My efforts to lift her spirits succeeded sufficiently for her to show at last a dash of excitement at her impending journey, and her enthusiasm made my heart lighter as well. By the time the coach arrived, we had managed to convince each other that this was, in fact, a blessed day, and that it was to mark the first real variation in our lives. I would follow her presently, of course I would . . . it was simply a matter of time.
The footman came for her trunk, and my dearest friend was called outside and away from me. We kissed each other goodbye, and she was gone.
From the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls,
Emily (with a ‘y’)
Asylum Letter No. V
The empty bed in my room was quickly occupied by another pupil. I knew it was vile of me, but I resented her sleeping in Sachiko’s bed, and putting her things in Sachiko’s cabinet, and so I made no attempt to befriend her, and for this I remain sincerely ashamed. Instead, I directed all of my attention towards my studies, and, to the delight of my Music Master, worked more diligently than ever, practicing tedious arpeggios, études, and countless concertos until my fingers were raw.
Weeks crept by, then months, and still I had not heard from Sachiko. I had taken up the habit of loitering near the Conservatoire’s entrance at the post’s usual hour; thus was I there to snatch my letter directly from the postman’s hands at last, scampering away before he had opportunity to object. The missive bore no return address, but I knew from whom it came.
Back in my room, I tore open the envelope and unfolded the enclosed parchment. Scrawled in a reddish smear were only two words:
At that very moment, the Headmistress seized the letter from my trembling hands. She grasped my arm and rushed me down the hall towards the Headmaster’s study. There, the being who will forever be known to me as the man with the tall grey hat was waiting, though he took no apparent pleasure in my arrival, for his lined face was hard as stone as he informed me that I would be taken that very afternoon to the city in preparation for my debut.
Ought I to have been happy? Perhaps. But I could not be.
I returned to my room to find a small trunk already packed, my two violins in their cases beside it.
Although Sachiko had been my closest companion, I had made a good many friends during my time at the Unfortunate Girls’ Musical Conservatoire. My schoolmates stood in the doorway and waved their hands as the horses lifted their hooves and wheeled me away. Some of the girls even shed tears, and, for that, I loved them more than ever.
From the Asylum for . . . oh, bother! Enough of these formalities, Diary; you know who I am, and I must conserve my pencil lead . . .
Asylum Letter No. VI
Inside the coach, I was met by a man with the wrinkled face of a prune and almost as much charm. Clad in butler’s livery, he passed his drooping eyes over me, yet spoke not a word, and I hoped that his dour exterior was no indication of the sort of household I was to visit. Desperate for clues to my immediate future, I summoned the courage to inquire as to our destination.
‘You are being brought to Bainbridge . . . the estate of your new Master,’ answered the man, his vacant face to the window.
I experienced a striking pang of anxiety, but steadied myself.
‘Master? I don’t understand you, Sir. Why should I have a master?’
The man would not look at me, and turned his eyes down to peruse a bundle of papers he held upon his lap.
‘Begging your pardon, Sir, for I can see your papers absorb you entirely at the moment, but I must trouble you with my question once more. I have departed from the Conservatoire to begin my career as a performing musician. I am no longer a pupil, and, thus, should have no master. Is this not correct?’
Again, my escort made no reply, and for three hours more we drove in awkward silence.
At last, we reached London, and the willow-lined drive that was my introduction to Bainbridge.
Asylum Letter No. VII
The estate was a sprawling structure set atop a cliff directly above the bank of what I would later learn was the river Thames. Ornate, even garish, this vulgar display of wealth was decorated lavishly in the Baroque style, crowded with stone columns, curling ornaments, and gilded angels, naked and grinning.
My traveling companion led me to the mansion’s entrance, where I was calmed slightly by the appearance of a young, auburn-haired housemaid. The butler then took his leave of me, not surprisingly without a farewell.
Still overwhelmed with apprehension, I stood unmoving in the foyer, violin case in either hand.
‘Come on, then, Miss,’ she said, taking up my trunk.
I followed the maid up a grand and circular staircase, then down a long corridor with lofty, frescoed ceilings and several doors to either side. Walking close behind, I saw that she bore what appeared to be burn marks upon her neck—long red lacerations where the skin was peeling.
Stopping suddenly, she opened a door to the right and led me into a richly furnished chamber, the centerpiece of which was a magnificent, canopied bed draped with gold-embroidered gauze. Upon the walls hung several large paintings of a most peculiar sort; I did not like to look at them, and, as indicated by her downcast eyes, neither did the maid.
‘I’m to tell you to please stay in your room, Miss. You may unpack your things if you like, but you’re not to come out.’
She curtseyed quickly and turned to leave, but I called her back.
‘Please, couldn’t you stay for a little while?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot, Miss . . . the Master would be upset.’
Again, that word.
‘The Master? But how would he know?’
‘He knows everything.’
Her parting words frightened me more than a little, and for a long time I sat perched upon the edge of the bed, too afraid to inspect my surroundings.
At last, my native curiosity revived itself and I rose to walk about the room, skimming through books, picking up trinkets then setting them down again, hoping to find some object that would hint at what sort of place I had come to.
Against my will, my eyes swept across the paintings. That directly opposite the bed featured a demonic satyr in the act of tearing the clothing from a half-naked young girl.
I cried out in surprise. The satyr’s eyes had been replaced by holes cut into the canvas, and through one of these holes stared a glittering blue eye.
Upon my involuntary outburst, the eye disappeared, but it was all too much; I curled up behind the bed curtains and shook from head to toe until I lost consciousness from sheer exhaustion.
Asylum Letter No. VIII
I could not say how many hours had passed, but when the housemaid came to rouse me, it was dark out.
‘Miss,’ she said, softly, ‘I’m very sorry to wake you, but I am to tell you that the Master will see you tonight. I will help you to prepare yourself.’
The maid opened a wardrobe, revealing several gowns in rich colours and fine fabrics. She selected a cream silk with lace and ribbons adorning the short, puffed sleeves; after handing me a pair of freshly pressed undergarments and tightening my corset, she helped me into the dress. It was a beautiful gown, but I felt over-conscious of my exposed flesh, my neck and shoulders more bare to the world than they ever had been. It occurred to me then that I had not been measured for any new dresses, but, as this one fit me precisely, I supposed that one of my own had been sent to be copied in advance.
My assistant worked noiselessly, often pausing as though she were listening for something. I could stand the silence no longer.
‘What is your name?’
‘Anne, Miss.’
‘Mine is Emily. With a “y”, you know.’
‘I know, Miss.’
‘And where did you live before you came to this house?’
Anne did not answer.
‘Anne?’
‘I lived where you lived, Miss.’
‘Really? At the Conservatoire, you mean?’
‘Yes, at the Conservatoire. I was a pupil there as a child, before your time.’
‘How queer! And what was your instrument there?’
‘Violin, Miss . . . the Master has an especial preference for violinists . . . but I don’t play anymore.’
‘Why ever not? Oh, Anne! You must play one of mine! I wouldn’t mind a bit. In fact, I insist upon it.’
In my enthusiasm, I had turned my body, wresting the laces of the stiffly boned bodice from Anne’s fingers. She gathered them again and pulled them tight, giving me a jolt.
‘I am a maid now, Miss. I aspire to nothing more.’
‘But how did you come to be such? Did you not leave the Conservatoire for the stage, as I have?’
‘I suppose that, in a way, I did. But I failed.’
She paused.
‘You will not fail as I did. The Master’s been asking for you for quite a long time now, and, had there not been others bidding as well, I daresay you would have come sooner.’
‘Others? Anne, I really don’t see . . .’
My throat had gone dry as if in defiance of the questions I wished to ask.
‘Anne,’ I lowered my voice, ‘Anne, I must ask you something, though I hardly know how, it is so strange. After you left me earlier, I saw something in the painting there . . . that awful one with the satyr—’
Anne dropped the pins she had been using to fasten tiny white flowers to my hair, which she had dressed very prettily indeed in long, loose curls.
‘Miss, we must go to the Music Room at once.’
She spoke curtly, seemingly frightened as she bade me fetch my instrument. I sensed Anne’s disapproval as I chose my weather-beaten friend over its better, for she stared at the violin with the most peculiar expression, but I was unsettled and felt it would bring me strength.
We walked briskly down the long corridor and into an oak-paneled room hung heavily with velvet curtains in the deepest scarlet I had ever seen. It was there that Anne left me.
Asylum Letter No. IX
The Music Room was as lovely as it was ostentatious, with several intricately carved chairs placed in clusters round a magnificently crafted harpsichord, the lid of which was raised and painted inside with ladies in a pastoral scene. It is true that the pianoforte is more in the fashion these days, but many still prefer the percussive element of the older instrument.
Entirely immersed in my inspection of the lid (for I had noticed that the ladies pictured were quite without clothing), I was startled by footsteps close behind me. I spun round to find myself facing a tall man with the fairest hair imaginable and only one eye. A grey velvet patch covered the spot where his left eye ought to have been; his right was a piercing, icy blue.
‘Greetings, my pet, and welcome to Bainbridge,’ said the man, with a ceremonious bow. ‘I am the Count de Rothsberg. I have been to your Conservatoire to watch you play many times.’
I thought it odd that he used the word ‘watch’ instead of ‘hear’, but then, English was not his native language—his speech was coloured with something foreign . . . German?
‘I am pleased to see you grace my Music Room at last. Though, you’re looking rather pale . . . Never mind, I daresay I like you pale. You were not meant to be an English rose, as they call it here. But, you are not nervous, are you?’
I did not answer. The Count had raised his hand to my face, his long white fingers lifting my chin and turning my head slowly from side to side.
‘I trust your fingers are as nimble as ever?’
I managed a small nod.
‘Your skill with the bow . . .’ he said, ‘quite . . . what is the word . . . intoxicating.’
His words were not unkind, yet I did not like to be touched, and my skin shivered in protest as I retreated a step. The Count smiled, exposing sharp, irregular teeth.
‘You see, my pet, ma petite fille, mein kleines Mädchen, it has been my fondest wish that you should make Bainbridge your home, as well as mine. All I ask is that you play exclusively for me, and my occasional guest, of course.’
‘My home?’ I faltered, speaking for the first time. ‘I’m afraid I do not . . .’
With false courage, I began again.
‘I do thank you for your generous offer, Sir, but I do not intend to establish a permanent residence, as I believe my professional obligations will restrict me to travel for quite some time.’
The Count began to laugh, very quietly at first.
‘I’ve been chosen . . . I have been trained, Sir, for . . .’
As he continued to laugh, I could no longer remember what exactly I had been trained for.
‘All those years of education and they really do teach you nothing . . . it’s almost cruel, isn’t it? Come now, be a good girl and play us a bit of Bach . . . one of the slower Sonatas, perhaps?’
Seating himself in the corner, the Count waited silently for me to begin. I knew instinctively that this was a man to be obeyed, and so, despite every desire to do otherwise, I lifted the violin to my chin and began to play. Several bars passed my fingers and my wooden companion did indeed seem to stay my nerves, as I knew it would, as it always had.
A soft sigh issued from the Count’s corner. Still playing, I glanced towards him; his one eye was closed, and his body swayed slightly in his chair, causing the wooden legs to creak. Though he was partially obscured by the furniture surrounding him, I could clearly see that his breeches had come undone . . . my bow slipped from my fingers.
Opening his eye, the Count shouted at me to continue, his feigned courtesy having dissolved completely. So startled was I that my cherished instrument slipped from my hands and fell to the floor with a clatter, cracking the body; the wound may as well have been my own.
‘Pick up your instrument and play, you stupid bitch!’
I stood for a moment, staring at the Count in disbelief. Then, I turned and ran from the room, scalding tears of indignation, disgust, and, from a new, shadowy place that had been born within me that night, shame in my womanhood, streaming down my cheeks.
I ran back the way I had come, but was soon lost in the maze of corridors. The gaslights had not yet been lit, and so it was without warning that I ran directly into Anne, nearly sending us both toppling to the floor.
Raising her candle, Anne put a finger to her lips. She opened a narrow door in the wall and pulled me in after her, quickly shutting it behind us. The flame faintly illuminated a closet just barely large enough for us both. I tried to speak, but Anne clapped her hand over my mouth. She put her ear to the door. Hearing nothing but the pounding of our own hearts, Anne set down her candle. She held my soiled face between her hands and steadied me with her green eyes so like my own.
‘You must listen to me, sister.’
‘Where am I?’ I whispered.
‘It will never again be as bad as this first night. I promise you.’
‘How can you know that?’
She did not answer.
‘I have to go back, Anne . . . and you’ll come too! When they hear what’s happened, where I’ve been taken, what a grave mistake has been made . . . I must write a letter! Yes, I’ll write a letter, and someone will come . . . someone will come—they must!’
My frantic movements had caused the dying flame to sputter out, leaving us in complete darkness.
‘Anne . . . Anne . . . oh, how do I leave this place?’
‘You don’t.’
At that moment, the door flew open and there stood the Count in his shirtsleeves. The angles of his chiseled face were lit from below by the candelabrum he carried.
‘Rats in the cupboard again?’ he sneered.
He extended the candelabrum until a flame singed a lock of Anne’s hair, hissing like a cat as it did so. The Count reached his other hand into the closet and
seized my arm, dragging me out with a force I was unable to fight. Digging into his shirtfront, he produced a golden key hanging from a chain about his neck.
‘We shall keep this rat in her trap tonight,’ he said, before slamming the door shut and locking it with Anne inside.
I could hear her screaming and thrashing against the door as the Count pulled me down the corridor and back to my chamber.
Once within, the Count lifted me violently from the floor where I had fallen, only to send me back just as rapidly with a sharp blow to my face. And this was but a prelude of what was to come . . .
Asylum Letter No. X
When I opened my eyes the following dawn, my body was bruised and broken, and I was lying in a tangled mass of blood and torn fabric.
There was a faint tapping at the door, then Anne crept in, carrying a pile of rags and a bucket of steaming water. She had wrapped a kerchief round her neck, but still I could see more of the angry burn marks I had noticed upon my arrival.
Without a word, Anne helped me to my feet, then wrapped me in a clean white dressing gown and put me to bed. I lay still and watched as she made a valiant attempt to mop up the blood, scrubbing the stained wood with all the strength her pale arms could muster, but the floor was beyond repair. Stopping her work, Anne set down the brush and buried her face in her hands.
‘Anne . . .’ I choked forth, reaching towards her. ‘What is happening?’
She turned to me, meeting my eyes at last.
‘Can you still not see it?’
I breathed the word ‘no’, but sound did not follow.
Anne rose from her knees; as she did so, something within her skirts scraped against the floor. Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, her fingertips then fluttered to her under-fed waist where she began to tug at the fabric of her blouse, lifting it higher until I could quite clearly see the corset beneath, and something else . . . From her waistband, Anne drew my bow—the violin bow I had dropped in the Music Room the night before—and brought it to me with a strange reverence, the offering of a sacred object, a prayer for forgiveness.
The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls Page 5
