from the draught, in front of the glowing coals. It was a room richer in its welcome than Radcliffe’s own house, and was meant for someone who needed such cosseting comfort. The landscape paintings on the wall suggested it might belong to a country gentleman and his family. But no dogs barked and raised themselves from the front of the fire, no tails wagged in welcome. Except for the crackling coals and whisper of gas lamps it was quiet. Above the roaring fire on the marble mantelpiece were photographs showing a young family. Parents and sons. A faded picture of Joseph and Eileen Radcliffe with two young boys.
There were two women in the room. One, the more matronly, had given up her fireside chair when Radcliffe entered. She had whispered a brief greeting, and retired to the other side of the room to afford Radcliffe privacy. The woman who sat in front of the fire was in her mid-forties, simply but elegantly dressed, her raven hair pulled back and gathered in a tidy bun held by a tortoiseshell hair comb. She lowered the book she was reading on to her lap as Radcliffe sat down in the vacated chair.
There was a sculptured beauty to the woman’s face that Radcliffe had always loved.
‘I’m going away. I won’t be able to see you for a while,’ he said gently, gazing into her eyes.
The woman smiled. ‘That’s all right. It has been very kind of you to visit me. Very thoughtful. Thank you,’ she said, the soft lilt of her voice as delicate as it always had been.
Radcliffe slowly reached out his hand, pausing before he reached hers. For a moment she looked at the open palm and the half-curled fingers waiting to embrace her own, then she reached out and laid her fingers into his hand, and looked at him expectantly.
‘Eileen... I’m going to find our son,’ he said.
A brief shadow of uncertainty crossed her face.
Radcliffe laid his other hand across hers, reassuringly. ‘Edward. I’m going to bring Edward home... and then I’ll tell him about you and hope he will forgive me.’
Uncertainty crossed her face again, and she turned her gaze to the flames, her hand slipping from his and returning to her lap, fingers twisting her wedding band. Radcliffe stood and was about to lean forward to kiss her forehead when he sensed her stiffen. He looked at his wife’s companion. The woman’s kindly face creased with a smile of pity as she shook her head.
The room’s double doors closed behind him; the woman locked them.
‘As you heard I’m going away,’ said Radcliffe. ‘I have made full provision for her ongoing care. Has anything changed?’ he added hopefully, but knowing it was a question that would never have a satisfactory answer.
‘She still does not know anything, she knows no one. She sits, she reads and she gazes out of the window at the gardens. She remembers nothing. Nothing. Grief destroyed her mind.’
Much of what Radcliffe earned came each month to this private wing in the place of sanctuary. He thanked the woman and made his way to the coachman who had brought him from the city. As they drove through the gates he turned and looked back, hoping his wife might have gone to the window to watch her visitor leave. There was no one there. Arching across the gates’ pillars the sign – Richmond District Lunatic Asylum – seemed even starker than usual.
*
Over the next days a new impetus seized Radcliffe. There was much to do in a short time if he were to arrange the shipment of Kingsley’s horse and catch the next steamer to Cape Town. Pierce made all the arrangements while Radcliffe briefed other lawyers to take his upcoming cases.
Their brief respite of clear bright days was overtaken by stormy weather, thrashing rain, and it was on such an inclement day that Radcliffe returned home to find Mrs Lachlan clattering the kitchen pots more animatedly than usual as she dried and hung them in their places.
‘This house has an air of impending doom that no sane person should ignore, Mr Radcliffe.
There were two women in the room. One, the more matronly, had given up her fireside chair when Radcliffe entered. She had whispered a brief greeting, and retired to the other side of the room to afford Radcliffe privacy. The woman who sat in front of the fire was in her mid-forties, simply but elegantly dressed, her raven hair pulled back and gathered in a tidy bun held by a tortoiseshell hair comb. She lowered the book she was reading on to her lap as Radcliffe sat down in the vacated chair.
There was a sculptured beauty to the woman’s face that Radcliffe had always loved.
‘I’m going away. I won’t be able to see you for a while,’ he said gently, gazing into her eyes.
The woman smiled. ‘That’s all right. It has been very kind of you to visit me. Very thoughtful. Thank you,’ she said, the soft lilt of her voice as delicate as it always had been.
Radcliffe slowly reached out his hand, pausing before he reached hers. For a moment she looked at the open palm and the half-curled fingers waiting to embrace her own, then she reached out and laid her fingers into his hand, and looked at him expectantly.
‘Eileen... I’m going to find our son,’ he said.
A brief shadow of uncertainty crossed her face.
Radcliffe laid his other hand across hers, reassuringly. ‘Edward. I’m going to bring Edward home... and then I’ll tell him about you and hope he will forgive me.’
Uncertainty crossed her face again, and she turned her gaze to the flames, her hand slipping from his and returning to her lap, fingers twisting her wedding band. Radcliffe stood and was about to lean forward to kiss her forehead when he sensed her stiffen. He looked at his wife’s companion. The woman’s kindly face creased with a smile of pity as she shook her head.
The room’s double doors closed behind him; the woman locked them.
‘As you heard I’m going away,’ said Radcliffe. ‘I have made full provision for her ongoing care. Has anything changed?’ he added hopefully, but knowing it was a question that would never have a satisfactory answer.
‘She still does not know anything, she knows no one. She sits, she reads and she gazes out of the window at the gardens. She remembers nothing. Nothing. Grief destroyed her mind.’
Much of what Radcliffe earned came each month to this private wing in the place of sanctuary. He thanked the woman and made his way to the coachman who had brought him from the city. As they drove through the gates he turned and looked back, hoping his wife might have gone to the window to watch her visitor leave. There was no one there. Arching across the gates’ pillars the sign – Richmond District Lunatic Asylum – seemed even starker than usual.
*
Over the next days a new impetus seized Radcliffe. There was much to do in a short time if he were to arrange the shipment of Kingsley’s horse and catch the next steamer to Cape Town. Pierce made all the arrangements while Radcliffe briefed other lawyers to take his upcoming cases.
Their brief respite of clear bright days was overtaken by stormy weather, thrashing rain, and it was on such an inclement day that Radcliffe returned home to find Mrs Lachlan clattering the kitchen pots more animatedly than usual as she dried and hung them in their places.
‘This house has an air of impending doom that no sane person should ignore, Mr Radcliffe.
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