do anyway, and let them do the talking. If talk ceases, just sit there. Out of the
Part Five
LINDENWOOD ASYLUM, PURFLEET
Chapter Eleven
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 facade 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
