The Darlings of the Asylum

PROLOGUE

We file down a broad staircase, most of us in the uniform dress of vertical stripes. Our skirts rustle, our boots thunder on bare wood. Some are mumbling, others mute. Morbidity hangs about us like a cloud. The attendants descend alongside us in their white nurses’ dresses and caps, some helping women too infirm or demented to make their way down alone. Others keep a watchful eye on the disorderly. The staircase turns back on itself, and I glance over the rail down into the murky hall far below, a floor of square black and white tiles like a chessboard. The sheer drop makes me light-headed, so I grip the sinuous wooden handrail more firmly.

We shuffle down to the next landing, trail past the wooden dado carved in an ornate antique pattern, endlessly repeated, hypnotic. The panels are scuffed, the varnish faded, the wood splintered and crudely repaired. But it was grand once, this building. Listen carefully and you will hear faint echoes of laughter, high-spirited banter, ghosts of long-forgotten balls.

A sudden violent flurry, a rhythmic snapping inside my skull, then something bursts out of my ear. It’s outside me now, a fluttering sound, high above. I look up and see a frantic blur circling under the ceiling. It soars into the round atrium with its broken panes, the glass so grimy that only the dimmest light seeps through. The other women have seen it now, and they too are gazing upwards, crying out. The bird swoops down into the stairwell and entangles itself in the hair of an old lady, then tears itself free. Shrill voices bounce off the hard walls of the stairwell, deafening. Attendants cry for order. This way and that the bird flies. The line of women is disordered; we huddle, we clutch one another, here on the landing and there on the stairs below, ducking and cowering and holding our heads in our hands. One devil laughs hysterically.

I see the bird, just as it flies headlong into the wall, hitting it with a soft thump, then flopping to the floor. It is a blackbird, a female with drab brown plumage. The bird nuzzles the wall with her head as if hoping to bore her way to safety. One wing pumps vigorously. The other scrapes back and forth feebly. There is blood on the yellow beak. Feathers float in the air, like soiled snow. The women step back in horror from the wounded creature, raising a din with their cries.

‘Order, get back in line, come along now, ladies.’ Gradually, we are subdued and coaxed into an orderly queue. Then we continue our descent. The clomping of our boots fills the stairwell once more. I look back only once. The blackbird is still feebly pushing her wings back and forth, a drowning swimmer at the end of her strength.

BRIGHTON, 1886

1

Perhaps it all began when Felix Skipp-Borlase appeared unannounced at the archery meeting. An April shower had sent the lady contestants running for shelter under the colonnade of the old pumphouse. Conversation soon turned to which couples had been seen walking out together and who’d been jilted, the marriages to be announced in the coming weeks – and the latest scandalous divorces. I found myself distracted. Sudden showers, changes in the weather, atmospheric disturbances and the like, have always jolted my senses into life. And I wanted to escape. Large gatherings of young women always made me nervous. So I slipped away and stood alone under a canopy of dripping ivy that trailed between the columns. A few feet away a cluster of white and yellow daffodils shivered and swayed in the gusts as if entranced, their heads bowed under the weight of the raindrops. My attention was often diverted by the world around me in this way. While other young women used their eyes for flirting, I would gaze about me, longing to render the scene as a painting or a sketch.

But my reverie was disturbed by Felix’s familiar voice. I turned to find him escorting both his mother and mine through the gathering. It was a surprise to see him there. Normally, only a very select set took part in the archery meetings. Felix risked being cut by the stuffier types present. Some would no doubt consider his family de trop, and that made me feel protective towards him. He was a dear old friend of mine, after all.

Mama was projecting the full force of her charm at Felix’s mother, a tall, narrow creature, stiff with self-regard, her cold gaze flitting about the gathering as Mama wittered on. Felix walked along beside them, his hand on his mother’s elbow. It was a pity he had chosen to come in a Norfolk jacket, as though he were a duke’s son on a shooting range. He ought to have been more at ease among the snobs at the archery contest; he was more than their equal, having achieved his place in the world through his own efforts. When he caught my eye, he bowed theatrically, attracting attention to himself. He gazed up at the heavens, holding out his hands, palms up, shaking his head at the elements for interrupting our sport. I smiled and nodded, then reached for my bow, picking it up and pretending to look it over so I wouldn’t be obliged to speak to him – not just yet.

Mama had been trying to marry me off for years and she had fixed on Felix as the perfect solution. She missed no opportunity to remind me that I was approaching the grand old age of twenty-four, when I would become an official old maid. During Felix’s visits to our home, she would discreetly withdraw, leaving us alone together in the drawing room, and she always encouraged us to walk out unchaperoned along the seafront.

I had known Felix since I was twelve and he fourteen. He was a boarder at Eton College along with my oldest brother Lance and our families became acquainted as both resided in Brighton. The Skipp-Borlase family lived in a grand house facing the sea and as children my three brothers and I were allowed to play with Felix on their private lawn. My family were minor landed gentry, but down at heel, whereas they were rolling in money – new money. Felix could buy almost anything that took his fancy. Almost anything, I stress – for he couldn’t buy breeding, only attain its veneer through marriage. And there was no question of Felix marrying me. Our long friendship meant I could be at ease with him, without my affection being misconstrued. I was always fond of him, and at one time my feelings amounted to something more than fondness. I’d been dazzled by him, I suppose.

I saw him glancing at me, awaiting my approach as he spoke to our two mothers. As luck would have it, the bell sounded, the call for the ladies to return to the archery targets. As I followed the other women across the lawn, anticipation stirred in me, the excitement of competing in a sport at which one knows one might excel. My closest friend Lottie Hamilton-Rainey caught up with me. We were a perfect contrast, her fair and me dark. I sometimes feared she had befriended me to enjoy a sense of superiority, knowing her family was far better off than mine. For my part, I linked up with Lottie because she was popular with the girls from the day school. I had never been allowed to attend.

‘Violet, I do believe Mr Skipp-Borlase has come expressly to see you,’ she said. ‘What a deep creature you are with your intrigues.’

‘Nonsense. I have no intrigues.’ I quickened my pace and looked away.

‘Really? Then why the scarlet countenance?’ Lottie glanced over her shoulder at Felix. ‘He does have polish, I must say.’

‘Are you trying to rattle me, so you can beat my score?’ I said, as we took our places side by side in the line of archers preparing to take aim.

The man officiating called the ladies to attention. Lottie went first. She drew the string of her bow backwards in her elegant way, fully aware of the effect she was producing as she peered out from under the brim of her straw hat with its pink linen flower and single white feather. Her perfect profile and dainty retroussé nose were presented to good advantage, while her pose invited all present to admire her pinched little waist. Her first arrow landed in the blue circle and vibrated there for a moment. Then she shot her remaining five, achieving a rather low score, but nobody was concerned with the score when they were watching Lottie.

Next it was my turn. As Lottie went to retrieve her arrows, I pulled on my glove with a shaking hand. ‘Cupid’s arrows, by any chance?’ said the lady alongside me, glancing at Felix and sniggering with her gloved hand over her mouth. This was precisely what I’d feared. I raised up my bow and arrow, my shoulders tense and stiff, and pulled the string back until I was at full stretch and the riser vibrated in my grip. I was utterly out of sorts and painfully self-conscious with so many eyes fixed on me. To make matters worse, the sleeves of my dress were still damp after the rain, and restricted my movement. As the taut string quivered, I imagined Mama scolding me later for grimacing in an unladylike way. Distracted, I let go before I was ready. It was a poor shot. My second was a little better, but well below my usual standard. I heard Felix cry ‘Bravo!’ and gritted my teeth.

He stood not far behind me and I couldn’t put his presence out of mind as I took aim. He had a new affectation, which was uttering silly upper-class expressions like ‘Haw!’ and ‘By Jove!’. He called for the servants to refresh his glass. Soon he was heard boasting about his recent weekend at an old school friend’s country estate and how he’d shot at least two hundred game birds, ‘enough to keep the town’s milliners in feathers for months, don’t you know?’ He was trying to hold his own and was probably relieved to have found people who weren’t too grand to converse with him.

Every one of my arrows missed the bullseye. When the ladies’ round was over, Felix approached me.

‘Felix, an unexpected surprise,’ I said.

‘Your mother’s idea entirely, I assure you.’

‘I thought that might be the case.’

‘She wanted to go in the carriage and it would have been churlish of me to refuse. She’s very persuasive.’

‘She most certainly is. Well, I apologize on her behalf. Apart from anything else, she’s succeeded in completely putting me off my game. That was a terrible display.’

‘Was it now? Not to my eyes. Although, now I recall it, your mother did say you carried away the ladies’ second prize last year. But I shan’t pretend I regret coming when I have the pleasure of seeing you look so radiant.’ His gaze swept over me. He lowered his voice: ‘I know what these people think. That I’m a vulgar parvenu. But I’m afraid I don’t care. All this emphasis on breeding, it’s old hat, if you don’t mind my saying.’ He gazed about at the forbidding huddles of chattering toffs. ‘Most of this lot don’t have two pennies to rub together. The world is changing. The country needs more men like me – men who know how to make money as well as spend it.’

‘Take care, or you’ll sound chippy.’

‘If that’s the case, you really ought to approve. After all, you’re the one who goes about quoting Eleanor Marx.’

A servant passed and I reached for a glass of murky water from the gardens’ famed natural spring. It smelt of bog water and had a sour metallic taste. Felix helped himself to claret.

‘To your good health,’ he said, raising his glass before downing half its contents in one gulp. His face was flushed. I saw how nervous he was, and felt guilty about being cross with him earlier.

Just then Lottie appeared, trailing fragrance in her wake. ‘Mr Skipp-Borlase, how delightful to see you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you were a toxophilite.’

‘I’m not, I’m afraid.’ He looked vexed at Lottie’s presence, and seemed immune to her fetching blonde curls. ‘Horses are more my thing. Matter of fact, I’ve just broken in one splendid specimen, and I intend to keep her at my new home in Brixton.’

‘A house in Brixton? My word!’ said Lottie, glancing at me. ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed watching Violet, at least. It’s a pity you didn’t come last time and see her at her best.’

‘I’m afraid there’ll be no trophies for me this afternoon,’ I said.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my mother wants me,’ said Felix, slipping away.

‘No trophy for Mr Skipp-Borlase either, it appears – at least not today,’ said Lottie. She leant towards me in confidence. ‘The way he was making up to you! The two of you were really clicking.’

‘Hardly!’

‘Oh, Violet, why are you so perverse? The family are the richest in town, everyone knows that. And just think of it: a house in Brixton too. How many houses do these people need? Such luxury, such dash.’

As Lottie went on in a similar vein, I could not forget her reputation for gossip. It was quite normal for young gentlemen and ladies to chatter at such events, but the manner of Felix’s arrival, escorting both of our mothers, implied our acquaintance had gone beyond mere friendship. And with Lottie’s help, the rumour would spread throughout Brighton society that Felix and I were all but formally attached.

The morning after the archery match, I joined Mama in the morning room. She was humming tunelessly, while buttering a slice of toast. She was clearly in high spirits, which in Mama meant constant gay laughter at nothing in particular and a general flirtatiousness towards the world at large, even when her audience was only me. She’d got the maid to take out the best tea set, which was another worrying sign. One had to tread carefully when Mama was in this humour as there was always a risk her excitement would boil over into mania.

‘How kind of Felix to take me to the archery in his carriage yesterday,’ she said. ‘And so lovely to see Octavia.’ I winced at the mention of Octavia, Felix’s stand-offish mother. ‘He’s a dear boy, charm itself. I really don’t know why you haven’t invited him along before.’

‘I didn’t invite him yesterday, either. You did. And you made it difficult for him to refuse.’

She burst into her tinkling laugh. ‘Come along now, you must admit Felix fitted in perfectly – even among those dreadful snobs.’ Those ‘dreadful snobs’ were the society types she had been assiduously cultivating since we’d moved to Brighton a decade previously.

‘He looked like a character in a stage farce,’ I said. ‘That jacket, for heaven’s sake!’

‘I thought he rather cut a dash.’

‘And he was drunk too.’

Mama put her teacup down, primly. ‘What is wrong with you this morning? Do you have one of your headaches?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

‘I suppose you think I should have consulted with you before arriving with Felix and Octavia yesterday. But it was all on the spur of the moment.’

There was a moment of thick silence. We both knew she didn’t do things on the spur of the moment.

‘Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?’ she asked. She looked at the miserable pots of home-made jam and cold poached eggs laid out on the table. ‘You’re cross with me, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I’m cross. You should have forewarned me, at least. Apart from anything else it put me off, Felix turning up like that. My score was hopeless.’

‘Oh, listen to you. Your priorities are a mystery to me. There are more important things in life than pleasure-seeking and winning trophies. And if Felix isn’t welcome to come and watch you play, then who on earth is? I’m thinking of inviting Gerald and Octavia to the next contest.’

‘I’d rather give up archery altogether than suffer that.’

‘To hear you speak, anyone might take you for a frightful snob.’

‘That’s utterly unfair. I deplore snobbery.’

‘Of course you do, with your socialist pretensions. Your convictions are all wafer-thin if you’re embarrassed when a dear friend rises above his station.’

‘I wasn’t embarrassed, at least not for that reason.’

‘It’s not as if Felix failed to hold his own. The gilt wore off most of those families a long time ago. It’s all show.’ She paused, and looked out of the window. The unforgiving sunlight exposed the lines in her forehead. She sniffed and dabbed her nose with a napkin, then frowned as her gaze lingered on a corner of the bay window. When she spoke again, she sounded fretful. ‘If only your father would get that casement repaired. The timber will rot if it’s left like that. Must I attend to everything in this house? And with only three servants to assist me. The eggs were cold again, this morning. Oh, when I think of the house in Hurstpierpoint and our huge garden, and the orchard – and how I once commanded a staff of twelve.’ She turned to me, her gaze misty. ‘I rather thought Felix might … say something to you yesterday – if you’d only given him the chance.’

‘Say something?’ I said, my face aflame. ‘Say what? Did he imply he had something to tell me?’

‘Of course not. He’s far too discreet. And he would need a signal from you first.’

‘Mama!’ I choked on a crust of cold toast. ‘What an idea! Felix and his parents are family friends, nothing more and nothing less. We haven’t the least thing in common. He’s a dear friend, but I hardly think we could ever … It’s unthinkable. You must bring this scheming to an end. All it will do is drive a wedge between myself and Felix. As it so happens, I’ve been thinking I should write to him and suggest that we should spend some time apart in case people get the wrong idea.’

‘But you can’t possibly do that. Have you forgotten the tennis match next month?’

The tennis match! Mixed doubles with Felix as my partner. I had been looking forward to it immensely. But now Mama seemed to be attaching a special significance to the event. Surely Felix wouldn’t think it fit to ‘say something’ to me at the tennis match, with all our family and friends present? My head throbbed. I would have to bring my mind to bear on the matter another time.

2

As a young girl, I rather looked forward to my encounters with Felix. We met mostly during his school holidays. He was invariably chivalrous, which was a welcome contrast to my three brothers, who were caught up in boyish chasing and tumbling and took little notice of me. Little Archie, my fourth brother, came along later. Felix was an only child and always had new toys to show off: a spinning top, hobby horse or model railway engine. He took riding lessons, which made me envious, for like all young girls I adored horses. It was about that time my father was forced to sell our brougham, and the horses with it, so purchasing a horse simply for my amusement was out of the question. Regardless of Felix’s family’s exceeding wealth, I could never take him altogether seriously, especially his precocious attempts to impersonate a full-grown man. And I resented him in spite of his gallantry, sensing his presumption and condescension, and all on account of his family’s money. His father had made a fortune overseas, whereas Papa had only a modest annuity from his family’s estate, together with various small stipends, and Mama had no inheritance at all to speak of. Papa did at least have expectations for when his oldest brother passed away, but there was no saying when that might be. Felix was in awe of his own father, who liked to boast that he had raised himself up from nothing. He would often repeat comments the great man had made at the breakfast table whilst perusing The Times, on the empire, trade, the Irish Question or some other dismal topic. After I’d spent time with Felix, I would amuse my brothers by doing impressions of him.

Our friendship endured into adulthood. He joined his father’s bank in London and spent much of his time there. I looked forward to his regular weekend visits. There was so little to vary the tone of my existence between my precious weekly art classes and the occasional sporting fixture to work off my pent-up energies. My pastimes stretched the meagre household finances, but Mama was convinced that sporting activities and ladylike accomplishments like painting would help bring me to the notice of eligible young men.

When I came of age, Mama paraded me before possible suitors. It was wretched to be scrutinized while attempting to exhibit the social graces. I received just two proposals. Mama rejected the first as it was from a young gentleman with older brothers and thus without expectations. The second was from a man a good fifteen years older than me who was endowed with a considerable fortune, but, to my great relief, he withdrew when he discovered my maternal grandfather had been confined to a lunatic asylum. He feared the hereditary taint might be passed down the line.

One morning, soon after the archery contest, I was awoken by the cooing of pigeons on the window sill of my room. Their heads rubbed together as if they were trying to kiss but their beaks were in the way. At a certain point, the larger bird, the male, jumped on top of the female, flapping its wings to balance as his feet slid around on the smooth feathers of its mate’s rounded back. Shortly, there was a frenzied rubbing together of tails and then a brief shiver of desire and it was all over and they were side by side again on the ledge, uttering deep throaty croaks. Another clutch of eggs was on the way.

I sat up in bed and must have surprised the birds, because I heard the clatter of wings as they flew away. Since my childhood, I had enjoyed drawing birds, and would idly sketch them in the margins of storybooks or any scrap of paper to hand. I would try to capture the shapes they made in flight, the sensation of movement. Papa once showed me how to create the impression of bird flight by drawing birds in progressive stages of flight in the corner of a notebook. When the pages were flipped there was an effect like that of a zoetrope. I showed my brothers the trick and, for once, I succeeded in holding their attention for a few minutes. I tried again later with galloping horses, but the novelty had worn off.

I got out of bed, keen to sketch the pigeons I had just spied upon. I looked around my cluttered room, my kingdom stuffed with treasures. There were piles of sketchbooks on the chest, the floor, on chairs and over every other available surface. My pictures were everywhere, on top of the wardrobe, under my bed, stuffed into drawers in my chest. My easel was placed against the wall. I had persuaded Papa to buy it years before for a shilling at an auction of the property of a recently deceased lady, an amateur painter. I got up and went to the wardrobe and got my watercolours and brushes and put them on my table. I began to draw the mating pigeons.

I had drawn ever since my French governess had put a crayon in my hand when I was small. Later, when a little older, at the time we lived in our grand house in Hurstpierpoint, I painted portraits of members of my family – and drew the servants too, if they would let me. Later still, when I was obliged to accompany Mama on her social visits, I secretly drew caricatures of her friends on any slip of paper that came to hand, the back of an envelope, the margin of a newspaper. And as a young lady, I drew portraits of my closest friend, Lottie. She loved posing. I told her not to pose stiffly or stare out at the viewer. I would get her to turn her head to one side as if I’d caught her unawares, or suggest she looked out of the picture, as though she was about to get up and leave.

I was never one of those swotty girls to be found in the park making accurate botanical drawings. And I had little sympathy with Mr Ruskin’s instruction to draw from nature. I had once attempted to read a volume of his Modern Painters and found myself dozing. Why should I follow his edicts? I was part of nature, not a mere observer. I wanted to convey my response, my feelings. And to use my imagination. And my imagination knew no bounds. I hid my most revealing productions in the linen chest or the bottom of the wardrobe, out of sight of prying eyes. But I could never quite bring myself to throw them away. In my watercolour sketch the pigeons became doves and were joined by satyrs, and sirens of the bird variety sitting on a heap of human bones, and nymphs whose limbs were covered in fur, and all of them circling in an other-worldly ritual, a dance. When my sketch was finished, I realized I’d been at work for almost three hours.

I sat at my desk, breathing heavily. My head began to throb. I sensed that I’d been in flight from some uncomfortable truth since the moment I had awoken. I had thrown myself into painting to escape it. The courting pigeons represented something which I had hidden from my conscious thoughts while I drew: my supposed courtship with Felix. I left my sketch to dry and reached for a pen and ink.

Dear Felix,

I must apologize for my rudeness at the archery meeting. I was taken by surprise. The last thing I want you to think is that I don’t value your friendship. Of course I do. How could I not, after all the happy hours we’ve spent together – and when I think back it seems to me both of us in our different ways had an awkward time of it with our respective parents – but I digress. What am I trying to say? Oh, only that there are differences in our mutual dispositions, or do you not agree?

You see, my problem is that I’m a singular creature and I experience the deepest urges to escape the humdrum, everyday world. I have violent emotions that I struggle to contain. I’m not remotely sensible or dependable. It is not too much to say that I long for another kind of life altogether. If my desires are frustrated or allowed to wither on the vine then it could lead to unhappiness, or worse. You, I would say, are quite the opposite. You’re cheerful, diligent, highly competent, practical, masterful – that’s your nature. And it seems to me that is precisely what makes us tick as friends – that we complement each other so well.

And, as a dear old friend, I’m sure you won’t mind me poking my nose into your private affairs. At some point you will turn your mind to affairs of the heart, and you won’t want to make a dreadful mistake that you will rue to the end of your days. It seems to me that what you need is a young lady with common sense – someone robust, someone able and willing to manage a large household, someone who shares your interests, your political affiliations, and your other interests. You will need a lady with social graces, someone who would excel at entertaining foreign dignitaries at stuffy events. This wouldn’t suit everyone. It might be disastrous if you married someone, only to discover she found the endless round of formal engagements very trying indeed. You are attractive and highly eligible, and you should have little trouble finding the right person.

I would never wish to do anything that might jeopardize what we have between us, but I have recently woken up to the realization – oh dear, how can I put it? – that some of those close to us might be harbouring certain expectations and are even making manoeuvres behind our backs. Neither of us would want to be pushed into something, especially a decision of such importance. Whatever we choose to do it must be our own choice freely made. It might be prudent for us to spend some time apart. So what I propose is this: the tennis doubles match with Lottie and Richard is arranged for three weeks’ time – I say that we don’t meet or communicate before then.

Please take my concern as proof of my esteem for you. I only want what’s best for both of us.

Yours affectionately,

Violet

Posting the letter put my mind at rest. I had taken a decisive step towards resolving a misunderstanding I had carelessly allowed to develop while my mind was on other things. Three weeks should be sufficient to put a distance between Felix and myself. However, I received a response from Felix in the next post which did little to reassure me.

My Dearest Violet,

First, the manner of our parting at the archery contest. Heavens, I took no offence at all. Although I must admit I was in a stinking mood afterwards and the dog was well advised to give me a wide berth. But one of my annoying traits is that I always bounce back from these things after a good night’s sleep.

The truth is I don’t quite see eye to eye with you on all the points you make. First, this idea of me not knowing what