Chapter 6 (during 08.13 The Incurables)

His wife in his arms, breathing heavily against him, William Murdoch used his keen observational skills to attempt to ascertain the events of the previous few hours. Mrs Lunde was closest, staring at him with wide-eyed innocence. He suspected nothing of the sort, and subconsciously angled Julia away from the older woman. Rose Maxwell lay, seemingly unconscious, on the floor, completely free of her straight jacket. Anxious Charlotte Taylor stood across from him. A metal pipe lay at her feet (goodness knows where that came from), not far from a heavy ceramic chamber pot. Finally, Hannah Platts knelt silently crying in the corner, cradling what appeared to be a headless doll.

And of course, Eva Pearce was not even in the building.

Julia still remained pressed to him, clinging to his jacket with her undamaged hand, an unusual show of reliance from her. Despite his observations, he was unable to determine the events preceding his arrival, only able to surmise that nothing good had occurred, far from it in fact. He began rubbing his wife's back in order to impart some comfort, yet was met with the barrier of her corset; he needed to feel her, both so she could sense his touch, and so that he could be reassured by her soft, warm presence. He ran his hand higher, therefore, fingertips slipping over her cotton blouse to the nape of her neck. He moved his fingers, intent on imparting a soothing massaging motion, only for her to immediately flinch. Appalled at causing her pain, he ceased his ministrations. "Julia?"

She shook her head against his shoulder. "I'm fine."

Any further attempt at communication between them was drowned out by distressed commotion; Hannah had increased her crying when Charlotte tearfully approached her. Before he knew it, Julia slipped from his arms, striding across with such authority that a newcomer entering the room would be forgiven for thinking that Doctor Ogden had not been the subject of any manner of brutal treatment in the preceding minutes.

"Charlotte? Hannah? What's going on?" she asked firmly, compassionately, as William watched on, poised to step in at any sign of the slightest threat to Julia.

"My baby!" The grief was so passionate, so intense, so real. "She hurt my baby!"

"No, it wasn't me!" Charlotte rasped, now crying, too. "Hannah, I wouldn't. I promise."

"Alright," Julia soothed over the top of their sobs, it being critical to settle matters quickly as with Charlotte's distress, Maddie might make an appearance. "May I take a look?"

Hannah clenched the doll closer to her, shielding it. But Charlotte began to calm, returning to soothing. "Hannah, it's okay. Doctor Ogden's very kind. You can trust her."

Slowly, at Charlotte's prompting, Hannah handed the doll over to Julia. "Thank you, Hannah," she smiled, reassuringly, being sure to cradle the doll as reverently as she would any living child. Looking down, however, William saw her not quite succeeding in supressing a shudder at the porcelain torso, ending abruptly in a jagged, broken edge at the neck. "May I take her, Hannah, so that I can make her better? I promise to take good care of her, and Charlotte will be here with you."

It took some convincing, with Charlotte's added reassurances, but eventually Julia was allowed to leave with the doll. She returned to William with a resolute set to her jaw. He merely ushered her to the door, not wanting to spend a second longer in that room.

Just as William guided Julia from Ward C, George ran down the steps into the corridor, no doubt having been summoned by Constable Higgins on night duty at the Station House Four's front desk; William's barked command as he flew past the desk to contact Constable Crabtree had obviously been heeded.

"Doctor!" He panted, leaning forwards, hands on his knees as he sucked in air. "Thank goodness you're alright. Your message sounded rather serious, sir."

"And it was serious," William replied gravely. "I arrived just in time, by all accounts. George, please can you take the statements of everyone in the room. Things are quite unsettled, so just do your best. I'll be back after taking Julia to a doctor."

Just as George was about to reply with his dutiful 'sir', Julia interjected. "I cannot possibly go to a doctor, William."

"Julia," he admonished gently. "We need to get you checked out. I can tell you're injured."

"But I need to fix Mrs Platts' doll!"

Uncomprehending her seemingly absurd priorities, he glanced down at the toy clutched tightly in his wife's hands. "George can do that," was the only solution he could come up with. He attempted to pry it from her trembling fingers, but she held firm.

"I know what it looked like. Mrs Platts needs it to look right; hasn't she suffered enough after being locked in that ward for so many years?"

"Actually," George spoke tentatively. "I have a good recollection of the doll's features myself. I even took its fingerprints." At William's raised eyebrow, George shrugged and continued. "I couldn't say no to Mrs Platts; she was very insistent."

Still, Julia worried the doll's skirt with her fingers. William had only seen her so emotionally wrought on scant few previous occasions: when she had been attacked by Edward Scanlon AKA Harlan Orgill, when she had been buried alive, and when she had almost hung. The realisation that this most recent event was as serious as the others hit him with a jolt. He so desperately needed to get her away!

William was just about to make another attempt to coax his wife to leave when George spoke again. "It's Suzanne, isn't it?" His forefinger and thumb closed so gently around the doll's tiny hand. "I promise I'll take good care of her."

A moment of indecision, and then Julia relinquished the doll to George. True to his word, he cradled the shattered toy tenderly.

She thanked him, almost inaudibly, and allowed William to once again usher her forwards.

"And, sir," George spoke in a low voice, halting the detective. "After what happened yesterday, I contacted Doctor Grace to request that she wait at your hotel for your return, just in case…" Here, he glanced to Julia's retreating back, and William knew he meant in the case medical attention was required, which it most certainly was. Almost overwhelmed by the younger man's kindness, William could only nod his thanks.


Finally arriving at their suite at the Windsor House Hotel, they were greeted by an anxious Emily Grace waiting outside their door.

"Emily?" Julia asked. "What are you doing here?"

"George suggested I come," she responded, glancing at William before returning to Julia with wide eyes. "He said that there was an incident at the asylum and that you may be in danger. Are you alright?"

Julia sighed and shook her head. "I'm fine."

William grunted and turned from unlocking the door. "Julia…" he admonished slowly.

"Alright!" she exclaimed as she pushed through the door ahead of the two. "I'm just a little sore. But I can tell I will get no peace until I have been checked over."

William exchanged a glance with Doctor Grace, she no doubt as surprised as he that Julia had relented so quickly.

In the privacy of their bedroom, William took the initiative to unbutton Julia's blouse and unhook her corset without being asked; he'd noted her cradling her injured arm and surmised that additional injury had been done. Emily was then allowed admittance. William pulled the chest out from before the bed, to allow Julia to rest upon the wooden surface, and allow Emily to examine her patient from all angles.

Her torso clad only in a chemise, William was finally able to see some of the damage that had been inflicted upon his wife. The sight of the injuries would long haunt him, he realised, made worse by gradually coming to understand just what had happened in that basement as Julia narrated the events of the evening disjointedly, revealing only what was necessary to explain her injuries.

She had been drugged by Mr Drainie and surmised that she had then been dragged down the stairs and into Ward C: her arms were sore at her shoulder sockets, and the backs of her legs bore bruises and abrasions. She asserted that the lingering sedative in her system was the cause of the slight lack of her usual composure.

Mrs Lynd had struck her with a vicious backhand. A bruise was beginning to bloom on her right cheekbone.

She fought Eva Pearce, attempting, and failing to prevent her mistake. There were scratches on her face from the other woman's fingernails.

Maddie had hit her over the head with a chamber pot, resulting in some seconds or minutes of unconsciousness; Julia couldn't be sure of how long she had laid completely vulnerable and defenceless. Doctor Grace parted her hair to reveal a swelling on her scalp.

Rose Maxwell had attacked her, both with her fists and, horrifically, with a metal pipe. A row of bruises and swelling highlighted her vertebrae and scapulars, overlaying those formed from the beating only the day before.

Rose Maxwell had strangled her. Finger marks ringed her neck.

Julia had whacked Rose Maxwell with her cast-covered arm. Her features pinched with each movement of the limb. She hissed when Doctor Grace removed the cast and probed areas along her radius and ulna.

There were so many blanks in her narration that frustrated William in his need to know everything. He had to stop himself from interrogating her, reminding himself that his most important role at that moment was not detective, but husband.

Upon further questioning by Doctor Grace, Julia admitted to some soreness in her muscles, most likely from defending herself. William was both proud and horrified to learn how Julia had flipped Rose, thus gaining the upper hand, and eventually managing to prevail.

"You'll be sore for a few days, but you should be fine," Doctor Grace eventually proclaimed at the end of her examination, causing William to raise his eyes and utter a quiet mutter of 'thanks', unheard by the two women as Doctor Grace continued. "I recommend going for an x-ray of your arm tomorrow, just to be sure its healing has not been compromised. But for tonight, I prescribe a warm bath for your muscles, followed by ice and tincture of arnica for the bruises. I also have some paregoric in my bag if you need some."

As the two women conversed on the best course for Julia's recovery, William took his leave. Knowing that his wife was well, or at least as well as could be expected, he felt able to fulfil his duties as a police detective.


His duties unfortunately took some time, and upon arriving back from the Station House, the clock had just ticked past midnight, yet Julia was still up. He was unsurprised to find that she'd sent Doctor Grace home. "She has to work tomorrow, William," she'd responded to his admonition. "I cannot occupy her time just to hold my hand."

She had not done as Doctor Grace instructed, and had not taken a bath, iced her bruises, nor applied the arnica. Quite why she had not done so, he was not sure, for she prevaricated when he asked, instead enquiring after his findings.

It was with a heavy heart that he had to admit that Eva Pearce remained uncaptured.

She nodded, and was silent for several seconds while she fiddled with the buttons on her dressing gown. Eventually she spoke without looking at him. "What do you think she will do now?"

He sighed. "I suspect that she will find another man to manipulate in order grant her what she wants. If she has any sense – and I believe she does – she'll leave Toronto."

"You don't believe she'll try to find you?" Here, she looked at him again, although he found her expression difficult to discern.

William was not the most physically demonstrative of men, although marriage was gradually changing this. Thus, it was a tentative hand that rose to brush his wife's cheek in what he hoped relayed comfort. "Is there any evidence to suggest she will? She has not attempted contact in the past. I believe she only spoke with me in the asylum because I was there. She may have thought she could influence me to do her bidding. Or perhaps she merely wanted attention."

"Perhaps," Julia murmured.

They lapsed into silence again. For his part, William reran the events in the asylum gardens. The kiss… Had he really almost chosen Eva over Julia? Or had she twisted his intention to capture her as such, thus blindsiding him and precipitating her escape?

He looked at his wife, her golden curls hiding her downturned face, her hand cradling her injured arm, and it did not take much to remember the bruises lying beneath her gown. I cannot burden her with my confused concerns of Miss Pearce tonight, he eventually decided, and attempted to connect with her by changing the subject. "What of the women on the ward? What will happen to them now that we know what Mr Drainie did?"

"They will be helped, I hope. I will inform the necessary parties of what has happened, not only tonight's events but also what has occurred for goodness knows how long." Fire was creeping into her voice. "Things most certainly need to change."

He nodded in agreement. "What do you propose?"

"They will most certainly no longer spend their days in underground cells! And they will be properly attended to." She nodded as if to a silent conviction. "It is decided. First thing in the morning, I will demand a meeting with the asylum director. I will tell him that their doctor is at best an incompetent, and at worst a cruel man deliberately worsening their health. I will insist that he be barred from the asylum and his professional conduct thoroughly investigated. I will demand that the patients be moved to proper wards and be allowed outside into the gardens. These conditions cannot be allowed to continue a single day longer."

Well used to his wife's strident nature, and suspecting that she hadn't quite thought through the implications of her proposed actions, he attempted to slow her. "Don't you think the director will be a little busy, Julia? Consider that he will have to deal with the revelations of tonight's incident."

"And that is what I will be discussing with him," she retorted, not to be swayed.

"Very well, but also consider yourself. Do you not think you should take a little time to rest?"

Her eyes flashed and she sat up straighter, as if to prove that she was quite alright, thank you very much. To this, William felt an odd mixture of admiration and exasperation, an unusual combination of emotions yet ones he was quite accustomed to feeling when considering Julia Ogden.

"I'll not let a little discomfort get in the way of my duty. Whatever I am feeling pales in comparison to the conditions that those women had been living in for months. Years for some of them!"

"Julia-"

"What about Girly?," she interrupted. "She's three years old, William! Surely you cannot think it right that she live in those conditions?"

William merely sighed and relented, seeing that Julia was not to be dissuaded. Again, he could not help but admire her conviction and drive to change people's lives for the better. He only wished she would delay a little while to care for herself. Well, if she won't look after herself, it looks like it's down to me, he decided. Afterall, she had cared for him after he'd returned injured from Haileybury. And while he had not yet had the need to provide emotional comfort since marrying, he suspected that he might need to soon, given the harrowing events of the day, even if at that moment she was expressing anger rather than upset.

She continued her plan of attack while he coaxed her into the bathroom. Her voice, as it so often was when she was determined, was an odd combination of being high pitched and yet fierce. She continued even as he opened the taps to fill the bath, and when he turned to help her out of her dressing gown. By that time, she'd escalated to reforming the asylum system across the whole of Ontario.

He was actually surprised that she was still so lively, partly because of the lateness of the hour, but mostly because of her ordeal. He'd thought that after being attacked earlier, she'd have been drained from the switch from intense fear to intense relief. Unless she's still scared….

He eyed her as she paused to draw breath, taking the opportunity to interject. "Julia," he began. "It's admirable that you are so concerned with the patients, but at this moment you cannot do anything for them. I am more concerned with how you are feeling."

"I'm fine," she quickly answered, and immediately turned away to step into the almost full bath. Despite her conviction, she wobbled and may have slipped had it not been for William, who, still watching her intently, shot out a hand to steady her. William's assistance slowed her movements, and she gradually eased down into the hot water. The milky liquid obscured her form to just cap her shoulders, and his eyes darted away from the bruises on her exposed neck, instead busying himself with folding her clothes and setting them aside on the countertop.

Since his enquiry into her state of being, she'd fallen silent, and William was momentarily at a loss as to how to reconnect with her. Then he pictured their book on his nightstand, the book that had become so important to them, deciding that it might create a connection between him and his wife.

He made to step away when a wet hand caught hold of his wrist. She said nothing, did not even make eye contact, yet he realised with a chill that his strong, independent wife did not want to be left alone.

"I will only be a moment," he assured, giving her little choice but to drop her hand. He was indeed not a moment longer than he needed, dashing to grab the book, although with a flash of inspiration he also retrieved the low stool from Julia's dressing table, before returning just as swiftly to the bathroom.

She said nothing when he returned, merely watching as he placed the stool next to her and took a seat so he was only a little higher than she was. William, in turn, noted that Julia did not look particularly relaxed; the warm water had thus far not done the job that Doctor Grace hoped it would.

Opening the book, he deliberated the contents page. Something soothing, he decided; the tragedies were certainly off limits, and he could not summon the enthusiasm for the comedies, so a gentle sonnet would have to do.

"How oft when thou, my music, music play'st, / Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds / With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st."

His hand drifted to his wife, resting on a hopefully uninjured area of her damp shoulder. She was tense beneath him, but she did not flinch, so he kept his hand there, only lifting a finger to stroke her jaw.

"The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, / Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, / To kiss the tender inward of thy hand."

He paused and bent to place a kiss to her head before continuing in low, soothing tones.


While William was ringing the hotel reception to ask for some ice, he peaked around the doorway separating the hallway from the bedroom. Julia, with a towel wrapped around her and tucked between her breasts, was before her dressing table, struggling to open a glass bottle. After another attempt, it slipped from her hands, skittered across the polished wooden table then clattered on to the floorboards. It thankfully did not shatter, but Julia cursed regardless. What alarmed William, however, was the flash of tears he thought he saw in her eyes. He ended the call in an unusually abrupt manner, in his rush to return to his wife's side.

"Allow me," he murmured, stooping to retrieve the bottle and open it before handing it back to her. In doing so, he'd glanced at the label: paregoric. Despite not having uttered one murmur of discomfort, it seemed she was in some pain, if the medication was any indication.

She did not reply, silently extracting a dose of the paregoric from the bottle. If he had indeed seen tears, William guessed that she was attempting to compose herself.

Giving her some time, and determined to sooth her to the best of his ability, he picked up her brush, and began running it through her long hair. He was mindful of the injury to her head, and careful to avoid tugging at knots. Most of her hair was soft against his fingers, although the ends were damp from the bath. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror from time to time, he could see that she had her eyes closed, wearing an expression that he hoped he was correct in interpreting as Julia eventually beginning to relax. Once they were free of tangles, he set about attempting to tame the long strands. Since their wedding, he'd watched her in fascination in the morning and evening when she alternatively styled her hair and let it loose. A braid, which she occasionally wore to bed appeared much simpler than the elaborate styles she created when leaving the hotel. Thus, a braid was what he constructed, tying it off at the bottom with a green silken ribbon.

He realised then (and could not believe he had not come to the realisation sooner) that he relished the chance to touch her and be close to her, even when intimacy was not the goal; in fact, it was another form of intimacy in itself. He decided to continue his exploration of his aspect of their relationship, for observing his wife's face, it seemed that she, too, enjoyed his ministrations.

He had just finished tying the ribbon at the end of her hair, and then placed his hands gently on her shoulders when a knock sounded on the door. He was thus both able to feel her startle and tense, as well as see her eyes fly open at the noise.

"It's just the concierge with the ice I requested," he explained softly, brushing his knuckles against her uninjured cheek before crossing to open the door and retrieve his order.


As per Doctor Grace's instructions, ice was applied, eliciting goosebumps along his wife's back. He winced in sympathy. Seeing her shiver and hold herself stiff, he could not imagine that this would be good for her tired muscles. After deciding that he could not watch Julia tense any longer, he gently patted her back with a towel to dry her skin before an application of tincture of arnica.

Tentative touches across the bruises marring her vertebrae and scapulae deposited the arnica. Then, his hands still slick with the tincture, he spread his fingers along the muscles at either side of her spine with slightly more pressure. It was an altogether new experience, and again he realised he relished the chance to just be with Julia, although he wished he had discovered this under less harrowing circumstances.

He hoped he was administering the treatments correctly, for she made not a sound. In fact, he realised that she had uttered only half a dozen words since stepping into the bath earlier. It was disconcerting; Julia Ogden was rarely so silent. She was strident when she was annoyed. She was giggly when she was happy. Even when she was occasionally nervous, she was not silent, instead rambling and uttering odd jokes. He was beginning to wonder if an indication of Julia being scared was silence.

Finally finished, with Julia clad only in her bloomers, he coaxed her under the bed covers, forgoing her chemise in light of the slickness of the arnica covering her back.

Changing into his own nightclothes, William hesitated before joining Julia in bed. He wanted nothing more than to hold her against him, yet the sheer number and extent of her injuries gave him pause. But he so desperately needed to take care of her as he had been unable to in the past. After the attack by Harlan Orgill, after being buried alive, and after she had almost hung, he had not been permitted to remain with her. He therefore resolved that he would stay with her, even if he had to be careful with her. But the paregoric must have been taking effect because she was almost asleep, lying on her left side, her right arm resting on a cushion borrowed from the settee. He therefore merely contented himself with facing her and slipping his fingers into the palm of her left hand, hoping this small connection would provide some reassurance for her if she awoke.


It was some time in the night that a movement beside him awakened him. Julia was half awake, shuffling closer. He raised his arm, allowing her to rest her head in the curve of his shoulder. The cushion was discarded in favour of supporting her injured arm upon his chest. He bestowed a kiss upon her.

"Do you want to tell me what happened now?" he asked into the silence.

She sighed. "I already told you." Her words were somewhat slurred from the paregoric.

"You told me some parts. I suspect there is much more to tell." Such as how you felt and how you are feeling, he added silently.

"I'm not deliberately hiding anything from you." She heaved a deep breath, which morphed into a groan that she was not entirely successful at stifling. "But it's late. Please let us talk in the morning. Just… Please can you just…"

Julia had trailed off, but from the fraction more that she leant into him and the how she tucked her face against him, he could guess what she might have said if she were so open as to give voice to her feelings. Please can you just stay with me. Please just hold me. Please be here because I'm still afraid.

But of course, she could not utter those requests aloud. She had spent her life being independent (he suspected right from being a motherless child) and chaffing against first her father's and then wider society's expectations and restrictions and disapprovals as she failed to conform to their definitions of a proper lady.

Yet just because she did not say, William was not going to deny her. He hugged her closer, as much as he dared, hoping that she would understand that he was happy to care for her, just as she had done for him after his injury. And importantly, he hoped that she knew he thought no less of her for wanting someone.

Just as those early months of their marriage were teaching him to be more demonstrative and openly loving, he hoped that Julia would learn to share the burden of her sadnesses and insecurities with him, whenever they should occur.


A/N: Thank you for reading! This isn't my best, but it's been sitting almost finished for a couple of months, and since I don't have much time to write at the moment, I thought I might as well finish it, just to keep my hand in.

In this fic, I wanted to explore how I imagined the early days of their marriage might have been - a little unsure around each other, and each gradually settling into their new circumstances in differing ways.

William was reading Sonnet CXXVIII.