Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  Garret nodded but his expression was grave.

  Ainsley kept his gaze trained on Garret for a long moment before speaking. “You mean to have your sister committed to the asylum?”

  “We don’t know what else to do,” Garret said. “We can’t risk another fire.”

  The pain in the man’s eyes was evident. He had lost his father and was facing the progressive loss of his sister.

  “All right,” Ainsley said. “I’ll make some enquiries.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marshall!” Garret breathed a sigh of relief and shook Ainsley’s hand in gratitude.

  As Ainsley watched the man mount his horse, and guide it down the lane to the main road, he wondered at the wisdom of his agreement to assist.

  The next morning Ainsley was able to slip away from The Briar unnoticed, coaxing Walter to take him to Barning Heath with a promise not to utter a word to Margaret about it. St. Andrew’s House, which stood four storeys high, was tucked back from the road, hidden by a stand of trees and a long laneway that wound its way to where the asylum stood. The yard, extensively fenced with black iron, looked well maintained though stark and devoid of life.

  The secretary at the front desk eyed him shamelessly as he signed his name in the ledger. “How long do you plan on staying with us, Dr. Ainsley?” she asked as she pulled the book back toward her.

  “Not long,” Ainsley said. “I just wanted to enquire about your facility while in the area.”

  “You haven’t a particular patient in mind, then.” She smiled awkwardly as she tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear.

  Ainsley hesitated. “I have one patient in mind but I’m not convinced she would be a good fit for your”—Ainsley glanced around him at the concrete walls and stark hallways—“establishment.”

  The secretary stifled a laugh, which spurred a quizzical look from Ainsley. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “There aren’t many people who show such concern. Many families are just happy to be rid of their burdens.” She snatched up a clipboard from her desk and hugged it her chest. “I’ll take you for a tour,” she said cheerily, with a forced smile and playful expression.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” Ainsley asked as she slipped past him.

  “Grace,” she said over her shoulder.

  Ainsley followed her down a long hall on the first floor made dark by the line of closed doors and noticeable lack of windows. Near the end of the hall, she turned, leading him into large common room lined with tables but no chairs. Along the tables stood women, some in groups, others alone. Between them on the tables sat great piles of linen. Though many had stopped to look at Ainsley and Grace, others continued their task of folding, meticulously lining up corners and pressing down on the creases.

  “A few of our patients are of stable enough mind to contribute to our upkeep. Those who have gained our trust are allowed out of their rooms to meet here,” Grace explained. “Unfortunately, most of whom we treat are not suited for such work.”

  Ainsley approached an empty space at the table to get a closer look. The thick, coarse fabric was grossly wrinkled and required a good ironing.

  “We don’t allow them irons anymore,” Grace explained when she came alongside him.

  “He looks like my husband,” a woman near him hissed to the others. The hardened expression on her face led Ainsley to believe her husband was not missed. The girl who stood beside her spat toward him from the other side of the table.

  “That’s enough of that!” Grace snapped with a pointed finger and sour expression. The girl pulled back but did not look the least apologetic. Grace made a gesture with her hand, beckoning him to follow her to the other side of the room. “Shall we continue our tour?” she asked, returning to her light tone.

  “Mary’s husband brought her to us last month,” Grace explained when they were a few paces away from the tables. “She had had a baby and wasn’t adjusting to motherhood as well as other women. He said he found her listless and inexplicably fatigued most days. It’s not uncommon amongst new mothers but her husband felt it was best if the child wasn’t exposed, you see.”

  As they neared the door, a patient with an oddly large face, slanted eyes, and protruding tongue approached from the other side. Hunched over slightly, he pushed past them brashly, knocking Ainsley in the arm as he lumbered by. “That’s John,” Grace said. “He’s been with us since he was a baby.”

  Ainsley watched him as he shuffled toward the table.

  “Was he born that way?” Ainsley asked.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “His mother passed away and there was no one else willing to take him.” Grace began walking again.

  “That woman. Is her husband permitted to visit?” Ainsley asked as they neared the door.

  “Dr. Kingsbury discourages visits from family members. He says it inhibits the patient’s ability to adjust to their new lives. In many cases, it’s better if the family limits contact.”

  “But surely they resume their lives with their families at some point.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor,” Grace said. “But that simply isn’t the case. Many times they are brought back to us, only worse.”

  They walked a flight of stairs and entered a long corridor with a number of doors on either side, each evenly spaced. Some were opened, revealing a small room with a cot low to the ground, a greying mattress, and a single sheet. The rooms had small windows high off the ground and were lined with bars on the outside.

  “We have a few ward rooms but Dr. Kingsbury finds they only upset the patients unnecessarily. He thinks isolation is best and because we haven’t many staff we lock their rooms at night.” Grace marched quickly, not allowing Ainsley much time to take it all in. A porter nodded toward them but did not stop the sway of his mop as he moved out of one of the rooms.

  Halfway down the hall, a young woman about Ivy’s age exited an open door. She kept her head bowed, but Ainsley could see she was eyeing them as the approached. “Good morning, Lola,” Grace said.

  “Good morning, Miss Grace.”

  By all accounts, nothing looked amiss with this girl and Ainsley wondered why she had been brought to such a place as St. Andrew’s. Lola smiled as they passed.

  “Are there many girls like—?” Ainsley asked. He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke and saw that the girl had collapsed to the floor and was convulsing.

  “Miss Grace!” The porter dropped his mop and ran to Lola’s aid just as Ainsley reached her. Lola’s body went rigid and shook as her eyes stared blankly to the ceiling.

  Grace positioned herself at Lola’s head, cradling it in both her hands. “Lola, stop this!” she yelled. “Stop this, this instant!”

  Ainsley took the girl’s pulse, and then lowered his ear to her chest to listen to her lungs and heart. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  As suddenly as it began, the tremor in Lola’s body stopped and when Ainsley looked to her face again he found her blinking. Two more porters arrived and together the three of them lifted the now-confused girl and carried her back into her room.

  On her feet again, Grace let out a deep huff and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Ainsley bent over and picked up her clipboard, which had been tossed aside in the scuffle.

  “Thank you, Dr. Ainsley.” Grace straightened her uniform. “Lola hasn’t had an outburst like that in two months. Dr. Kingsbury will be disappointed to hear this.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Ainsley asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Ainsley raised an eyebrow.

  “Dr. Kingsbury says she does it for attention,” Grace explained. “She could end it if she wanted to but she remains obstinate.”

  Through the open door of Lola’s room, Ainsley watched as the porters secured her to the bed, lashing her ankles and wrists with buckled straps attached to the metal frame.

  “Come, Dr. Ainsley. We have a very large facility here and much to see.”

  At the end of the tour, Ainsle
y was escorted to a room on the third floor with windows that overlooked the front of the building. Dr. Emmet Kingsbury arrived a few seconds later and greeted Ainsley warmly with a handshake. “Dr. Ainsley.” He gestured for Ainsley to take a seat near his desk. “I understand you have a young lady you’d like to join us.” Dr. Kingsbury sat down and snatched a pen from its stand.

  “No, sir,” Ainsley said, a bit startled by the suggestion. “I’ve made an acquaintance with a family who are enquiring and, as I don’t have any knowledge of your practices, I thought I’d come and see for myself.”

  Dr. Kingsbury set down his pen and knitted his fingers as he leaned into his desk. “Of course. What is it you are most interested in?”

  “Your criteria for admittance, for one,” Ainsley said.

  “Well, it’s quite broad. We have a mandate to accept patients from all over Kent. You will be happy to know our cure rate is above the national average.” Dr. Kingsbury pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. “We do have a fair number of permanent residents who are quite comfortable with our treatment and care. I can’t offer anything more specific unless I know more about your potential patient.” He eyed Ainsley, who felt surprisingly nervous. “What is your general complaint?”

  Ainsley shifted and swallowed. “Outbursts mostly.”

  “Willful disobedience? Stubbornness? Hysteria, perhaps.”

  “I have safety concerns.”

  “Ah yes.” Dr. Kingsbury stood then and went to his bookshelf, from which he pulled down a thick, leather-bound volume and placed it in front of Ainsley. He opened the book to a marked page and tapped a finger.

  Ainsley leaned forward and looked over the page, which had an illustration of a man, presumably a husband, pulling his unruly wife, untamed hair and ill-fitting dress, toward the doctor and nurse. The caption read Female Hysteria and listed a litany of symptoms—insomnia, loss of appetite, nervousness, and heaviness in the abdomen. On the opposite page was a picture of the same wife with well-coiffed hair and a hospital gown seated sedately at a work station amongst other patients in the same state of dress. The husband looked on alongside the doctor, both of the men smiling.

  “It’s not uncommon. Idle women, usually due to a lack discipline and structure, become unruly. We find they fit in quite well here, adapting to our routines. It’s a common condition amongst women in the middle and upper classes. Tell me, Dr. Ainsley, does your patient fall into this category?”

  Ainsley hesitated, unsure if his account was justified. He had witnessed Ivy’s outbursts firsthand but wondered if they could be attributed to hysteria or something else. He turned the page to see more illustrations of a woman receiving hydrotherapy, water massages to the abdomen. Another illustration showed a doctor massaging a woman’s genitals.

  Seeing the illustration that had caught Ainsley’s attention Dr. Kingsbury tapped a finger on the top of the book. “Symptoms are instantly relieved,” he said.

  “This is effective?”

  “The majority of my hysteria patients visit me once a week,” Dr. Kingsbury said, “on an outpatient basis. However, if you are having safety concerns, it may be best if she come to stay here at St. Andrew’s House at least until we are satisfied with our method of treatment.” Dr. Kingsbury cleared his throat and raised his eyes to meet Ainsley’s gaze. “Tell me, Dr. Ainsley, is the patient married?”

  Ainsley shook his head.

  “Sexually active then?” He raised a hand, anticipating Ainsley’s protest. “I only ask because it is common for women with hysteria.”

  “I have evidence to suggest she is,” Ainsley said, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Then tell her family I know the treatment for her,” Dr. Kingsbury said, tapping his desktop twice.

  Ainsley exhaled and closed the book, unwilling to look at the pictures any longer. Ivy’s outbursts were only part of the problem. Ainsley suspected she suffered from delusions, seeing things that were not based in reality.

  He also feared that he suffered from the same ailment as Ivy.

  “Tell me about your patients who suffer hallucinations,” Ainsley said.

  Dr. Kingsbury raised his chin and pressed his lips together. “Delusions?” He nearly smiled at the suggestion. “That is an entirely different matter. Not uncommon,” he said as if to reassure Ainsley they were up for the task, “but certainly more difficult. Can you describe the visions?”

  Ainsley rocked his head back and forth, searching for the words to best describe what he was speaking about. “Seeing people who are known to be deceased.” He realized he spoke more of his own experience than Ivy’s.

  Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Kingsbury whistled as he picked up his pen and began playing with it in both hands. “Apparitions.” The doctor closed his eyes, a gesture denoting the seriousness of the diagnosis. “We have treatments, but they require time and a conviction from us doctors. Cases such as these rarely cure themselves.”

  “Do they require admittance?”

  “Most certainly, yes. They often remain for years.”

  Ainsley’s heart began to quicken and he could feel his throat growing dry.

  “The young woman is suffering from powerful, internal conflicts. Reality and fantasy collide, forming a world only they are privy to. It’s in everyone’s best interest to treat these patients away from the rest of society.”

  Ainsley could barely look at the doctor as he spoke. His mind reeled at the memory of his own delusions, the visions that caught the corner of his eye and interrupted his attempts at normalcy. The doctor said he should be institutionalized for them, segregated from society and branded a lunatic.

  It took concentrated effort for Ainsley to smile, thank the alienist for his insight, and leave the asylum. It was only when the carriage rolled through the iron gates that he allowed himself a breath and a silent prayer of deliverance.

  Ainsley asked Walter to leave him at the side of the road and then ordered him to return to The Briar. From there he was allowed to take a slower pace, sauntering along a well-worn path through the woods before finishing his journey at Summer Hill. It gave him no joy to relay what he had learned to Garret and Samuel and his recommendation reflected that. The brothers accepted his counsel with even nods and few questions. It was a great relief when Ainsley was finally able to part ways. There was no place he wished to be more than home, away from St. Andrew’s House and the Owen family.

  Ainsley made his way up the centre stairs but hesitated in the hall as he neared his room. Someone was in there, walking away from his window toward his bookshelf on the opposite wall. He felt unease creep over his skin. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. He drew in a deep breath to steady himself before walking through the door. “Julia?”

  The maid stood in the doorway, her face flush and eyes pleading. She looked as if she had been crying. “I haven’t slept all night. She knows,” she blurted, gulping for air. “Margaret knows. I did not tell her, I promise you.” Her voice rose in a panic and Ainsley pulled her inside.

  He closed the door behind her.

  “I swear, Peter, I said nothing. You must believe me.”

  “I believe you,” he said softly. Already his mind raced, questioning the possible repercussions. Of all the people to find out, he was glad it was Margaret. He had said nothing of her ties to Jonas and his discretion was sure to win him favour.

  “I’m going to lose my place,” Julia said, breaking into sobs. “I’ll lose my reference.”

  Ainsley shook his head and stepped toward her, ready to take her in an embrace. “Certainly not.”

  “Do not laugh!” she said, brushing away his attempt to comfort her.

  He had not realized he laughed, nor did he think he was making light of the situation. She paced the floor and stopped at the window. “I should have known better than…” she stopped short of finishing her sentence and Ainsley was afraid to press her.

  Julia wiped the tears from her cheek, sniffling gently. “We should end it.”


  His stomach lurched, and the heavy feeling that had been building steadily began to turn and fumble in his midsection. He wanted to go to her, to plead with her to be reasonable, but for some reason his feet were locked in place. He could hardly find the strength to breathe, let alone walk the width of the room.

  “No,” Ainsley snapped. “Absolutely not.”

  “Peter, I can’t. It’s not right.”

  “According to who?” Ainsley asked sharply. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

  He watched as a single tear slipped from her lower eyelid, leaving a trail down her cheek as it dropped.

  How could he have not seen this day coming? The outcome was inevitable. But for a time he believed, as many young people do, that good times have no end and that things will progress in the same manner with which they began. He had fought his desire for her for many months, allowing his passion to build before acting upon his urges and discovering she wanted him just as desperately. From the beginning, he could offer little more than late-night trysts and stolen kisses. His position in the family and hers amongst the staff held them prisoners to their secret.

  From his father he faced a scolding, perhaps a loss of trust, or a tarnished character. She, however, faced much more dire consequences and had taken on the majority of the risk affecting both her reputation and her future prospects. He realized, as he stood in the middle of his room contemplating all of this, that loving her should have meant protecting her from such risk, not placing her in it.

  “I will speak to my sister, make her see reason. She will be on our side.”

  There was a long pause as Julia regarded him. “What is our side?” she asked, giving a slight tilt to her chin. “We do not belong to the same side. We never have and never could.” She licked her lips. “I will accept my role in this but my willingness is the only thing separating you from the type of employer the orphanage warned me about.”

  Ainsley suddenly felt ill. The notion that he had taken advantage of her desire to please, or even that she had no choice in the matter because of her position, was monstrous. It had never occurred to him that he might be using his position to coerce her.