needlessly confined. So far, nothing had worked. He was taking her father’s word over hers.
If nothing else, she was relieved that the morning walk had been canceled. Not only was she glad that she didn’t have to go out in the snow and cold, but she had spent the morning in the bathroom throwing up, her first bout of morning sickness leaving her weak and shaky. She slid her hand down to her abdomen, already feeling protective of the baby growing inside her. Luckily, no one was able to tell she was pregnant just by looking at her, but she could feel the slight, firm swell below her navel. The baby was a girl, she was certain of it. Every night for over a week, she’d dreamed about a toddler in a pink lace dress, Bruno’s dark curls and chocolate-colored eyes looking up at her. Now, Clara swallowed the growing lump in her throat, surprised by the overwhelming love she already felt for her unborn child.
It made her think of her mother, Ruth. While pregnant with her firstborn, had Ruth put a protective hand over her growing belly, vowing to love and protect her baby for the rest of her life no matter what? Or was her burgeoning girth a burden to her fashion sense? Did she long for the day when she could finally hold her newborn in her arms and kiss his tiny, sweet-smelling forehead, or did she want to get her pregnancy over with so she could hand the baby over to a nanny and get on with her life? Clara had to believe it must have been the latter. Otherwise, how could a loving, nurturing mother turn into a selfish woman who didn’t give a damn about what happened to her children?
Clara pushed the image of her mother from her mind, knowing that trying to figure out the woman who brought her into this world wouldn’t change anything. She turned and sat on the narrow bed, wrapping her sweater around herself, and stared at the unopened letter on her desk. It was from her father, the second she’d received since being admitted to the Long Island Home over two months ago, despite the fact that she’d written every day, begging to be released. The ivory envelope had been sitting there since she’d returned from breakfast an hour ago. She’d picked it up twenty times, thumb poised on the edge of the back flap, then set it back unopened every time.
Henry’s first letter, delivered a week after Clara arrived, said her stay in the Long Island Home was for her own good, that it was just temporary, until the doctors could help her. But as the weeks went by with no more word, Clara started to worry that her father had changed his mind and she was going to stay longer than originally thought. Now, her future could be determined by the words inside her father’s latest letter, and, for as long as possible, she wanted to hold on to the hope that her parents were going to allow her to come home. When James found out she was carrying another man’s baby, the marriage would be called off. Her parents would disown her and kick her out on the street. But anything was better than this. Anything was better than being locked up in a loony bin, even if it was the best money could buy.
The rooms at the Long Island Home were warm and clean, the grounds well maintained. And, for the most part, the staff was pleasant. Patients dined with silver and fancy porcelain, and lounged in parlors on Louis XV sofas. Treatment consisted of rest, relaxation, good food, fresh air, and activities such as bicycling and tennis on the grass. And, of course, therapy sessions. But there was no mistaking that she was being kept against her will. During her first therapy session the day after her arrival, she had asked Dr. Thorn what would happen if she tried to leave.
“Why do you want to leave?” he’d said, looking at her over his round spectacles. He was tall and whippet thin, with an enormous Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his leathery throat like a fish in a pelican’s beak.
“Because I don’t need to be here,” Clara said. “There’s
If nothing else, she was relieved that the morning walk had been canceled. Not only was she glad that she didn’t have to go out in the snow and cold, but she had spent the morning in the bathroom throwing up, her first bout of morning sickness leaving her weak and shaky. She slid her hand down to her abdomen, already feeling protective of the baby growing inside her. Luckily, no one was able to tell she was pregnant just by looking at her, but she could feel the slight, firm swell below her navel. The baby was a girl, she was certain of it. Every night for over a week, she’d dreamed about a toddler in a pink lace dress, Bruno’s dark curls and chocolate-colored eyes looking up at her. Now, Clara swallowed the growing lump in her throat, surprised by the overwhelming love she already felt for her unborn child.
It made her think of her mother, Ruth. While pregnant with her firstborn, had Ruth put a protective hand over her growing belly, vowing to love and protect her baby for the rest of her life no matter what? Or was her burgeoning girth a burden to her fashion sense? Did she long for the day when she could finally hold her newborn in her arms and kiss his tiny, sweet-smelling forehead, or did she want to get her pregnancy over with so she could hand the baby over to a nanny and get on with her life? Clara had to believe it must have been the latter. Otherwise, how could a loving, nurturing mother turn into a selfish woman who didn’t give a damn about what happened to her children?
Clara pushed the image of her mother from her mind, knowing that trying to figure out the woman who brought her into this world wouldn’t change anything. She turned and sat on the narrow bed, wrapping her sweater around herself, and stared at the unopened letter on her desk. It was from her father, the second she’d received since being admitted to the Long Island Home over two months ago, despite the fact that she’d written every day, begging to be released. The ivory envelope had been sitting there since she’d returned from breakfast an hour ago. She’d picked it up twenty times, thumb poised on the edge of the back flap, then set it back unopened every time.
Henry’s first letter, delivered a week after Clara arrived, said her stay in the Long Island Home was for her own good, that it was just temporary, until the doctors could help her. But as the weeks went by with no more word, Clara started to worry that her father had changed his mind and she was going to stay longer than originally thought. Now, her future could be determined by the words inside her father’s latest letter, and, for as long as possible, she wanted to hold on to the hope that her parents were going to allow her to come home. When James found out she was carrying another man’s baby, the marriage would be called off. Her parents would disown her and kick her out on the street. But anything was better than this. Anything was better than being locked up in a loony bin, even if it was the best money could buy.
The rooms at the Long Island Home were warm and clean, the grounds well maintained. And, for the most part, the staff was pleasant. Patients dined with silver and fancy porcelain, and lounged in parlors on Louis XV sofas. Treatment consisted of rest, relaxation, good food, fresh air, and activities such as bicycling and tennis on the grass. And, of course, therapy sessions. But there was no mistaking that she was being kept against her will. During her first therapy session the day after her arrival, she had asked Dr. Thorn what would happen if she tried to leave.
“Why do you want to leave?” he’d said, looking at her over his round spectacles. He was tall and whippet thin, with an enormous Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his leathery throat like a fish in a pelican’s beak.
“Because I don’t need to be here,” Clara said. “There’s
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