But it was Finlay who struggled to control his frustration. He swung around as soon as the latch clicked. “I cannot believe you let that man dine at your table when he cannot bring himself to say Jessica’s name. Have you ever sat with him when he examines your sister?”
Seven years’ worth of anxiety surfaced. “Do not dare reprimand me for the way I’ve handled things here,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “None of us know how to help Jessica, but Dr Goodwin has tried his best to reach her. And yes, I have observed his methods. I do not claim to understand how one deals with a fractured mind. What else can he do but follow the science?”
She exp
ected him to appear contrite, but he seemed more irate than ever. “Men of science care about theories, not people. They ply their patients with mind-numbing drugs until the poor souls have no hope of rousing a coherent thought.”
“That is like saying all watchmen take bribes. Yes, some physicians rely on medicine as a form of treatment, but you cannot presume they all lack principles.”
Finlay huffed and dragged his hand through hair as black as his mood. “Trust me. Dr Goodwin is drugging Jessica to collect his weekly fee. He has no interest in her recovery. I know enough about wicked men to recognise something isn’t right.”
Sophia stepped closer, intrigued by his impassioned objection. “What is this really about? Is it the fact I consider Dr Goodwin a friend?” She saw him as a mere acquaintance but was determined to get to the root of Finlay’s problem.
“If you consider that man a friend, then you’re the one who needs a dose of laudanum.” His voice was tight with disapproval. “He’s a fraud. A charlatan. I have dealt with his kind many times.”
“Yes, in the rookeries, no doubt. But your—”
“Not in the rookeries. At home.” His mood altered dramatically. A weary sigh left his lips and his shoulders sagged. “I have dealt with the likes of Dr Goodwin more times than I care to count.”
At home? What on earth did he mean?
All anger and frustration dissipated. Sophia closed the gap between them and touched his upper arm— though she knew she shouldn’t—but he did not pull away or mutter a curse.
“Were you ill with a sickness of the mind?” she said, concerned.
It was hardly surprising after the horrors of Leuven.
He gave a derisive snort. “I’ve been ill since the day I discovered you’d married Lord Adair, but I accept there is no cure.”
She suffered from the same heart sickness. There was a cure, but Finlay preferred to thrash and writhe about in misery.
“But I am not speaking of myself,” he added.
“Then who?” His parents died years ago, and he had no kin as far as she knew. “Are you referring to Hannah?”
A curt nod was his only reply.
Sophia tried to piece together what she knew of his marriage. Hannah was the ward of his father’s friend, a quiet country girl who was said to be kind of heart and spirit. Hannah’s vibrant red hair and slender frame were her defining features. By all accounts, she was thrilled to marry Finlay Cole, although Sophia had lacked the strength to attend the wedding. Finlay courted privacy, avoided society, and so her knowledge was limited to those simple facts.
“But she wasn’t ill when you married her.” Sophia experienced the usual stab in her heart when she imagined him exchanging vows, promising to love and cherish another, of his passionate wedding night. Hers had been a hurried coupling, bereft of genuine affection.
“The signs were there. I ignored them.”
“Because you loved her?” Sophia stroked his arm, desperate to maintain contact. Oh, how she wanted to draw him into an embrace and simply hold him, love him.
Finlay looked her keenly in the eye, his dark gaze berating her for asking the question. “I cared for Hannah. I doubt I shall ever meet such a gentle soul again.”
She knew him well enough to know he had not married out of vengeance. He had married hoping to heal his heart. And yet these past three years she had never seen him so bitter and tormented.
“Was she like Jessica? Prone to bouts of melancholy? Pensive and restless?”
“Most of the time she was consumed by a dreadful sadness.” His expression turned sorrowful, a reflection of what he must have faced at home. “I have no desire to discuss it further.” His tone changed from brittle to blunt. He stepped back, and her hand slipped to her side. “The point is, tinctures and anodynes cloud the mind.”
Oh, Finlay!
Did he not know that suppressing the pain delayed his recovery? Although in the three years since his wife’s death, this was the most he had ever said about his marriage. Still, she would not press him further.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” She would look to him for guidance. He was right. The usual methods had failed to reap results.