The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

by Emilie Autumn

  ‘Anne? A little. She saved my life.’

  And she had. Her intervention was the key to my escape, and I promised her that I would make my second chance count.

  I left the churchyard behind, and joined the mob upon the streets of London.

  Asylum Letter No. XII

  I fought my way through the crowd. I was not at all certain of my destination, and I knew that I would be wise to think of shelter and a place to pass the coming night, but I wanted only to get as far away from Bainbridge as possible. Even now, someone could be hunting for me.

  By noon, the encompassing fog had given way to a light rain; I was shivering, soaked, and painfully hungry. I became aware of footsteps behind me. I struggled to convince myself that I was merely imagining, for there were dozens of people traversing the same route as I; why should there not be footsteps? Still, I felt myself walking a good deal more briskly, and, before I realised it, I was running.

  The sky was nearly black now, and the air had turned dangerously cold. Passing a darkened alleyway between two dwellings, I spotted a small barrel fire surrounded by a haggard band of beggars. Approaching, I took the liberty of warming my hands over the meager flames. An ancient and toothless crone took pity upon me and removed the tattered, scarlet shawl from her shoulders, but a little man with mud embedded in his whiskers took offense at my presence, and he chased me from the alley before I could return the shawl.

  Ill from the salt water I had swallowed, I turned my face to the sky, opening my mouth wide to taste the rain that poured down ever more heavily as the night settled in. Entering a swarming marketplace, I began to look at the awning-covered baker’s cart with a different eye. I waited until the merchant was attending to a proper customer, then plucked a toasty, brown bun from a heaping bushelful, hiding it beneath my borrowed shawl.

  The bun’s rightful owner never witnessed my fledgling attempt at thievery, but a young police constable did. Taking hold of me, he looked closely at my face, and, after a moment, told me to be good and follow him to the station, adding that, if I did as he bade me, he would let me keep the bun I had and give me another besides. Supposing that anywhere I might end up with a police constable was quite as good as anywhere I might end up on my own, I ate most indelicately as the constable herded me through the streets.

  Upon reaching the station, I was led inside and unceremoniously shoved into a cell. Should such a fuss be carried out for all the petty thieves in London, the prisons would have been bursting.

  Hearing voices in the corridor, I raised myself to see a tall female figure attired from head to toe in a heavy charcoal-grey crepe, as though she were in perpetual mourning. By her side stood the young constable who had brought me to the station. The woman in grey produced a small portrait from her handbag, much like those in the attic of the Conservatoire; she seemed to be comparing its subject with myself.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it, Madam?’ asked the constable, eagerly.

  ‘You were quite correct to alert us, Constable,’ the woman replied, snapping the portrait shut, her gaze fastened still upon myself rather than at the young man who begged her attention. ‘You shall be rewarded for your powers of perception.’

  The woman’s voice struck me as a knife cutting through the air round her; her features were concealed beneath a veil sheer as smoke, as well as the shadows cast by the bonnet bearing the severed wings of some unfortunate bird. Only a hint of her left cheekbone and a twisted corner of her tight lips were visible to me, though they hinted at the face they belonged to, and I suspected that the countenance would match the voice.

  ‘Child,’ she began, ‘in the unfortunate event that you are called upon to speak, you may address me as Madam Mournington. I am given to believe that you are called Emily, and that you have ungratefully fled the house of your Master, the Count de Rothsberg, only a day since.’

  ‘Then, Madam, you believe wrongly,’ said I. ‘I have no Master.’

  The woman’s laugh was low and mirthless.

  ‘We all have a Master, child.’

  She lifted her veil, and I was accosted by two dark eyes deeply set into a face taut and tense, as though the flesh and all of its softness had eroded through years of trial, and what remained was only the thin white curtain that held the bones together. A sharp, aquiline nose imparted a decidedly haughty quality that the woman’s carriage and demeanor did nothing to deny.

  ‘What do you want of me, Madam? I suppose you are sent by the Conservatoire?’

  ‘Then you believe wrongly, child. I am not from your Conservatoire—they no longer have the slightest interest in you. In fact, you have managed to make yourself quite worthless to any who have been entrusted with your care to this point.’

  ‘It is they who are worthless to me. I do not covet their regard, nor do I intend to ingratiate myself back into their society.’

  ‘Society,’ the woman harshly interrupted, ‘is no longer your concern. I am directed to remove you from society, where you would threaten to contaminate those round you with your insolence, ingratitude, violent tendencies, thievery, and, as it has now been proven by your sinful attempt upon your own life, madness.’

  ‘Madness? This is madness! Whomever has directed you is mad, and I shall not suffer to be told by one more person, begging your pardon, Madam, where I am to be removed to.’

  ‘You prefer to remain here in prison, then?’

  ‘I do, Madam.’

  ‘I see.’

  Madam Mournington’s grey-gloved fingertips traveled to her throat and lingered upon an oval cameo fastened there. The ornament was adorned with a child’s silhouette, and, as she touched it, I imagined that Madam Mournington’s eyes might once have been called beautiful. Abruptly, she lowered her hand and grasped it with the other, as if caught at something wicked.

  ‘Well, that is quite impossible.’

  Reaching into her handbag yet again, Madam Mournington now produced a large envelope sealed with blood-red wax.

  ‘As you shall see, wretch, you have no say in the matter.’

  She removed a document from the envelope and held it before me to inspect.

  ‘Following your crime of attempted suicide, an act only a lunatic could contemplate without shame, the only society you are to be allowed to keep is the society of other lunatics like yourself.’

  ‘Lunatics like myself . . . What is this?’

  I lifted my eyes from the commitment form to find my mistress positively beaming with self-righteousness.

  ‘Am I being committed to an insane asylum?’

  ‘Not just any insane asylum!’ she exclaimed, indignantly, as though I had gravely offended her. ‘Though you certainly do not deserve it, you are a very lucky girl indeed, for you have been assigned a bed in the most progressively innovative, the most morally experimental, the most, ah, the most ingeniously directed medical institution for the mentally ill, governed by my own dear son, Dr. Montmorency Stockill. You, unworthy child, are now a patient of the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.’

  Clapping her hands, Madam Mournington quit the cell. A pair of guards stepped forwards, tearing the scarlet shawl from my shoulders before buckling a broad leather collar round my neck. I was forced into a straight-waistcoat, my arms crossed before my chest and secured tightly behind me.

  Asylum Letter No. XIII

  Ah, there seems to be a page missing . . . where could it have gone, surely it was here, I have only just written it . . . but I cannot remember how I traveled from the carriage up the steps to the Asylum’s entrance, yet there I stood before the massive, moonlit structure, a monumental fortress of brick and limestone, its Gothic splendor a stark contrast to the hundreds of bar-crossed windows punctuating the vast wings that reached out on either side in a wide yet disingenuous welcome.

  Gripping the leash attached to my collar was a colossal brute, hunched and mute save for the occasional gru
nt. He had ridden with us in the carriage, filling the confined quarters with the stench of rotting meat—I wondered that my mistress could endure it. The leviathan had hold of me with one filthy paw; his other struck a large brass bell that hung from an alcove above the doors. The rude clanging produced no response from within, and Madam Mournington stamped her boots upon the frozen porch in frustration, cracking the thin ice.

  ‘A plague upon these blasted servants!’ she fumed.

  Fumbling inside of her grey wool traveling cloak, Madam Mournington produced a key attached by a long chain to a chatelaine pinned at her waist; from the chatelaine also hung a tiny pair of scissors, a needle case, a thimble, a monocle, and a little silver pencil.

  A bloodcurdling scream from within the Asylum pierced the night. My heart tripled its pace and the giant at my side began to breathe heavily, sniffing the air like a hungry animal. Taking no notice, Madam Mournington fit her key into the iron lock, and had scarcely begun to turn it when the doors swung upon. Pulling them inwards were two smartly dressed butlers; they beckoned us inside with a bow and a sweep of their white-gloved hands. Madam Mournington snapped her fingers; the giant dropped my leash and ambled away.

  My mistress advanced into the grand Entrance Hall whilst I remained in the doorway, the wind rushing in round me, blowing leaves and rain onto the marble floor. An enormous clock at the far end of the Hall struck four, and time seemed to stop. I commanded my feet to move me forwards, but my instruction bore far less influence over my movements than did the blazing fire before me.

  Tall ivory candles ensconced in gold sparkled from their place upon the mantelpiece. The hearth itself was so large I could have walked into it upon my toes, were I so inclined. To the left of the fire, richly upholstered chairs were casually assembled round a tea table set with bone china and laden heavily with delicacies almost too beautiful to eat. Cakes stacked high and frosted with swirls of icing and lemon drops were flanked by tiered trays of strawberry tarts; a plate of biscuits glittered with coloured sugar; exquisitely sculpted marzipan fruits lay arranged in clusters; chocolates wrapped in crisp gold paper were tucked into every chink in this display, heartbreaking to the hungry captive.

  To the right, a small gathering of ladies lounged upon overstuffed settees, books and needlework upon their laps, whilst others sat round an antique harpsichord, sipping daintily from tiny teacups. All were dressed elegantly, yet with modesty; their hair was neatly plaited and coiled into becoming styles.

  Upon the paneled walls hung paintings in majestic gilt frames. One canvas depicted a Persian cat sitting regally upon a yellow cushion; another was a still life of two pears and a pineapple, and there were several compulsory landscapes. Small brass plates beneath each painting bore a different female name, and I assumed that the patients themselves were the artists behind these mundane works, though why any girl, no matter how wayward, would choose to paint two pears and a pineapple was beyond my present ability to reason.

  It was another painting that dominated the Hall, however—a grandiose portrait showing a young man of perhaps twenty-five with dark, loose hair framing a gaunt and sober face. He was clean-shaven, and wore a medal and two red ribbons upon the breast of his sharply tailored coat. With black eyes, brooding and deeply set, he was far from unhandsome, yet there was something in the twist of his lips I did not like. Beneath the portrait was an engraved plaque:

  DR. MONTMORENCY STOCKILL: A Saviour to the Weaker Sex

  So this was the ‘ingenious director’—the dear son of Madam Mournington.

  All that I here describe my wide eyes had digested before I had taken three steps inside the Asylum. One step more and the front doors were slammed shut and bolted behind me, the resounding crash sending two housemaids scurrying forwards. The maids wore stiffly starched caps and lace aprons tied over their trim grey frocks, unnaturally broad smiles brightening their ruddy complexions. They curtseyed low as the two butlers moved to take my mistress’s cloak. Upon rising, the maids recited in perfect unison:

  ‘On behalf of our happy household, we welcome you to the Asylum for Wayward Victoria—’

  ‘Stop!’ interrupted Madam Mournington, slapping away the hand of the butler endeavoring to take her umbrella. ‘Charming performance, everyone, truly charming, but it is only us—the girl has no relatives to impress; she is quite alone in the world.’

  ‘Well now, ain’t that a shame,’ said a butler, eyeing me closely. ‘We’ll take care of the little thing like we was family, won’t we, Maudsley?’

  ‘Thank God . . . I bloody hate this bit, dress don’t even fit right,’ groaned one of the maids, tearing off her cap.

  A woman sprawled upon a settee shouted to the maid who had just spoken.

  ‘Mary, I get to be the ‘ousemaid next time, and you can sit on yer arse with a bloomin’ bible pretendin’ to be mad.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, tart,’ cried Mary, tossing her cap towards the woman upon the settee; she missed. ‘You’re as mad as any o’ them locked up, you are . . . it’s not as though you’ve got to do any actin’.’

  ‘Silence, slatterns!’ roared Madam Mournington, pounding her umbrella upon the floor. ‘One more word from any of you and you all lose cellar privileges for the month. And besides,’ she added, addressing the maids, ‘your speech lacked feeling, you are over-rouged, and, Mary, your cap was more crooked than your aim. See to it. Now, I shall take my tea in Dr. Stockill’s Drawing Room. He must be informed of the new patient at once. As for you,’ she turned to the counterfeit butlers, ‘see that you are quicker to the door in future—I wait on no one. Now clear off, the lot of you . . . but not you, Maudsley. Turn in your finery and take this girl to Quarantine for the night. We shall evaluate her behaviour there before deciding where to place her permanently.’

  ‘To the salt box? With pleasure,’ replied the rogue to my right.

  ‘We do not call it that here!’ snapped my mistress as she exited the Hall, her chin pointed high, heavy skirts swishing.

  ‘Oh, yes we do,’ Maudsley muttered, too low for her to hear.

  I glanced over to the ladies cavorting in the corner; they had discarded their perfectly coiffed hair, revealing their own slovenly arranged tresses. Two were locked in an obscene embrace, which was only alarming until their gowns had been torn asunder and I saw that several of the ladies had not, in fact, been ladies at all. All actors tossed their castoff costumes to the ground and bounded away, leaving us quite alone.

  Maudsley had hold of my leash now, and snapped it sharply. Without the use of my arms, my balance was lost and I stumbled forwards; Maudsley did not help me up. Instead, he twisted a knob beneath one of the numerous gaslights illuminating the Hall. Instantly, the fire I had been longingly gazing into went black. The lamps dimmed, and I heard a rumbling from somewhere below us, then the turning of gears. The ground shook. The floor we stood upon began to sink.

  No! We were not sinking . . . the walls round us were rising—first those to my left and right, then the panels further down the Hall, until reaching the panel behind the hearth itself—the one bearing the great clock as well as the venerable Dr. Stockill’s portrait. The walls were being pulled up into the rafters. The settees and the harpsichord began to move as well, and I saw that they were fixed to a rotating section of the floor. Away went the furniture, away went the tea table, cakes and all, none of which had been real. The pieces fit together like a perfect machine . . . a clock.

  What remained was a stark, cold cavern, drafty and damp, with rubble in the crooked corners and bits of flaking plaster patching the spots where the walls didn’t quite meet the ceiling. The framework appeared to be falling apart round us.

  Maudsley tugged at my leash, but I pulled back, genuinely frightened.

  ‘Come on now, love,’ he jeered in his rough tongue, ‘is this how we want to start off in our new home?’

  ‘This is not my home,’ said I.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, ‘course it’s not. Mummy and Daddy are coming back for us—that’s what they all think, poor nutters. Now, make yourself more pleasant or I will get rough and I will enjoy it.’

  Maudsley was no butler; he was nothing above a common bully. Onwards was I dragged towards the hearth. Now flameless, it was a gaping hole—if the Asylum’s wings were the arms of the building, then this was the mouth. Maudsley stepped inside of the hearth, and another snap of the leash told me I had no choice but to follow.

  Into the catacombs I went. The cramped tunnel was lit only by the lantern Maudsley held before him. Something foul permeated the stale air that grew colder with every step. After what seemed like miles, we arrived at a gate made of crossed iron bars set into the narrow walls. Unlocking the bolt, Maudsley pulled me forwards and shoved me into the cell beyond. The gate slammed shut; the bolt was dropped.

  ‘I can’t see a thing!’ I called out to him. ‘Please, let me have the light. Surely you have matches to find your way back with . . .’

  I tried to reach out, only then remembering that my hands were still bound behind my back. Maudsley laughed.

  ‘Give fire to a lunatic? Not likely. Best of luck to you in gettin’ through the night, love.’

  I believed Maudsley had departed, but I was mistaken, for a hand was thrust through the bars. He seized my leash, pulling me hard against the cold metal.

  ‘Then again . . . we could have some fun, you and me. I can get you things you want, you know. That’s how it works in this pit, love.’

  Maudsley had his groping hand about my waist now.

  ‘At risk of being rude, Sir, I would sooner die,’ I replied, wrenching my body from his grasp.

  ‘That you probably will,’ he laughed again.

  Leaving me at last, Maudsley traveled back through the tunnel, the flickering lamplight growing fainter until it was gone. I turned to face the darkness, then panicked.