The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  He holds it under the candle-light for a moment, and I suppress the urge to snatch it back. He's surely going to set it alight, and then the evidence would be gone in an instant. He snorts as he reads through it, and just as I am about to give into my desire he hands it to me.

  “Still, my friend, you're not entitled to a bean.”

  “How so?” I'm desperate.

  “What year did you marry Lady Anne?”

  “As it says on the certificate,” I say, frustration rising within me. “1884.”

  He laughs out loud.

  “What month?”

  I suppress the urge to ask him whether he can read, and say tightly, “July.”

  “My friend, aren't you in a pickle. There's a little something called The Married Women's Property Act. Came into force, would you believe, in 1884. That means you aren't entitled to anything, as I already said. And to be honest, even if you had married her in 1784, you still wouldn't get anything.” His eyes gleam like a snakes.

  A very old snake.

  Why did he bother asking me what year I was married if it didn't change the answer?

  “Please, explain to me,” I say wearily, resting my head atop my arms on the desk.

  “Well, your wife is the only daughter of an Earl whose property just so happens to be male entailed, happens all the time with these 'peer's' and rich people. An old tradition, a way of keeping it in the family. But I'm sure you know all about that, don't you?” He pauses and my breathe hitches in my throat. How can he possibly...

  “But anyway, it’s simple. The property, the real estate, that is, the land, the house, all that expensive stuff, doesn’t belong to her and never will. Therefore, my friend, it doesn't belong to you either. And if even if there were no restraints of an entail, and the property hypothetically did go to her, you still wouldn’t be entitled to it due to the aforementioned law. If she doesn't birth forth a male child, it will go to some far off cousin or obsolete uncle, I expect. It can pass through her, but not to her. And so, with the loss of your son,” he shrugs again. “I'm afraid you lost your only handle on the situation. Notwithstanding the fact she's in a mad-house of course, and will most likely never get out. Which is why you came to see me, I understand. But I'm sorry to say my friend that your presence in the Manor is at the liberty and kindness of her father. At this moment in time it belongs to him. The fact that she's in a lunatic asylum doesn’t strengthen your case: it weakens it.”

  Nausea rises up in my throat, and I swallow.

  “Mr Tumsbridge, surely there is something you can do to help me. There must be some sort of, something, for this situation?”

  “Divorce her.”

  “But, I-”

  “What's the alternative? I am aware of your wife's case, Mr Stanbury. Unfortunately, everyone does. I s'pect they even know about it over in France, and that's saying something. In all likelihood, even if she gets better, she will most likely be taken for a trial and incarcerated at the gaol for the next twenty years. And what happens to you then? Lord Damsbridge and I are friends, and I don't imagine for one second he'll let you live the rest of your days at the Manor. Taking in mistresses under his roof whilst his daughter rots away in some cell? Ha! You have no rights to be in that house. None. Zip. Nada.”

  “But-”

  “You have no money, yes. Mr Stanbury, a bit of hindsight wouldn't go amiss here. I suggest you commence divorce proceedings against your wife; there's many a loophole for this sort of thing and would be easy for you to do. In fact, if you say she was insane at the time of your marriage, or shortly thereafter, you are entitled to a straight out annulment. Would you like me to do that for you?”

  “No, absolutely not, I might hate what she's done but I love my-”

  “Has her Doctor advised you to divorce her?”

  “No, he has not! He-”

  He interrupts me.

  “Most unusual. Common advice is to do so.” He sighs. “Right, ok. Mr Stanbury, are you aware that she probably was mad when you met her, and you just didn't notice? It's perfectly alright for you to decide-”

  “No. I do not want a divorce. What I want is my wife back, at home with me, and until then, perhaps access to a little money.”

  He remains silent for a moment, tapping his nose with long, dirty fingernail.

  “Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife, Mr Stanbury?”

  Hold on a second, what?

  “What?”

  “Tinkled the maid, coddled the cook, fluttered with the ladies down in the city-”

  “No!” I'm offended.

  “Ever slept with a relative? Your mother, for example?”

  He's mad.

  “Mr Tumsbridge, I'm sorry for having wasted your time, I see that now.” I start to rise from my seat when he moves surprisingly fast, darting out a hand to grab me.

  “Sit down, Mr Stanbury. I'm aware that gentlemen such as yourself don't like to be asked these questions. I was merely demonstrating what your wife would have to prove if she wanted to divorce you.”

  “What, that I had relations with my own mother?”

  “Or brother. It doesn't matter, though if it were the latter she could sue you for buggery too.” His eyes gleam, and I feel all of a sudden, incredibly uneasy. “Plus intolerable cruelty; if you've ever knocked her around a few times, given her a blue eye, that sort of thing.”

  Well, I never.

  “I don't like your tone, Mr Tumsbridge. I've never hit a woman in my life, I've never had intercourse with anyone or anything other than a woman, and-”

  He interrupts me, shaking his head.

  “I thought as much.” He glances at my hand. “Nice ring you have there. Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, erm-” I move it away, out of sight. How stupid of me to have worn it here. What if he recognizes it...

  “Never mind, just trying to lighten the mood. Look, I was merely demonstrating the fact that she cannot divorce you. She can't let you go, even if she wanted to. But you can let her go. Your child is dead, that can't possibly be conductive to any sort of future relationship, can it? Learn from your mistakes, Mr Stanbury, and move on. But next time, meet a woman who owns her own property and issue a child with her. Divorce her, accuse her of adultery. Then the child will go to you: as the father you have the right to keep the child. The woman will most likely trade you the property for the baby, women are like that. They'll do mostly anything for their own flesh and blood, sentimental fools.”

  “But that's-”

  “Horrible? Awful? Treacherous?” The old lawyer leans forward and blows the candle out. The darkness makes his words ominous, fearful. “Do your morals really go against such a thing, Mr Stanbury? I think not. Please don't try to fool an old hand. The law shall do as it pleases. It's there to protect, but it can also destroy. Remember that, my friend, and also remember I advised you to divorce her. Now, pass me my cane, will you? It’s over there by that hat-stand.” Just like the candles light, our conversation is blown out. He has dismissed me as easily as he would crush a roach.

  Loathe as I am to do as he asks, I oblige him, suddenly eager to be away from him, to be home. Home?

  I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw something.

  He looks at me.

  “Do I amuse you, Mr Stanbury?”

  “Not at all,” I say, still contemplating his last words as he rises slowly to his feet, and takes the cane from me. “I simply had a bit of dust up my nose, that's all.” A cracking sounds comes from somewhere within him when he stands, and I wonder how he moves at all, yet he manages to hobble over to the door unattended.

  “Blasted thing, dust. Well, I can only imagine how hard it must be living in a house with no woman to do the housework for you.” He shrugs on his coat, eyeing me.

  “I have servants, Mr Tumsbridge.”

  He looks perplexed for a moment, and then laughs.

  “Of course you do, of course. How could that possibly have escaped me? My friend, I do believe m
y mind is going. Used to be as sharp as a pin, I did. Now,” he puffs out his cheeks, looking around him sadly. “Well, now...I'm just a used up bag o' bones, as they say. Can't see straight, and now I can't think straight. But mind me, my friend, I know all about the leprous arm of the law. And I'm telling you, you're done for if you stay in that house and don't divorce that woman.” He turns and opens the door, a blast of icy wind whipping into the office. “If you think things are looking bad for you now, trust me and heed this warning: they will get a whole lot worse for you.”

  Is that a threat?

  “Mr Tums-”

  “Come my friend, please. I don't want a snow drift in my office come morning. Look, I suppose there is a very slight, unlikely chance that your wife will get well, be released from the asylum, you'll have another child together; a son, who won’t die, Lord Damsbridge will die before him and you'll be happy as a king. But I don't expect it, and neither should you. You really should take the advice of an old man who has seen everything and heard even more. Truly. At this point, you have everything to lose, and nothing to gain.”

  We make our way down the stone steps, snow crunching underfoot. I pull my thin overcoat tighter around me, shivering.

  “I see you are set in your ways. I'm sorry I couldn't help you.” He lifts his hat. “Good evening to you, my friend.” He starts walking away from me, whistling a familiar tune, yet one I am unable to place. I grit my teeth when suddenly he stops, and calls to me.

  “By the way, my friend, our little conversation is free.” His laugh echoes through the empty street as the blizzard swallows him whole; the dim glow of muffled gas-lights hanging abstractly, dejectedly, in the air.

  Damned Witch

  Anne

  November 5th, 1885

  Royal Bethlem Hospital

  What was I thinking?

  That uneducated oaf of a man didn't have a clue what we would do once we were outside the main doorway. Standing there grinning at each other on the stone steps, the cold air refreshing in its recent rarity, we descended together, arm-in-arm. Our grins expanded ever wider once our feet touched upon the wet grass. However, mine faded as I quickly realized that neither he nor I had known what to expect. We must have looked like fools just standing there, immobile. What did we expect: an open door that led us straight onto a road? A carriage waiting for us, perhaps? I remember looking at the gate: a large, imposing, locked gate, that would be impossible to climb, and high walls surrounding a square courtyard.

  Not even a glimmer of freedom.

  Yet, free people walk on the other side of those walls.

  Aggravated by this notion, I looked at him.

  “Well?”

  “No need t' look at me so expectantly, girl. I haven' t' clue either.”

  A whistle blew from behind us, and I knew we had been found. I didn't fancy being put into the sack again, so I simply turned around, sat on the stone steps and waited. He, however, had the genius idea of leaping into the nearest bush, which just so happened to be a rose bush. There also happened to be another man hiding inside it. Both their startled squeals gave his location away.

  That man will never get out of here.

  But I will. I am sure of it.

  “You fiends didn't let me wear a pretty dress!” I shouted as they dragged me to my cell, which they unceremoniously threw into without so much as a single comment. Happily, no sack materialized. Not so happily, Fat Ruth forced me to drink an awful amber-coloured liquid, that a short while later, caused me to vomit violently, and involuntarily evacuate my bowels all over the floor.

  I have never, ever, been so mortified in my entire life.

  It left me with terrible, cramping stomach pains, for the rest of the day.

  “Doctor's orders,” she said, smiling as she left the room.

  Damned witch.

  Two days later, I'm still here. The odd plate of food has been deposited, but that's it. There has been no repetition of the foul drink.

  Left to stew in my own company, I mentally attempt to burn the image of the gardens into my brain for future reference. Where there any trees next to the wall, or the gate? Was there a jailor outside with a bunch of keys? Was the soil soft or hard: would it be possible to dig my way out if I should get into the garden again?

  I bang my fists against the mattress in frustration. As much as I want there to be an easy escape route, I know there is not. These people are obviously rather intelligent, despite my calling them to the contrary. They’ve managed to hold dozens of hostages in a house large enough to rival the Manor. They are not exactly inconspicuous in their doing! Yet they have not been arrested! Unless of course the outside world thinks that this building is something else. Perhaps a home for wayward women, or some sort of work-house, or...

  Maybe they even have the police in their pockets.

  I shudder.

  But the biggest question of all remains yet unanswered.

  Why am I here?

  Bottle Of Whiskey

  Edgar

  November 5th, 1885

  Asquith Manor

  I am nearing the end of writing a letter and reading through my papers when I am disturbed by Betty, a small servant girl of perhaps twelve years. She is yet to learn respect for her employer, and does not understand the meaning of making herself invisible: barging into the library with a bang and demonstrating my point perfectly. I put aside the newspaper, printed over fifty years ago.

  “Oh, Sir! Sir! There be a man t' see ye, 'ee says 'ee is part 'o ye family, like! I daenne' 'know ye 'ad more family! I 'eard ye Father was dead, like!”

  “Child, do you not have any respect for your master? Has nobody ever told you children should be seen, and not heard?” I can't decide if I'm angrier over the intrusion itself, or the fact she almost caught me crying.

  My grandmother would not be proud of me right now.

  The servant-girl frowns at me and fidgets, hopping manically from one foot to another as if she is standing on a pile of hot coals. She clutches a filthy cloth in her hands. “I ne-er did 'ear t'at one Sir! But, Sir, 'ee said 'ee wants 't 'see ye right away! T' man, I mean! That's why I came runnin' in, but oh please, forgive 'me! I was in t' middle 'o polishin' the silver, an' he' knocked on t' glass! T' window, I mean! He din even knock 'o the front door, like!”

  “Betty!” My morning is further disturbed by the arrival of Beatrix, who despite Anne's incarceration still manages to creep around the Manor. Discussions with Lord Damsbridge regarding her dismissal proved fruitless. He pronounced that it was up to Anne and Anne alone to choose her lady's maid, and neither he nor I could fire her.

  We'll see about that. Time changes everything.

  In her hurry to stop the young servant, Beatrix didn't knock either. My temper increases. I rub my eyes.

  “Look, what is the meaning of this intrusion? This is absolutely unacceptable behaviour from the servants of my Manor.” I stand up abruptly, and throw my pen at the wall, where it bounces off onto the floor. Betty twitches as if she is about to run forward to fetch it, but Beatrix restrains her by a hand upon her shoulder. She whispers something to her and the girl nods.

  The older servant curtsies, and nudges Betty to copy her.

  “Apologies, Sir. Betty is young and eager to please her master. She thought she did right by coming to you immediately, such was the urgency of the gentleman who has requested you downstairs. I shall personally make sure it doesn't happen again.” Her eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments and in them I detect a hint of defiance, and even dislike, before she turns away, pushing Betty out of the library. The door slams shut with a bang that reverberates throughout the household, further irritating my senses.

  What have I done to her to encourage such a look? Apart from trying to sack her of course, but there's no way she could possibly know about that. No matter, I will return to the topic at a later date, and approach Lord Damsbridge once again with my concerns.

  I take off my ring and lock it inside the desk. />
  Quickly, I move over to a small wooden cabinet and unlock it with a quiet click. Looking around me, I pull out a bottle of whiskey. Satisfied I am alone; I pour myself a large measure and gulp it.

  Relief. Just for a moment.

  Screwing the cap back on the bottle, I pull the bell that hangs beside the cabinet. I'm still not used to such luxury, but god knows I deserve it.

  “Sir!” The butler rushes in, a drowsy little man who causes no trouble at all, and despite his elderly handicap fails not under the burden of his years. He gives me a small bow, and waits for further instructions. That is how I should be received by all my servants: they should never disturb me, yet come at once when I summon them. This is what my Father has taught me. This is my right.

  “Who calls on me?”

  “A gentleman Sir, but I must profess I’ve never seen him before,” the butler says, folding his liver-spotted hands in front of him. “He was lurking around outside, peering through the windows. I don't think the fellow knew where the doorbell was.” He looks at me doubtfully, as if not quite believing his own explanation for witnessing such odd behaviour.

  “Well, did you ask him his name?”

  “I did, Sir. He said to tell you his name is Mr Jordan.”

  The past crawls up my neck, and the hairs on my arms stand up at once. The oddity is explained in the telling of the name.

  “Shall I send him away, Sir?” asks the butler, perceptive as always. The man has outlived so many people, it’s no wonder his acute observations are as well-honed as a hawk circling its prey. He knows instantly I am afraid of meeting Mr Jordan.

  “No, it's quite alright. I was just a little faint there for a moment: must be the grief, you know. It still hits me hard sometimes.”

  I must face Mr Jordan. My future happiness depends upon it.

  The old man nods.

  “He was a beautiful child, Sir.”

  I know. I know.

  He coughs.

  “Shall I inform Mr Jordan you will be with him momentarily? He waits for you in the drawing room.”