The Medea Complex (14 page)

Edgar

April 26th, 1886

Royal Bethlem Hospital

Anne flings herself upon me as soon as we enter the room.
"My love, my darling!" she gushes, as she clings tight to my
waistcoat, sobbing. Dressed in the linen that defines her as a patient, she is
still my wife, yet, somehow, is also another person, a stranger to me. Six
months of separation has not changed her appearance, but something indefinable
and different floats about her. I force a smile, gently pushing her away from
me, but keeping hold of her hands.

"Such a public display of affection!" I say,
making light of her attention. I fear she may offend Dr Savage. Has she
forgotten how to act in polite society whilst she has been incarcerated?
Certainly before she would hold herself better. However, I do not let my
irritation show for this one transgression; letting it pass.

For now.

I lead her to the bed, which looks most uncomfortable. As we
sit, I realize it is just as I thought. Straw crackles underneath us.

It viciously reminds me of my youth.

"Are you glad to see me, my love?" Turning to me,
she awaits my reaction. "I am very sorry in forgetting myself; I realize I
have been unwell for quite some time. Lately I felt like I have been in a long
and deep sleep, and when I woke I was terribly weak and nervous. I often cry
when I am alone. I missed you so dreadfully. What can you say to me, my dear?"

How does she expect me to reply? What does she expect my
face to portray?  All I know is what I see in her hers.

My wife.

The murderer of my son. 

A lunatic.

My love.

How could anyone understand my feelings, so diametrically
opposed to one another that I don’t dare to voice them? To express the truth of
my thoughts would cause shock and horror, and perhaps the good doctor here
would decide against her discharge into my care. Some days I fear I will go mad
myself, as if two people are inside of me. One that loves Anne, and the other
that wishes to send her to the hell of which she spoke in my dream.

Alcohol keeps one of them locked within me.

"What can I tell you? My love, how I have missed
you!" I say, aware that this is what everyone in the room needs to hear. I
can only hope that my conflicting thoughts are not outwardly apparent. To act
differently now would be to arouse suspicion. She is so close to being returned
to my charge and guardianship.

Dr Savage beams, looking mightily pleased with himself,
providing the verification that my face is not currently betraying me.

I need a drink.

My head hurts.

"I cannot wait to come home, to be with you once
more," Anne says, as Dr Savage closes the door, and comes to a crouching
position in front of us. "Though I must admit, I am frightened as to what
people will make of me. Will I be ostracized from those I care about, and the
community? Oh, I couldn't bear it were it so!"

Dr Savage speaks.

“Let me allay your fears, Lady Stanbury. You have a
wonderful and loving husband whom has stood by you through all this time, and
will most surely stand by you forever." I nod my assent. Anne nervously
twists her wedding band around her finger. She also nods, but I know her well
enough to detect the disbelief in her eyes. She knows, deep down, that I
haven't completely forgiven her. She must. She seems nervous.

I squeeze her hand a little more and stroke her hair. She
smiles up at me, a thin, watery smile.

Dr Savage continues."If a woman knows that what she has
done is wrong and is sorry for it, she can be forgiven. By the eyes of the lord
himself, as you well know: confess your sins and atone for them. I believe you
already did so in talks with our chaplain?"

"Yes, Doctor." Anne replies.

"Good. Now, if God can forgive such an act, so can your
neighbours’, friends and family. Remember this: you have a most limited moral
responsibility for what occurred. Puerperal mania was the culprit, not you. The
death of your son was not by your hand."

I almost laugh aloud. It was indeed by her hand. I remember
the blood on them.

"Indeed, I would expect those around you to offer great
commiseration! Nobody can dare imagine the shame and anguish which must weigh
upon your shoulders! A crime committed that outrages your most powerful
instinct: maternal love of your offspring. Who could envisage such a traitorous
and cruel episode happening within one's own mind! It is shocking how merciless
nature can be! You deserve nothing less than pity, and those whom would dare to
judge, I expect they would do so with the upmost leniency. You are pardoned by
the law and by Her Majesty herself. You have been excused by God. Your doctor
declares you a good and fine person; much recovered, and your dear husband
still loves you. What further clarification do you need to allay your
fears?"

She mumbles something about being selfish, or possibly
selfless. I cannot hear her reply clearly, it is a whisper. Dr Savage either
does not hear it at all, or pretends not to as he continues.

"Today, you will be discharged home. Your convalescence
as Witley was most encouraging.” He turns to me. “Mr Stanbury, I believe you
have the necessary clothing and such that she needs to make the transference
from a patient, to a lady once again rejoining our society?"

"Oh Edgar darling, but what of my baby's funeral? I
don't even know what happened to my baby, nor where he lays to rest!" She
starts to cry.

I tell her.

I want to torture her.

In the nicest way possible.

"Our son had the most wonderful procession, my darling.
It would never been proper for you to attend anyway, had you not been so
indisposed..." I say, twisting the figurative knife. "So I entreated
to commit to memory everything, to one day tell you all. It was a beautiful
morning; the sun shining, not a cloud to be seen in the sky. The procession
consisted of the hearse and four horses, two mourning coaches covered with
nineteen plumes of white ostrich feathers and velvet. There were eleven men as
pages, and the coachmen with their truncheons and wands. The attendant wore a
silk hat band. Coaches were sent to the houses of all those whom attended the
funeral: of which there were a great many, which conveyed them to our
residence." I take a deep breath. The memories of this day still weigh
heavily on my mind. I let my hand curl around the ring in my pocket, gently
caressing it with a finger.

"John was laid to rest in a brick vault; I would never
have seen our son put in any other place, my love. In a beautiful white coffin,
befitting of such an angel of a child."  Imagine, Resurrectionist Men
stealing my son's body for a dissection class. Bricking was the only thing I
could stand to give to him: he is safe this way.

Anne is crying, her tears landing on top of my clutched
hand. I sniff; the memories are hurting me too."Six months have passed,
dear husband," she says. "And I have not adequately yet mourned him.
I didn't know. It is just like it happened yesterday."

Well it didn't, you bitch. It happened six whole months ago,
and not a day has gone by without my heart breaking a little bit more.

Yet, Beatrix prepared for this eventuality. I pick up the
bag which I brought with me, till now unnoticed by Anne. I open it on my lap.
Anne peers inside, and gasps.

"Oh, what a beautiful dress!" Pulling it out, she
inspects it. Highly fashionable, made of Parramatta silk trimmed with crape.
Black.

"Beatrix?" she says, hopefully.

"None other, dear wife," I say, though as soon as
my wife comes out her 'friend' will be gone from our home as soon as possible.
"She is waiting for you somewhat anxiously and joyously at our home, where
I believe we will no doubt return to a celebration feast of your homecoming.
For only the three of us, you understand: it would not look well for a woman
wearing mourning dress to be rejoicing in anything. But, my love, I so desperately
wanted to make it special for you. It will just be you, I, and Beatrix."

Anne remains silent, holding the garment close to her heart,
stroking the fabric.

Her silence is jarring.

"Was this horribly inappropriate of me, my love?"
I ask her.

"No, not at all, dear husband. Indeed, I thank you. My
heart is warmed by such a consideration of my feelings, and by the beautiful
handmade dress, and by the kindness of all those around me. I suppose it will
just take a while for me to get used to the prospect that I deserve such
compassionate treatment."

"Forgiveness is a blessing Lady Stanbury," Dr
Savage says. "Now, I take my leave of you both. There is much for me to
do, more patients to restore to sanity. I am very pleased with what has been
achieved here, and I wish you both long and prosperous lives. Good day to you
both." With that, he turns and leaves the room and our lives forever. A
small blonde nurse pokes her head in.

"Agnus," says Anne, smiling.

"Oh, Anne." Agnus rushes into the room, and sweeps
my wife up in an embrace. "What a fine husband you have! So
handsome!"  She nods happily at me, and for the first time today my smile
is genuine.

What a lovely woman.

"Let's get you ready to leave, shall we?" Agnus
says, addressing Anne whilst looking pointedly at me. The smile does not leave
her face. I take the prompt and give my wife her privacy. Walking through the
asylum towards the main entrance, I cannot help but imagine us home together,
again. Can I truly love the one woman whom has destroyed me, or will my blood
forever be tainted by hate and sorrow?

Anne

April 23
^rd
, 1886

Outside

Edgar offers me his hand, and duly assisted I lift my skirts
and climb up into the carriage. Although convention calls for the coachman to
hand me in and out of the cab, Edgar prefers to assume this role when we are
together. The coachman simply nods respectfully in my direction, tipping his
hat before climbing onto the box-seat. The two black Shire horses snort and
flip their tails as if inpatient to be on the move. The smell of the creatures
reminds me of home.

It feels rather strange to be outside in the world, as it
were; the asylum providing a self contained, protective environment in which I
had almost forgotten what it means to be free. I look at the gloomy exterior of
the hospital, and wonder at how even an inanimate object can be so different on
the outside as to the inside.

Just like people.

I remove my hat and sink back into the maroon leather seat
with a sigh. It is such a pleasure to have something of quality underneath my
derriere, at last. My contentment of the moment is only marred by the thought
that I may merely be trading one form of confinement for another.

I cannot believe I am finally going home. The days ahead are
sure to be tough, if Edgar’s mood is anything to go by. He appears to be on
edge, and I'm not certain of his feelings towards me. Waves of animosity
emanating from his skin, and his eyes do not seem to hold me in awe like they
once did.

Will he mention that terrible night? I hope he doesn't, I
couldn't bear it. The doctor told me that some women kill themselves when they
find out what they've done. I don't think I'm that weak, though I understand
the sentiment. Throwing myself of a bridge won’t bring the baby back, so why
bother?

The carriage door slams, and I jolt out of my seat.

"Careful, Anne," says Edgar as he takes his place
beside me. "It wouldn't do to have you an injury so soon after being
discharged, would it?" He laughs, and I am unsure of the humour behind it.

I am unnerved.

I avert my gaze from his face, looking to my lap. I don’t
have the nightgowns strings to fiddle with anymore.

So I fiddle with my gloves instead, taking them off the
fingers one by one, a centimetre or so each time, then pushing them back. I count
silently in my head to twenty, and remember counting them in the asylum.

I smile.

"My love, the time has come for me to take you home!
Are you not pleased?" He looks down at my lap, and I pull my hands
away."Why do you fidget? You do not seem as delighted as I would have
expected, dear wife." He reaches out and takes hold of my chin, turning my
head towards him. "

I meet his gaze.

"Forgive me, darling husband. I fear I am rather
overwhelmed at the moment by the beauty of the world. I have spent many months
confined inside and shuttered away."

Edgar exhales. I didn't realise he was holding his breath.

"Of course, how silly of me not to imagine how
difficult this transition must be for you.  Only a few windows and those
strange paintings for you to gaze upon for so many months!"

The carriage starts to move with a bump, not made for such
hole ridden lanes.

"What paintings do you speak of?"

"The paintings on the walls...didn't you see them? They
had fairies on them, and devils. Very disturbing, I must say. Quite a
ridiculous choice of scenery for the insane."

"I didn't notice them," I say.

“Hmmm. Well you were mad weren't you? Don’t suppose you
noticed much of anything. They were painted by a mad-man. Dr Savage supposes it
is possible to tell the madness of a man in how he paints. Interesting,
wouldn't you say?”

I stay silent. It doesn’t interest me in the least.

Anymore.

Our journey proves to be rather long, dotted intermittently
with one-sided mundane conversation. I can’t bring myself to contribute towards
any meaningful discussion.

After such time, the coachman calls out that we are nearing
the end of our journey; enjoying a brief exchange with his passengers about the
weather, and the state of the pot-riddled lanes. I pull back the blue velvet
curtains but the windows inside the carriage are steamed up, blocking my view.
I fight the urge to draw a picture on the glass; instead removing my gloves and
wiping the condensation away with my hands. The dense fog to which the coachman
referred lays think and low upon the ground, yet I recognise the familiar town.
Nightfall will soon fall, and the streets are as empty as my heart: everyone
sensible is tucked away in their homes. I fear everything and nothing: neither
myself, nor these memorable surroundings. I am glad nobody is around, as I
expect I could only hang my head in shame.

With cracks of the whip and gentle coaxing, the horses
continue to pull the carriage, now carrying us away from the small roads and
terraced houses and into the countryside. Up ahead, I can just make out the
outline of the manor walls; the immense grandiosity high and intimidating to
those that have never stepped foot beyond its gate, the ornate turrets
seemingly rising through the clouds and puncturing the mist.

Oh, if only they knew what treachery lay in such grand
house.

And behind the eyes of the people that inhabit them.

“I hope you are not expecting us to be spending time in
London this year, my love,” Edgar says, interrupting my nostalgia.

“Pardon, darling?” I turn away from the window, letting the
curtains fall where they may.

“London, Anne, London." He snorts out a puff of air,
loudly."I hardly think it appropriate to be attending the season this
year, I’m sure you will agree?”

“But, I would have thought..."

“Anne, whatever you might be about to say, it sounds like
you are going to voice an opposing opinion to what I just said. So please, let
me clarify: we will not be attending London this year, I do not think it
appropriate. Would you also like me to elucidate the reasons why it is not
suitable for us to be attending dances and theatres and such?” He looks at me
darkly.

“Not at all dear husband.”I inwardly squirm at the use of
his 'elucidate'. Where did he learn that? Probably he has been reading up on
elocution in my absence. Not much else for a man to do; one whom is still
striving to be something he is not.

“Good. Kindly consider this subject matter closed. And I
implore you to please, remember this conversation in the coming weeks and
months; when it will no doubt cross your pretty little mind to adorn yourself
inappropriately and attempt to re-join your high society.”

The rage surges inside of me, though I nod demurely and
acquiesce. He wasn’t even born into the aristocracy, how dare he deem to place
orders on my head?

“And please, kindly rid your face of that awfully sullen
expression. It doesn’t suit you, Anne.”

I rue the day I married this man.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

The carriage takes us through the gates with another jolt
and a bump. I cannot make out the large, carefully-kept lawns in the gloom, nor
can I see the hedges, flowerbeds, nor the centrepiece of the landscape: a
beautiful and ornate fountain which bears tribute and testament to the
wealthiness of my family. As we draw nearer to the house, the light from inside
illuminates people standing to attention just outside the main entrance.

 Edgar has summoned the servants to receive me. Turning to
me, he smiles slowly at my evident alarm and pats my hand.

“There, there, my love. See how everyone has missed you? The
staff have run riot in your absence, lack of control does them no good. I
should imagine the laundry is now a perfect brothel. But, now you are well, let
them receive their mistress and Lady of the house, and be re-established once again
into their working pattern.”

“But, Edgar...my dear heart; you did not discipline them for
such antics in my deficiency?”

“How could I?” He frowns. “They perfectly ignore me; and
though I was tempted, I could hardly fire the entire household staff whilst you
were unwell now, could I? I know how fond you are of them: though that
inappropriate socialising of yours with the help is one of the attributes I
hope you have lost in recent months.” The door opens; the coachman waits
patiently for us to descend. Edgar steps down first, turns, and extends his
hand towards me. “And if not, we will address it soon.”

This is an indication of his laxity, and an insult to his
system of control. I should imagine he is quite enraged about it; but I refuse
to take the blame for it. Serves him right, really.

“And what do you expect me to do, go through an
agency?" He continues as if I had answered him, spitting the word 'agency'
as if he has swallowed vomit. “Even I know that they throw out louts, thieves,
and drunks to good people’s homes. I dread to imagine the consequences of that.
No, the staff simply need to be taught better manners.”

We make our way into the house, the tidy and neat servants
standing stock still and looking beyond our heads. I don’t understand my
husband’s complaints at all. I glance at Betty, our scullery-maid: a small
child of perhaps fourteen, who peers at me through her eyelashes and nods
almost imperceptibly. I offer her smile.

“Good to see they are not slovenly today,” Edgar says,
loudly.

I ignore this comment. They hate him. As do I. I want to
cheer them for their treatment of him.

“Where is my Father?” I ask instead, as we pass into the
parlour.

“In the dowager house, I should imagine, where he always is,
of course. It is late, and today has been rather exhausting for all involved.”

I can’t help but feel disappointed that he was not here to
receive me, yet my focus is now on Beatrix’s whereabouts. Just as I am about to
ask, the door opens and I am greeted by my old, and most precious friend in the
entire world.

“Beatrix!” I rush into her arms.

I am as sure that Edgar is burning a hole in the back of my
head with his eyes as I am equally certain that this improper ‘behaviour’ of
mine will be ‘addressed’ tonight. But I find it difficult to care, for at this
moment, life seems restored to me.

“My Lady,” Beatrix breathes into my neck. “Comment tu m'as
manqué terriblement.” In a louder voice, audible to Edgar, she steps back and
assesses me. “My Lady.” She curtseys, “Please, shall I ready you for dinner?”

“Certainly, thank you,” I say, and mouthing ‘I have missed
you terribly, too’, follow her lead deeper into the house of horror.