Page 82 of Beyond the Grave
"We're looking for a patient by the name of Andrew Buchanan," he said. We'd decided not toaskif he was in here, but assume.
She folded her hands on top of the open leather-bound ledger in front of her. "And you are?"
"Mr. Henry Buchanan, Andrew's cousin, and this is my wife."
Wife? We hadn't discussed playing roles, but I supposed relatives might be allowed entry whereas strangers would not. I took his arm in a picture of wifely affection. His muscles tensed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Buchanan, but visiting days are the first and third Monday of the month, unless the governor is escorting you on a tour."
"The third Monday is more than a week away."
She gave him a tight smile. "Yes."
I was worried that Lincoln might bully his way in when a door to our right opened and two gentlemen emerged. They shook hands and one thanked the other for the tour, promising to fill in the requisite paperwork and return it forthwith.
"Is that the governor?" Lincoln asked the nurse.
"Yes."
Lincoln peeled away as the visitor departed. "Sir! A word, please."
The governor waited with a strained smile and an impatient glance at the door. "Yes?"
"My name is Henry Buchanan, cousin to Andrew Buchanan, one of your patients."
"Visiting days are the first and third Mondays of the month," the governor said as he walked off.
"I don't want to visit, I want to have a tour."
The governor stopped again, his feathery eyebrows raised in an expectant air. "Go on."
"I have a family member I'd like to have admitted. My cousin, Harcourt, told me all about the new techniques used here and I thought I'd give it a try."
"Excellent!" The waxed pointy ends of the governor's moustache twitched. "Your cousin is a wise man. His brother is progressing admirably under our care. Ordinarily I require an appointment, but since you're here, I'll give you a brief tour. My name is Fourner."
"Thank you, Mr. Fourner, my wife and I appreciate your time."
I could hardly contain my excitement. Fourner had admitted that Buchanan was a patient. We'd found him.
"If your wife wouldn't mind staying here," Fourner said. "We wouldn't want to upset her delicate sensibilities."
Oh, good lord. Every time a man spoke about my "delicate sensibilities," I wanted to prove to him that I had none. It also made me appreciate Lincoln even more. He might be overly protective, but he never expected me to faint if I heard a crude word or saw something improper.
Well, if Fourner wanted delicate sensibilities, he was about to get them in abundance. And I was going to get myself admitted to Bedlam as a patient.
I withdrew my hand from Lincoln's arm and covered my face. I was about to pretend to burst into tears and then faint, when Lincoln's fingers gripped my arm so tightly that he cut off the blood flow.
I lowered my hands and met his severe glare. His jaw was set as hard as granite. Fourner had already walked off toward the door, his steps quick and short. If he'd noticed my aborted act, he gave no indication.
Lincoln forced out a chilly "Don't," between clenched teeth.
"I had a plan to find Buchanan," I whispered. "I would get myself admitted as a patient today then go in search of him tonight when everyone is in bed."
"I know." He clasped my arm and pulled me into his side then marched me to the door where Fourner waited with a strained smile.
"And who is it you wish to have admitted?" he asked Lincoln.
"My ward. He's mad. Does and says the most foolish things, doesn't he, dear?" His eyes gleamed with what I suspected was mischief.
