wrist and ankle cuffs, chained to beds. How they struggled and moaned! These were scenes from a medieval torture chamber. Iâd stumbled upon the dark heart of Bedlam.
I was headed back the way Iâd come when I felt a touch on my shoulder. My heart vaulted up into my throat with a mighty thump. Gasping, I whirled. Before me stood a young woman, small and thin and pale. She wore a plain gray frock and a white shawl. A white bonnet framed brown, curling hair and delicate features. Violet-gray eyes too large for her face calmly met my gaze. Shock paralyzed me, and not just because sheâd crept up on me so unexpectedly.
I am haunted by those I have loved and lost. Although they are dust in their graves, I encounter them time and again in persons I meet. This woman was my sister Anne in every lineament.
âExcuse me, madam,â she said, and her voice was Anneâs, sweet and gentle.
The terrible memory of Anneâs passing swept over me like a black wave. Anne had meekly accepted every remedy we pressed upon her; foul medicines and painful blisters added to her suffering, but she patiently endured. I took her to the seaside for a change of air, a last-resort treatment recommended by her doctor. Alas, it didnât work. Anne died at the age of twenty-eight, in Scarborough. She was buried there, on a headland overlooking the sea she always loved. But here, with me, was her ghost.
âWho are you?â was all I could think to say.
âIâm Julia Garrs,â she said, and curtsied. âWhatâs your name?â
âCharlotte Brontë.â Now reason overpowered fancy. I saw that she was not my sister reincarnated. She was some ten years younger than Anne had lived to be, and prettier; she had a full bosom, Cupidâs bow lips, and thick, black eyelashes. She was a stranger.
Relief flooded me as I said, âWhat do you want?â
âIâm lost,â she said. âWill you help me get home? My baby is there. He needs me.â
I deduced that she was a visitor whoâd wandered here by chance just as I had. âCertainly.â
She smiled, and as I escorted her along the passage, she took my hand. Her fingers were cold and frail, and I shivered: it seemed that Anne had reached from her grave to touch me. I lost my sense of direction and could not find the door. We turned corner after corner until we came upon a matron. She was a heavy woman with a coarse, red, common face. âJulia!â she said. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
Julia shrank behind me. I wondered how the matron knew her name and why she was frightened. âWeâre visiting the asylum. We got lost,â I explained.
The matron sneered. âYou may be a visitor, mum, but she ainât. Sheâs an inmate.â
I was shocked. âButââ
âBut she looks so normal.â The matron laughed. âI know. All the visitors think so. Youâre not the first one sheâs tried to fool into helping her escape. She charms the attendants into letting her out of her cell.â The matronâs tone hinted at the sort of wiles Julia employed. âThen she goes looking for her next mark.â
âIs this true?â I asked Julia.
She clung to my hand but averted her eyes from mine.
âOh, itâs true, all right,â the matron said. âSheâs in Bedlam âcause she killed her own baby. Born out of wedlock, it was. She drowned it in the bath. Afterwards, she went mad. Thinks itâs still alive.â
I stared at Julia in horror. The matron yanked her away from me and said, âCome on, then, girl. Youâre going back to your cell.â
As she led the reluctant but meek Julia down the corridor, she said to me, âYou hadnât ought to be here, mum. This wingâs not on the public tour. Itâs for the criminal lunatics.â
Stunned by fresh shock, I said, âHow do I get out?â
The matron pointed.