“Someone has to try,” Beckett said, standing and stepping away from the bar. “If I don’t at least try to help Noah and find a cure for his affliction then I will not be able to live with myself.”
“Beckett,” Marcus called after him as Beckett marched toward the door. “Beckett, I’m not tying to insult or offend you, I’m just telling you the truth.”
Beckett ignored him, slamming the door on his way out of the club. He hadn’t asked the cab driver to wait, so he was forced to storm his way to Bowery to catch another that would take him home. All the while, helplessness and rage tore through him.
Everyone who should have helped Noah had abandoned him when the task became difficult. The truth turned Beckett’s stomach.
But underneath that agony, another truth burned. Noah’s sister had turned him out to preserve her possibility for a fulfilling life. He couldn’t completely blame her for that. Marcus wasn’t the right man for Noah, so it wouldn’t have been fair for him to take on the burden. Noah’s parents had died, so they couldn’t help. Noah had never spoken of other relatives, but if he had them, their story might have been the same.
Noah had always come second to someone else’s self-preservation. Beckett wasn’t sure he could hold that against people, but it was tragic all the same.
A sense of heaviness fell over him as he stepped down from the cab and up to his own front door half an hour later. He’d gone to The Slope seeking answers, and while he hadn’t found any, he had gained greater understanding. It just wasn’t a happy understanding.
“Sir,” Gardener greeted him at the door, taking his coat and hat, “your father is here.”
Beckett’s brow flew up. “Really? Where is he?”
“I believe he’s upstairs, sitting with Mr. Cheevers.”
Unexpected hope filled Beckett, and as soon as his coat was off, he hurried toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Sure enough, when he reached his bedroom, his father sat on the side of the bed, stroking Noah’s head as it rested on the pillow.
“Of course, I told him that five dollars per pound was a ridiculous price,” his father was in the middle of saying, “but Winchester—” He stopped, then smiled when he noticed Beckett. “There he is,” he said, his hand stilling on Noah’s head. “Back home, safe and sound.”
Beckett forced himself to smile as he stepped into the room. “Hello,” he said cheerily. “Are you having a party without me?”
“Beckett?” Noah pushed himself groggily to sit, which was more than he’d managed in the last couple of days. “You’ve been gone so long.”
“Not too long,” Beckett protested, moving to take his father’s place sitting on the bed.
“I was worried you wouldn’t come back,” Noah said, shifting so that he could drape his arms around Beckett’s shoulders and rest his forehead against the side of Beckett’s head.
“Of course I came back,” Beckett laughed, even though his heart was breaking. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s my house.”
They both knew where Noah’s fear of being abandoned came from. With a look to his father, Beckett knew his father understood too.
“I was also telling Noah about a friend of mine, Dr. Carmichael,” Beckett’s father said.
“I don’t want to see any doctors,” Noah sighed heavily, turning his face away from Beckett’s father without detaching himself from Beckett.
Beckett looked at his father a long time, letting him know he was in agreement about the doctor, then said, “I think a doctor might be in order. Just for consultation purposes.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor,” Noah said, more adamant than before. He leaned back enough to look Beckett in the eye, then went on. “They all say the same thing. They say I’m mad, that there is no cure, that I should be sent to Bedlam.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Beckett said, forcing another smile. “Bedlam is all the way on the other side of the ocean.”
“And Dr. Carmichael is well-versed in all of the latest and most modern treatments for manic-depression,” Beckett’s father said.
Both Beckett and Noah turned to him, startled.
“Manic-depression?” Beckett asked.
“That is what I believe Noah is suffering from,” his father said. He sighed and his stance softened. “I had a friend, many years ago, who was diagnosed with the condition. He, too, had episodes of manic high spirits followed by those of crippling melancholia.”
“And how was he treated?” Noah asked, an acid edge to his voice. “Was he dosed with laudanum to keep him calm, then locked away in dark rooms and fed pablum to prevent over-excitement?”
Beckett thought he was joking, but his father lowered his head and looked guilty.