The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

by Emilie Autumn

  Her voice trembled. ‘I’m so sorry about the . . . the . . . he smashed it all up . . . I couldn’t . . . I know how much it meant . . .’

  And as I curled my bleeding fingers round the slender stick of wood, more powerful than its delicate dimensions should allow, my vision went dark and from somewhere in the farthest corner of my brain came a blinding flash, a piercing pang, and knowledge.

  I saw the shiny buttons on the waistcoats of the endless string of strange men who would visit the Conservatoire. I saw the sunlight on the day I had asked the Headmistress my surname, and of how I was slapped and told that my name was Emily and nothing more. (In response to her statement, my fellow pupils and I organized our own little rebellion, calling one another by some identifying element of our Christian names as a means of establishing at least the illusion of individuality within an organization that regularly reminded us that we had none—I was Emily with a ‘y’.) And, finally, I saw Sachiko. Only too late could I interpret the chilling instruction written in her own blood. The pretty pictures I had engraved upon my mind over the long years—dreams I had depended upon simply to survive from one day to the next—all had faded over the course of a single night, leaving only despair in their place.

  Twining our aching arms round one another, Anne told me all she knew of the world we now inhabited—a world I could scarcely comprehend, and was utterly unprepared for.

  Through interactions with the numerous girls who had been brought to Bainbridge before myself, Anne had learnt that the Conservatoire was hardly the only institution of its kind; there were several such establishments throughout the country and beyond, catering to the varied tastes and preferences of the men who funded them.

  Anne was delivered to Bainbridge just as I had been, but she had disappointed both her new master and her old tutors by her excessive nervousness when asked to perform; her fingers would turn to ice, and every note she had ever learnt would flee her memory. Her inability to delight the Count and his clique rendered her worthless to him, despite her physical attributes, for she possessed an angelic face punctuated by a light frost of freckles, eyes a changeable green, pale and graceful limbs, and a great expanse of fire-red hair quite the same color as mine. Our close resemblance had not eluded us, though I did not suppose myself nearly so pretty.

  Naturally, the Count had demanded the return of his payment for Anne, but had kept her anyway; it seems he was in need of an upstairs housemaid, and so Anne was thrust into the role of enslaved domestic servant.

  She had watched closely for any opportunity to escape, but the Count had fitted every door and every window within his estate with double-sided locks that would open only by the turn of one Master Key, and this he always wore about his neck, even whilst he slept.

  Once, and once only, had Anne glimpsed her chance at freedom: Upon her arrival at Bainbridge, a pair of identical twin girls occupied one of the innumerable chambers. Painfully shy, they rarely spoke, and so their origins were a mystery, their nocturnal screaming being the only evidence by which Anne could be certain they had tongues at all. When first obtained, it was expected that Anne would take on her share of the torture, but, when she failed to amuse, she became less of a target for not only the Count’s passions, but his furies as well. Thus fueled by disappointment in his faulty purchase, the Count fell upon the twins doubly hard.

  In the Banquet Hall one morning, Anne had begun to clear the wreckage from the previous evening’s debauchery when she heard a sound like dripping water—slow, yet persistent. She moved about the room in search of the source, but could find nothing. Then, a drop of liquid splashed upon her cheek. She touched her face, then studied her fingertips. Red. Anne looked up to see one of the twins hanging directly above, suspended from her feet at a distance nearly six meters in the air. Bruises alone covered her nakedness, and long gashes reached from her childish hips to her chest, as though a pack of madmen had sought to slash the unripe womanhood right out of her. Blood had pooled below the pitiable wretch, droplets of which were still trickling from the tips of her silver-blond hair.

  That afternoon, when the corpse was being tossed into its beggar’s box, Anne observed a patch upon the dead girl’s skull where the blood-streaked tresses had been cropped close. The lid nailed shut at last, Anne watched from the peephole in the front door as the little coffin was loaded into the undertaker’s cart like nothing more than another day’s rubbish.

  Feeling faint, Anne leant against the door and felt it give way; the impossible had at last occurred—the entrance to Bainbridge had been left unlocked.

  If she were to move quickly, she could easily overtake the cart before it passed the gates. With luck, she could leap upon it and conceal herself between the coffins. She could reach the city. She could have a second chance. But Anne never left the house.

  Anne explained that she considered herself responsible for the child’s death—a sentiment I admired but did not agree with—and, thus, owed her own life to the surviving sister who had not only fallen into a state of severe shock at the loss of her twin and sole companion, but was also in even greater danger now that she was the only one left.

  As it happened, Anne had little opportunity to console the girl, for, upon delivering the tea that very evening, she found the child’s room empty. Anne returned the tray to the kitchen only to discover the Count himself slumped over in a servant’s chair; a visiting doctor changed a soiled bandage upon his face, which looked as though a very important piece had been cut out of it.

  Later on, the butler, the same who had been my escort to Bainbridge, was able to verify that one of the good carving knives had gone missing, but the Count would make no explanation of his injury to the doctor, nor to any of the staff. Instead, he took to his quarters, and, upon emerging, sported the eye patch that he was, from that day to this, never seen without.

  For months after, below-stairs gossip speculated that it was the missing twin herself who had wounded the Count, though how she could have managed it was never reckoned. All suspicion aside, the girl was not seen again, and Anne, like the rest of the servants, believed her dead.

  In the years since, Anne had never again sought her escape, still carrying with her the guilt of mistaken responsibility. I was glad to have her with me, yet I would rather she had run when she could.

  Exhausted from talking, we had both fallen into a light slumber when I was stirred by footsteps in the corridor. The knob slowly turned. Anne leapt from the bed, scurrying to the mantelpiece where she fell to dusting the ornaments with the corner of her apron. The baby angels, the porcelain dolls, all lace and rosy cheeks . . . I was clearly not the first young lady to have occupied what I now knew was a chamber of torture.

  The Count did not speak, but moved towards the bed, an insidious sneer framing the pointed teeth I had become intimately acquainted with the night before. He wore his riding costume and smelled of the outdoors. Over his left eye—or, rather, where his left eye used to be—was a new patch made of crimson silk.

  The Count arranged himself upon the edge of the bed; gingerly did he remove one of his gloves before sliding his long-nailed thumb between my lips, then down my neck to my chest. I cringed and turned away. Rising without a word, he flung himself into an armchair opposite me.

  ‘Emily, my pet, I have come to congratulate you. Your debut performance began a bit doubtfully, it is true, but it ended very well indeed. I am significantly pleased with you, though I do suggest you learn to better control your nerves.’

  At this, the Count directed his gaze towards Anne, who stood with her back to us. A gaudy cherub she had been intently polishing fell to the ground, the glass shattering. I shut my eyes tight to trap the tears that rose beneath my swollen lids.

  ‘I am expecting a sizeable assembly of guests this evening. I have lured the gentlemen to Bainbridge with intelligence of my new prodigy’s arrival, and they are most desirous of seeing you perform. I shall expect
you delectably attired and prepared to amuse us after we dine.’

  To the astonishment of both the Count and myself, it was Anne who burst out in protest.

  ‘Please, Sir,’ she begged, ‘could she not have a day at least to recover? She’s not yet well, Sir . . . you’ll kill her . . .’

  The Count softly laughed and rose from his chair.

  ‘Your concern for your new playmate is most touching, Anne. Now, raise yourself and come to me.’

  From inside his shirtfront, the Count again produced the Master Key of Bainbridge. Replacing the glove on his right hand, he held the key to a flaming taper, turning it over several times. As he did so, Anne mechanically tilted her head to one side, exposing her fragile neck already marked by scars and unhealed gashes. I, too, had become oddly transfixed by the Count’s steady movements, by the dancing of the flame, seemingly exultant in its task, and by the way the golden key gleamed ever brighter as it warmed.

  Finally, the Count lifted his key to Anne’s neck and pressed it deep into her flesh. Her delicate skin hissed and popped beneath the metal, and my hand felt beneath the bedsheets, searching, seeking something I had nearly forgotten was there . . .

  Quietly I crawled from the bed as the Count moved to punish Anne with a second burn. I approached slowly. When I was near enough, I shoved Anne aside, sending her reeling, jolted from her trance.

  ‘Step away from her, Emily, and learn your place,’ he commanded me.

  ‘You will not touch her again’ I growled, in a voice that was never mine before that moment. ‘You will not touch me again.’

  Advancing towards me, the Count began to laugh and this is when my right arm lashed out from behind and struck him across the face with the violin bow. A wide gash now ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth, splitting his face in two. A length of the bow, which had snapped upon the impact, now jutted from his cheek where it was embedded.

  Upon his roar, Anne ran at the Count from behind and struck him in the back of the head with a heavy volume of erotic ‘art’. The Count stumbled forwards; he had me by the arm, but I managed to claw at his face with my free hand, tearing away his eye patch. The gaping socket was surrounded by thick white scars resembling writhing maggots. Shrieking, the Count recoiled and covered his ghastly visage, his vanity allowing us the moment we needed to open the chamber door.

  Through the corridors we ran, flying down the magnificent staircase to the foyer with our enemy fast behind us.

  Halfway down the steps that Anne and I had descended not an instant before, the Count paused upon the landing to seize an ironwork candlestick, thick, dripping tapers still alight. He launched the object towards us; I was struck, a sharp edge of metal slicing into my shoulder. Boiling wax shot through the air, spattering onto my right cheek and burning me badly. Stunned, I nearly fell, but when Anne shouted my name and tossed me an elaborately carved stone phallus, I managed to catch it in one hand and send it flying towards the Count’s head. Success! He tumbled down the remaining stairs, lying motionless at the bottom, his forehead bleeding profusely.

  My wits recovered, I reached the front doors at last, but Anne had tripped over one of the Count’s hunting hounds, a barking pack of which had come to join the merriment.

  ‘It’s locked!’ I shouted back to Anne.

  The Count’s legs twitched and I knew that he was not yet dead.

  Anne struggled to her knees and crawled over to where the Count’s body lay; tearing open his shirt, she located the Master Key. His eye fluttered open, and he groaned weakly. Balling her fist, Anne pounded it directly into the Count’s face; his eye closed once again. One final tug and the chain snapped.

  Anne slid the key across the polished floor towards me; stopping it with my foot, I snatched it up, turned it in the lock, then ran back to Anne, pulling her through the door behind me just as the Count staggered to his feet.

  The entrance to Bainbridge faced the river. Anne pointed to an obscured path leading down from the garden to the rocks below; from there, we could climb the five metres to the dock, gaining entrance to the bridge leading from the bank beneath us to the city of London upon the other side of the Thames.

  Our bare feet were scored raw by the time we reached the dock. Frantic neighing sounded from the bluff of Bainbridge above; we turned to see the black silhouette of a figure on horseback, menacing before the setting sun, the sky ablaze with its dying burst. The Count had spotted us, and would be close behind within minutes.

  ‘Don’t look, just run!’ shouted Anne.

  The bridge was tremendously tall, rising in a steady arc; lampposts marked the points where supporting columns plunged down into the water, creating a series of arches wide enough for the boats to pass through. The sun seemed to be sinking faster than nature could possibly allow, and I felt as though time were speeding along at thrice its usual pace. The darkness devoured us. We had nearly reached the median, and would soon behold our destination.

  Hooves pounded the stones behind us, and the baying of the hounds grew ever louder. The Count had boarded the bridge, and he was not alone; his expected guests had arrived. All were mounted, charging towards us in a frenzied horde, the leaders carrying flaming torches to light their way.

  Finally, we passed the apex, then stopped short. The town sparkled exquisitely, an enchanted faerieland we had risked our lives to join, but we would never reach it. The opposite end of the bridge was impassable, blocked entirely by a temporary barricade, the debris of masonry under repair.

  With no cause to run further, we darted to the side of the bridge, peering over the ledge into the blackness below; the air was cold, the water surely colder. The moon was high now, extending across the river a path of light to us, as if to offer another way . . .

  The water lapped softly at the pillars.

  ‘Come home,’ it whispered.

  Turning to Anne, I believed she had heard it too.

  A peculiar calm washed over me, and I was no longer afraid.

  ‘Can you swim?’ I asked Anne.

  ‘No,’ she answered, distantly. ‘But I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Neither was I,’ I said.

  We embraced each other like sisters; we did not speak again.

  Asylum Letter No. XI

  I was roused by the clang of church bells. Judging by their number, it was early morning. I lay flat upon my back, my body stiff and cold. Gazing upwards, I could see the spire of a cathedral towering overhead. My hands explored the ground round me—grass, damp earth. In the air hung the smell of rot. I knew I was not dead and in Heaven, for, if I were, surely I would not continue to feel such physical pain as I yet did. And besides, suicides don’t go to Heaven, do they?

  I raised my head; dozens of bodies were laid out upon wooden planks just like the board beneath me. They were all female, and they were all dead. At the opposite end of the yard, two men carried the body of a girl freshly plucked from the river, her face blue, her soaked garments watering the grass below; without regard, the men tossed her onto an empty plank, and her limp body hit the ground with a dull, wet thud.

  Having managed to stand upright, I surveyed my surroundings. The dead women were of vastly varying age; they lay in diverse states of undress, most in soiled and still wet rags, some completely naked. A gaggle of schoolboys gathered outside the churchyard gates, pelting the dead girls with pebbles, and howling over the naked ones. Would little girls have done so? I wondered. I gave thanks that I was still in my dressing gown, torn and bloodied as it was.

  From the twisted necks of the dead hung wooden plaques crudely painted with the word:

  My interest was then captured by a queer old man who was absorbed in the mixing of a pot of plaster. I watched as he spread a thin layer upon whichever of the lifeless faces he fancied, then removed it once the plaster had dried.

  ‘Ah, so it’s you, then! Pity you’re not dead, isn’t it?’ said the old man. />
  ‘A pity it may be,’ said I, bewildered, ‘though it seems a bit rash to decide just yet.’

  The old man heartily laughed, then resumed his work.

  ‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘what on Earth do you do with . . . oh, never mind, I don’t wish to know.’

  The old man looked hard at my face.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing . . . no, no, no, it wouldn’t do, too much life in those features . . . though you might do well without that mark upon your cheek there . . . now, how’s a girl get herself a sore that shape?’

  ‘What shape?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, it’s a perfect heart, that’s what it is.’

  I touched the spot but could only feel the sting. The plaster man lifted the dried mask from the girl before him. Anne was a ghastly grey, her fiery braids still pinned neatly round her pretty head. A curious sort of smile curled her blue lips, as though she kept a secret that the rest of us would never know, and I was not sad for her. Anne had succeeded where I had failed, and she was free whilst the confines of this world were still mine.

  ‘No, Sir,’ said I, kneeling in the dirt beside Anne’s body. ‘You’ve already captured the most beautiful face in all of nature . . . you don’t need mine.’

  Presently, I noticed the Master Key of Bainbridge, still wound upon its broken chain about my wrist. I thought first to leave it with Anne, to be buried with her in whatever pauper’s grave she was to rest in, but decided against it; should the scavengers come, the key would only be nabbed, and I did not like to think of it back in the hands of a criminal of any sort.

  I would keep the key, I resolved at last, and wear it upon my person always, as a remembrance of Anne and of the freedom she had given me.

  ‘Did you know this poor child then?’ the old man asked.