party though Martha spoke of little else from the moment I arrived home. It was clear that she liked him, but from the way talked of him... she was so reserved and precise in how she described him. Everything was just a reiteration of what he’d told her or what she’d learned about him; nothing really about who he was or what he was like. It felt like she was simply going along with it, that it was something convenient, something to do to keep busy.

She turned and looked directly into Clara’s eyes.

I didn’t think she cared for him all that deeply. She didn’t act like it at all. I knew my sister and I’d seen her excited and passionate about the things that mattered to her. Even though she was always the more reserved one, I knew what she was like when she cared about something. She didn’t get that way about Arthur at all.

Amelia clutched Clara’s hand tightly, her nails digging into the flesh of Clara’s palm. She needed to convince someone that she hadn’t set out to hurt Martha.

Clara reached up with her other arm and placed her free hand over their clasped ones, nodding to show she understood what Amelia was trying to tell her. The grip loosened and some of the pain in Clara’s palm subsided.

Martha introduced us, she went on, her gaze shifting to the window and the blue-grey sky. The tension brought on by the closeness of the four walls dissipated the longer she focused on the world