The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  What Others Are Saying About The Medea Complex -

  "This is one the best sellers list best watch out for!"

  Fabulosity Reads

  "The story is strong, captivating and moving and deserves the success it’s had so far"

  Sian Jones, Wales

  "To take on the subject of mental healthcare in the nineteenth century and wrap this up into a thriller that keeps us entertained as we learn about how different things were back then wins my respect before I’ve even read the first word. Happily, after reading into this story I’m pleased to report that my level of respect only grows if anything. I can see why this book is doing so well"

  Alistair Miles,Bristol

  "It’s obvious you did extensive research on the time period. It shows through every aspect of your writing: The setting, the dialogue, the character’s thoughts and behavior. – It all fits the time the story takes place and creates an authentic feel to the story"

  S T Grace, USA

  "I was finally able to start The Medea Complex. Wow! A very unique story and perspective, extremely well-written, great attention to detail and wonderfully descriptive"

  Backwoods, USA

  The Medea Complex

  By Rachel Florence Roberts

  *****

  Copyright 2013 by Rachel Florence Roberts

  www.themedeacomplex.com

  About the Book

  1885. Anne Stanbury - Committed to a lunatic asylum, having been deemed insane and therefore unfit to stand trial for the crime of which she is indicted. But is all as it seems?

  Edgar Stanbury - the grieving husband and father who is torn between helping his confined wife recover her sanity, and seeking revenge on the woman who ruined his life.

  Dr George Savage - the well respected psychiatrist, and chief medical officer of Bethlem Royal Hospital. Ultimately, he holds Anne's future wholly in his hands.

  The Medea Complex tells the story of a misunderstood woman suffering from insanity in an era when mental illnesses' were all too often misdiagnosed and mistreated. A deep and riveting psychological thriller set within an historical context, packed full of twists and turns, The Medea Complex explores the nature of the human psyche: what possesses us, drives us, and how love, passion, and hope for the future can drive us to insanity.

  About the Author

  British born and raised, Rachel Florence Roberts is a registered nurse, fiancée and mother of one based in Malta, EU. The Medea Complex was written shortly after the birth of her son, and took almost two years to complete. She suffered with postnatal depression in a country that did not understand her, and was henceforth the inspiration behind the novel. The Medea Complex will make anyone who has ever thought, lived, laughed, and loved, question the importance of those and everything around them.

  Dedication

  For Pete, who told me I was only crazy half the time.

  For Sebastian, who gave me just the right amount of sleep deprivation to delve into the mind of a mad woman.

  For my mother, and all other mothers out there that have a blind, unending faith in their children.

  For myself, you finally did it. Go you.

  Acknowledgements

  This work would not have been possible without a few resources that proved invaluable. The Gutenberg Project, for providing a whole wealth of 19th century novels on your website. Google, for providing me with the world wide web. The British Newspaper Archive, a brilliant source of old articles. The Old Bailey, Victorian Web, Bethlemheritage.org, are just a few more of the sources that made the characters and places in my novel really come to life.

  Copyright

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Reference/Book Publishing

  20121204.03.eab

  copyright Rachel Roberts 2013

  *

  Table Of Contents

  How The Bastards Did It.

  Behind A Beautiful Smile

  Fish-eyed Fiend

  Presumed Curable

  Put Into A Sack!

  Yellow Paint

  A Poison To The Body

  Incompetent Fools

  In A Pickle

  Damned Witch

  Bottle Of Whiskey

  A Fine Fraudster

  Light A Fire

  A Lie By Omission

  Falling Apart

  I See Something In You

  My Heart Is Dead

  Marriage’s Are Unhappy

  Theatric Somnambulist

  Only Way I Knew How

  Backside Of A Horse

  Deep Shade Of Red

  You’ve Seen A Ghost

  A Chicken Bone

  Tainted By Hate

  Madness Of A Man

  Blue-Blood Whore

  Missing In Her Head

  Something Dreadful

  Brandishing A Rake

  Wash In Your Own Piss

  Detected Conclusion

  I Loved That Bitch

  A Duck Without Water

  Wrong Side Of The Road

  I Was Warned

  A Bitter Taste

  Not A Gentleman By Birth

  At The Expense Of Your Own

  An Evolutionary Throwback

  Wants To Kill Me

  Actions Without Proof

  Errors Of Judgement

  Dead Mans Walk

  Blinded By Medical Texts

  Risk Losing Everything

  The One In Twenty

  Did We Do The Right Thing

  A Mockery

  Until You Are Dead

  Popped Right Off

  The Evening Post

  How The Bastards Did It.

  Anne

  October 11th 1885

  Unknown Location

  What I really want to know is how the bastards did it.

  It's the blackest part of the night, and I've woken up to find myself lying upon a bed made of straw. Although this in itself may sound rather conventional, it most certainly is not when a person went to sleep on a mattress stuffed with horsehair and layered with cotton.

  How does one accomplish such a feat?

  This is possibly the rudest thing to which I have ever borne witness. Or not, considering I was asleep. The sheer, bloody audacity of thieves these days!

  I roll over and sit myself up, the utterly repellent material crunching underneath me. Something ti
ckles my foot and I shriek, pushing the blanket away, gasping as I do so. Not only did they bring an insect breeding-ground into my house, they've stolen my quilt, too.

  Of all the nerve...

  Right.

  I'm contacting the police. The audacious fiends shan't get away with it.

  I shuffle to the end of the bed, and stand. After all, if I'm quick enough to report, they won't be too hard to find. A seven foot wide mattress is not an easy nor sensible thing to walk along a road with, even under the cover of night. I reach for my slippers, but, wait. Why am I standing on a cold floor? Where is...

  They've done away with my Ambusson rug!

  This is utterly outrageous.

  “Beatrix!” I shout, walking towards the door. “Beatrix! Wake up, we've been robbed!” Wait, it's too dark, and I'm cold. “Beatrix! Come on in here and light a light, will you?” I raise my arms out in front of me, swinging my hands back and forth as I blindly search for my dressing gown. After walking a few steps, I bump into a wall that shouldn't be there.

  I run my fingers across it.

  It is cracked and in a dire state of disrepair.

  This is not my wall.

  Something flakes off underneath my palms, and inside my mind.

  This isn't my bedroom.

  I've been kidnapped.

  No, no...it can't possibly be. There must be a logical explanation for this strangeness.

  Did I fall from my horse again?

  Is it possible I hit my head?

  Could I still be asleep?

  The pain that shoots through my arm as I pinch myself is suddenly overtaken by a horrible ache inside my breasts; a hot, tender, bruised sensation. I ignore it, listening for a sound.

  Any sound.

  Where am I?

  I turn in a circle, lost.

  What does one do in such a predicament?

  Am I in the servant’s quarters?

  My anger is swiftly replaced by fear.

  “Beatrix!” I hiss, keeping my voice low this time. I am rewarded with the dreadful sound of nothingness.

  What time is it?

  I start to walk in a straight line, searching for something, anything, that might inform me as to my location. A lamp. A door. A dressing-table. My hands brush nothing but air until they hit what feels like another stone wall. I place my back against it, and follow it with my palms until I hit a corner.

  I continue onwards, until I realize I have counted four corners and effectively walked in a square.

  I'm in a room.

  A small room.

  A small room without a door.

  As horrendous a prospect this may be, I follow my journey again. Slowly, carefully, I search for any grooves or handles that I in my haste, I undoubtedly missed the first time. Other than the bed, nothing of sufficient prominence nor irregularity informs me of my whereabouts. If I can't identify my location, then I should at least try to escape.

  But I don't find anything.

  I sit on the floor.

  How is this possible?

  Every room has a door. If someone brought me here then there is a way inside, and therefore, a way out.

  I don't know how long I stay like this, thinking of everything and nothing. Frozen in place, scared to call out, too frightened to move, yet now terrified not to do both. I close my eyes for just a moment, and when I open them a small pool of light rests upon my arm.

  I lift my head, searching for its source.

  A small, square window hangs roughly twelve feet above the ground. It has unusual, horizontal lines across it. I squint. What could they be? Cautiously, I rise, intending to investigate, when a loud knock reverberates from somewhere nearby.

  I shriek, and run towards the bed that I can now see; albeit faintly, grabbing the blanket off the floor and leaping into it. Pulling the cover over my head, I pray they won't notice me.

  My heart is beating too fast. I can't breathe under this blanket and it smells.

  “Lady Stanbury?”

  Who?

  “Anne?”

  Me?

  Oh, it's Beatrix, dear-hearted Beatrix. I push the cover away from my face, readying myself to leap into her arms.

  “Quick, Beatrix, come inside! Light a light, quickly now! What has happened to my bed, where are we-”

  A familiar scratching sound; the lighting of an oil lamp. Held up to a woman's face.

  A face that is not Beatrix's.

  I scream.

  She is wearing a white uniform complete with a starched collar; a strange wrap-around contraption, slightly reminiscent of a maids, yet, bewilderingly, subtly and grossly different. Her vast body fills the doorway, illuminated by an unknown source of light from behind her. She stands still for a moment, assessing me.

  Doorway?

  "Now, now, Lady Stanbury," she says, her bosom heaving as if she is gasping for breath. "I don't expect any trouble from you now, especially not at this hour of the morning. Here is your breakfast."

  I push myself as far up the bed as I can, away from her. What has she done with Beatrix?

  “Where is Beatrix?” I shout, as she puts a stinking tray on the floor next to my bed. Who in hell is this damned fiend, and does she honestly imagine I will eat my breakfast...off the floor?

  "Beatrix will be along momentarily, my Lady," she says, stepping away from me and smirking. She places her masculine hands on fat hips and with a small incline of her fat head, performs a wobbly, insubordinate imitation of a badly-executed curtsey. “For now, I am your maid.”

  I could kill her.

  "Leave at once, intruder!" I scream. “I certainly did not employ you, you liar!” Leaping out of bed, I back away from her. Where on earth is Beatrix? “Father! There is a thief in our house!" Where is my riding crop? I shall beat her senseless. I whirl around to find it, but wait, this room is not mine. I have been kidnapped!

  What is this accursed place?

  "Calm yourself," says the fat thief, approaching me with outstretched hands.

  "Father! Beatrix!" My head feels strange: spots of black are floating in front of my eyes. Lord, if I faint in this monster's clutches I'm doomed. She might try to eat me.

  Until my father or Beatrix arrives, I must find something with which to hit her if she attacks me. An object to defend myself; though if need be I shall get her with my bare hands and teeth. Goddamn her! Yet sadly, there is only the thin mattress on which I awoke, atop which lie a couple of brown blankets. Bloody useless. The bed frame itself looks affixed to the floor. The room is roughly eight feet squared, and unfortunately, sparse. No wardrobe.

  Heavens.

  And the window! It has bars across it! I have been thrown in a cell! Lord, have mercy on my soul! This is an exercise in utter futility. There is nothing to make a weapon with here. My safety is a thing of the past.

  "Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...." I mutter, as I search the room. God will help cast out this devil.

  In my haste to find a dangerous object, I fail to notice a lone flagstone in the floor which has risen above its neighbours. The one inch jut is adequate enough to trip me.

  Landing on my head, pain shoots through my brain.

  "Doctor!" The fat kidnapper shouts from behind me. Doctor? Does she imagine she can pretend I am in a hospital? This cell does not resemble a place of rest! I consider the wall opposite me as I lie on my face. It is a sickening yellow in dire need of paint, flaking off in places and somebody needs to fix this floor. And what is that smell? Sitting up, I look back at the offending slab. It mocks me, and threads of green grace its edges. For the first time, I detect I am not wearing my own lacy white nightgown. This drab excuse is no Parisian beauty; rather a thin and awful green linen thing which trails below my feet.

  The reason I tripped! The hem must have become stuck on the slab. This gives me a sense of self satisfaction in that it was my clothes conspiring against me as opposed to my own unwieldy awkwardness. Score one to Anne, zero to my obese jailer: you sup
plied me with the wrong size gown! A manic laugh resounds inside my head. This is evidence no doubt of her stupidity. If she cannot judge the size of my frame then she will make a further mistake, which will enable me to escape.

  I am happy. Tomorrow she might give me the jailer's keys for breakfast, and put the bowl of porridge in her pocket. That would serve her right. I roll onto my stomach, the dizziness is overwhelming. She can have a view of my behind. She doesn't deserve my face.

  "Why is she laughing?" a man's voice says.

  “How am I to know? But she has fallen, and she has urinated upon herself!”

  There are two of them? If this situation weren't so dreadful, it would be almost comical. And who has urinated upon themselves? That is disgusting. Splayed in a most undignified manner on the floor, dressed in an appalling green gown, with blood trickling out of my head, I contemplate which is more worrisome. The state of my cell, no fit state for a Lady, or the fact that a man has an uncontested view of my unmentionables.

  My head does not overly concern me; the warmth of the blood is rather soothing.

  "Pervert!" I shout.

  The floor is comfortable too.

  I don’t want to get up.

  Rustling and hushing from behind me.

  Before I realize what is happening, I am manhandled into a sitting position. I squirm in a pathetic attempt to stay where I am, to no avail. What impolite, rude behaviour.

  "My father will not give you a solitary farthing!" I say, into the face of the 'doctor' holding me. "Unhand me at once and let me go home, you, you," I struggle to find an insult strong enough. "You utter, foul sod of a rotter!" My voice breaks and I am ashamed and astounded that I start to sob.

  "Lady Stanbury, look at me," he says. I refuse, and moan into my gown. "I am a doctor. My name is George, Dr George Savage. I am the chief medical officer here at Bethlem Royal Hospital. You are safe, and let me assure you, we have not kidnapped you. The courts' requested that you be sent here at Her Majesty's pleasure, until we can make you well again. You are not a prisoner, but a patient." He attempts to rub my arms and is rewarded by a smack in the face.