The Asylum (2 page)

“I see . . . and after that?”

I strove to pick up the thread, but beyond that one glimpse, I could not be sure. I could go backward with some confidence, over the events of the summer, and the spring, and indeed all the way back to my childhood—or so it seemed—but when I tried to advance, I could summon only blurred images of myself in my uncle’s house; the power of ordering them seemed to have deserted me.

“I—I cannot be sure,” I said at last.

“Most interesting. Let us say, then, that your last clear recollection is—or appears to be—of the twenty-third of September. Would you care to hazard a guess at today’s date?”

I knew then what had been troubling me about the chill, the damp, even the quality of the light.

“I cannot guess the time, sir, let alone the date.”

“It is two o’clock in the afternoon of Thursday, the second of November. In the year of our Lord 1882,” he added, raising one eyebrow.

“November!” I exclaimed. “Where have I . . . How could I have . . . Sir, you must wire my uncle at once; he will be desperately worried.”

“Not necessarily. If a Georgina Ferrars had been missing for the past week, let alone the past month, we should have been informed. Asylums, like the hospitals and the police, are kept up to date with news of missing persons; and there is no one of that name—indeed, no one resembling you—on any of our lists. You may have told your uncle that you were going away; though not, presumably, to a lunatic asylum under a false name. So before we trouble him, let us try to set the record straight.”

He drew a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

“This is all the information you gave my assistant when he admitted you yesterday morning. ‘Name: Lucy Ashton. Address: Royal Hotel, Plymouth. Date of birth: the fourteenth of February 1861
.
Place of birth: London. Parents: deceased. Next of kin: none living. No history of serious physical or mental illness. No person to be advised in case of illness or decease. “Patient says she is quite alone in the world,”’ Mr. Mordaunt has noted. Interesting, is it not?”

“Sir, I have never even
been
to Plymouth!”

“I think we can safely say that you have. Amnesia is the most difficult of all conditions for a patient to grasp, Miss Ashton, because there is literally nothing to hold on to. You do not recognise any of those details, then?”

“None, sir. I cannot imagine why—”

“I can think of at least two explanations,” he said, producing a notebook and pencil. “But before we come to that . . . Your full name?”

“Georgina May Ferrars, sir.”

“And your date and place of birth?”

“March third, 1861, at Nettleford, in Devon.”

“That is
near
Plymouth, is it not?”

“I believe so, sir; I have no memory of it. We—my mother and I—moved to a cottage on the cliffs near Niton, on the Isle of Wight, to live with my aunt Vida—my great-aunt, I mean—when I was only an infant.”

He listened to this halting explanation with an air of polite amusement, as if to say, And
why should we believe you this time?

“I see . . . And your father?”

“His name was Godfrey Ferrars, sir; I never knew him. He died before I was two years old.”

“I am sorry to hear it. What was his profession, do you know?”

“He was a doctor, sir—” I almost said, “like yourself,” but checked myself. “A medical officer, in London.”

“What part of London?”

“Clerkenwell, sir. But he became very ill and had to move to the country; he was convalescing in Nettleford when I was born.”

“And did not recover, I take it?”

“He did recover, sir, but then he insisted on taking another situation, in Southwark—”

“Again as a medical officer?”

“Yes, sir. My mother took me to Niton—we were to follow as soon as he had settled in—but he came down with typhoid fever and was dead before news of his illness reached us.”

“Do you know the date?”

“No, sir; only that it was summer.”

“Well, let us say the summer of 1862.” He scribbled in his notebook. “And your mother’s maiden name?”

“Emily Radford.”

“She died, I think you said, ten years ago?”

“Yes, sir. She had some weakness of the heart—an aneurism, we were told. It was not discovered until after her death.”

“A melancholy history. Are you her only child?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Straker regarded me curiously.

“Do you know, I wonder, whether the weakness was hereditary? Your own heart seems sound enough, on a brief examination, but have you ever suffered from palpitations, shortness of breath, dizziness, fainting fits . . . ?”

“No, sir, I was a very healthy child. She and my aunt were always anxious that I should take plenty of rest and exercise, and not become over-excited, but they never mentioned my heart.”

“That, at least, is reassuring,” he said, making another note. “And after that?”

“I remained with my great-aunt, Vida Radford, on my mother’s side, until we lost—until she died last year. After that I went to London to live with Uncle Josiah—Aunt Vida’s brother, so he is my great-uncle, too—”

Again I heard myself faltering.

“And has your uncle any children of his own?”

“No, sir. Like my aunt, he never married.”

“I see. And—if you will forgive me—what are your financial circumstances? Have you money of your own, or expectations of your uncle?”

Something in his tone made me even more fearful.

“I have a small income, sir, about a hundred pounds a year, from my aunt. And my uncle is certainly not rich; he says his estate is worth only a few hundred pounds.”

“I see. And now we come to your mental health. As Miss Ashton”—he glanced again at the paper on his knee—“you told my assistant that you had no history of mental disturbance. But given that you came here under an
alias,
and have since suffered a seizure, almost certainly brought on by prolonged and violent mental agitation, perhaps there is something you would like to add to Miss Ashton’s account?”

Again the room seemed to revolve around me. There were, I thought, with my heart beginning to pound, several things I ought to add; but if I confessed to them, I might never be allowed to leave. The seconds ticked by under his ironic gaze.

“I—I do not think there is anything out of the ordinary.”

“Very well,” he said, after an uncomfortable pause. “And now I must look in on some of my other patients. In the meantime, you must stay in bed and keep warm; Bella will see to the fire when she returns with your luggage.”

“But sir, you will send that wire to my uncle?”

“By all means. The nearest telegraph office is at Liskeard, a good forty minutes’ ride from here, so we cannot expect a reply until this evening at the earliest. Mr. Josiah Radford, of Gresham’s Yard, Bloomsbury, is it not?” he added, glancing at his notebook.

You
must
be able to remember, I told myself as the echo of his footsteps died away. It is like a door that sticks; you have forgotten the trick of it; that is all.
Or a name that will not come to you, and then you find it upon your lips a few minutes later. But no matter how hard I strained, I could not even discern a gap where memory should have been. Was it possible that the real Lucy Ashton—where
had
I heard that name before?—looked just like me? Could we have been confused with each other? But that did nothing to explain what
I
was doing in a private asylum in Cornwall, a part of the world I had never visited . . . and so my thoughts went spiralling on, until Bella reappeared, struggling under the weight of a stout leather valise, a hatbox, and a dark blue travelling-cloak, none of which I recognised.

“I am afraid those are not my things.”

The girl regarded me with, I thought, a certain compassion.

“Beg pardon, miss, but you was wearing that cloak when you come here yesterday. And look,” she added, setting down the case and opening it. “Here’s your wrap, miss, the one you asked me to look out when you was cold later on.”

She held up a blue woollen shawl—the pattern was certainly one I might have chosen myself—and draped it around my shoulders. I watched numbly as she opened the closet and began to unpack the case—which had “L.A.” stamped in faded gold lettering below the handle. Everything she took out of it looked like clothes I might have chosen myself, but none of them were mine. It struck me that my own wardrobe, in its entirety, would fit into a case not much larger than this.

“Wait!” I cried. “I am not staying here; I must return to London as soon as—” My voice trailed away; the fog of confusion seemed suddenly to lift. Why on earth was I waiting for the answer to Dr. Straker’s wire? He had said I was a voluntary patient, and regardless of how and why they had mistaken me for Lucy Ashton—regardless, indeed, of what had happened to my memory—the sooner I was back in London, the better.

“In fact,” I said firmly, “I wish to leave immediately. Would you please help me to dress, and—”

“I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t, not without the doctor’s say-so.” She had a soft country accent which would, in other circumstances, have been pleasing to my ear.

“Then I shall dress myself. Please go at once and find Dr. Straker, and ask him to order me”—I was about to say,
“
a cab”—“a conveyance, to take me to the nearest railway station. You do understand,” I added, hearing my voice beginning to tremble, “that I am a voluntary patient here.”

“I’ll go and see, miss. But please, miss, doctor’s orders was for you to stay in bed.”

She hurried out, closing the door behind her. I slipped out of bed, suddenly afraid that she might have locked me in. But the door opened readily, onto a dark-panelled corridor, in which Bella’s receding figure was the only sign of life.

I closed the door again and turned to the closet. Lucy Ashton’s taste in clothing was almost identical to my own; like me, she favoured the aesthetic style; her blue woollen travelling-dress was the twin of one that I possessed in grey, and when I held it up against myself, it was plain, even without a mirror, that it would fit me perfectly. Even the laundry marks were exactly the same as mine: small cotton tags stitched into the lining, with “L.A.” sewn into them in neat blue lettering. If I had been asked to outfit myself for a journey, I could not have chosen better.

Again I found myself clutching at the idea that Lucy Ashton must be my double, only to remember that this did nothing to explain why
I
was here. Once more I strove to penetrate the void shrouding my mind, until something brought me back to the immediate present, and the awareness that Lucy Ashton’s case contained no purse or pocketbook; no jewellery, no rings, and no money.

And two other things were missing—though of course they were missing, since these were not my things: the dragonfly brooch my mother had bequeathed to me, which I would never have left behind; and my writing case, a present from Aunt Vida, containing the journal I had kept since my sixteenth birthday. It was a quarto-sized case made of soft blue leather, with two gold clasps, and a key, which I always kept on a fine silver chain around my neck, but which was certainly not there now.

The loss of that key somehow brought home the extremity of my plight. My strength deserted me, and I sank down upon the edge of the bed, just as Dr. Straker reappeared in the doorway, followed by Bella with a pail of coals.

“Miss—Ferrars,” he said sternly, “you must get back into bed and stay there. As your physician, I command it. There can be no question of your leaving; you are far too ill.”

“But sir—”

“No more, I pray you. The wire has been dispatched as you requested; as soon as we have an answer, I shall let you know,” he said, and strode from the room.

“Bella,” I said as she arranged the blankets over me, “I can’t find my purse, or my brooch—in a small red plush box; it is quite valuable; or my writing case—a blue leather one. Have you see them anywhere?”

“No, miss, I ’aven’t. This is all there was, miss, when I packed up your room just now.”

“But I
must
have had money,” I said desperately. “How else could I have got here?”

“You gave me a sixpence, miss, when you was still wearing your cloak. P’raps it’s there.”

She tried the pockets but found only a pair of gloves.

“You don’t think
I
took it, miss?” she said, with a look of alarm.

“No, Bella. But
someone
must have, and my brooch and writing case; I would never travel without them.”

“I don’t know, miss, I’m sure. We’re all honest girls here. Might you have put them away somewhere yourself, miss, and—and forgotten? Now please, miss, I must get on.”

To this there was plainly no answer. I gave up all hope of escaping that day, and lay with my mind spinning, and a sick feeling of dread gnawing at the pit of my stomach, while daylight slowly faded from the room, until I woke with the glare of a lantern in my eyes, to find Dr. Straker standing beside my bed.

“I am afraid, Miss Ashton, that you must prepare yourself for a shock. As well as conveying your message to Josiah Radford, I took the liberty of asking him whether he had ever heard of a Lucy Ashton. This is his reply.”

NO KNOWLEDGE LUCY ASHTON STOP GEORGINA FERRARS HERE STOP YOUR PATIENT MUST BE IMPOSTER STOP JOSIAH RADFORD.

I was sedated, that night, with chloral, and emerged from a pit of oblivion with my body still aching and a foul taste in my mouth. Whether it was the after-effect of the drug, or the accumulated shocks of the previous day, all I could think was that Dr. Straker must have wired the wrong Josiah Radford; further than that, my mind refused to go. Bella brought me breakfast, which I was unable to eat, along with a mirror in which I saw a drawn, sunken face, white as a ghost’s except for dark pouches like bruises beneath eyes that were scarcely recognisable as my own. Dr. Straker, she told me, as she brushed the worst of the knots out of my hair, would be here directly; his orders were for me to stay in bed; and no, I was not to dress on any account. And so I was condemned to wait in my nightgown and wrap until he appeared at my bedside, looking, if anything, even more cheerful than he had the day before.