The Edge

I was born and raised in Bristol in a large town house. My father was a wealthy merchant. He had made his fortune that way and he owned a fleet of his own ships. He was very rich. He had travelled all over the world with his business as a young man and he met my mother in Venice. She was Italian, with Italian parents. My father saw her in one of the squares with her sister and he fell in love with her. I personally resemble her greatly. However I have my father's paler skin. My mother was also tall, with excellent carriage and a finer bust. I have my English grandmother's slight figure.

He resolved to stay in the city until she would marry him. He was bold, my father. He walked right up to her and introduced himself to her and my aunt, Isabella. He asked if he might escort them home. When they reached the front door he said he wished to call on them. He had excellent language skills, he had been well taught by private tutors. They allowed this and he called on my mother, her two sisters and my grandmother Carolina the next day. He was found charming and invited to dinner.

My mother had two sisters, Isabella and Maria. She had an older brother in the army. Her parents were well off and proud people. My grandfather was a solider also. He was very distinguished. My grandmother was beautiful. I remember them from visits as a child.

After the dinner, when the gentlemen retired to smoke, my father told my grandfather that he loved my mother and wished for his blessing to court and marry her. My grandfather said she was his to win, if that was what she chose. He explained that his children were brought up to be warriors, even his daughters and he wanted each to independently chose their life. It was my father's greatest admiration, strength and independence. It was why he so adored my grandmother, she too was a strong woman.

My father courted my mother for a month. She loved him very deeply, he was witty and kind and adoring as well as handsome and rich and so she chose to marry him. They were married in Venice, he had a new ship named for her and its figurehead was a copy of my mother. It was his wedding gift to her.

After the wedding he brought her back to England. He bought her a fine house. He gave her every luxury and he undertook to help her sister Isabella by bringing her to England too. My aunt lived with them a year before marrying herself to a friend of my father's.

My mother first gave birth to my brother, named for my father. He was a strong young man and he wanted to become a solider like my grandfather. He went to live with my grandparents when he was fourteen, he joined the Italian guards once he completed his education and earned himself a distinguished career. My mother then had three girls. I am the youngest of those. We were all educated at home by our mother and several tutors. My mother had been raised a warrior and she taught all her girls that with the English modesty and reserve should be Italian passion and independence. She was clear that we had as great a right to that as men. I am fluent in several languages, I am very well read and educated. I paint, I sing, I dance, I play the piano and the harp. I have always been interested in crafting things. It was a hobby of my father's and I liked to sit near him and copy what he did. I loved him very much.

I was very young when I was introduced to Lord Richard Llewellyn. He was wealthy, respectable, titled and from an old family. He wanted a wife. He had left it late in life because he had initially been meant for the church as a younger son, until his brother's death. He was in his late thirties when he met me at a dinner given by my father. The two had met professionally. He knew me for two weeks when he asked for my hand from my father. My father chose not to ask my permission in this. I did not mind, I was foolish.

My husband to be was handsome and rich. Oh, he was handsome. It was an austere cold handsome though. He was like a marble statue. He was reserved, quiet and I took this for shyness. It was only after my wedding day that I realised the truth.

He had repressed something inside him, something terrible. All the passions a human can have, anger and jealousy, love and lust. Those he had locked up. To the world he was a God fearing man who was pure, honest and white as the cliffs of Dover. In reality he had simply repressed his feelings. He thought women were evil, he was very much a man of the Old Testament. He felt anger that he could not escape his urges to hurt or make love or desire others, even through prayer and fasting. When his brother died and he became the Lord of the manor he realised he could do as he pleased with one woman at least.

On our wedding night I discovered what I was married to. He was brutal, cruel and all the pent up emotion that he had kept buried for thirty years or more was vented on me. He was clever, he did not bruise me on the face in those early days. But under my clothes I was a mass of black and blue. I was submitted to terrible punishments for my entire sex's failings, for his failing to be a pure apostle. He loved making me scream. He revelled in his evil side which only came out behind closed doors with me. I fell pregnant quickly and when pregnant he did not touch me. At least he never touched my children. He was Godly enough to realise that hurting an innocent was wrong. After the birth I was not allowed to escape his pleasures. I began to revolt in my own small way. I stopped myself screaming in pain. I stopped reacting to him. I resolved that he should not master me like a chained animal. It made him angry, furious but he could not break me without killing me. People had begun to talk of my bruises, that I could not hide, or my needing to take care of broken bones often. That talk saved me in a way. He could not carry on being so brutal. He decided to try and break me in another way.

I was alone. He picked my maid himself. She was not to be trusted by me. He supervised my letters to home. I could not alert anyone to my situation. The local people dared not say a word for fear of losing their jobs or their homes. My children saw him beat me and grew afraid to help me and afraid of him. He never struck them, they knew he would vent their short comings on me. I was utterly friendless.

I tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. I gave myself projects. I turned to God and prayed a lot. I had no one else to talk to. I made alter cloths and did charitable work. I made the doll's house. I mothered my children. I let them know I did not blame them for anything and that I loved them deeply. I made them see that silence can be an armour too, it would keep them safe. I read a lot. I could not let my books go. They let me travel away from my husband and into a new world where I was free. In my mind, I could travel where I wished, have any destiny or any past. My maid reported on the amount I read to my husband. He realised I was escaping and he decided to stop me.

He banned my books. He had them taken away. He locked me in my room without any books. I began to write my own books. I had always written detailed journals, ever since I learned to write. As a child I had travelled with my parents around Europe and so I was encouraged to keep journals to document this. It became habit and I wrote every day. He put a stop to that for a while but I became sly. I watched my maid and saw that she greatly admired one of the grooms. They could not hope to marry or start a family, neither earned enough and relationships between the servants were banned. I encouraged their romance by letting them meet in my sitting room where they could be private. I then offered them a large sum of money for their marriage that would allow them to become independent and for the groom to buy his own stables and start in business. The maid swiftly understood what to do and she became my ally, she allowed me to keep writing my journal and she sometimes managed to smuggle me a book or two.

My husband found out about the books when he caught me reading one day. The maid was dismissed right away. She was provided for by the money I had given her and she married her sweetheart.

My husband's revenge was fearsome. He did not beat me as he had before. He did something far worse. He cut off my hair himself. He then had me committed to the asylum. The owners knew I was not mad, many of the inmates were not when they were incarcerated. They were simple or crippled, tiresome or in the way. So they were thrown behind the walls and went mad there. In those days it was easy to do away with people like that.

I remember the day they took me. I had been dressed in a shabby shift and bound to a chair by my husband. He told the servants I had attacked him then cut off my hair. I was dangerous. Two men were brought to my room, wearing dark suits. They were rat faced and cruel. I was put into a straitjacket and taken downstairs to the waiting vehicle. It was an enclosed dark carriage. The men sat either side of me as we rode for over an hour to the place where I was to spend my first stage of incarceration.

The place in question is a large estate which is out in the middle of nowhere. The building looks like a prison and has a large garden around it, walled in by stone which is built over twelve feet high. No person could climb over it. When we arrived I was helped from the carriage and walked around to a side of the building so I saw the gardens. It was meant to show me that I could not escape. There was much green unkempt turf, no trees, no flowers, no bushes.

Outside it was eerily quiet. Inside the screaming and moaning was dreadful. There were four floors to the building and a basement. The top floor was for the catatonic patients and the dyeing. The three floors below were for the male residents. I was lead down to the basement. The basement was for the women. The basement was dark and lit by lamps or by some small windows which were at ground level so high high up on the walls. They were barred and narrow so none of us could climb out of them.

I was taken down the main corridor which had rooms on either side of it. These were barred across the front so you had no privacy. At the end nearest the stairs was the room for the nurses. At the farthest end was an iron door with no window in it. I was lead down to my room at this end, past women who were crying, moaning, clawing at the walls or themselves, playing with their own waste or lying asleep, sometimes naked. Some stared blankly into space. None looked at the nurses or the two men directly. They cowered back when we passed. I was taken into the iron doored room.

It had inside a few cupboards, a rack containing sticks and rods for beatings, the machine I came to know as the plunge pool and some chairs. There was also a sort of dock, set with seats as one might see in a court room. On future visits to this room the seats were often filled with men, curious over treatment or medical men who wished to observe.

I was stripped naked. My hair was cropped close to my skull. My nails were cut as short as could be. I was strapped to a board and plunged five times. Icy cold and half drowned, shocked to my core, I was then scrubbed viciously until my skin was raw. This was to prevent any chance of fleas or lice. I was dressed in a shabby white shift without underwear or a shawl. My feet and hands were covered with little mittens or booties which were then sewn up tight. These served a duel purpose. They prevented you from using your hands or feet properly, they prevented you from scratching or gripping. I was then given laudanum. Utterly shocked, subdued, terrified and depersonalised, I was taken to my dungeon on the corridor.

My room was identical to all the rooms. The walls and floor were padded so there were no hard surfaces. There was a enclosed toilet in one corner, a box with a hole in so you could not get waste on yourself, or the room, unless you refused to use the toilet. There was one window, around six inches wide and six inches high up beside the celling. This was all. No stool, no bed, no table, no way of drinking. No light except from the barred window. When the light went outside it grew dark except beside the nurses room. Every twenty minutes two of them walked up and down with a lantern, peering at you. They did not speak to you. You were suddenly invisible.

It was always cold although the windows were shuttered and there were few drafts. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. You had a blanket to curl up under but most of us remained wrapped in it all day. In the summer it was warmer and on very rare occasions a few of us were permitted to go out into the garden. It was a treat to see the sun, feel the grass under our feet.

You were fed twice a day, given water twice a day. Breakfast was porridge. Dinner was usually some sort of stew. The food was repetitive but not bad. It is important to remember that this was a private establishment so no one there was a pauper. Every morning before we were fed a nurse would say prayers. Every Sunday a sermon was read by the local priest, who would then hear confession or say private prayers. He probably mostly heard insane babble.

Once a week the doctors came to see you. Sometimes people were taken to the iron room. The screams from behind the door were sickening. People would emerge, shaking and shuddering, sobbing, moaning. Sometimes they could not walk. I was taken there twice a week to be plunged ten times during an hour. The docks would be filled with men, I would be strapped down. I would hear my diagnosis. I was said to have 'an over heated brain, stimulated by too much reading'. This apparently caused me behavioural problems. I would then have to answer some questions. How did I feel? Had I eaten my food, used the toilet properly? Was I seeing visions or hearing odd noises? Could I remember my name, the year, the month, my home, the names of my children? Then I would be plunged.

I cannot describe the horror of being dropped, half naked, into a pool of freezing water, submerged until my lungs were bursting and then dragged back up. A few seconds of respite then down again into the depths. After this treatment, I would be untied then asked to answer simple questions. The name of the monarch. The capital city. Months of the year, dates of religious holidays. I normally completed these tasks well. My mind was still sharp. This often earned me small rewards. The visiting doctors would compliment the establishment on their treatment and then I would be given an orange, some biscuits, be allowed a warm bath or taken outside during the week. I was given an extra blanket once, a soft one, which I treasured.

Otherwise there was not even a pretence at medical treatment. Because of the cold in the asylum and the constant submersion in freezing water, I had a permanent cough. I often caught cold. I was starving, I was sick, I was unable to do anything. The nurses were not cruel in many ways, I count myself very lucky. They did nurse you properly if you were sick. You did receive medicine. It was their silence that punished me. They were instructed not to talk to us. The lack of human contact and conversation was what sent people mad. I probably should have died and sometimes I would wish for it. There was only one reason that I did not die. I could not give Richard the satisfaction.

I kept my mind by remembering every story I had ever read, every place I had been. I would paint a picture in my own mind and take myself far far away from the horrid reality of my life. I thought most of my house that my father had bought me in Cornwall. I had loved it as a child, we had gone there for sea bathing each summer and I adored it. My father gave it to me when I married, fondly imagining I would take my own children there.

I would walk around the house, each room, see everything. I would walk out onto the balcony above the sea and watch the ships passing from Plymouth. I would feel the wind and the sun, smell the salt air. It was my safe house.

I had no concept of time passing any more. I had nothing left. I was sure I would rot there.

In 1774 a new act was passed in parliament. It meant that all inmates of madhouses had to be certified as insane by two independent doctors. The owners of the madhouse I was in decided to close the house after being offered places at Bethlem hospital near London. That is the place more commonly known as Bedlam. The patients were sent home. This meant that one day I was brought to the Iron room as usual but was dressed in my own clothing for the first time in years. My hair was washed and brushed and plaited back. I was escorted upstairs where I saw my husband's carriage waiting. I was helped into the carriage where a nurse was waiting. I was driven home.

I had dreamed of escape so many times, I half expected that it was some trick. I thought maybe I was dead and dreaming. I used to imagine ways of escape, magic or otherwise. It kept me alive. I imagined the sun or the moon becoming physically powerful, I imagined the old Gods coming to life and saving me.

I did not expect the nurse to speak to me but she did. She informed me of who she was. Nurse Agnes. Not good looking or clever but competent at her job. Very religious. She assured me I was being taken home, I would be cared for at home from now on. I had a suite of rooms and she would attend me.

When I got to the house I was taken in by the nurse. I was unable to walk unaided by now, my legs were weak and the muscles in my body wasted. Agnes had one of the house men, a man I did not recognise, carry me up to this very room where we sit now. This was my new dungeon.

It was originally painted simply white. The bed was my own though, a gift from my parents. The furniture too. I arranged it how I wished, Agnes and the house men moved the furniture for me. It was heaven to be allowed a hot bath, to be warm and well fed for the first time in years. I was dressed in warm gowns, given thick shawls and the fire was always burning so that the room was warm. It was bliss.

I did not see my husband until the next day. He came up and looked at me. He had grown older, his cruelty had warped his face so his handsomeness was now tinged with an animal meanness. He was stooping now, his power was leaving his body. I was secretly pleased. That morning I had looked in a mirror for the first time since I had been taken away. The illness had left me pale and thin but with a fragile beauty. My hair had grown back to its length and thickness. I still looked young.

He looked at me like I was not there. He told me he was glad I was home, that he had been sorry to have to punish me but it was important that I get well. If I behaved according to his specifications then I would be allowed to live as I chose, I could see my children, I could be taken outside and sit in the gardens.

I had not seen my children in years. I missed them so much that it hurt. I told him I would be a good obedient wife if I could see them. He was pleased by this, he liked it when I begged him for things. He made me kiss his hand, it became a ritual. Then I must allow him to sit beside me and touch me, tell him how strong and powerful he was. He was no longer strong enough to beat me but he found pleasure enough in my delicate frame and wasted strength.

I was permitted to see my children one at a time, for ten minutes each. They were strong, my children. I had done well in the short time I had. They had grown up strong and handsome and healthy. I cried when I saw them for the first time, and they did too. I also cried when I heard that my parents had died when I was locked up. I never had the chance to say good bye to them.

I was permitted to be taken down to the chapel on Sunday's, to join the family for dinner, to be taken out in the gardens. I could no longer walk as I had done but Nurse Agnes had a wheel chair made so she could push me around herself. I was permitted to finish the dolls house.

I made the doll's of my family. I made my children lovingly. They adored the doll's house and their doll's. I made Nurse Agnes and some of the servants. Nurse Agnes was touched by my making her doll. She was a wonderful seamstress, and did beautiful shawls and knitted items. She made me many such shawls and for my children too. She actually sewed the clothes for the dolls as well, she enjoyed seeing me actively sewing. I was permitted books of course, but only ones approved by my husband.

I made my husband's doll last. I told him it was because he was the most important. You saw the duel faces he had. I designed it after a statue of the two faced God Janus. He never discovered my little trick. Nurse Agnes knew but never said, so did the children.

The local priest visited me every two days, heard my confession, said prayers for me. I sewed the alter cloths in return, made prayer cushions for the church. I was still useful.

After years of this life, better than I had expected, my husband died. He caught an infection which turned to fever and his lungs filed with fluid. When he was on his death bed he had me carried there for me to say good bye like a dutiful wife. I think he wanted me to forgive him. I remember his eyes. In his last hours they finally had grown softer, pleading. I leant over his bed and told him I would never forgive him, that the only good thing he had ever done in his life was provide me with our children and that God and all heaven knew he was an evil, cruel, cowardly man. I whispered this into his ear. I remember his eyes, begging me for my forgiveness and my compassion, finally wanting me to care for him. I put my face next to his and told him to hurry up and die. I would not miss him. He had blighted my life.

He died.

At his funeral I wore my red gown. Yes, you may well stare! No one said a word at the funeral, they all knew why I wore red, to celebrate my release from marriage to that creature. I did not wear black to mourn him, I wore yellow and red and green, I wore colours and it felt as though the chains that bound my life were melted away.

By this time, my eldest son and his wife were Lord and Lady. I happily acquiesced to them taking over the family business and the house. I was content with my new nurse, Mary-Ann. I was allowed books again, at last! I had Mary-Ann read to me for hours. I had my grandchildren brought up to see me. I would allow them to play with the doll's house and they adored it. I spent the last years of my life free from the man who had taken my life away. I rejoiced that he had never taken away my spirit.

My health grew sadly weaker. My body was too weak to stand and I was carried everywhere. I grew more and more tired. I grew quieter and happy just to sit and watch the world go by from my window. I longed to go back to the beautiful house that I owned in Cornwall. I begged my son to allow me to travel there. I was so weak that he refused, worried I would die on the journey. In the end he relented, and we went for the first and only family holiday. It was even better than I had imagined. The warm sun and the soft sea air. The water and the beautiful white house. I was so happy there. I knew it was time for me to go, now that I was finally at peace.

When they day came for me to die it was raining and the sun far away in the distance shone through the rain drops and glowed like melted gold. When I felt myself lift into the sunshine I knew I was dead. I did not mind. Then I woke in this room. I was young again and strong. But no one could see me, I was simply a ghost. I saw my beloved doll's house wreaked by my son in his grief. I could not bare to see it so he had it taken to the attic. He left the doll of his father in it.

The other doll's are in my coffin with me. I had them buried with me, not in the family vault here but in the church in Cornwall. I have been alone since then, watching the people of this house. I have been watching for so many years.

I cannot explain why I am here. I can only suppose that God has a task for me. Perhaps it is to aid you. You too are imprisoned by your husband. You too are in chains, a captive, though you seem free. I will remain in God's hands and trust to his judgement. Perhaps I must save you from your fate, in order to enter heaven and finally be at rest.