A Woman's Place
When Arthur Creswell was born, his father, famed robber baron Malcolm Creswell, was immediately given the good news that his wife had borne him a son. Less than ten minutes later, the proud father was given an update: there was a second child, a girl.
"Twins?" Malcolm said, astounded by the news. "Well, I'll be damned! I suddenly find myself a father of two children."
Mrs. Creswell, the former Miss Malvina Smythe of New York and Philadelphia, gave birth to two babies blessed with good health who would share the same birthday and one day inherit an equal share of the vast Creswell family fortune. That was where any similarity between the children ended.
"It's hard to believe those two are brother and sister, much less twins," Malcolm said as he watched his son and daughter playing on the great lawn of the family's Newport mansion. "Arthur has our fair hair and blue eyes, but Deidre—she must be a changeling."
"Our daughter probably gets her coloring from my Aunt Eugenia. She had red hair and green eyes, too," his wife suggested.
"I don't recall you ever mentioning an Aunt Eugenia."
"No one in the family talks about her."
"I'm intrigued," Malcolm laughed. "What sin did she commit that caused her to become persona non grata with the Smythes?"
"According to my mother, her sister Eugenia was always a willful, restless child. My grandparents tried to rein her in, but that only made her more rebellious. When she came into her inheritance, she ran away to Paris where she married a penniless artist—at least, I think they were married. My mother was never certain the union was blessed by a marriage license."
"Scandalous!" Malcolm teased his wife. "I see I'll have to keep an eye on our daughter. After all, we don't want her following in Aunt Eugenia's footsteps."
Had the Creswells spent more time with their children in their formative years, they might have been able to foresee the shortcomings in their offspring's characters and thus prevent a tragedy that would be far worse than Aunt Eugenia's living in sin with a Parisian painter. But Malcolm devoted the majority of his time to overseeing the family's coal mining empire while Malvina's many social obligations left little time for parental duties.
* * *
When Arthur Creswell graduated from Harvard at the young age of eighteen, he joined the family business and was given an impressive title, a substantial salary, a personal secretary and a large office with a spectacular view. The same month Arthur put away his textbooks, his sister returned from a year-long grand tour of Europe. Malvina, who looked for any excuse to entertain, decided to celebrate both her daughter's homecoming and her son's graduation with a dazzling party.
Being under the same roof with her children for the first time in more than a year, Malvina noticed their personalities had grown even more disparate. Where her son was somber and dignified, her daughter was vivacious and gregarious. During the ball held in their honor, Arthur remained aloof, showing no desire to converse with family or friends while Deidre charmed the guests with amusing anecdotes from her trip abroad. When Malvina mentioned these opposite personalities to her husband at the end of the evening, Malcolm seemed quite pleased.
"It's just as it should be," he declared. "It takes a serious man to succeed in business, and given Arthur's subdued demeanor, he ought to do well for himself. As for Deidre, what man wouldn't want an attractive, outgoing woman for a wife? I'm sure we'll have no problem finding a suitable husband for her. Speaking of which, the girl will soon be nineteen years old. Isn't it high time she was officially introduced to society?"
"Yes, dear," his wife readily agreed. "I'll begin planning her coming-out party immediately."
"Splendid. Make that your top priority."
Neither parent thought for a moment to discuss the subject of marriage with their daughter. Both naturally assumed that Deidre would be agreeable to, if not downright eager for, a suitable match. Malvina was quite shocked, therefore, when the girl vehemently protested the very idea of matrimony.
"I don't want to get married—ever!" she cried.
"Don't be ridiculous!" her mother countered. "Would you rather be a spinster?"
"I certainly don't want to spend my time organizing charity functions or overseeing the upkeep of some stuffy old house. I want to do something with my life."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. Perhaps I'll become a nurse or maybe an actress."
"Don't let your father hear you talk like that!" Malvina warned.
"What does Father care what I do? He's got his son to carry on the family name and add to its wealth."
As Deidre talked, her mother had visions of Aunt Eugenia living in sin in a garret in Paris. She had defied her parents and look what it got her. It never occurred to Malvina that her aunt led a full, happy life with a man she adored.
"Mama," the girl said, her voice softening, "didn't you ever wish for something more in life?"
"I should say not! I've got everything I need: a husband, children, a home and financial security."
"Some women wouldn't want to settle for that."
"Listen to me," Malvina cried angrily, feeling the girl's sentiments were an indictment against her mother's lifestyle. "You've been brought up in comfort and privilege. You don't know what it means to be without a home or a family. You've never known hunger or poverty. If your father were to disown you, where would you go? What would you do?"
"Disown me? But I'm his daughter."
"And as such, you are to obey him in all things, just as you will obey your husband once you marry. A young woman needs to know her place."
"Oh, Mama," Deidre sobbed, "you and Father won't really make me marry against my wishes, will you?"
The stern, intractable look on Malvina’s face was all the answer the girl received.
* * *
Within six months of her social debut, Deidre became engaged to a wealthy young man who counted among his relatives both the Vanderbilts and the Astors. All of Boston, Philadelphia and New York society considered it a fine match, a melding of two prominent families and fortunes. Both sets of parents approved of the engagement, and the young man was delighted that his future bride did not look like an ogre. Only Deidre was unhappy with the arrangement.
"But I don't love him," the girl complained.
"Love has nothing to do with it. You're marrying into an excellent family. Best of all, your young man has political aspirations. You might someday be the wife of a governor or maybe even the president! Wouldn't you like to be the first lady?"
"No. I don't want my lot in life to depend on the man I marry. I want to achieve something on my own and not experience personal satisfaction vicariously through my husband. My whole life you've told me that a woman must know her place. Why is it that place must be beside a man? Why can't a woman be governor or president?"
"What nonsense!" Malvina exclaimed with exasperation. "A woman president indeed! I can only hope once you're married you'll come to your senses."
Whether or not matrimony would have changed Deidre's outlook on life was a moot point. Two months before the scheduled wedding day, her fiancé was killed in a boating accident in Narragansett Bay. Although Deidre dutifully donned mourning clothing, she was relieved at being spared having to marry—at least for the time being. That is not to say she was joyous about his passing. Any death, especially one of someone so young, was a tragedy.
"It appears as though we have to find another suitable husband for our daughter," Malcolm announced when they returned home after the funeral.
"Isn't it a bit too soon to speak of her marrying someone else?" his wife asked.
"I should think that an engagement could be announced in as little as six months. After all, they weren't married. I don't think she has to go into mourning for a full year."
Deidre rolled her eyes in disgust. She hated being dangled on a string before wealthy, blue-blooded bachelors like a piece of meat being offered to a pack of dogs. Once had been bad enough—but twice?
* * *
"What about Philbert's boy?" Malvina asked as she and her husband discussed the next candidate for their daughter's hand. "He's Old Money with a pedigree that goes back to the Mayflower."
"True, but that Old Money is getting a bit thin due to bad investments on his father's part."
"There's that nice boy who graduated Harvard with Arthur, the one whose family built the cottage next to the Breakers."
Malcolm shook his head and answered with one word: Catholic.
"It seems all the good prospects have been taken."
"There's the colonel's oldest son," her husband suggested.
"Isn't he married already?"
"Widowed. His wife died in childbirth last November."
"Do you think our daughter would want a man who has already been married once?"
"It doesn't matter what she wants. Besides, it might be good for her to have a husband with some experience. She's a bit—how should I say this?—a bit harebrained, if you know what I mean."
"I'm afraid I do," Malvina said, recalling her daughter's emotional outbursts. "Perhaps you're right. Maybe a more mature man is what she needs."
Before Deidre would have the opportunity of meeting her parents' latest choice for a husband, Malcolm Creswell suffered a sudden and fatal heart attack. With her father gone, Deidre insisted on remaining single, purportedly to take care of her grief-stricken mother. Malvina, who felt as though her world had come to an end, made no further attempts to push her daughter into an unwanted marriage.
Paradoxically, after she had won her much-desired freedom, Deidre did not know what to do with it. Having taken piano lessons most of her life, she tried to compose music but lost interest after a few days. Next came writing poetry; this venture lasted all of two weeks. The attainment of knowledge seemed a worthy goal, and she began studying. A procession of tutors came to the house to teach her languages, science, mathematics, history and literature, none of which she was particularly proficient at.
When Malvina Creswell passed away two years after losing her husband, Deidre faced the prospect of living alone in the family home. Her brother, ever the dutiful son, had married into one of the Back Bay's most prominent families, moved into his own house and was doing an admirable job following in his father's footsteps.
The twins, who had never been particularly close as children, rarely saw each other as adults. This lack of closeness made Deidre even more amazed when Arthur called on her after their mother's funeral.
"I suppose it now falls on me to find you a suitable husband," he declared, sounding extraordinarily pompous for a man so young in age.
Henrietta, his wife, kept silent while he spoke. She was obviously a woman who knew her place.
"Why on earth would I want a husband now?" Deidre asked. "I certainly don't need a man to support me, and I have no desire for children."
"You must marry. It is the natural order of things. A woman cannot live alone."
"I can and I will."
"I will not tolerate your behavior. I cannot have Boston matrons shaking their heads and gossiping about you. It will be an embarrassment to the family."
Rather than become angry, Deidre was amused.
"I'm sorry if it upsets you, dear brother, but you have no say in the matter. I'm of legal age and independent means. I'll not have you or any other man tell me what I may or may not do."
Although her husband's voice rarely rose in anger, Henrietta could sense the fury Arthur kept in check.
"Maybe this isn't the best time to have this discussion," she meekly suggested, hoping to prevent an ugly argument between the siblings. "Your mother has just died, and both of you are understandably upset."
Neither twin was particularly distressed over their parent's death, but Arthur chose to follow his wife's advice. In his position, appearances were important, and he did not want to appear to be callous or ill-bred. He prided himself in being first and foremost a gentleman, and as such, he quietly took his leave of his troublesome sister.
* * *
Deidre stared at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't believe she was already twenty-five.
I'm not a young girl anymore. And I'm still no closer to finding something to do with my life.
Instead of having an actual vocation, Deidre filled her time with hobbies. Unfortunately, none of these held her attention for any length of time. Her needlepoint and knitting projects were abandoned. In her makeshift art studio, there were unfinished paintings and partially sculpted mounds of clay.
Maybe my parents were right. Maybe I should have gotten married. Henrietta doesn't seem terribly unhappy, or maybe Henrietta—like her husband—is just good at hiding her emotions.
"Enough of feeling sorry for myself," she avowed, turning away from her reflection. "I'm going to go downstairs and have breakfast."
When Deidre entered the dining room, she saw a wrapped package on the table in front of her seat.
"What's this?" she asked the maid who brought in her tea.
"It must be a birthday present for you, Miss."
"There's no card. Who is it from?"
"I don't know. It was left on the doorstep."
Deidre tore off the wrapping paper and revealed a box from the most expensive store in Boston.
"That's odd!" Deidre exclaimed after opening it. "Someone either reused this box or chose to rewrap the gift after purchasing it."
"How can you tell that, Miss?"
"A high-quality shop would have used tissue paper to protect the contents, not crumbled up newspaper."
The gift, a crystal flower vase, was not nearly as interesting as the mystery surrounding its unknown sender.
"There's no card inside either," Deidre declared with disappointment. "Maybe there's a clue in the newspapers."
She straightened the sheets of newsprint and quickly examined them.
"The articles in these papers were all written by a woman," she said, more to herself than to her servant.
"Women writing newspapers? I never heard of such a thing!"
After she finished her breakfast, Deidre called for her driver and instructed him to take her to the public library. While the man thought it odd that a woman of such wealth did not simply buy her own books, he respectfully held his tongue. When she finally emerged from the building, she told him to go to the offices of The Boston Globe.
"I wish to see Phineas Upshaw, the managing editor," she informed the receptionist.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"You may tell him Miss Deidre Creswell wishes to have a word with him."
Since Creswell was a name that carried a good deal of weight in Boston, she was immediately taken to Upshaw's office.
"What can I do for you, Miss Creswell?" Phineas asked deferentially.
"I want to become a reporter here at the Globe."
"I'm afraid we don't have any lady reporters."
"Then it's high time you do. I've been doing some research, and I read about a remarkable journalist named Nellie Bly who works for the New York World. Do you know she actually posed as a patient in a lunatic asylum to write about the deplorable conditions there?"
"I heard something about that," the editor replied, wishing someone could extricate him from the uncomfortable situation in which he found himself.
"And Miss Bly is not the only female reporter. There's a woman named Nell Nelson who went undercover in an opium den."
"New York readers may countenance female reporters, but I assure you Bostonians never will."
"How do you know if you've never had one? William Randolph Hearst doesn't seem to object. His San Francisco Examiner employs Annie Laurie."
"Hearst dotes on sensationalism."
"And I understand he does very well nonetheless."
"Miss Creswell, I cannot jeopardize the prestige of this paper by publishing articles written by women."
"I had hoped you and I could come to an amicable arrangement, but I see I'll have to appeal directly to your publisher. Considering how much advertising my brother's businesses do in this paper, I'm sure he will be much more open to the subject of my employment."
Deidre's smile was genuine as was the thinly veiled threat in her words.
"I suppose if you were to submit a good article, I'd be obliged to print it," Phineas humbly conceded.
* * *
Pretending to be a penniless immigrant and faking insanity, Deidre was quickly committed to a state hospital. When she heard the heavy metal door clang shut behind her, she felt a thrill of excitement untainted with fear. Given her name and social position, she believed she was in no danger. Even the fact that her true identity was unknown by hospital staff did not concern her.
I'll stay here for a few days, just long enough to gather information for a story, and then I'll phone my editor to come and get me out.
Worcester Lunatic Asylum, which dated back to the 1830s, was the first facility for the mentally ill in Massachusetts. Despite its immense size, over the years, the hospital had become seriously overcrowded.
I had no idea people actually lived like this, Deidre thought in horror when she saw half-naked patients sleeping on the hallway floors. I really ought to have read Miss Bly's article on Blackwell Island. Then I might have known what to expect.
The foul odor that seemed to permeate every inch of the hospital sickened her.
Maybe I'm not cut out to be a reporter, she realized, longing for a breath of fresh air.
"Excuse me," she called to one of the matrons. "I'd like to send a message to someone."
"No contact with the outside is allowed without the permission of a doctor," the matron replied.
"Then I want to speak to a doctor."
"Today is Friday. Dr. Spooner won't be here until Monday."
"Well, I certainly don't intend to spend the entire weekend in this ... this hellhole! Get in touch with the doctor and tell him to come here at once."
"You've been committed. You're not going anywhere."
"That was a mistake. I'm not insane."
"I've heard that before!"
"I only pretended to be insane so that I could observe the conditions here and write an article for The Boston Globe."
"Now that's one I haven't heard."
"My real name is Deidre Creswell."
"Is that so?" the matron asked sarcastically. "And I'm Queen Victoria."
"I am Deidre Creswell," she insisted. "If you don't believe me, contact my brother. He can identify me."
"I'm going to send word to one of the richest men in Boston that his sister is here in Worcester? If I did that, I'd no doubt be committed to an asylum myself."
"Look, I'll pay you," Deidre cried, becoming desperate to prove her identity.
"You were brought in wearing a threadbare frock, and you had holes in your shoes and not a penny in your pockets."
"It was all part of my disguise."
The matron, who like all the staff at Worcester Hospital was overworked, was quickly losing her patience with Deidre.
"Get along with you now. You save your story for Dr. Spooner."
* * *
Spending three days in an asylum had taken its toll on Deidre. Her eyes were red and swollen from lack of sleep, and she had not been able to eat much of the food that was placed before her. Yet somehow she managed to survive until Monday.
"Dr. Spooner!" she exclaimed with relief when she was shown into the psychiatrist's office. "I'm so happy to see you. If I had to spend another night in this dreadful place, I'd lose my mind!"
"You have lost your mind; that's why you're here."
"Didn't the matron tell you about me? I was committed under an assumed name. I'm actually Deidre Creswell, daughter of the late Malcolm W. Creswell."
"Interesting," Monroe Spooner said, making notes in her file. "I have a patient in the men's ward who believes he's George Washington."
"It's a simple enough thing to prove," Deidre argued. "There are dozens of people who can tell you who I am: my brother or his wife, my editor, my servants, my attorney ...."
"I brought that man's wife in, and she confirmed he was a fisherman from Gloucester named Sherman Hedges. He not only continued to insist he was George Washington, but he also claimed she was first lady Martha Washington."
"It's not like that. I'm not insane. I will pay you any amount of money you want to bring my brother here."
"Arthur Creswell is a very important man. What makes you think he would come to Worcester?"
"Because he's my brother. When he knows I'm missing, he'll be worried sick."
"There's been nothing in the newspapers. Usually, when someone in Miss Creswell's social circle goes missing, it creates quite an uproar."
"No one knows I'm missing yet. I told my servants I was going to visit a friend in New York. They have no idea I came here."
"I suppose I can send a letter to your brother asking if he knows of your whereabouts."
"A letter? That could take days. No! You must send someone to see him right now."
"I'm afraid that's out of the question. We're understaffed as it is, and we don't have the money ...."
"I'll pay the cost. If you get me out of here, I'll build a new wing for the hospital. Anything. Just get my brother to come here and rescue me."
* * *
Two weeks went by. That meant fourteen days in which Deidre had to live in what she considered hell on earth. While many of her fellow patients were indeed mad, others were as sane as she was. These were women who had been born into poverty, who turned to prostitution to survive or became drunkards to endure their miserable lives. There were even a handful of women who were committed by their husbands; it was a far cheaper and easier way to end a marriage than divorce.
"If I can just get a message to my brother, I know he'll get me out of here," she complained to a group of fellow patients during dinner one evening.
"You mean your brother, the millionaire?" one of the former prostitutes asked sarcastically.
"Yes. He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't even know I'm working for a newspaper."
"Maybe your Fairy Godmother will wave her wand and your brother, the prince, will magically appear."
The other women laughed; clearly, not one of them believed Deidre's story.
"I can't convince anyone of the truth," she sobbed. "There must be at least a hundred people in Boston who can confirm my identity, but how can I get anyone in here to ask them?"
As each day passed, Deidre felt the weight of hopelessness press down upon her. When the matron took her to Dr. Spooner's office for her fifth meeting with the psychiatrist, she feared it would be another exercise in futility. For four weeks, she had presented her case in great detail, providing names and addresses of friends and relatives. Yet, obviously, the doctor never bothered to corroborate the facts.
The matron opened the office door, but Deidre stood on the threshold and stared at the man who was speaking to Monroe Spooner. With a none-too-gentle shove, the matron pushed the patient into the office and shut the door behind her.
"Do you know this woman?" the psychiatrist asked.
"I certainly do," Arthur Creswell replied.
Relief flooded over Deidre's face. She would be going home! Once released from Worcester Hospital, she would never give a thought to journalism again. In fact, not long after entering the asylum, she had considered carrying on Dorothea Dix's work and becoming a champion of the mentally ill.
"Then she is your sister?"
"Good God, no!" Arthur thundered.
"What?"
It was all Deidre could manage to say.
"How do you know her then?" Spooner asked.
"This woman has been harassing my family for some time now. She has shown up at my office, my house and, most disturbingly, at my sister's home, claiming she is Deidre Creswell. Not even seeing my sister face-to-face could convince her of her lunacy."
"Why are you lying?" Deidre screamed, unaware that her brother had ulterior motives for not identifying her.
"I realize this poor deluded creature is not responsible for her actions, but I cannot allow her—mad or not—to continue to be a nuisance to me and my family. Why! She's the reason my sister went to Europe in the first place. Deidre wanted to distance herself from this madwoman."
"What have I ever done to you that you should treat me so deplorably?" the desperate patient cried. "It's the money, isn't it? You're not satisfied with half the Creswell fortune; you want it all."
When Arthur continued to heartlessly deny his sister's identity, Deidre turned to the psychiatrist for help.
"You mustn't listen to him; he's lying."
"I'm afraid your argument isn't valid," Dr. Spooner told her. "If Deidre Creswell were to be declared incompetent, yes, her brother would gain control of her finances. But he's saying no such thing. Quite the contrary, he insists his sister is perfectly sane and traveling in Europe. There is no way he can profit from lying about who you are."
"Oh, he'll find a way," Deidre said. "With me in here, there'll be no one to stop him. No doubt in a year or so, he will announce that I died in Europe, and he will then take everything I own."
Deidre's fear and despair turned to fury, and she threw herself at her brother, her hands flailing wildly as she tried to strike him. The doctor, used to dealing with irrational behavior, had the orderlies restrain her.
"You won't get away with this! I'll find a way to get out of here. If it takes me the rest of my life, I'll prove my identity, and I'll make you sorry for what you're doing to me."
The color drained from Arthur's face.
"Can't something be done about this woman?" he asked. "If she were to get out of here, who knows what she's liable to do? My life and the lives of my family would be in peril. My poor sister might be forced to stay in Europe indefinitely."
"If she presents a danger ...," the doctor cautiously began.
"She clearly does!" Arthur cried. "You heard her threaten me."
"We might consider psychosurgery."
"What exactly is that?"
"There are some respected psychiatrists who have had positive results in a patient's mental health by using surgery. Dr. Burckhardt in Switzerland has experimented with removing sections of the frontal, temporal and parietal lobes of patients. However, ...."
Dr. Spooner's eyes strayed to Deidre's terrified eyes.
"What?" Arthur prompted.
"Not all Dr. Burckhardt's operations have been successful. One of the patients died just days after the surgery. Another committed suicide. Some developed other complications including epilepsy and aphasia."
"What is aphasia?"
"It's a disorder in which the patient loses the ability to form words. Those who suffer from it cannot speak or write and are thus unable to use language to communicate with others."
Arthur quickly checked the smile that threatened to betray his true feelings.
"Dangerous though it is, it seems to me that such an operation might be necessary in this poor woman's case," the devious brother concluded.
"No!" Deidre screamed, attempting to free herself from the restraints. "You can't do this! You'll rot in hell if you do."
The psychiatrist instructed the orderlies to remove Deidre from his office.
"Doctor, can you perform this surgery?" Arthur pressed.
"I've never done so, but I've read about Dr. Burckhardt's methods. I don't imagine it would be too difficult."
"Then I suggest you schedule the operation as soon as possible."
"I'm afraid it's not that easy," Dr. Spooner said. "Although I have the authority to recommend such a procedure—and in this case, I would—the hospital administration would have to approve it. And, quite frankly, the cost of such surgery might be prohibitive."
Cost. Now the doctor was speaking Arthur's language. The millionaire might not know a temporal lobe from a gall bladder, but he knew about money.
"You can assure the administrators that I'll cover all costs. It will be well worth the price to have my peace of mind restored."
* * *
Arthur Creswell's secretary, a capable young man who had also been schooled at Harvard, knocked on his employer's door.
"Yes, what is it?"
"There's a letter for you, sir, marked 'personal and confidential.'"
"Who is it from?"
"Dr. Monroe Spooner from Worcester State Hospital."
The secretary thought it was odd that his employer should receive correspondence from a lunatic asylum, but he silently returned to his own desk, closing the door behind him. His employer immediately opened the doctor's letter. He smiled when he read about the failure of his sister's operation. Although the patient survived the procedure, she suffered permanent brain damage as a result. Spooner's prognosis was grim: the patient was in a near catatonic state, completely oblivious to everything around her.
When Arthur returned home that night, he wanted to celebrate by going out to dinner at one of Boston's finest restaurants. As her husband sipped a glass of champagne, Henrietta eyed him suspiciously.
"You seem awfully pleased," she remarked.
"I am. One of my business ventures paid off handsomely today," he boasted.
"Perhaps you should have invited Deidre to join us then. After all, one-half of all your family's fortune belongs to her."
Arthur frowned at his wife's comment.
"Yes, and all she does is waste her money on one silly hobby after another."
"Well, it is her money."
"As a woman, she has no understanding of finance."
The expression on his wife's face took Arthur by surprise. He experienced a dread akin to one a pet owner must feel when a trusted dog suddenly turns vicious.
"I feel sorry for Deidre," Henrietta said. "She seems so lost, always looking for something to give her life meaning."
"She should have taken a husband. Marriage would have fulfilled her."
"I wholeheartedly agree with you, dear. I certainly don't regret marrying you."
"The thought that you might have never crossed my mind."
"I'm sure it didn't. But I'm not so sure marriage would have been right for Deidre. No, I think she'd be happier if she had a career."
"A career, indeed! She never finishes anything she starts."
"I think journalism would be a good field for her."
The hand that had been carrying the champagne glass to Arthur's lips suddenly froze midair.
"What a ridiculous notion!" he exclaimed, putting the glass back down on the table.
"No, it isn't. I was reading about a young woman named Nellie Bly who writes for the New York World. I could imagine Deidre going to a newspaper—The Boston Globe, for instance—and offering to write an exposé on, say conditions in a lunatic asylum."
"What the devil are you talking about?" Arthur asked through clenched teeth.
"I'm merely suggesting that's something I could imagine your sister doing. I can see it quite clearly. She might read about Nellie Bly's experience in the newspaper, get a job with the Globe and then have herself deliberately committed to a mental hospital to gather information for an article."
Arthur hid his trembling hands in his lap so that his wife would not see how upset she had made him.
"I don't know where you got such a foolish notion!"
"It was just something I heard from one of Deidre's maids. Someone apparently sent her a birthday gift wrapped in copies of Miss Bly's news articles. The stories made quite an impression on Deidre. According to her driver, she went to the offices of The Boston Globe, and just days later she unexpectedly announced she was going to visit a friend in New York. Oddly enough, no one has heard from her since."
"I'm sure she'll turn up. Deidre was always unpredictable, just like my mother's Aunt Eugenia."
"Being committed to an asylum is hardly the same as living with an artist in Paris."
"Look, if it will make you feel any better, I'll have someone go to New York to locate my sister and bring her home. Now, let's forget about this lunatic asylum business and eat our meal."
Rather than obey her husband, Henrietta began laughing.
"You really think that just because I'm a woman I'm not capable of putting two and two together and coming up with four! You and I both know where your sister is."
"Be quiet!"
"Yes, dear. I'll be quiet, but my silence will come at a price."
"What are you saying?"
"While you've been congratulating yourself on gaining your sister's inheritance, I've been making some discreet inquiries. I know who sent Deidre that vase. The salesman who waited on you was even nice enough to give me a copy of the receipt."
"This is absurd!"
"I also went to the Globe, and several people including the receptionist and the managing editor clearly remember your sister being there on the day of her birthday. Oh, and the managing editor told me he agreed to hire her as a reporter on a trial basis, but then you contacted him, expressing your extreme displeasure at your sister's working. Naturally, he didn't expect Deidre to come back."
As Arthur stared at his wife, he experienced a terror nearly as strong as his sister's when she realized she would not be allowed to leave the asylum.
"Poor, poor Deidre," Henrietta said after taking a sip from her own champagne glass. "If only I'd known what was happening in time to save her, but, alas, I was too late."
"That's enough! I don't want to hear another word."
"As I told you, dear, my silence comes at a price."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to put two million dollars in a bank account in my name."
"Two million? You must be mad!"
"Mad? Then maybe I should consult Dr. Spooner. What do you think he would say or do when I positively identify his patient as my sister-in-law, Deirdre Creswell?"
"What would you do with two million dollars?" Arthur asked.
"I think I'll travel. Like the infamous Aunt Eugenia, I have a desire to see Paris."
"What about our marriage? A divorce would create a scandal."
"I wouldn't dream of divorcing you. I like being Mrs. Arthur Creswell. We'll continue to stay married for the sake of appearances, but I have no intention of living under your thumb any longer."
"You're just like my sister. Neither one of you knows your place."
"Just don't make the mistake of thinking you can get rid of me as you did her. I've documented my suspicions against you and given the information to a lawyer. Should something happen to me or should I suddenly disappear as Deidre did, he'll turn the papers over to the police. That would cause more of a scandal than a divorce would, I assure you."
Having delivered her warning, Henrietta picked up her knife and fork and began eating her dinner with gusto. Arthur, however, had lost his appetite.
In all fairnes to Worcester State Hospital, I am unaware of the conditions that existed there. I am assuming, for the purpose of this story, that conditions were similar to those found in other asylums in the late 19th century.
Salem once wanted to be an investigative journalist. However, The Boston Globe wasn't interested in Salem's article on his ten days in the Godiva chocolate factory.
