The Darlings of the Asylum, page 1
NOEL O’REILLY was a student on the New Writing South Advanced writing course. He has worked as a journalist and editor at the international business media company RBI, and is now a freelance writer. His first novel is Wrecker and The Darlings of the Asylum is his second. He lives in Sheffield.
Also by Noel O’Reilly
Wrecker
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022
Copyright © Noel O’Reilly 2022
Jenny Ashcroft asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © December 2022 ISBN: 9780008275327
Version 2022-11-17
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008275310
To Georgia
‘My devil had long been caged, he came out roaring.’
—STRANGE CASE OF DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE by Robert Louis Stevenson
‘Of all the theories current concerning women, none is more curious than the theory that it is needful to make a theory about them.’
—‘The Final Cause of Woman’ by Frances Power Cobbe, in WOMAN’S WORK AND WOMAN’S CULTURE: A SERIES OF ESSAYS, edited by Josephine E. Butler
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Brighton, 1886
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Interlude
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Interlude
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Hillwood Grange Lunatic Asylum, Sussex: 1886
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
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 mon
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.’
