“And so, last Monday—just two days, Miss Ashton, before you arrived here—Lucia Ardent packed her valise and departed in a cab, promising to return within a fortnight. It was only after she had left that doubts began to creep in. Miss Ferrars noticed, first of all, that Lucia had taken every single thing she had arrived with. And then she discovered that her two most cherished possessions were missing: a blue leather writing case given to her by her aunt, and a valuable ruby and diamond brooch in the shape of a dragonfly, which had belonged to her mother.”
It is a nightmare, I told myself. You must wake up now. But his face refused to dissolve.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I wish I could make this easier for you, but we must face facts. You will be wondering—since you are, beyond question, the woman who left Gresham’s Yard two days ago—why I do not address you as Miss Ardent. That is because Lucia Ardent is an alias: the account she gave of herself is an obvious fabrication, since it contains not a single verifiable fact. Lucia Ardent is your own invention, and since you came here as Miss Ashton, I propose that we continue to call you by that name, until we discover who you really are.”
“I am Georgina Ferrars,” I said hopelessly, finding my voice at last. With the words came the thought, He is lying; he must be lying. “If—if this woman really exists, then she has taken my place—”
“There is no doubt of her existence, Miss Ashton; I am speaking to her at this moment. Just as there can be no doubt that the young woman I met in London is the real Georgina Ferrars; an imposter might possibly deceive Josiah Radford, who is exceedingly shortsighted, but not the maidservant.”
“What was her name—the maid’s?” I asked, clutching at straws.
“I have no idea, but I am sure there is nothing wrong with her eyesight.”
“It is clear,” he continued, when I did not respond, “that when you arrived here as Lucy Ashton, you were well aware that you had trained yourself to impersonate Georgina Ferrars. Why you did so remains a mystery. But I would say, without question, that you had become aware that the balance of your mind was disturbed: why else would you have sought out a leading specialist in disorders of the personality, and presented yourself to him under the name of a madwoman?”
I remembered Frederic—not once, but twice—saying exactly that.
“You adopted an alias because you were not yet ready to confess—no doubt for fear of the consequences—but the alias you chose was itself a kind of confession. And then, sadly, your mental turmoil led to a seizure, which seems to have obliterated everything but the personality you were so determined to assume.”
“No!” I cried. “I swear on my dear mother’s grave, it is my life I remember!”
“Miss Ashton, Miss Ashton; I am not questioning your sincerity. But the past you think you remember is a dream, woven by your troubled imagination out of the material of Georgina Ferrars’ life. You cannot see this, because it is all you can see. But rest assured: we will not abandon you; as I said before, you will be cared for here, without charge, no matter how long it takes us to discover your true identity.”
I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, fighting down terror.
“If you will only take me to London,” I said in a small, strangled voice, “and let me speak to my uncle; and to Cora, the maid; and Mrs. Eddowes, the housekeeper; and Mr. Onslow, the haberdasher in the square, they will tell you that I am the real Georgina Ferrars, and not this imposter—”
“I am sorry, Miss Ashton, but that is out of the question. I explained to Miss Ferrars that you were not responsible for your actions, and that bringing you face to face with her might help you recover your memory, but she does not wish to see you again. She feels, understandably, betrayed. ‘Let her return my writing case and brooch,’ she said, ‘and apologise for the distress she has caused us, and then perhaps I will consider your request.’”
“She is lying—” I began, but the futility of it was plain. I took a deep breath and summoned the last of my courage.
“Then since you will not help me, sir, I wish to leave this place immediately. I am a voluntary patient—”
“I am sorry, Miss Ashton, but I cannot allow it. I should be derelict in my duty if I allowed a young woman in the grip of a dangerous delusion to wander away unattended. If you were to appear at Gresham’s Yard in your present frame of mind, you would probably be arrested for disturbing the peace. You were a voluntary patient; I now have no choice but to issue a certificate of insanity.”
I saw, too late, that I had made a fatal mistake.
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” I stammered, hearing the note of terror all too clearly. “I spoke in haste; perhaps I am not myself. I promise to stay here quietly until—until I am better; there is no need for a certificate . . .”
He regarded me silently for some time, a faint ironic twist at the corner of his mouth.
“Almost convincing, Miss Ashton; but not quite. Unless I am much mistaken, you would make a dash for the gate the moment our backs were turned. No; I’m afraid my duty is plain. You may be a danger to others; you are certainly a danger to yourself. And now if you will excuse me, I must summon Dr. Mayhew; I advised him of these developments this morning, but he will need to examine you in person.”
“I am not mad!” I cried as he rose to leave. “Ask Fr—Mr. Mordaunt; he believes me.”
“He did believe you, Miss Ashton. Mr. Mordaunt is—easily led; he has learnt a salutary lesson.”
Dr. Mayhew’s “examination” consisted of his grunting several times, peering at my tongue, and muttering, “Hmph, mmph—highly agitated—danger to herself and others—no doubt about it,” after which he took the pen and the document that Dr. Straker was holding out to him, added his signature, and departed.
“Well, there we are, Miss Ashton,” said Dr. Straker. “We shall keep you here in the infirmary for a couple more days, just to be sure, and then transfer you to one of the women’s wards. I know it is hard, but try not to think too much. Hodges will bring you a sedative, and in the morning I shall look in to see how you are getting on.”
At the sound of the door closing behind him, I buried my face in the pillow and wept as I had never wept before.
I was roused from my misery by a clatter of keys and the heavy tread of Hodges.
“Come along now, Miss Ashton; this won’t do. I’ve brought you a pot of tea and some bread and butter, and a nice sleeping draught.”
It was still broad daylight, but I assumed it must be late in the afternoon.
“What is the time?” I asked hopelessly.
“One o’clock. Now you sit up and ’ave your tea, and then you can ’ave a nice sleep.”
Rather than have her touch me, I sat up as instructed; she arranged the invalid tray across my knees, and departed.
Even the sight of food turned my stomach; I reached instead for the glass of cloudy liquid standing beside the teacup. Eight hours of blessed oblivion . . . and then? I paused with the glass halfway to my lips. Through the fog of anguish and horror, a single thought loomed: Once they move you, you will never escape.
And if I did not eat, I would be too weak to escape. I set down the glass and began chewing the bread in small, nauseating mouthfuls, washing it down with sips of tea, and trying to concentrate what remained of my mind. Why this had happened to me was beyond my comprehension; all that mattered was to escape (though that was surely impossible) within the next two days, find my way to Gresham’s Yard (but how? I had no money), and confront the woman (though I did not believe she existed) who had stolen my life away.