The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

  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.

  Blue-Blood Whore

  Beatrix

  April 23rd, 1886

  Asquith House

  Dinner is stifled and awkward as Mr Stanbury steadily drinks himself towards a state of drunkenness and debauchery. Having dismissed both the footman and butler earlier in the evening in a bid for privacy, he talks to Anne but gains little in return.

  Anne sits still and mute throughout, merely picking at her food and barely engaging in his conversation. From the clandestine position I have taken in the kitchen, I am able to observe their interactions through a high up window: balancing somewhat precariously upon a wooden worktop, and offer Anne a mediocrum of support. She knows I am here, minding her; though it cost me a hairpin. The cook is rather ruthless in her negotiations when it comes to anyone other than herself entering her personal dominium. I don’t mind. We all take what we can get in life.

  Standing on the tips of my toes once again, alarm strikes me. Mr Stanbury’s glass is now emptying with increasing rapidity, and short, sharp bursts of utter nonsense spills from his mouth towards Anne, “Filth, blue-blood whore, kil1er.”To her credit, Anne is bearing up tolerably well, though her hand’s shake in her lap.

  “You hid the pregnancy from me until I found you out; when you were five months gone already! What were you planning to do, conceal it until he was born? Was you purpose to do away with John all along? You're a selfish mother who killed your own child.”

  It is time to intervene.

  Jumping down from the worktop, my foot knocks off a copper pot. The sound it makes is terrifyingly loud in the empty kitchen, and I freeze: most surely Edgar would have heard it. If he comes to investigate, how can I possibly explain my presence here at such an hour?

  Back-tracking quickly through the kitchen, I run down a series of corridors that take me back and around to the formal entrance of the dining area. The large manor house was constructed in such a manner as to have means for the servants to go about their daily work without being neither ‘seen nor heard’ by the family of the residence. Though this structure offensively equates the help to rats, it serves a purpose when needed. I’ve also been told the family do not like to have the smell of food permeating the dining area; and an eighth of a mile corridor separates the two rooms. I don't know how true those statements are.

  On this evening, he distance that normally provides a service is now an inconvenience.

  By the time I come to the entrance, out of breath, I fear I am too late. As I take a moment to compose myself, their voices carry through the door.

  “Your first duty now is to have another child, and it must be a son.”

  “But Edgar...the doctor said...”

  “We will get you in the family way, Anne. This is not up for discussion. Should we start right away, tonight?”

  “No, my love, I can’t...”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Taking a moment, I knock politely and wait a few seconds. Then I enter unbidden.

  “My Lady, Sir,” I say, dropping a curtsey when I near the table.

  “Beatrix,” Anne says, looking trapped. The smell of whiskey radiates from Mr Stanbury across the length of the room, and I am instantly nauseous.

  “Uneducated filly!” Mr Stanbury shouts at Anne. “Why do you not address the servants as they should be addressed? Beatrix is Miss Fortier.” He turns to me and smiles. “Is that not so, Miss Fortier?”

  “It can well be, Sir,” I say. “Though I believe that a ladies maid can be addressed by her surname, or, should her mistress so choose, by her Christian name. At least, that is according to ‘Cassell's Household Guide.”

  “The who, what?”

  “Cassell’s Household gu-”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you. Unfortunately. Are servants not supposed to be both unseen and unheard? Anne, my love, do you not now see the ill-mannered and uneducated standard of your servants? To read such drivel as of such I have never heard, and dare to speak to me, at that!”

  My cheeks burn. I thought Dr Savage was a brute, but Mr Stanbury is even worse.

  Every time I feel slightly sorry for the man, he forces me to reassess my empathy. He is a detriment to himself.

  “I can’t help but wonder why you haven’t sacked the lot of them,” he continues. “In fact, we should import all of our help from Greece. Yes, Greece.”

  What has Greece got to do with the price of fish? The man is clearly drunk out of his wits.

  “There is no reason you should have heard of this book, my love,” says Anne, answering his first question. “It is of no consequence to a man, it is a guide of how to run a home...”

  “Why do you insist of answering me back so insolently? And what would you know of the servant’s books?” He takes a gulp of his whiskey, slamming it back on the table. "Oh, of course. You like to read. Dr Savage told me what reading does to women’s minds: sends them insane. You've experienced that first hand though, haven't you, my love? It is your preference to read as opposed to make love with your own damned husband that killed my child!" He stands up and roars, throwing his chair back with a crash.

  “I dare not, my love, I simply feel...”

  Mr Stanbury holds a hand to his forehead, and lowers his face. Calmer, he says, “Oh, be-gone with you. Both of you. I’d like to enjoy my drink, if you please. Women. All a bunch of greedy, dirty, insolent liars.” He picks his chair up, and sits.

  “Please accept my humblest apologies, Sir, for I never meant to offend you so nor speak out of turn, I...” I tentatively say.

  Mr Stanbury looks at me, leans forward, and fills his glass up slowly and deliberately. Leaning back, he burps and quite soberly, says: “Miss Fortier, I advise you well to take leave whilst you are still somewhat ahead. Do your duty, and take this dirty whore of a murderess away from me lest I lay my hands around her throat.”

  Perhaps he is not as drunk as I
thought; though his mind must be somewhat fogged as he has not enquired as to the reason for my interruption.

  Anne pales even further.

  “Sir.”

  It’s best to make a quick exit, in case he asks me the reason I am here. I can hardly tell him that I fear for his wife’s safety – at his hands, no less, can I? Another curtsey quickly executed, I grab Anne by her hand and lead her out into the main corridor.

  My hands shake just as Anne’s did, but not with fear. With rage, and resentment. Our bodies hum with joint anxiousness.

  “What a spiteful creature he is!” I splutter to Anne when we are out of his earshot. “Of all the malicious, spiteful, wicked things to say to you!”

  “He is grieving, Beatrix.”

  “Well, I should love to give him a what for; mind you, I’m a little anxious to do so whilst he staggers under the influence of sorrow and alcohol. God knows, the two should never mix! He even burped in front of us!”

  I would wager a year’s wage that he has never done that in social company.

  “Did he drink whilst I was away?” Anne asks, concerned.

  “Not that I saw. He certainly had his fits of anger, and as I told you, set the cot on fire out in one of the gardens; made a fair tower out of the wood, he did. I also heard him crying quite regularly at night, and he was rather mean-spirited towards all of the servants...but that is hardly new behaviour.” I pull Anne by her sleeve, turning her to me. “You know what he is like, Anne; you know what he wants from you. Or have you forgotten?”

  “No, Beatrix, I have not forgotten. How could I possibly forget such a thing?”

  “Well, you do well to remember. I saw you wilting underneath his gaze, squirming away from his accusations.”

  “He has never been a drinker. Probably that caused him to speak so terribly out of turn to me.”

  “In all probability. But is that an excuse to speak in such a manner? It is obvious that tonight he is drinking because he is still angry at you: and that concerns me greatly. What happens if he continues to drink? What if he hurts you?”

  “He has already hurt me Beatrix. In ways you well know.”

  “Yes, I know that more than anyone. But Anne, you know a most learned man once said that the essence of a gentleman is one that is perfectly bred. Failing that, for not all of us are born into the aristocracy; even a poor man can be gentle, and sympathetic with a kind disposition, hence making himself a gentleman. Till now we all knew that your husband failed on the former description and after tonight’s antics, I’d like to declare he has disappointed on both counts. ”

  Silence descends upon us as we make our way to the apartments assigned to Anne and myself. I can’t tell if Anne is insulted by my affront of her husband, but I dare say she won’t care too much anyway. Glancing at a clock in the corridor, I mentally scold myself. It shows two and thirty, which it most certainly is not. Every clock in the house has shown this hour since the day John died.

  Pulling my pocket watch out from under my skirts and flicking it open, it shows one and twenty. Plenty of time left in the night.

  Entering Anne’s chamber, I light the oil lamp atop of her beside bureau, close the heavy curtains, assist her out of her finery, and put her into her bed clothes. I take care to handle her gently. I don't know how she was treated in the mad-house, and though I have it on good authority she was well, I still wish to make her feel extra safe tonight. She sits at her dressing table, looking numbly at the covered mirror whilst I brush her long, wavy hair.

  “When can we take these black sheets down?” Anne says.

  “When Mr Stanbury deems fit, I suppose.”

  Anne just sits and stares.

  Sighing, I turn and commence the folding of the days clothes. Her black dress is covered with grease. I put it aside for the morrow.

  I can’t help but worry about Anne. She appears drained of all energy, and I fear what state of mind she is in.

  “Anne...”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be alright?”

  “Perfectly, Beatrix. So long as you are with me, I will always be alright. You have looked after me so well, and over and above your duty as a ladies-maid.”

  I smile, put the clothes aside, and hold her hands in mine, pulling her up and leading her over and into her bed.

  “You are going to worry me into an early grave, my Lady,” I say. “You are like my very own daughter.”

  “Yes, our friendship is strong,” she says, pulling the covers on top of her. “You have never judged me.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I vouch: “I dare say I know you better than anyone, even your father.”

  “Indeed you do. Even when I was mad.” She smiles up at me.

  “You were never mad, and you never will be mad.”

  “In love, mad...it is all the same, no?”

  “I say some would think so, Anne.”

  “I love John; I love my baby so much.”

  “And he will always be with you Anne, even though you are not with him. He is borne of your body, of your heart, and that bond will never break. No matter what. One day, you will be re-united.”

  “In heaven?”

  “Or near as damn it, excuse my French!” I swat her hand.

  Anne laughs.

  “Well, only if I don’t go to hell first!”

  Changing tact, she says: “I missed our conversations. I was so worried I might forget everything you taught me.”

  I enfold her in my arms.

  “Je ne pourrai ja mais laisser cela se produire, Anne. And, I promise you: if I ever have reason to hike on down to the good old fiery pit and bargain with the Devil himself to get you out, I will pay whatever price he demands of me.”

  “Oh, I love you, Beatrix.”

  “And I, you. I want for nothing except your happiness. Now sleep, and sleep well. I shan’t imagine you will be disturbed tonight, for surely Edgar will be in an alcoholic faint within the hour. But I shall stay next door, and keep an ear out just the same.”

  “Goodnight, Beatrix. And thank you.”

  “Goodnight, Anne. And you are ever so welcome.” I say, kissing her forehead. I press into her hand my pocket watch, and she squeezes it tight.

  Picking up the dress, I blow out the lamp and leave my Lady bundled underneath layers of fur amongst numerous cushions. A comfort she has needed for far too long. She never deserved any of this. Picking my way through the darkness to my room, I can’t help but wonder what is going to happen to us all. I put my hand in my pocket, feeling the cold smoothness of the ring which I took from Mr Stanbury’s desk earlier in the evening, and the curve of an empty glass bottle. I pull it out, holding it to the light.

  CHLORAL.DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL.

  I just hope I put enough in his whiskey. The bottle is now empty, so I assume I did.

  A storm is coming.

  And I don’t refer to the weather.

  Missing In Her Head

  Edgar

  April 24th, 1886

  Asquith House

  Tap tap tap tap! The water rains down the side of the church, droplets casting off and landing on my head. Tap tap tap tap! A large, black raven dives, landing beside me, and starts pecking the gravestone in front of me. Tap tap tap tap! The Epitaph reads:

  Lady Anne Stanbury – 03/08/1857 – 10/04/1888

  Darling daughter, wife, and murderer of your child, how we miss you, none but God alone can tell, but in heaven we will meet you, until then, farewell

  The raven pecks harder and faster and louder, with mounting aggression, fixing me with red eyes ablaze with fire.

  Tap tap tap TAP!

  “Sir!” An urgent voice cuts through my dream. The tapping increases in sound, and I realise I am in my bed; the tapping of the raven’s beak a knocking at my chamber door.

  “Mr Stanbury, Sir!” The male voice calls again, practically beating the door down.

  What emergency could justify this impertinence?

  I sit up
and my head reels. I think I’m going to vomit.

  Jumping out of bed, I realise in hindsight what a bad idea this was. My stomach rolls, bursting to give up its contents and I am sick where I stand. The liquid stench gushes over the silk linen in a great, heaving, copious steam of bile.

  I think I can see a few carrots.

  Sweet Jesus.

  My nose hurts, too. Why? Did I walk into a door?

  “Sir!” The hammering on the door is unrelenting, matching the throbbing in my head.

  I am quite embarrassed to have any servant view me in such a state... but how am I to clean up the mess? The smell alone makes me gag. I can’t possibly clear this up.

  “Who wakes me at such an hour?” I shout.

  “James, Sir.”

  “Come in James, though I fear I am most unwell.”

  He practically bolts through the door dressed in his finest footman livery, pausing when he sees the bed. A question mark practically glows above his head, yet he remains respectfully silent.

  Standing before me, he bows slightly and waits; the brass buttons on his outfit twinkling. I realise for the first time how small he is. Isn’t a footman supposed to be at least six foot two?

  “Where is Newman?” I ask him. Perhaps the butler is sick too, which would explain James’ presence.

  “Sir, Newman is out looking for...oh, forgive my most insolent intrusion, but I have grave news.”

  “Well, spit it out boy, can you not see I am unwell?”

  “Sir...I fear Lady Stanbury is missing.”

  A laugh splutters out of me before I can halt it.

  “Missing? James, she has been missing in her head for some time now. What do you mean, boy, ‘missing’?”