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Spending Christmas alone was a pointless endeavour, as far as Florence was concerned, and so she’d spent the holidays in her office, catching up on patient files by candlelight, since daylight was scarce in the depths of winter. In the corner of a new page of her notebook, she wrote down Dec. 27th with her fountain pen.
“Dr. Seward?” the new secretary—Mr. Fletcher—knocked on the wooden frame after having already opened the door to her office—as if it would annul the unseemly breach of decorum. For all of Renfield’s eventual descent into vampirism, his manners had been flawless from the day he started working for her. She set the pen down on the paper with a sharp pointedness, raising her eyebrows at him.
He shrank and gathered his hands close to his chest as if blocking a bullet to his heart, tapping from one foot to the other in this unbearable habit before speaking.
“It is way past my office hours, Fletcher. And yours, might I add. What is it?”
“A call came in. From Bethlam.”
She let go of the pen entirely and leaned back in her chair, keeping the heels of her hands against the edge of the table. “Bethlam?” she said, puzzled. “At this hour?”
After what Vanessa had told her about her treatment, she’d begun looking into the place under the guise of a private research project on institutionalised patients that aimed to promote successful releases accompanied by outpatient care and had taken up a few hours there.
“Yes. It concerns a Miss Harcourt in your care?”
Florence pushed up from her chair, drawing in a sharp breath through her nose. Elizabeth Harcourt; eighteen years old. Little Lizzy—she’d come to think of her as even though she knew she shouldn’t. “What about her?”
“They wouldn’t disclose it to me.” He pressed his thin lips shut right after speaking, making them almost disappear. She never understood what it was that made her so fearsome, but after her late husband, she preferred it this way. Perhaps she’d gained an aura after that night that she wore like a military badge.
“Get them on the phone again, Fletcher!” she demanded and went straight to the liquor cabinet for a glass of whisky and a cigarette. She’d given up on quitting after Vanessa’s death. Bethlam calling at this hour couldn’t mean anything good, and after how the last session had unfolded, her insides twisted.
“Of course, Doctor,” Mr. Fletcher said and vanished into the antechamber.
As she waited for him to telephone them, she took her drink to the window and looked down on the road drenched in the orange glow of the gas lamps that reflected on the already muddied and dirtied snow. Not much else was visible; it was too dark.
If she had to choose one image to describe Little Lizzy’s state of mind, this would be it. A desolate, freezing night that turned the fresh, powdery beauty of snow into brown slush. She had yet to unearth the mystery of its origin, but it proved difficult since the girl didn’t speak no matter how much her other doctors had tortured her. No screams, no whimpers, no words. They’d labelled her as catatonic, in one form or another, but she thought otherwise.
She shivered at the scene outside, knowing she’d have to make her way through the cold, but the burn of the whisky flowing down her throat soothed it momentarily. Mr. Fletcher reappeared; his head peeked through the door. “You may now speak to them, Dr. Seward.”
Nodding, Florence put her empty glass down and took the cigarette with her as she went into the antechamber and picked up the ear and mouthpiece, keeping it perched between two fingers of the hand holding the earpiece. After the conversation ended, she brought it to her mouth and filled her lungs as much as they would allow.
Little Lizzy had tried to hang herself with her hospital gown earlier in the evening.
“Close up for me, Mr. Fletcher,” was all she said as she grabbed her fur coat, scarf, and gloves and left.
Florence smoked her cigarette on the way down. The smoke she exhaled mixed with the condensed air of her breath. The frost was cutting, harsh lashes of wind on her face, and she hid as much of it in the scarf as she could as she climbed into the first carriage that crossed her path that would take her to Bethlam Asylum. The horses’ hooves clacked on the cobblestone in a fierce rhythm, fighting against wind and weather.
She smoked another cigarette and watched the snow fall outside. They hadn’t restrained her because they’d convinced themselves she wouldn’t be getting out of her rigid state anytime soon and was too sedated. They might’ve been right if it hadn’t been for her. As crude as it was to think, this could be progress. She’d gotten a reaction out of her after weeks of talking to a wall and trying every trick in the book, from raw provocation to pep talks. At the same time, if it had really been her intervention that had caused her to snap out of her detachment, it meant that this was her fault. Little Lizzy could have died because of her.
The carriage stopped, and Florence all but jumped off, fighting her way past the porter and keepers. She spoke to the attending doctor, but he had few details regarding the incident for her. They were too used to this type of occurrence here, desensitised, whereas for an outpatient practitioner like her, this was the worst-case scenario.
“I want to see her.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Dr. Seward,” the doctor said, lowering his clipboard. “We’ve increased her dose of laudanum.”
“Without discussing it with me?” Florence seized the clipboard from his hands and went through the file, checking what else they’d done to the poor girl. They’d opted for regular restraints once she’d given up the fight instead of the straitjacket. No wonder with the amount of sedative they’d given her. It was enough to knock out a horse. “Miss Harcourt is my patient, Doctor”—she glanced at his name tag; he was taller than she; it bothered her—
“Dr. Blanchard. I wish to be informed of any developments. Immediately.”
“Time was of the essence, Dr. Seward. Surely, you will understand.”
“No, I do not.” She handed him back the clipboard with a hateful glare. If he thought he could undermine her, he was sorely mistaken. “Now, move.”
None of the keepers dared get in her way as she lifted her skirts to walk faster down the long, bleak corridor. She had the padded cell opened for her and removed her gloves as she entered. The keeper put a chair for her inside.
The temperature change from outside caught up with her, and sweat formed under her scarf, corset, and armpits. “Elizabeth?” she called once the door had fallen shut behind her and, unsurprisingly, received no answer.
The girl was strapped to the bed in the corner, uncovered, shivering in an even thinner gown now that would tear if she tried to hang herself with it. Florence approached and stood beside the bed, examining her patient’s condition. Her lips were blue, several bruises covered her body from reckless keepers holding her down, and her eyes were as unfocused as ever, indicating she’d slipped away again. They’d ruined what little progress they’d made with their blind aggression.
“Lizzy?” she said, softer. Brute force would only drive her further away.
She waited a moment and then pulled the chair next to the bed. Before she sat, she undid the restraints, and while she removed her coat, the petite girl curled up into an even smaller heap, arms and knees tucked to her chest, a primordial instinct to protect vital organs and keep warm as infants exhibited. Her hair had fallen into her face, but Florence thought it best not to touch her right now.
What she could do, though, was to drape her coat over the girl, who flinched but accepted. She made sure all of her was covered all the way up to her shoulder, hoping to prevent the brewing hypothermia, and settled in the chair. As she studied her, she contemplated what about their last session it was that could’ve caused her to break out of dissociation. She’d deliberately poked around and pushed in search of a reaction that could hint at the trauma preceding all this.
She’d told her stories with vivid imagery to put her mind into different situations akin to hypnosis and waited for her body to reveal which one resonated. One of a weapon chamber, one of wilderness, one of domestic arguments that escalated into aggression, another of illness, and one to the likes of Rapunzel, a tale of isolation. At the time, she hadn’t been able to discern any cues, but at least one of them must’ve touched on the truth and caused a landslide.
Little Lizzie wouldn’t be the next Vanessa; she wouldn’t allow it. She’d save this sweet, fragile thing, no matter the cost. There was someone in there still, a frightened child who had no choice but to lock herself inside her mind because nowhere else was safe.
Florence set the gloves she’d been straightening out in her lap down on the bed and leaned forward on her thighs, her hands clasped. She waited a moment and reached out to brush the hair that had fallen into her face aside with just the tip of her index finger, barely touching her. Nothing.
The girl was pretty. Pale and worn, but pretty. She’d seen photographies of her before her decline with rosy cheeks and silken hair and a cat on her arm. And now she was curled up here like a helpless kitten herself. She moved her fingers further down and lifted the hair from the neck underneath, which the extensive bruising the strangulation had left behind came into view. Red and purple stains on delicate skin.
Florence pressed her lips together, eyes closed, and took a long breath. She withdrew her hand. Would it be wise to repeat the stories to her and hope for a different outcome? If she were to stay here and keep watch? No, she couldn’t risk aggravating the situation further. Not another death.
“Lizzy?“ She paused. “I’m convinced you can hear me. It’s Dr. Seward. You know me,” she said without much of a plan. When science was at its wits end, instinct became the guiding star. “And I know that you’re frightened, but I wish you’d tell me what of.”
She’d tried every approach she could think of. The asylum had tried every treatment available except for lobotomy, and as long as Lizzy was under her care, she wouldn’t let it come to this. The coat sheltered her like a rabbit’s burrow, providing a sense of safety this awful prison cell hadn’t given her in all the months she’d spent here.
Florence tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. Maybe this was the answer, the one route she hadn’t considered yet because none of the books she’d studied discussed it, despite or due to its simple reasoning. To breach the clinicality of the doctor-patient relationship and step into the elementals of human nature.
She rose from her chair and sat on the bed instead, near the girl’s head, moving with caution. Then, even slower, she lifted her hand and lowered it onto her hair, observing if she tolerated it. She did.
A weight lifted off Florence’s chest. Lizzy’s demeanour hadn’t changed to signal discomfort, so she began with tentative strokes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Look at you. Such a pretty face,” she said, lowering her voice to achieve a soothing effect. “No need to hide it.”
Lizzy blinked.
“Do you like this?” She kept her caresses steady and covered more area each time. Her hair was greasy; they only bathed them once a week here. It must be uncomfortable. “Is it that? You weren’t touched nicely?”
It was uncommon for her to make assumptions on hollow grounds, but she followed her feeling. Nothing about Lizzy’s position or expression had changed, yet she sensed a sort of ease surrounding the girl and decided to lean into it.
“I’ll put your head into my lap if that’s all right, honey, and you can have some more of this.”
Together with her coat, she moved the girl until her head lay atop her thighs, facing away from her. She combed her hair back from her forehead, applying more pressure and massaging her scalp with her blunt nails. The cigarettes had turned them yellow; it bordered on being unprofessional in her eyes. The repetitive motion soothed her too. When she’d come here, she hadn’t known what she’d find and what they might’ve done to her—but now it was all done. She was here to take care of her.
When had this happened? When had she allowed herself to get this attached to a patient again? Was she recasting Vanessa in an attempt to redeem herself? It would be a worse injustice to do to little Lizzy, to make her a puppet starring in the melodrama of her penitence. But she could not tear herself away. Not when she melted into her touch like this, when the tension in her scalp dissipated with every caress, when her breaths became slower.
Sighing, Florence drew her fingers further down along the nape of Lizzy’s neck, to her upper back and shoulders, rubbing large circles over the thick black coat lined with fur. At least she was getting warmer… but smaller too.
“You’re just a little girl, aren’t you?” she said and squeezed her.
Was that—?
Her lashes had fluttered.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” She stilled her movements. “Concentrate on those feelings for me. Pay attention to where my hands are, how firm they press down, and how it makes you feel.”
She could ground her like this, help her reconnect with her body. Her fingers traced back the same path they’d taken downward and threaded into Lizzy’s hair. It flowed between each gap and around her ring, and on a whim, Florence nudged at her shoulder to shift her onto her back so she could see her face. The girl’s eyes widened in a twist of fear and surprise—any reaction was progress—but she settled again when Florence calmed her with a soft “Shh…”.
With better access to her face, Florence began to brush her knuckles along its outline all the way under her chin. Lizzy’s eyes followed her movements now, not entirely trusting yet but accepting, as she brought them up and traced her eyebrow with the very tip of her index finger.
“You can close your eyes if you want to. Nothing bad is going to happen. You have my word.”
Lizzy stared ahead, but Florence didn’t give up. She reached under the coat and searched for her hand while continuing to caress her face. It was still cold when she took it into her own and brushed her thumb over the knuckles. As time went on, Florence lost herself in thoughts, most of all about what to do with little Lizzy. She was going to die if she left her here. To send her home after a recent attempt to take her own life would be irresponsible, and even more so with what insight about her family she had gained from her file. And for all that she was a lunatic to even consider taking her home with her, when the girl closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks, and squeezed her hand back, she made up her mind.
Florence cupped her cheek, her eyebrows drawing together. “Honey?” The girl opened her eyes, glossy and reddened. “I’m going to get you out of here, all right? You’ll stay with me.”
Lizzy searched her eyes with uneven breaths. In an effort to calm her, Florence let go of her hand and placed her palm flat on her chest, guiding her breathing. She couldn’t tell whether this was a sign of discomfort or mere surprise.
“Shh. In and out. That’s right.” She tapped her splayed fingertips rhythmically. “You have a choice, Lizzy. Tell me what you would like.” The girl frowned helplessly. “No, you don’t have to speak. Blink twice for yes and thrice for no.”
Florence paused, looking into the girl’s eyes. What was she doing? Had she lost all sense because of Vanessa?
“Do you want to come with me?” she asked her.
Lizzy blinked twice. A weight lifted from Florence’s shoulders, and then the girl curled up against her, fisting her clothes, until Florence reflexively held her in her arms. Lizzy buried her face in her polonaise jacket and wet it with tears. Cradling her head to her breast, Florence stroked her back and sat with her. “It’s over, honey. The worst is behind you.”
The snow on her boots had melted by now and left a dirty puddle on the floor by her feet. She wrapped her coat tighter around Lizzy, swaddling her like a babe in her arm, and had half a mind to run off with her like this. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to just take her. It wouldn’t be easy, but she knew enough people to get this approved, she reckoned.
“I’ve got a small Christmas tree at home,” she began to tell her. “It’s nice to look at with the candles and ribbons. I’ll leave it until New Year’s. We can watch the fireworks from my bedroom window if you like. And I’ll see if I can get some roast goose.”
Her head had become heavier against her; she was leaning on her.
“You can have a drink too if you want. I’ll be trying to quit smoking again in the new year. See? I have my vices too.” She chuckled. “All you have to do is wait a little bit more. I need a day or two, but I promise you’ll be out of here by New Year’s Eve.”
It was a risk to leave Lizzy here on her own. Her stomach twisted. An unsuccessful suicide attempt often resulted in a prompt repeat action. If she did try it again, she wouldn’t be able to get her out. All she could do was try and give her enough hope to last a couple more days.
“I’ll come back for you,” she said again and pressed Lizzy tight against her. “And now I need you to look at me.”
She loosened her hold enough that Lizzy could turn her head up to her, making her eyes appear bigger.
“You won’t do anything stupid until I’m back, do you hear me?”
Lizzy froze for a moment, took a deep, shaky breath, and then blinked twice at her.
“Good girl.” Florence carefully extricated Lizzy from her and laid her down on the bed. As much as it pained her, she had to take the coat too. “I’m sorry, honey. I have to. But when I come back, I’ll bring the warmest clothes I can find and wrap you in all the blankets at home.”
She put on her coat, scarf, and gloves and then bent over Lizzy, putting her hand on her head. “Sleep, little one. The time will pass quicker.” A big tear sparkled in the corner of her eye. Florence wiped it away with the pad of her thumb. “Imagine me here with you. Don’t give up.”
With a heavy heart, Florence put the restraints back in place, as tenderly as such a harsh action could be performed, and left. At this hour, she could talk to no doctor, so she had to go home. Naturally, she couldn’t sleep. The worries about what might happen in her absence consumed her in the days to come, when she fought her way past titles and ranks. But she won.
She bought a thick, heavy jumper to put over a long dress, wool stockings, and a nice coat, then added a scarf and gloves from her own wardrobe to wrap in brown paper and tie with a string. Lizzy was unscathed when she arrived, and she took her in her arms before she gave her the present. She still wasn’t speaking, but she’d reached out and squeezed her hand in thanks.
Florence had helped her dress and then taken her by the hand and led her out of Bethlam, straight into the carriage that took them home, where she gave her a bath. Afterwards, Lizzy needed sleep right away after the harrowing days preceding this one. Florence stayed with her until she had drifted off in a soft feather bed, warm and safe. She considered sleeping next to her in case she woke up disoriented or unwell, but when she looked down at her, sleeping so soundly, she felt that it wasn’t necessary and placed a kiss on her forehead before leaving the room.
After her disastrous marriage, she’d thought herself incapable of loving another human being again—whether that be a child or spouse. But when she sat on the windowsill on New Year’s Eve with Lizzy by her side, watching the fireworks with quiet awe and resolving to quit smoking in the new year, she knew it wasn’t the whisky burning so in her chest.