by Mark C. King
The ride from his home to the river side near Tower Bridge had the usual banter among his family. Silvester had told no one of his plans for that day as he felt that he did not need the extra attention to make him even more nervous. His brother, David, was keenly interested in the results of the latest soccer match between Liverpool and Stoke City, and couldn’t stop talking about the brilliance of Liverpool. Normally, Silvester would share his interest, but not that day.
When they reached their destination, Silvester got out quickly and took in the river air – a somehow pleasing mixture of fish mixed with smoke from the many boats. As he scanned the area for Amberlyn and her family, he found that the river’s edge had many people already enjoying it, some were dressed for swimming, others, like Silvester and his family, were dressed for lounging. A waving hand caught his attention and he was happy to discover that it was Amberlynn. Her family already had a location set aside for all of them.
He waved back and hurried his family over, eager to just be closer to her. Everyone had met previously, so only casual greetings were exchanged. The men took up one blanket while the women took up the other. Silvester looked to Amberlyn, her simply arranged brown hair shining in the sun, her almost cat-like eyes beaming with excitement at seeing him, and again he felt a wave of inadequacy. What had he done to deserve her?
The agony of anticipation was eroding his confidence with every moment. He needed to ask her soon before his courage failed him completely. “I am not quite hungry yet.” Silvester said to Amberlyn. “Would you like to join me for a little boat ride before lunch?”
She smiled the happiest of smiles and answered, “That would be wonderful!”
6.
The plain dress was filthy, a drab brown with stains and grime adorning it. Her red hair was a mess, with tangled dirty locks pinned up at odd angles. The heavy black shawl around her shoulders was warm but moth eaten and frayed. Taking in the full picture of herself in the mirror, Charlotte grimaced at the returned vision. Dreadful! Absolutely dreadful! Then, with a smile, she said aloud to her reflection, “Perfect.”
This was the second morning since her discussion with Mr. Godwit, her editor, and Charlotte had spent the previous day gathering and creating her less than elegant ensemble. The dress was purchased at a road-side vendor in old Whitechapel. The woman selling the dress was very grateful for the sale as she was clearly desperate – for why else would she be selling wares outside in the dead of winter? After acquiring the dress, she took it to the alley that was near her apartment, and dragged it along the rain soaked ground. The dress soaked up the filth like a sponge.
The shawl was an item that she happened upon in an old trunk at her parent’s home. It must have been her grandmother’s, but her mother was not exactly sure. It was old and frayed and had a dusty, but not unpleasant, aroma. Charlotte found that she had to do very little to give it the desired appearance. A handful of dirt rubbed against it and a good shake did the trick.
The preparation for her hair was the easiest part. Like so many others, she was not immune to the mess that a night’s sleep provided. A sprinkle of dirt and a few strategically placed hairpins completed her style.
Still looking at her reflection, she wondered if this is what an insane person looked like. Not having any experience with those poor souls, she could not be certain. However, she took confidence in the conclusion that although she was not sure if she looked insane, she definitely did not look sane. Not-sane would have to be good enough.
Glancing around the room, she looked for anything that was out of order or that she was forgetting. It felt a bit like she was going on holiday. After all, if things went as planned, she would not be returning to her home for two weeks. She chuckled darkly as she thought, who goes on holiday to an insane asylum?
A second glance around the room caused Charlotte to reprimanded herself. The glance was clearly a stalling tactic. It was hard to believe that she was about to try and convince people that she was inflicted with madness. The idea was easy to consider when the reality was nothing more than an obscure future event, but now that the time arrived, the reality of it made for very difficult steps. What were once subtle concerns now were magnified in her mind, growing louder as they dominated her thoughts. The once humorous idea of acting strangely in public was now anything but.
For the hundredth time in the last two days, Charlotte wondered if she should have told her mother and father her plan. Was it wise to leave her safety and freedom in the hands of only one person, Mr. Godwit? Heaven forbid anything happen to him! Would she be able to prove her sanity if it became necessary? If Bedlam Asylum was anything like what she had read about, much less the rumours, she doubted that release would come easily. Perhaps there was still time to visit her parents… “No!” she said out loud, trying to put determination in her voice. Mr. Godwit will be fine and will arrange her release as promised. There was no need to cause her folks unnecessary worry.
Despite her wishes, thoughts of her husband’s last brave action – facing flames to help someone who could not help themselves – echoed in her mind. She would not put her current situation on the same level of his, dark worries aside, but she warmly believed that he would be proud of her. Proud that she was facing risks to help others. It was what he would do.
Her eyes moved back to the mirror and stared at the face looking back. This time, Charlotte was not looking at her clothes, she wanted to see beyond that. Yes, her appearance was ready, but what about the person beneath? After several seconds, she knew the answer. The task may have many unknowns, but it also had a constant, herself. She had proven repeatedly that she was equal to whatever she had to take on, voluntarily or not. Herself. A sword hardened in the fire of suffering; sharpened by the stone of experience. Herself. A weapon that could attack or defend, and one that she handled confidently. Was she ready for this task? The answer was a resounding yes!
Without another thought, without even a sideways glance, she walked deliberately to her door and exited her home. Her determination was greeted by an equally determined coldness of weather. A wind gust swept up the street and chilled her immediately, the heavy drizzle stinging her face. She pulled the shawl tight around her and looked up at the grey sky. It was dark for this time of day and her surroundings grew even darker as she turned down an alley. The destination that she had in mind was carefully chosen. It was one that was far from home and away from people who might recognize her. At the end of the alley, she headed east while looking for a cab. She was careful to not get too close to any other individuals, but that was quite a simple task as there were not many people out in this weather to start with. Perhaps the dreariness would work in her favor, she thought, surely no sane person would choose to be out in this.
A steam-cab turned onto the street she was walking down and she waved to get its attention. As it approached, she put the shawl over her head and held it tight around her neck in order to hide her appearance as much as possible. The chugging machine pulled next to the pavement, black smoke billowing and fighting against the drizzle, and stopped. Charlotte could hear the hissing of water as it hit the furnace of the engine. Without looking at the cab driver, she said, “Waterloo,” and entered the cabin.
As the car started moving, she took a moment to let the dryness and relative warmth of the cabin wash over her. The shawl was already heavy with moisture and her dress was fairing only a little better. For the first, and hopefully only, time in her life she realized that the worse she looked the better off she would be. Madness! she thought, and then remembered that that was her exact goal.
The previous day, Charlotte came up with many scenarios and locations to try and prove her insanity. For the location, she decided that Waterloo Station would be perfect. Even in this abysmal weather, there would still be plenty of people around the great train station. It had the added benefit of being very near her goal, Bedlam Asylum. All that was remaining was the most difficult part, her performance. The final decision on what perf
ormance to give was inspired by the words of Friedrich Nietzsche: And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
The driver decided to cross the Thames on Battersea Bridge. Charlotte shuddered as she could see the remains of the Battersea factory. This was the location that Grimkraken built his terrible machines, the location that originated the terrible flying monstrosity that ended up raining fire down on London. The very fire that killed her husband. This dark reminder was not part of her plans today and she did her best to shut it out.
Outside of the unfortunate route, the ride was uneventful and ended too soon for Charlotte’s liking. Had the trip from west London to east ever been faster? The cab stopped near Waterloo Station and she paid the man quickly, without looking at him, and then walked hurriedly away. She hoped that she had not given the driver any reason to be suspicious and was happy when she heard him drive off, looking for his next fare.
As anticipated, there were many people moving in and out of the train station, despite the bitter weather. As she moved closer to the entrance, she joined a sea of dark coats, hats, goggles, and the white mist of frozen breath. She picked a spot to the right of the large stone entrance stairs, a spot where she could be seen by many. After rearranging her shawl so that it was on her shoulders, no longer covering her head, Charlotte took a deep freezing breath, and then started to dance.
At first, her hands moved lightly from side to side and she subtly adjusted her weight from one foot to the next. This garnered a few looks from passersby, but no reaction much stronger than raised eyebrows.
It was so cold.
Continuing the small dance, she allowed the situation to become, if not comfortable, then a little more familiar. With slowly growing confidence, she started to move her arms more and take small steps to the music that she played in her mind. Before too long, she had her arms around an imaginary person and was performing a type of waltz right on the pavement.
A few people stopped for a moment to watch this spectacle with confusion. One man was kind enough to ask if she was alright, but she ignored him. She continued for another minute – the movement of her dance at least giving her a little warmth – and felt a bit dejected as to the effect she was having on those passing bye. Would not someone contact a constable about her – this poorly dressed dancer in the cold and drizzle?
It was time to increase the pressure. The next man that walked near her, a dark mustached man in his fifties, found himself to be her dance partner. She put her left hand on his shoulder and her right hand grasped his gloved hand. Despite his shock and lack of movement, she continued dancing.
“I say!” The man exclaimed, “Take your hands off me at once!”
She ignored him and kept dancing.
He grasped her left wrist and removed her hand from his shoulder and pulled back quickly his right arm to removed his hand from hers. Once apart, he walked away with a rapid pace. As if not noticing, Charlotte kept dancing and turned to the next man that approached. He was fair haired with a finely trimmed goatee and had a bit of a sense of humor. Despite the surprise of finding a woman in his arms, he took it in stride and shared a few steps of the dance with her. Inwardly, Charlotte appreciated the kindness shown, but it was not what she was after – she needed true concern, not just sympathy.
The fair haired man departed with a bow and resumed his course up the stairs into the station, now with a comical story to share with his friends. Others who had seen the recent two dances now gave her a wide berth, for fear of being her next partner. Water dripped off the ends of her hair as it grew heavy with moisture. Her shawl was soaked from the constant drizzle and her dress was sticking to her skin. Her body started to shiver involuntarily and she wondered how long she could continue before the cold became overwhelming. A sense of panic began to rise as she kept dancing but still had not received the attention she wanted. Could her endeavor be over so quickly? She had not prepared a second course of action, for how could dancing in the freezing cold with strangers fail to be considered insane?
Still, Charlotte danced. Her eyes roved around for yet another partner and was filled with hope as she glanced the dark mustache man, her first dance partner, come out of the train entrance with a constable at his side. Hope turned to confidence as the man pointed towards her and the constable started walking her way. The plan was working! But now was the crucial part, convincing the authorities to take her to Bedlam.
When the constable broke through the small crowd that had gathered around her, Charlotte immediately stopped dancing and curtsied to him. His bowl shaped constable’s helmet was covered in beaded dampness and his heavy coat was dark with moisture, making his brass buttons appear all the more bright. With head bowed, she said, “Your Lordship. How pleasant it is to see you.”
Whatever the constable had anticipated, he was certainly not expecting this kind of greeting. His blue eyes narrowed in confusion as he scratched the red hair of his right sideburn. Quickly collecting himself, he asked, “Miss, why are you dancing?”
She looked up and put her hand in front of her mouth and giggled. “When one is at a ball and the music is playing so enchantingly, why, you simply must dance.”
“Music?” the constable repeated unbelievably. “There is no music. And this certainly is not a ball.”
“You are too funny, your Lordship. Perhaps you are shy and this is your way of asking a lady to dance. I would be honored… If you would only ask.”
“Miss, I would like you to come with me inside. It is very cold and you look as if you haven’t had any warmth for quite a spell.”
Charlotte looked at the man with a bit of a sideways glance. She was feigning hesitancy and was trying to show a slight chink in her fanciful armor.
The constable – a fellow ginger, she thought – clearly a man of some intelligence and empathy, offered his arm like a true gentleman and said, “Miss, if you would be so kind to accompany me, perhaps we could find some refreshments.”
She took a slow step towards him and allowed the briefest hint of a smile. The cold was brutal, especially now that she had stopped moving, and she wished she could run inside and feel the warmth. Fighting these urges, she manage to keep calm – ruining what she had accomplished would be an awful turn at this point. Taking another small step, she slowly reached out her shivering hand towards the constable’s.
“That’s right, Miss,” coaxed the constable, “come along with me. All this dancing surely has made you thirsty.”
Taking his arm and giving a full smile, she said, “You are too kind, your Lordship.”
As the constable led her through the staring crowd and toward the stone stairs, she wondered if he would put shackles on her. Happily, she found that he simply led her up the stairs and inside Waterloo station. He headed them away from the passenger area and to an office along the side of the massive building. The warmth that came from being out of the weather was exhilarating but also made her feel a bit tired. Once in the office, a bare space with a desk, a filing cabinet and four wooden chairs, the constable invited her to sit. Charlotte looked around briefly and then took the offered chair.
“Please excuse my departure for one moment, Miss. I will gather us some tea.” With that, the constable left and locked the door behind him.
Clenching and unclenching her hands, Charlotte tried to gather feeling into them. She was still shivering from the cold – and now from nerves. Her hair and clothes were dripping onto the floor and the warmth of the room now seemed to remind her more of how cold she was. If the constable was truly bringing tea, it would be most welcome.
There was no clock in the room, but she imagined that he was only gone a few minutes before unlocking the door and returning. He wasn’t alone, a second constable with him and, blessed man, he had a cup of tea. Handing it to her, he said, “Miss, for you.”
She took it with a smile, but didn’t say anything. The warmth of the cup almost hurt her hands. It was wonderful. She rais
ed the liquid to her mouth and took a blissful sip and felt the heat flow down her throat. The comfort it provided rejuvenated her confidence and hardened her determination.
The two constables sat on the other side of the desk and the first one asked, “Now, Miss, what is your name?”
Charlotte had spent a little bit of time giving thought to this very question. She could not use her own name, on the odd chance of being recognized, but she did not want to deviate too far and be caught in the lie. She decided upon Charlotte Caine – her maiden name. “It is Charlotte Caine, sirs.”
“Thank you Miss Caine. Now, tell us, why are you here?”
“You brought me here, your Lordship,” she said with a touch of anxiety.
“No, no, Miss Caine, I meant here at Waterloo Train Station. Why are you here at the station? Do you have a train to catch?”
Charlotte looked around a little and started to show a little agitation in her face – an occasional spasm of her eye mixed with quick movements of her cheeks and lips. The impression that she was hoping to give was that reality was trying to break through her fantasy. She did not answer the question.
After some thirty seconds or so, the second constable, a round man with black hair and a ruddy face, asked, “Miss Caine, where is your home?”
