Breeding

by Adele Evershed

Image by Nathan Wright

She dreamt of stillness for her soul. Each night, when she eventually succumbed to exhaustion, she was sitting in a snug kitchen with the lopsided glow of a candle, shadows dancing on the wall, and the fuzzy heat of a turf fire. When she woke she had no idea where she was, no idea of her name, and no idea if the room in her dream was one she knew or merely conjured up. What she did know was that she was never on her own here, there was always someone clamoring at her like a peal of bells. Even at night, she could hear rumblings and squeaks as she limped back and forth keeping guard against the night terror creeping around the place.

When she first spoke of this monster, spoke of his breath like the harsh sighing of a body as it was sluiced in the bath and the eyes that shone yellowish-red in the pitch, the woman who called herself 'Matron' told her it was all in her mind. Matron insisted it was merely a symptom of hysteria and there was no such thing as monsters. Sometimes, He caught her so she could show them the fresh marks on her belly or the puncture wound on her thigh. They insisted it was all her own doing and started to strap her down each night, "See," Matron said, "No more injuries. I dinna believe in monsters but I do think the devil might be residing in yar heart."

What they didn't know was by strapping her down she was now completely at his mercy, and as she knew, he had none. So, He could eat her private parts, sticking his ragged tongue deep in to scratch her over and over. In the morning when she made water it felt like passing needles and her urine was bloody in the pot. Eventually, the pain moved to her back leaving her folded in half like an old rag, so Dr. Stevens was called. Dr. Stevens said she must drink a cup of water every hour and gently questioned her about what had happened. But she couldn’t tell him. The night before He had thrust tallowed fingers down her throat and stopped her voice.

He was becoming bolder, slithering from under her bed or through the keyhole as soon as the candle was snuffed out. Sometimes He would shape-shift to confuse her, his hand, as smooth as a cow’s udder, lifting her nightgown to suck on her teat as if he was a babe. Then his eyes were pink and guileful as they looked up at her. At these times, she almost felt an echo of affection and a tug on her memory but then he would force himself between her legs and her world went black. One morning as she was hurriedly rubbing the washcloth between her legs, she heard her Ma say clear as day, "You are a dirty girl, sure enough, wash clean and never let me hear you say that about your Da again." The voice was so real she expected to be swiped around the head by her Ma's red hand so she ducked instinctively. But when she looked up it was only the guard, Joseph, watching her, pulling on his white eyebrows as if he was plucking a hen, his skin pale and unnatural, a ghost made solid.

The next day Matron and Joseph came into her cell and locked the door. "Now, pet, nothing to worry about, it's just you haven't had your courses for a while and I just want to take a wee look to make sure you're all ship-shape and Bristol fashion". Joseph lunged for her and threw her on her bed, pinning her down by her arms while the Matron pulled up her gown. Over her head, Joseph flicked a look that caught her like a whip, so she thrashed her head from side to side sending spittle flying like hot lard off a bakestone. "Now, pet, calm down. I'm not going to hurt ye and ye don't want to be taken to the bath, do ye now? Joe is going to let ye go and I want ye to stay on the bed, there's a good girl now, or do I have to take the strap to ye?"

That night he was almost gentle as he covered her mouth and nose. Then he spoke, she had never heard his voice before, it vibrated with an uneven quality and she had an unbidden vision of Thomas singing tenor in the church choir before he was swept away by the Lord. "There, there, soonest over and then I'll have me some fun." The hand over her face muffled her breath and she felt herself falling as if she had been pushed off the stoop by her Da, her legs flailing and her arm trying to cup her stomach to protect the growing life within. Her memories came flooding back. She knew her name, Rosemary, and she knew that baby would not have been blighted like the ones before and thus might live beyond its first month. And then the piercing pain of knowing that this baby, Thomas's baby, did not draw a first breath. It was expelled from her body ‒ a bloody clotted mass after her fall. Her mind had followed this babe into the shallow grave. The third her Da had dug in the bottom field, no crosses to mark those almost lives. She felt herself slipping from this world and almost welcomed it, but then a fluttering in her stomach brought her soul back with a rush. Her body convulsed and her mouth freed so she could bite her attacker. Then she screamed like the banshee she was accused of being.

"You fecking whore. Nobody is coming." But he was wrong. The door opened and Dr. Stevens, aslant in the lamplight, stood flanked by other figures; their shadows looming like angels in the dirty light.

Looking at the monster she saw it was Joseph, snarling and thrashing as the guards dragged him away down the hall. He was wild, shouting enough to wake the dead, "She's the Devil's mistress I tell you. I was going to save us all. That abomination in her belly is the anti-Christ you need to rip it out now."

Dr. Stevens made her drink a bitter-tasting liquid saying, "There now, this will help calm thee and sleep is as great a cure as most prescriptions." When Matron appeared, spectral in her bleached nightgown, Dr. Stevens told her, "Now she is pregnant the hysteria will be cured completely. That is why she has got her voice back, her womb had wandered into her throat, but now it will be sated by this pregnancy. Still, restrain her this night for the safety of the unborn child."

Several years later, Dr. Stevens was giving a talk to the 'Royal College of Surgeons' in London. His paper concerned the success he had achieved in curing hysteria in female patients. He had spent many years perfecting his treatment methods on the inmates of Guy's Hospital. He claimed to have cured over thirty-two women patients who had presented with a variety of symptoms from fainting, irritability, and overexcitement, to more extreme cases where the patient lost her voice or exhibited sexually forward behavior. He now plied his trade in the upper echelons of society among ladies of good breeding. The door opened and two people entered the hall. The first, a woman with thick red hair coiled on top of her head and clouded grey eyes. The second was an older man, expensively dressed and his features looked as if they had been molded from wax. The doctor looked up into the auditorium sighing at the interruption and continued to expound the crux of his thesis, “Yes, gentlemen and, um, lady, I can say with absolute certainty the cause of hysteria can be attributed to a womb that wanders around the female body. If a female is pregnant this, in effect, positions the womb in its rightful place and the hysteria abates. So keeping a wife with child will cure the malady. I first observed this phenomenon in a patient, who I will refer to as ‘Patient R.’ She presented at the hospital in such a state that she was unable to utter her own name. R had become violent towards her parents and when she threw herself from the stoop of their cottage to cause herself harm, they brought her to my hospital. When she was first admitted, R would injure herself, biting or stabbing herself with any item to hand. On examining the patient, I discovered she was in the early stages of pregnancy. As gestation progressed, I was amazed to see her symptoms lessen until she regained her voice."

He continued, "I am sure most of you recall the case of Mary Toft. It has been well documented and sad to say Patient R suffered the same fate as that poor unfortunate. ‘R was delivered of a creature resembling a rabbit that died being brought into the world. Patient R passed away a week later from puerperal infection, a common enough occurrence after childbirth in women of her station. Now, from observing this patient I was able—." But, before he could continue further, the woman with the red hair interrupted him, "Dr. Stevens before you continue, I would ask but one question. Why do you suppose “Patient R” gave birth to a rabbit? Was it part of her malady or something more sinister? I was under the notion that Mary Toft's case was proven a hoax and so am interested in your theory as regards your patient."

Dr. Stevens cleared his throat; he was unaccustomed to being interrupted and felt the stirrings of irritation that momentarily made him loose focus. "I beg your pardon," Dr. Stevens uttered, "I am happy to address any questions after my presentation. Now where was I? Ah yes, um… the case of Patient R. She was the catalyst for what has become my life's work. I'm sure we can all agree that there are numerous impracticalities of keeping large numbers of the female sex pregnant, so it became incumbent upon me to find another cure. With my observations about the cause of hysteria being located in the womb, I started to experiment with manual manipulations of the female genitalia to affect the womb. This yielded great results. But, the subsequent practicalities of a single doctor attending a large number of female patients can exhaust hands and wrists. So I have invented this."

With a small flourish, Dr. Stevens revealed a most peculiar-looking machine that had stood draped under a curtain during his presentation. It resembled a most scary creature with several cogs and treadles. It also had a tongue-shaped like a smooth obelisk that the doctor proceeded to slick with oil. He went on to demonstrate how it was operated utilizing steam power. The machine hissed and squeaked as Dr. Stevens pushed it forward on shaky wooden wheels; the hot coals glowing like orange eyes. Dr. Stevens continued, "So by pushing this lever and rotating the handle, it will move in shuddering strokes to induce paroxysms in your patient just as when you massage them manually. I have been working on the design of this machine for many years. I had limited success with a more primitive version, but unfortunately, the screws became hot as they were abutting the fire, and the patient's thighs became scorched or in some cases, the nails worked loose due to the repeated motion and caused puncture wounds. Also, the phallus of this machine is now sculpted from marble; the prototype I used in the hospital on the lunatics was fashioned from slate, much cheaper but prone to splintering whilst engaged. I forwent the necessity of lubricating it, oil being expensive."

Once he had finished talking, there was a generous smattering of applause and his fellow doctors flew down from their high perches to examine the apparatus. One robust gentleman, who went by the name of Mr. Sinclair, asked, "Doctor, does your remarkable contraption have a name?" Before Dr. Stevens could answer, the late arrival said, "I hear in the hospital they just called it He, isn't that right, Doctor?"

"Well yes, I christened it 'Hysteria Eliminator' but it has come to be abbreviated to H.E. Madame, you seem to be very well informed. May I enquire as to your name and your purpose here?"

The woman gave a shallow bow, "Certainly. I am Lady Isabelle Jones and I was acquainted with one of the patients committed to your asylum." Dr. Stevens took a deep breath and rocked forward on his toes so his nose inched closer to the newcomer's chin, "I prefer hospital rather than asylum. And who might I ask were you acquainted with?"

"Her name was Rosemary White. She was sent to your um hospital", this last word was drawn out like a tight wire, "when she was fourteen years and she died in childbirth. I believe you refer to her as Patient R. She was my childhood friend."

"Good God Madame you don't mean you knew Patient R," huffed Mr. Sinclair. "How extraordinary that a lady of your obvious standing was friendly with, by all accounts, a woman of such low breeding."

"Not extraordinary at all," said Isabelle, "I am the daughter of a tenant farmer and it was only the generosity of our landlord, the courageous Lord Bevan, that stopped me from entering the poor house after the death of my father. He adopted me and ensured I had a good education and other opportunities that poor Rosemary could never have dreamed of." At this, she gestured to her companion, "He raised me up to be the lady you see before you today." Dr. Stevens had started to back away but Bevan caught him by the elbow, "Now Doctor your account of the rabbits. I have heard it said only women of the lower classes could birth rabbits as it’s well know only such women breed like rabbits. Is that your view?" Isabelle was tapping her foot impatiently as she asked the question, "So would someone like myself, born into the working class but raised into the aristocracy, be able to give birth to rabbits?”

“No of course not, Madame, but there is a certain truth in the assertion that …."

Again, he was interrupted, but any irritation he might have felt was banished by what he recognized as a growing dread in his gut. "I must stop you I am afraid. I am sure you could not know, but we have tracked down the woman who was known as Matron. She has come on hard times and so was easily persuaded by the promise of a measure of gin to tell us all she knew." At this, Dr. Stevens deflated as if all his bones had turned to jelly and could no longer support the weight of his flesh. He put his hand out toward his machine as if he would claim it, but it was just beyond his fingertips. Isabelle continued in a voice that was slightly raised, so that the other attendees stopped admiring the contraption and turned to hear her say, "Yes, it would seem the good doctor here turned a blind eye to guards engaging in the rape and molestation of the patients in his care. The Matron was given to an understanding such practice was in the pursuit of science and his hypothesis that pregnancy could cure hysteria. But, once the poor victims were with child, they were kept heavily sedated. You could not have possibly drawn any conclusions from this shameful practice."

"This cannot be true. Speak up, Stevens, this woman is destroying your good name," said Sinclair. But Dr. Stevens just shook his head. "And what happened to any babies that might have survived? I am sure you are all wondering. Would you like to tell them? No? Well, the doctor sold the boys to wealthy families that needed heirs. As for the girls, those poor souls were buried in shallow graves in the hospital grounds without so much as a blessing." At this, the audience moved as one away from Dr. Stevens. Mr. Sinclair was the first to recover his senses, "Is this true, man? Speak up. What, nothing to say? For pity's sake, Stevens, what sort of a man are you?"

"He's the Devil in a white coat," said Isabelle.

"No, I'm no devil, I was just trying to save these people. The patients in my charge, um…they didn't need any more children to feed and to clothe. The pregnancies did prove a cure for hysteria and what was one more birth to these women in the interests of a great scientific breakthrough? They couldn't provide for the children they already h…. I was doing them a kindness… it's not as if those offspring would have amounted to…."

The sound of his nose breaking echoed around the chamber. Blood flowed down, staining Dr. Stevens' waistcoat. Lord Bevan was advancing to land another blow when he was taken by the arm by Isabelle, "Away now, there is no more to be done here. Let the authorities deal with him. Come now." And with that, she led the older man away.

***

Isabelle dreamt of stillness for Rebecca's soul. Of a candle casting shadows so that rabbits could jump and cavort on the whitewashed walls of the kitchen for her son to laugh at. The heavy air warmed by the turf keeping them all safe from the world outside. Waking from her doze, Isabelle struggled to her feet, balancing her bulk, she reached for her husband's hand, "Oh Stephen the babe is kicking. Maybe with God's good grace we will have a daughter" she said as she cupped her stomach.

Adele Evershed is originally from Wales, she has lived in Hong Kong and Singapore before settling in Connecticut with her family. She writes poetry and prose mainly centered on women and their experiences both from a historical and personal perspectives. Some of the places where you can find her work include, Every Day Fiction, Ab Terra Flash Fiction Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Free Flash Fiction.