Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes to clear them. “Yes?”

  “It’s Mrs. Wickstrom, Josephine. I’m your near neighbor. I know you’re new, and the dinner bell has rung.”

  It was dark outside my window. In my exhaustion, I’d slept away the day.

  I stood and shook out my gown; I’d expressly chosen one that would not require much fuss as I would likely not have much help beyond Mrs. Strange, and I was not sure what her duties required.

  “I’ll be along,” I called out.

  “I’ll wait for you,” she said, her voice firm. A frisson of fear traveled through me. Was she well? Could she harm me?

  When I opened the door I found a woman perhaps five years older than I, rather thin and plainly dressed, but with the exception of the dark rings round her eyes, she looked completely well.

  “I thought you might like me to show you where the dining room is,” she said. “The pleasant part of a private asylum is that we have more autonomy,” she continued. “But less oversight means much less assistance as well.”

  “I’m grateful for your help,” I said. We walked down the vestibule in silence, then down the stairs.

  “I heard you crying,” she said matter-of-factly. “You will soon reconcile yourself to being here. We all do. I have not cried in some time, though there is no saying what might trigger a relapse.”

  “How long . . . ?” I began, not sure if the question was impertinent or not.

  “It’s all right; there are no secrets at Medstone.” We joined a stream of others walking toward the dining hall. “My husband had me committed here two years past for nursing our child overlong.”

  Horror rose within me. “Surely not!”

  She nodded. “Luckily for him, he had a younger woman waiting to take over my . . . duties. He divorced me. He still pays for my keep. I’m certain he will forever, though I have no doubts about living long enough to do him real damage.”

  My spirits fell for her, for me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “They bring my Emily to visit.” Her voice was blunt. “On her birthday. Here we are now. As it’s dinner, there shall be meat, if you’re kind to the server. If not, it’s potatoes only, and they may even spit in them when you cannot see.”

  I swallowed my gorge and followed her into the dining room, which was filled with tables seating four or six, light flowered paper covering the wall, gas lamps burning, their flames leaving circles of black residue on the ceilings. A flat piece of brown rested on the plates of those who had been served.

  “There is no meat at other meals?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s said to make us excitable.”

  I took a chair at the dining table she led me to, and she made pleasant introductions to all; she called me her friend, which meant they were open to me. I was so grateful for a friend. Although men and women lived on different wings, we were allowed to dine and socialize together. A man of perhaps forty made conversation with another woman at our table until he put his head in his hands and said, “Cooper! Cooper, mate. Cooper, move out!” He clutched his head as though suffering intense pain. The woman with whom he’d been conversing leaned over and patted his shoulders. “There, now, Lieutenant, Cooper heard you, and he’s moved. He’s safe now.”

  The lieutenant lifted his head and looked at her. “Truly?”

  She nodded, and he dropped his hands and grinned, expression completely transformed, eager for the plate about to be set before him.

  The woman introduced herself as Miss Trulean, a wealthy draper’s daughter. “I live here permanently,” she said, but did not say why she had been committed. Her eyes were shiny and her gaze relentless and intense.

  Another man, who remained silent but rocked himself in his chair the entire time, joined us, as did an elderly woman. I noticed there were few elderly people in the room.

  One in five die each year.

  At the end of the meal, Miss Trulean left the table to look for a fresh pitcher of water. The lieutenant began to whimper about Cooper again, and I leaned over and patted him as Miss Trulean had done. “The lad is fine, now, do not worry,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Thank you, young lady.” When pudding was served, he ate heartily.

  Josephine and I made our way back to our rooms. Mrs. Strange awaited me there, to help me prepare for the night. Josephine spotted her down the hall.

  “I recognize her,” she said. “She’s not been here for a while, but she was kind to her last patient and stayed with her until she passed on. My husband only paid for a nurse to attend me until all my paperwork was finalized, knowing I could not then leave. Ever.”

  Alarm coursed through me. Mrs. Strange’s last patient had died? Once the paperwork was completed, there was no likelihood of leaving?

  We said good night, and I opened the door and let us into my room.

  “Why are you here?” I asked as she brushed out my hair.

  “Why, to help you, of course.”

  “Did you suggest I come here?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “For what cause?”

  “For your protection,” she said.

  I had given no indication I would harm myself.

  “Perhaps I may learn something of my mother,” I said.

  “That has long been my very thought,” Nurse Strange replied. “I shall make gentle enquiries.” She blew out my lamp and left me for the evening.

  For an hour or so I lay stock-still and stiff in my bed, wondering if someone could come in through the unlocked door.

  It could not have been inexpensive, a private asylum. But it would not cost Edward nearly as much as losing what was left of his fortune, to me, would. We would likely not qualify for a publicly funded stay. And they’d be prone to ask more questions of him.

  The hallucinations had grown stronger after my mother’s things started being returned. And after I became increasingly attached to Marco. Could it be true?

  There was perhaps in all of us a fine line between that which disoriented but could be overcome or managed and that which eventually caused our inner scaffolding to collapse. None of us were masters of our own minds, or our own fate.

  One in five died each year. There were few old people at Medstone.

  I awoke in the night. Josephine, next door, was crying. I pulled on my robe and went into her room, sitting next to her on her bed, my arm round her, for some time.

  One afternoon I sat at a table with the others I dined with, playing draughts. A stern woman passed, and as she did, the others put their heads down.

  “Mistress Malmstead,” the lieutenant said.

  “I have not met her,” I said.

  “The odds of that are extraordinary!” a man sitting with us named Mr. Dabney said. At that, the table burst out in sharp peals of laughter, which frightened me. Others around the room quieted.

  “He’s got math mania,” Josephine whispered to me.

  “Who is Mistress Malmstead?” I asked.

  “She’s responsible for overseeing our tasks. They feel it’s important to occupy irrational minds. You haven’t been assigned a task yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “That is not good.” Josephine’s face darkened.

  “Perhaps my cousin paid them enough that I need not participate,” I said.

  She capitulated her game and took me aside, near a window. We watched a flock of black birds, startled by the wind in the twiggy trees, fly from their barren branches. “If you live idly, it’s an indication that you will not adapt to life on the outside again. Even though I’ve little chance of leaving, I still participate on the off chance that I may be released someday. If you ever hope to leave this place, you cannot be idle.”

  Why hadn’t Mrs. Strange told this to me?

  “What can I do?”

  “Help in the kitchens?” she offered.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very good cook.”

  “I paint the blackened marks f
rom the chair rails and the ceilings,” she said. “But we’re full up.”

  “Teach?” I asked. That I could do!

  She shook her head. “The chaplain does the teaching, to ensure that we don’t stray from light moral and improving lessons. How about entertainments? We’re allowed an entertainment at least once per week, especially now it’s growing close to Christmas.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I was used to being rather alone at Christmas, but not locked in an asylum!

  “Could you contribute to the entertainments?” she asked anxiously as Mistress Malmstead walked by again.

  I pressed my memory. What could I do? Mr. Morgan’s recent pantomime came to mind. At least it was fresh. “How about a pantomime?”

  “Splendid!” Josephine looked as relieved as I felt. “Let’s speak with her”—she nodded toward Mistress Malmstead—“now.”

  We did, and after hearing my suggestion Mistress Malmstead turned to me, eyes brimming with contempt. “So, Miss High and Mighty wants to put on parlor entertainment.” She burst out laughing but it held no joy, only sharp edges. “No, I think not. But it’s turning to the season of illness, and the infirmary can always put idle hands to work. That’s the place for you.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Josephine shook her head no and led me away. Once we were clear of Mistress Malmstead, she squeezed my hand. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. I was, too.

  Those who worked with the unwell often became unwell themselves. Sick unto death, in fact.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MID TO LATE NOVEMBER, 1851

  My job was to help wash filthy rags. The rank smell of disease still rose from them. My hands grew raw and cracked and all day the ravings of the ill, those ill in mind and in body, assaulted my sensibilities. I felt their sufferings and prayed for them, in silence, while I worked. I had seen others working in the infirmary become ill and not return. I monitored my own health most closely. Perhaps too closely. My imagination had begun to take over.

  One afternoon I was excused early. A priest had arrived at the request of Mrs. Strange. I was allowed to walk the frozen grounds with him. It was a pleasure and a rare privilege to be outside on a dry day, and I knew I’d only been allowed it as I was in his care. Patients were not normally permitted to walk outside unescorted; I’d learned that if anyone escaped and was not returned within fourteen days their admitting paperwork would have to be resubmitted, proving them mad again.

  The priest tucked my arm through his crooked elbow. We walked, scaring up a flock of irritated birds that had chosen to brave the bare English winter rather than fly away to warm Mediterranean quarters for the season.

  “Thank you,” I said to him.

  “For what, daughter?” He was perhaps ten years older than I was.

  “Treating me as you would treat any parishioner, not as someone who is mad.”

  “We are all subject to the distress and vagaries of this world, and every soul here is as much a parishioner as any in my church.”

  I nodded. He was leading me to the very back of the property, away from the side that held the attendants’ cottages, and toward an open field.

  “Mrs. Strange said you wanted information about your mother. As you know, Catholics in the past were allowed even less freedom of worship than they are now. But we keep secret parish records, and the Medstone staff have always readily granted access to any who wished to meet with their clergy.”

  The grass beneath our feet was frosted as though it had been encased in glass; it shattered into wicked brown shards as we moved forward. I was grateful that I’d been allowed to bring and keep my fur-lined cloak and muff against the chill. Soon we arrived at a section of the field where small iron markers with numbers upon them dotted the ground.

  “Grave markers,” I whispered.

  He nodded.

  “And my mother is here.”

  He tightened his grip on my arm. “Yes, I thought you would want to see. After Mrs. Strange let us know you were interested, I went through the records and found the notes the priest had left at the time of her death.”

  He stopped in front of marker 256. I stood there for a moment, uneasy, not knowing where to step. Was I stepping on her? Stepping on someone else?

  The priest seemed to understand. “Do not worry, daughter. You do no disrespect standing on the field and, as you know, your mother is not there in the truest sense of the word. No one can see you. You can cry if you like.”

  I shook my head no. Perhaps later, perhaps alone. Not here. I had always wanted to know how her life had ended, but no one would say. Had I not come to Medstone, had the priest not brought me here, I’d never have truly understood.

  My face began to freeze. My heart began to bleed. “I just . . . I suppose I’d hoped until now that she really hadn’t died. That she was waiting somewhere for me. I knew she’d find me if she could, but still, one hopes.”

  He smiled softly. “She did die. The notes state that she was given the last rites, died in peace with her priest and a friend by her side, and mentioned Annabel and an Alessandru Bellini.”

  “Bellini! Alessandru Bellini!” He looked at me rather firmly, and I quieted down. I did not want to give the wrong impression to any who might be about.

  My father’s name was Bellini. Perhaps I could locate him. Had Judith known his name? Certainly. And yet she’d erased all trace. Had Edward known, too?

  I looked down at the ground, which gave no indication of ever having been disturbed. The grass grew as an unbroken blanket over her final resting place. She’d died in peace, which quieted a tremor my heart had always known, and with a friend. “Why was she buried here? Not returned to her family?”

  “That was their request,” he said. “That was allowed many years ago, but now, not as often. We have run out of room in the ground, so the earthly remains are always returned to families unless they refuse to take them. Then, as often as not, their final resting place is in a pauper’s field.”

  I was relieved that had not happened to my mother.

  “I wish I’d have been old enough to help. I wish I would have known more, and sooner. I wish there was something I could do to honor her.”

  “Do what you think you should do,” he said. “Be who you hope and pray you could be. Be kind. Be courageous. That is what will honor her. Any good mother.”

  He nodded toward Medstone. “Ready?”

  I nodded. “Will you come back?” I asked.

  “I shall visit when I can. But an outbreak of influenza has just taken hold in one of the attendants’ cottages and visitors are not likely to be allowed soon, I’m sorry to say. The risk . . .”

  I nodded. I understood the risk. I saw, I heard, I feared it all afternoon, every afternoon, at the infirmary. It spread like flame to pitch. There were no quarantine rooms here.

  Late that night, after a dinner of mutton stew, I returned to my room and sat thinking in the silence while the night grew quiet but for the coughs of the newly ill.

  My mother, Julianna. My father, Alessandru Bellini. My mother’s name was Julianna Bellini, and she had named me, I’d just realized, for the contraction and conjoining of their names. The last portion of her Christian name and the first portion of her surname.

  Annabel.

  My mother had risked all for my father—and had paid the final, permanent price for their love and for bearing me. And yet as I looked back on the few memories I had of her, I could not imagine that she would have foregone those risks. The pictures of her and my father glowed with love and affection. They had risked; they had lost, that was true, but they had also gained.

  I had already grieved the loss of my mother, so that was not a fresh wound. It brought me comfort to have her remains nearby. Instead, I sought to think carefully about what I might do to help reclaim her life, her name, and if in any way achievable, my fortune.

  It would not be easy, if it were even possible. And I had so little time before being permanently admitted.


  Late that night, Mrs. Strange came to visit and to see if I needed some sleeping medication after my difficult day. I had always foregone her suggestion of it, not trusting much in substances after my recent encounters with the poison-stirred honey at Highcliffe.

  But wait! Perhaps it had not been poisoned. It was foreign. Greek honey.

  Mad honey!

  She must have seen my startled, agitated expression. I sat upright, and then back again. “Would you like a draught?” she asked again. “It may help. You won’t hear the nighttime . . . screams.”

  The screams. I hated them. Were they due to illness? Or was someone harming someone else? I shuddered, and was tempted. “No, thank you,” I finally said. “But can you stay and sit with me for a moment?”

  “Of course,” she said, plumping herself on the small chair in the corner of the room.

  “You say you are here to help me, and the priest said you were trustworthy. But I must know: Are you here working on Edward’s behalf?”

  “No,” she said. “Certainly not.”

  “And yet you were sent in response to his letter to the specialist.”

  “Yes.” She looked at her hands for a moment. “I know Father Gregory at the Earl of Somerford’s as well.”

  Understanding expanded from the center of my being outward. I now understood. Father Gregory had somehow been involved, perhaps even sent her to me. I decided to take a chance.

  “I suspect that my cousin’s wife saw my reaction to her absinthe, told her husband, and then my cousin arranged for his import partners to provide me with foreign honey, and began to dose me with it in my tea; my cousin’s wife had heard the Maltese captain speak of such a thing when she was with me. It was within his means.”

  “His meaning the captain?”

  I nodded slowly. “That is possible. But my family also imports many goods from Turkey and Greece. So Edward could have acquired some of their ‘mad’ honey quite easily, given prompting from Clementine as a way to solve their problems. If I were found mad, even though I might be legitimate, I could not inherit our property or resources. My cousin would not have wanted me married—and bearing a child.”