The Beloved (5 page)

‘Alice!' hisses Mama. ‘You see, doctor? She is like this all the time. I can do nothing with her.'

‘Perhaps, Mrs Angel,' says Dr Danby, ‘it would be better if you stepped out of the room while I examine Alice. And perhaps you should take a glass of claret to calm your nerves. You have had a most trying morning.' He takes Mama by the arm and guides her out of the door. ‘There,' he says, as the door closes and there are only the two of us left in the room. ‘Perhaps we will get on better now.'

‘Perhaps it is Mama who needs your services, not me?' I suggest.

Dr Danby frowns. He has a lot of eyebrow, so much that his eyes are almost invisible under the tangle of black and granite. ‘I think that is for me to decide,' he says brusquely, and proceeds to take a selection of gleaming instruments from his battered leather bag. He lays them in a neat row on my bedside table. ‘Now, please. Come and lie on the bed.'

I feel myself shrivelling inside. I don't want this man to prod me with the tools of his trade. I don't want him anywhere near me. ‘Dr Danby,' I say. ‘There is nothing wrong with me. I've never felt better. I do not need you to examine me.'

The doctor raises his eyebrows – as much as he can – and picks up something that looks to me like a small trumpet. He runs his fingers over the glossy brass surface. ‘I would suggest your refusal to cooperate is a symptom of your condition.'

There is a button come loose on his frock coat, a black thread dangling. I think if he puffs his chest out any further, the button will pop off altogether. I fix my gaze on the button. I look at how polished it is and how it is crimped around the edges like a pie crust. Dr Danby prowls around my room tapping the small trumpet in the palm of his hand. I glance over at the other objects laid out on the table: scissors, knives, long silver needles, and small brown bottles with faded labels. I am filled with a squirming horror.

‘Now, Alice,' says Dr Danby. ‘You have been menstruating for over a year, your mother tells me. Are you regular with your bleeds?'

I feel my face flush hot.
What business is it of his?

‘Alice,' he prompts. ‘Did you hear me?'

‘I heard you,' I say. ‘But I do not care to answer you.'

Dr Danby sighs heavily and puts the small trumpet away in his bag. Then he takes out a notebook, and reaches into the inside pocket of his coat for a pencil. He turns a page in the notebook and slips out the tip of a fat, livery tongue to lick the end of the pencil. My belly heaves again. I turn from him and stare instead at the words I have written in my journal. They are just black lines and flicks and curls of ink now. Dr Danby scratches in his notebook, grunting now and then with the effort. ‘What about the fire, Alice? Will you talk to me about that?' he says. ‘Why did you burn your stays?'

He is impatient now. I can tell by the way he spits his words out. He wants to get home, I think, to his wife who will fetch him a fresh, clean collar and a cool drink for him to sip in his study while he smokes on his pipe. I am not one of his submissive patients. He will get nothing out of me. I pick up my pen and dip it into the ink pot. I let a drop of ink fall from the nib onto a clean page of my journal. I idly put the pen nib into the centre of the blot and pull it into spider legs.

‘Are you writing down your answers, Alice? asks Dr Danby. ‘Would you rather write them than speak to me?'

Why is he still here, when he can see I have no need of him?
I press my pen hard onto the page; so hard that the nib snaps off. Clean off, like Lillie's tongue. I am furious that my pen has broken and that this maddening man is still in my room. I turn to him suddenly and the pen leaves my hand and flies across the room. ‘Get out!' I shriek. ‘Leave me alone!'

The pen hits the doctor high on his chest. He blinks, startled. I hold my breath. His collar is splattered with ink now, as well as blood. A drop of ink has found its way onto his weathered cheek, and it is sliding down slowly, like a dark tear. He wipes his hand across his cheek and the ink smears into the loose crepe of his face. He looks at his hand, then back at me. I see the knot of veins at his temple throbbing angrily through the thin stretch of skin.

‘Your mother was right to call upon my services,' he says, gathering his instruments and putting them back in his bag. ‘You are indeed a disturbed young lady.' He throws me a look of pity, takes up his bag and leaves the room.

I let out a breath and go to retrieve my broken pen from the floor. I hope this is the last I will see of Dr Danby, but something in my bones tells me otherwise. I hold the pen in my hand and a stain of ink spreads across my palm. I squeeze my hand shut and when I open it again, the ink has altered and I am disturbed to see instead the face of a strange man, with a full beard and piercing eyes. I wipe my hand quickly on the skirts of my gown. With all that has happened, I think, my imagination is playing tricks on me.

It is then that I hear low voices outside my door. I press my ear against the wood and listen closely.

Temperance paced the corridor outside Alice's room, waiting for the doctor to emerge. It had been the most trying of mornings. Everything she had strived so hard for seemed to be slipping away. Her usual tight rein on matters had loosened and been replaced by mess, anguish and inconvenience. Of all the staff to suffer such an unspeakable accident, why did it have to be Lillie? The one servant that Lady Egerton had particularly recommended and the only servant she was ever likely to ask after. Temperance felt as though she had been entrusted with a beloved pet and had failed utterly in her duty to care for it. And as for Alice – Temperance closed her eyes and took a few slow breaths – the girl had surpassed herself in wickedness. It was insufferable. No mother could be expected to raise a child like that.

She thought again of the terrible moment she had seen the burned stays in Alice's fireplace. It had taken all her strength to resist the urge to strike Alice with the poker – straight across her disobedient face. Temperance shuddered at the memory. She was glad Arthur was away on business. He was too protective of Alice, and too fond of making excuses for her behaviour: she was high-spirited, she was unusually intelligent for a girl, she needed more to occupy her mind. He was soft on her, and Temperance had let it go on for far too long.

The door of Alice's bedroom opened and Temperance gathered her features into a semblance of motherly concern.

‘It is not good news, I'm afraid,' said Dr Danby, as he closed the door behind him and turned the key.

‘Oh,' said Temperance, and she put her hand to her throat in what she hoped was a suitable response. She felt her heart fluttering excitedly beneath the silk of her morning robe. ‘What happened in there?' she asked. ‘What has happened to your face?'

‘Your daughter attacked me.' Dr Danby brought his fingers to his face and touched his ink-stained cheek. ‘In an unprovoked violent outburst.'

Temperance caught her breath. This was better than she could ever have wished for. This was solid proof that Alice was quite out of control. And it had all been witnessed by a respected medical man. Arthur's arguments would mean nothing now. ‘This is most dreadful, doctor,' she whispered. ‘What can be done with her?'

‘You need to prepare yourself for the worst,' he said. ‘It is my opinion that Alice is suffering from a disease of the nerves. She is displaying all the classic symptoms of hysteria. A refusal to cooperate or conform to the expectations of society, a tendency to cause trouble, a melancholic demeanour and, of course, the violent outbursts – the burning of her stays and the attack on me.' He paused for breath. ‘If she were a little older,' he continued, ‘I would suggest you find her a husband. The married state is often the best cure for cases such as this. But as it is  … ' He tailed off.

‘But what, doctor?' asked Temperance. ‘What is the answer then?'

Dr Danby cleared his throat. ‘Would you rather discuss this elsewhere? It is a delicate matter.'

Temperance shook her head. ‘No, doctor. Please continue.' She knew what he was going to suggest, and she didn't want to wait another minute to hear it.

‘Well,' he said. ‘There is a place in Bristol. Brislington House. It is a private lunatic asylum. Most discreet. And is run by a Dr Fox.'

‘You can secure a place for Alice there?' asked Temperance, trying to keep the elation from her voice.

‘I can certainly have a word with Dr Fox. I have recommended other patients to him in the past.'

‘And do you believe he can cure Alice?' asked Temperance. ‘Will she ever behave as she should?'

‘Well, obviously every patient is different.' Dr Danby lowered his voice as a maid hurried by with an armful of linen. ‘Some take to treatment better than others,' he continued. ‘But I must tell you, to allay any fears you may have, that Dr Fox does not practise the traditional methods of treating the insane.'

‘And what are the traditional methods of treating the insane?' Temperance felt vaguely insulted. ‘I have had no previous experience in these matters.'

‘No, no  …  of course you haven't,' Dr Danby stuttered. ‘What I mean to say is that rather than using mechanical restraints, for example, or bleeding, purging and forced vomiting, Dr Fox uses much gentler methods on his inmates. What he practises is known as moral therapy.'

‘I have no interest in what it is called,' said Temperance firmly. ‘Only that my daughter will be cured of her  …  her madness, and that she will cease to be an embarrassment to me.'

‘I have high hopes that she can be cured,' said Dr Danby. ‘Dr Fox has an excellent record. He runs his asylum like a well-ordered household. He believes a patient's sanity can be restored through self-discipline and a strict regime of punishment and reward.'

Temperance nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes. But how soon can you arrange for her committal?'

‘I will make some initial enquiries today,' said the doctor. ‘But I presume you will wish to wait for your husband's return to discuss the matter with him?'

‘Make your enquiries, please, Doctor. And rest assured that my husband will be in total agreement with your diagnosis and my decision. In matters concerning our children, he trusts me implicitly.' Temperance held out her hand. ‘Now, I bid you a good morning and I hope to hear from you soon, regarding all necessary arrangements.'

Temperance hurried back to her room. She felt light on her feet and wonderfully refreshed. If the doctor was true to his word, Alice could be out of the house by the morning. Arthur would be incensed, of course. But she would deal with him when he came home. She would make him see that sending Alice away was for her own good and, more importantly, would help protect the family reputation.

She sat at her dressing table and studied her face in the mirror. Admiring her near perfect features was one of Temperance's greatest pleasures. She was ageing well, and was still by far the most attractive woman in her circle. But she was overly critical, and as she stared at her pale skin, she could not help noticing the faint trace of lines that had recently appeared around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She frowned. It was all Alice's fault. All the trouble and worry that girl caused was bound to leave its mark.

Temperance reached for her toilet chest and opened the polished walnut lid. Inside, the chest was lined with dark green velvet and nestled into various pockets were numerous silver-topped glass bottles and pots, a small pair of silver scissors and a pair of mother-of-pearl tweezers. Her little box of magic, she thought guiltily. It was much frowned upon for any lady of good standing to embellish her face with cosmetics. It was a vulgar practice, only indulged in by vile creatures who sold themselves on the streets and the painted ladies of the stage. But Temperance was shrewd, and excelled in the subtle application of certain ingredients that enhanced her beauty and disguised any signs of ageing. Her beauty had, after all, served her well so far, and deserved to be protected.

Hidden in the toilet chest, amongst bottles of respectable medicinal treatments, were Temperance's pots of wonder, and in particular, her precious pot of Crème Celeste – obtained from a discreet chemist in Bristol. She unscrewed the lid, and in a moment her blemishes and small lines disappeared under a coat of the waxy paste as she smoothed it deftly over her face. The paste smelled pleasantly of sweet almonds and rosewater, and the scent relaxed Temperance as she moved through her daily routine: a touch of carmine to her cheeks, a slick of beeswax to her lips and a drop of lemon juice in each eye. She felt calm, her balance of mind restored, and as her face bloomed back at her from the mirror, her mind filled with thoughts and plans. Once Alice was out of the way, she would be able to concentrate fully on the smooth running of the household and her work with the Bridgwater Ladies' Committee. She would let it be known that Alice had been sent to relatives in the north, and as for Lillie  …  well, even if the girl survived she could not come back to Lions House. There would not be a position for her once Alice had gone, and besides, a mute servant was of no use to anyone.

Temperance plucked a stray hair from her brow. She would organise an arrangement of flowers to be sent over to Lady Egerton, the most elaborate that money could buy. The situation could be salvaged. After all, her Ladyship could hardly blame Temperance for Lillie's accident when she herself had succumbed to misfortune. Temperance smiled into the mirror. A last dusting of ground pearl powder to her cheeks and a dab of lavender behind each ear, then she would ring for Jane to come and dress her.

I pace my room. From the window to my bed and back again. From my dressing table to the door, to the end wall and back to the window again. Mama cannot mean it. She cannot mean to have me sent to an asylum. The word fills me with horror. It is where the mad are sent: wretches with no minds of their own. It is the sort of place that people only speak of in a whisper.
The madhouse
. I shake my head. Am I dreaming this whole morning? If I am, it is a nightmare. I pinch my arm hard.

But I heard them outside my door. Mama and Dr Danby. Although muffled, I heard it all. I heard the doctor call me mad and I heard Mama, only too eager to have me sent away. Even though I know it is still locked, I pull and turn the door handle. Someone must come to me soon. To explain it all away. To tell me what I heard was a mistake. I bang on the door with my fists. ‘Eli!' I shout. ‘Eli! Eli!'

But no one comes.

What have I done to deserve this? Nothing, I think. Nothing, but to be myself.

I pace some more, but my legs are weak now. They tremble, and my head feels light. It is only hunger, I tell myself. It is not a symptom of madness. Even so, I walk to the bed and lie down, curling myself into a ball. I close my eyes and I think back to when I was small and how I used to curl like this into Papa's lap when Mama allowed me and Eli down from the nursery. She would scold me for running across the drawing room and jumping into Papa's arms. ‘Alice! Walk. Do not run!' I would bury myself in his lap and fold up into the smallest ball I could, thinking that if I could not see Mama, then she could not see me. But I could always hear her. As Papa stroked my hair and rocked me gently on his knee, Mama would spoil every moment of it. ‘You indulge her too much, Arthur,' she would say. ‘It will do her no good in the long run.'

Eli would sit quietly with his hands folded neatly on his lap. ‘And what have you been reading today?' Mama would ask him.

‘I have been looking at the atlas,' Eli would reply. ‘I know where Africa is now.'

I remember Mama clapping her hands in delight. ‘See, Arthur? See how clever our little boy is?' I would wait, trembling, in Papa's lap, knowing it was my turn next. I pushed my face deep into the tired tobacco musk of his waistcoat, until my breath was moist on my hot cheeks. ‘Alice! Get down from there.' There would be Mama's accusing voice. ‘She is not a dog, Arthur. Please do not treat her like one.'

Then Papa's legs would shift and he would sit forward and grip me around the waist. ‘Come on, Alice. Enough now. Do as your mother says.'

But I wouldn't let go. I never wanted to let go. And Papa would have to stand up and peel my small hands from their grip on his jacket. When he finally managed to set me on the floor, I was so angry with Mama that when she asked me, ‘So, Alice. Tell me what you have learned today,' I would screw my face up tight and refuse to speak a word.

‘You see, Arthur?' Mama's shrill words would follow me out of the room when the nanny came to usher me away. ‘You see how you've spoiled her? She is like a little wild animal!'

A noise outside my room pulls me sharply away from my memories. I look around, hoping to see Eli's face appear as the door opens. But it is just the maid again, from earlier. This time she is carrying a tray which she sets down on my bedside table. She looks at me warily, then turns to go.

‘Wait!' I say. She stops. But her hand reaches for the doorknob, and she lets it rest there. ‘What is your name?' I ask her.

‘Sarah, miss,' she says. ‘Me name's Sarah.'

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. I see Sarah's hand tighten its hold on the doorknob. She looks to be the same age as me – sixteen or so – but her plain face still has the touch of a child to it, despite the tired circles under her eyes. ‘Do not look so frightened,' I tell her. ‘I only want to know if you have seen Master Eli today.'

‘Oh no, miss.' She shakes her head. ‘I only normally works in the kitchens. First time I've done upstairs duties is today.'

‘Well then,' I say. ‘Do you think you could do the kindest of favours and take a message to him from me?

Her eyes widen. ‘Don't think I could, miss. I wouldn't know how.'

‘It's simple, Sarah,' I tell her. ‘I will write a note and all you have to do is take it to his room. It is the fourth door on the right, down the corridor.'

She shakes her head again, vigorously. ‘I couldn't, miss. Sorry, miss. But I'm to go straight back to the kitchens. Got me orders, you see.'

‘But it would only take you a moment. Look, I'll write the note now.' I fly across to my desk and tear a page out of my journal. I pick up my pen and, too late, I remember it is broken. ‘Sarah  … ' I turn to her. ‘You will have to
tell
Eli my message instead.'

But Sarah has already opened the door. She looks close to tears. ‘I'm sorry, miss,' she says. ‘I can't do it. The mistress would have me guts for garters if I'm caught, I have to go.' With that she leaves the room, and once again I hear the key turn in the lock.

A blade of fear slices through my insides.

I swallow hard. Eli won't allow anything to happen to me. He won't allow Mama to send me away. He won't, will he? And besides  … 

I am not mad.

I am not mad.

I am not mad.

I chant the words over and over to myself. And as I do, I see Lady Egerton again, tumbling down the stairs, and I see Lillie's gaping mouth, empty of words but full of blood. I did those things. I wished for those things to happen. And like a miracle, those wishes came true. For a brief moment, I forget my fear and am filled instead with a wonderful sense of power, as though the sun is caressing my bones from the inside. But the feeling is only fleeting. Soon, the dread is back, and I have to stand and walk again. I follow the same path as earlier: from the window to the bed and back again, from the dressing table to the door to the end wall and back to the window again. Nothing will happen until Papa comes home, I tell myself. Papa would never let Mama send me away. I am not mad. Papa knows that I am not mad.

I see the tray that Sarah left on my bedside table. I lift the white linen cloth and there is the usual cup of beef tea and bowl of watery gruel that Mama sees fit to punish me with. I spoon out a small amount and put it to my lips. It tastes of nothing. It is invalid food. I spit the gruel back into the bowl and throw myself on the bed.

Then the tears come, taking me by surprise. A torrent of them, bubbling up from some place deep inside me that I never knew I had. They keep coming, robbing me of my breath and soaking my pillows. I cannot stop. I cry until my throat hurts and my tongue grows thick in my mouth. I cry until my head pounds and my stomach turns inside out. Then a shaft of sunlight creeps from the window and slides across my legs, covering me like a warm blanket. And gradually, with great shuddering gulps, I fall into an exhausted sleep.

Grey light filters through my eyelids. How long have I been sleeping? I ease one eye open, but it aches so much that I have to close it again. For a brief, blissful moment, my mind is empty of thought. But then I try to open my eyes again and I feel my face tight with salt and suddenly everything comes rushing back and my mouth turns dry.

Where am I?
I look around wildly, staring into the gloom. Strange shapes loom in the shadows. There are bars at the window. I sit up and my breaths turn to gasps.

It is too late. They have taken me while I was sleeping. My heart batters against my ribs as the horror of it all dawns on me. I am locked in a cell. In the
madhouse.

I push back against the headboard, my knees drawn up to my chest.
Oh God!
Mama did it. She finally got rid of me. And she didn't even wait for Papa to come home.

I press harder against the headboard, praying the solid oak will stop me from falling down the dark hole that has opened beneath me. As I struggle to make sense of my surroundings, I suddenly hear a sound in the distance, a familiar sound, a sound I have heard every day of my life. I half laugh, half sob with relief as I count the long-case clock down in the hall strike eleven times. I look around the room again, and the strange shapes rising up from the gloom room reveal themselves to be my wardrobe, my washstand, my desk, my dressing table and chair, and the bars at the window to be simply the folds in the curtains.

My hand shakes as I reach out to my bedside table and feel for the cup of beef tea. It is cold, and a film of grease coats my teeth as I swallow it hurriedly. The liquid swirls nastily in my stomach, but it is nourishment, at least. After a while, when my nerves have calmed and my stomach has settled, I climb from the bed and pull the chamber pot from underneath. A pungent smell catches at my nostrils and tells me that no one has been to empty it since I relieved myself earlier. I squat over the pot, knowing that I will have to bear the indignity of its contents for the rest of the night. Someone will surely come to attend to me in the morning. When I have finished, I walk over to the window. There is no means of lighting a candle, but the moon is high and silver and I can see the empty street below my window almost as clearly as if it were daylight. There is a yellow gaslight spluttering at the end of the street, but other than that, there is no other movement.

I am gripped by a sudden and horrible sense of loneliness. Is there no one in this world that I can turn to? Is there no one in this world who understands me? Only Papa, I think, but he is not here. Eli has abandoned me and as for Mama, she has never wanted me from the moment I was born. I am not the daughter she wanted. But how can I be someone else? How can I be anyone other than me? I lean my forehead against the glass. Would it help if I opened the window and screamed for help? Would anyone answer me? And if they did, would they too think I was mad?

I have already slept for so long that when I eventually return to my bed, all I can do is lie there and count the hourly strikes of the clock, and watch how the grey light darkens to thickness in the dead of the night, and how it gradually pales again as dawn approaches and another day begins.