Karen Essex

by Dracula in Love (v5)

  Part Five

  LINDENWOOD ASYLUM, PURFLEET

  Chapter Eleven

  16 October 1890

  We drove toward Lindenwood as the sun was setting. The desolation along the Thames at Purfleet, downriver from London, was broken up by industrial buildings—bone mills, gristmills, soap factories, tanneries—whose chimneys shot great clouds of smoke into the sky. The rays of the setting sun infiltrated the black atmosphere, burnishing the sky. As we drove along the road that followed the river, I saw pockets of scum and debris floating on its surface. The water, an unsavory grayish brown, rushed past as if in a hurry to leave this grim landscape.

  Lindenwood itself was protected from these views. The grounds were secluded by thick stone walls made black with soot and age, and by the growth of ancient trees twisting together, locking out the modern world of manufacturing and machinery that had sprung up along the river. The old mansion, with its grand façade of limestone bricks, narrow lancets, and four colossal turrets at its corners, sat at the end of a long drive. Dr. Seward had told me that the eccentric aristocrat who had built it in the latter part of the last century had donated it to serve as an asylum at the time of his death. It looked more castle than manor house, what with its feudal architecture. Over the clatter of the carriage wheels, I heard the tall, wrought-iron gates creak as they closed behind us, and I looked back to see two men fastening them shut with thick chains. I did not like the idea of being locked inside, but I calmed myself by remembering that within this walled environment, I would find help for my husband; the truth of what happened to my best friend; and, if I was lucky, relief from the strange things that had been happening to me. Little did I suspect that I would soon discover so much more.

  Jonathan had been more than amenable to the visit, even excited at the prospect. “You deserve a strong husband, Mina,” he had said. “I am determined to be that man for you. Besides, I am fascinated by the new theories on the complexities of the unconscious. I welcome an opportunity to become acquainted with experts who will discuss the subject with me.”

  A hospitable woman in a bright blue apron and cap greeted us at Lindenwood’s massive and foreboding door, introducing herself as Mrs. Snead. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties with a crooked smile and a strange way of looking just to the side of whomever she was speaking to. Thick, dark-stained paneling covered the walls of the reception hall that was hung with portraits of old gentlemen, each seeming to follow us with his sober gaze. The atmosphere was elegant but heavy—with what, I did not know.

  “Dinner will be served at seven,” Mrs. Snead said. “Would you like to have tea in the parlor, or would you like to be escorted to your quarters?”

  We opted for tea in the parlor, sitting in chairs with serpentine legs and tall backs that reflected the shape of the pointed-arched windows. A young woman wearing the same blue uniform rolled in a tea cart and served us piping-hot tea with fresh cream and slices of ginger cake. Another member of the staff stacked logs in the great stone fireplace and lit lamps, illuminating the opulent surroundings.

  But as the light infiltrated the room, I saw that the upholstery was frayed and the stuffing of the divan opposite us sagged almost to the floor.

  “This is not what I expected,” Jonathan said, relaxing in his chair. “One feels more guest than patient.”

  “I agree,” I said. But unlike him, I found the discrepancy disquieting.

  The bedroom was no less ornate. Carved hooded medieval monks supported the heavy wooden ceiling, again giving me the feeling that I was being watched. The bed’s canopy of sharp spires reached almost to the ceiling. Panels of blood-scarlet brocade threaded with gold curtained the thick velour-covered mattress. I sat on it to test its comfort, wondering if Jonathan would at last consummate our marriage on its soft, inviting plane. He gave no indication that he was thinking any such thoughts. He took off his coat, splashed water on his face, and sank into an armchair, instantly engrossed in an old book he had picked up on the side table.

  At six forty-five in the evening, Mrs. Snead fetched us for dinner and escorted us to the candlelit dining room, where we sat like children dwarfed by the high ceiling. John Seward arrived a few minutes later with a stout older man whose wild gray beard eventually came to a point at chest level. Grizzly eyebrows sat like mats of twisted yarn above his dark eyes. He wore a rumpled suit that was probably expensive when it was purchased in some other decade. He bowed to me in the old-fashioned way and kissed my hand. He gripped Jonathan’s hand and did not let it go as he said his name. “Herr Harker. Yes, Herr Harker. Yes, I see. I do see.” He studied Jonathan as if he were a specimen under a microscope until Seward said, “Dr. Von Helsinger, you have met our other guests?”

  So this was the famous doctor. I had thought that we might have had our first glimpse of a patient, what with his disheveled clothes and hawkish stare. He wore a monocle on a tarnished, diamond-cut silver chain around his neck. His protruding eye sockets wrapped so far around his face that they looked as if they might slide right off.

  The dining table seated fifteen, and some nearby residents of Essex had joined us. “An institution such as this must keep good relations with its neighbors,” Seward whispered in my ear as everyone was seated. Two serving girls poured wine as the doctor and his neighbors made polite conversation about local politics. Jonathan sipped the wine and proclaimed it to be as fine a claret as he had ever tasted. When the first course, turtle soup, was served, I noticed that Von Helsinger examined it with his monocle before he tasted it, but I found it to be sublime. I said as much to Dr. Seward.

  “The recipe was brought to us by a former patient. She was a friend of the lord mayor, and this is from his very kitchen. It takes the cooks two days to prepare and it is made, I assure you, from real turtle meat.”

  Seward, away from the more illustrious shadow of Arthur Holmwood, was a changed man. The lids over his gray eyes did not seem so heavy, and his fraught look was gone. This was clearly his kingdom, and it seemed that he ruled it well.

  “Is it common for a patient to bring recipes to your kitchen, Dr. Seward?” I asked.

  “This was a very special case, Mrs. Harker,” he said, addressing me by my married name for the first time. “The patient in question came to us after months of neglecting all domestic duties. She had a kitchen staff, but she refused to plan menus or to attend to any household concerns whatsoever. She left her children in the care of a governess, while she shut herself in her study, reading books and writing letters to politicians in the Liberal party with whom she was obsessed.”

  Dr. Von Helsinger picked up his bowl, drained the last of the turtle soup, and released a heavy sigh of contentment. “It stands to reason that in these times of ladies infiltrating the masculine domains of thought and intellectual inquiry, they become victims of brain strain. If left untreated, the result is melancholia or, in worse cases, hysteria. This lady was fortunate. She came to us in time for us to help her.”

  “I hypothesized that if she were made to do domestic labor as treatment, she would recover her natural propensity toward it,” Seward said. “She worked in the kitchen, preparing food and serving it. At first, she was rebellious, but gradually she came to enjoy it, even introducing her favorite recipes to our humble kitchen.”

  Dr. Seward rang a bell, and the serving girls brought in platters of beefsteak and winter vegetables, which they held for each guest to take a portion. Jonathan complimented Seward on the politeness and efficiency of his staff. My husband’s handsome features, softened by the candlelight, had returned, and he looked like the affable man I had wanted to marry. He was enough changed that I worried that the doctors were wondering why I had brought him to the asylum.

  One of the lady guests agreed with Jonathan’s assessment of the staff. “I declare, Dr. Seward, I must have you interview servants for me.”

  “My wife’s taste in servants tends toward the lazy and the dishonest,” said her husband, and everyone laughed.


  “Thank you for the compliments,” said Dr. Seward. “Most everyone on our staff is also a patient, or a former patient.”

  This news stunned me. I wanted to turn around and look at the girls who had served the food to see if I could detect any traces of mental illness on their faces.

  “Work has been the cure for so many of our patients,” Seward said. “And it is good economy too. We provide the most advanced modern treatments, but they take time and are administered at great cost, especially the labor.”

  I saw a way into my purpose and spoke up. “Dr. Seward, before my husband and I married, we agreed that I would devote a goodly amount of my time to charitable works. While Jonathan and I are your guests, I would very much like to volunteer my time to help you in any way that I can.”

  The doctor did not seem receptive to my idea. “That is a very noble wish, Mrs. Harker. Ladies often have the best intentions, but patients do not exactly mind their social graces. I would not want you to suffer any insults at their hands.”

  I wondered if he had something to hide and I became more determined.

  “I doubt that your patients could be any worse than some of the little girls I have taught.” Everyone laughed at that.

  “What do you think, Dr. Von Helsinger?” I asked.

  The gentleman turned his wide, insect stare on me. His mouth was set in a smile, but the rest of his face remained sober. “If Herr Harker would postpone our meeting tomorrow, I would be happy to spend the day escorting the beautiful lady through the asylum. It would be a pleasure greater than any I expect at my age.”

  Something about the way he looked at me made me shrink back in my chair, though I tried to maintain my smile. Jonathan must have seen it too.

  “I cannot postpone our business together, sir. I have important matters in both London and Exeter that must be attended to,” he said sternly, which gave me a little thrill. I had not seen him play the protector since before he left for Styria.

  “Then it is up to me to satisfy you, Mrs. Harker,” said Dr. Seward, smiling.

  All night long, I heard moaning sounds. I slept fitfully, awaking several times and sitting up in bed. But then, the noise would stop. I must have been having nightmares, but I could not recall their substance. I woke with a headache.

  At an early hour, an attendant delivered a breakfast tray to our room, and then, at eight o’clock, as no one was allowed to wander the asylum unescorted, a man came to take Jonathan to see Dr. Von Helsinger. Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Snead came for me. I wondered if she too had once been a patient. She spoke clearly, but her face twitched almost imperceptibly, as if she intended to wink but could not complete the action. We walked down the wide staircase together, and as we reached the set of stairs nearest the ground floor, I heard the same voices I had heard in my sleep. I stopped to listen. It sounded as if the very walls were moaning.

  The sounds escalated as we walked across the reception hall. Mrs. Snead took a ring of keys out of her apron pocket and opened a pair of tall double doors. The groaning assaulted my ears—grunts, whimpers, cries, moans—and came together in a cacophonous song of collective misery. Some sounded guttural, others were high-pitched. All sounded female, and I inquired as to why this might be so. “This is the women’s ward,” Mrs. Snead explained. “The men’s ward is separate.”

  Mrs. Snead paid no mind to the din and walked ahead of me down a corridor with many doors, some with peepholes and some with bars. Whereas the private part of the mansion where we were quartered had a faint scent of dry wood and dust common to old houses, this wing smelled of iron and rust, and the air itself was damp. We climbed another stairwell, narrower and darker than the one that served the main house, and arrived at the door of Dr. Seward’s attic office.

  He was sitting at a desk in a room with a pitched ceiling and tiny windows, speaking into a phonograph in an oak box on a little wrought-iron stand. He heard us enter and turned around. “Good morning, Mrs. Harker,” he said. “I was just recording my physician’s notes into the phonograph. Such a convenient contraption. You are familiar with them?”

  “Why, no,” I said. I remembered Kate’s admonition to feign ignorance. “Do you record everything that happens here in the asylum?”

  “Everything important,” he replied. “It is a superb record-keeping tool.” He tried to interest me in a cup of tea, but I assured him that I was all too eager to begin our tour of the facility.

  “Very well, then.” He picked up a stack of charts and led me back down the stairs and into the hall, where we passed two women in blue aprons who nodded politely. “A moment, please,” he said. “This is Mrs. Harker, who is visiting us and will be volunteering her time.” He introduced the two severe-looking women as Mrs. Kranz and Mrs. Vogt, hall supervisors. “Most of our patients are quite peaceful, but these ladies are on duty in case of an incident,” he said before dismissing them.

  “I wish you would dispense with these formalities,” I said, smiling at him. “I would be delighted if you would simply call me Mina.”

  “Then you must call me John,” he said. “But we mustn’t let the patients—and others—know of this little intimacy.”

  “Of course not, Doctor Seward,” I said. I knew that it was wrong to flirt with him, but I sensed great longing in him, and I was not above exploiting that to gather information.

  He opened double doors to a small library with a tall paneled ceiling and a lazy fire in the fireplace. Two elderly women playing cards occupied a game table, while a young girl lay on the divan, mumbling to herself and rubbing her breasts. The two old women paid her no attention but wordlessly flipped cards onto the table.

  The doctor and I stood in the doorway. No one looked up. “That is Mary,” he said, gesturing to the girl. “I admitted her three months ago. She is fifteen. Her parents brought her to us when the commencement of puberty incited a mental illness. Would you like to see her chart?” He handed it to me.

  Written in thick blue ink and a scratchy penmanship, I read it with some difficulty:

  Facts Indicating Insanity: Causeless laughter alternating with obstinate silence. She is wicked and excitable in the company of gentlemen. Her parents were alerted to the disturbance when she turned cartwheels on the lawn in full view of observers of both sexes. The family doctor was brought in to examine her, but she refused to comply with him and would not stick out her tongue for the examination.

  I scanned the page to read what Seward had written after his last visit with her a few days prior:

  She takes but little food and sits for hours with her eyes closed, patting her breasts. Water cure, isolation, etc. completely ineffective. Vaginal lavage with potassium bromide to calm the excited tissue give only temporary relief. She is particularly excitable in the menstrual state, but at other times can be made docile with medication.

  “I am not going to interrupt her,” he said, taking the chart from me and making a note on it. “She appears to be calm enough.”

  One of the older ladies slapped the last card in her hand on the table. Her shock of long hair was like marble, stiff and white with caramel streaks. She might have been sixty or eighty—I could not tell. She caught me looking at her, and I was struck by the color and vivacity of her eyes—vivid green and as bright as a baby’s. Her eyes looked as if they belonged on another face, a face that still had many years left in this lifetime. Her body, however, looked brittle with age.

  “That woman is staring at me,” I whispered to Seward.

  “Vivienne has been here for many years. I cannot introduce you to her in front of her card partner, Lady Grayson. She thinks that Vivienne is the queen, and it upsets her terribly to hear otherwise.”

  We walked down the hall, with him at a faster pace and me trying to keep up, to a door with a small opening slashed by two iron bars. I could not see inside because the doctor blocked my view. The asylum’s ambient moaning filled the hall, but none seemed to be coming from inside this particular room. He put a large key in the lock a
nd left it there as he spoke.

  “Jemima, who you are about to meet, suffers from an emotional insanity.” He opened Jemima’s chart and read: “‘She is lively, cheerful, and very talkative, but at times becomes insensible and will take no nourishment. At these times, force-feeding is recommended.’”

  “Force-feeding?” Lucy said she had been force-fed.

  “Yes, the tube is put down the throat and a healthful concoction of milk, eggs, and cod-liver oil goes through the tube to nourish the patient.”

  “I see.” I tried to imagine a tube being pushed down my throat.

  “I know what you are thinking, Mina, but when a patient tries to destroy herself by not taking in food, what else can we do to save her? And it is so common with young women to refuse to eat.” He continued to read from the chart. “‘She has irregular menstrual periods and a peculiar nervous system, but her flow of animal spirits is abundant. If the menstrual cycle could be regulated, she would be able to be sent home.’ I do apologize for the indelicate nature of these details.”

  A perfunctory apology, if I have ever heard one. I believe he was enjoying subjecting me to topics that in a social situation would have been strictly forbidden.

  “Please don’t apologize, John,” I replied. “If I am to volunteer here, I want a complete picture of the patients. It will help me to interact with them.”

  “Jemima came to us with fluttering, nervous hands, which aggravate the confused mind even more. The first step was to settle the hands.” He turned the key and opened the door, leading us into a long room, where about a dozen women of different ages sat at tables doing embroidery, needlepoint, knitting, and sewing at machines. All hands were busy making scarves, draperies, pillow slips, doilies, caps, and mittens. The colors of the fabrics and yarns were a jumble of brightness against the plain white walls and the gray asylum uniform worn by the patients.