Victorian Gothic

London, 1855

A stunned crowd gathered outside the courthouse. It was the biggest news, the greatest scandal that had ever struck London town, perhaps ever. Inside the imposing edifice, which nearly resembled a red-brick jail, a woman was standing trial for having murdered her husband in order to live with her lover, another woman, who had just become a widow. Both women attempted to flee the country after the murder but they were discovered by the police. One of the women, the one who was a widow, had escaped somehow, mysteriously and a search was under way to find her. Anger, horror and hatred for these ungodly women, who had given into lust and carnal abandon with one another, ran high and filled the blood of men. Decent Christian women were visibly appalled and the smallest of children had no idea what was making everyone so angry. The whole of London was enthralled with the horror story.

It was no horror story of course, for Rose Belvedere-Ashton assured the court that it was a love story. She showed no sign of fear and proudly, defiantly and without shame stood before judges and jury. She wore black, for it was the fashion of the time, a long gown with a buttoned-up collar but one that was tight-fitting and revealed her most beautiful physique; strong and voluptuous. Her eyes were green and sharp, her face round and she had a high forehead and very stern looking Anglo face. Her hair was long, Indian-like and dark. Her breasts were heaving with passion and her voice was already exhausted from the exertion of having to speak at the top of her lungs.

"My sin is love," she said, " and love is not contained. It is free. I loved a woman far better than my husband and if he were alive to hear me, he would know the reason. He knew how cruelly he treated me, how he took pleasure in brutalizing me and insulting me. He considered all women to be weak, insignificant creatures no better than cockroaches. He was going to kill me at any rate, tired as he was of my liberal spirit, tired as he was of hearing me speak my mind. He would not suffer to see me with a lover and it made no difference whether it be male or female. When he discovered I was in love with a woman, he could not withhold his rage."

The people at the trial were speechless but attentive. To Rose, they were all ignorant provincials, despite the fact they were London dwellers, though she knew many of them to be born from the country and elsewhere outside of London. She continued her story:

"I will not go into detail about how I disposed of him. That is to say, not now. In order for you to understand what drove me to such violence, you must first learn of my past and of my relationship with my husband and my lover. I am here to confess and to tell all. Please, before you judge me and sentence me to death, before Queen Victoria herself is involved in the sordid affair, I plead with you to do the Christian thing and hear my tale."

Rose had tears in her eyes and she paused a moment, looking back, traveling to the past through her mind and the emotions were heavy.

"I am a little girl again," she said, "it is 1837. My father is brutally attacking my mother. Oh, it must have been for some silly, stupid reason marking him only as stupid. She probably offended him in some small way but not having done something right. My mother worked hard all her life to care for me, a single child and to maintain a good household. She might have angered him and hurt his ego. Perhaps she was drawing attention from other men and despite her faithfulness, he imagined she was laying with a lover. Whatever the reason was he was beating her to a bloody pulp. He is nearly killing her but he leaves her a shaken and tired thing on the floor of the parlor. He then looks at me, with the same intensity. It is more ungodly, good sirs, that this man beat my mother half to death and then me, for no reason other than to be cruel, than what I did to my husband in order to save myself and be free of him. I do not recall how I escaped from him. I ran away from home at an early age, perhaps seven. I went to a Church and told the minister everything. He acted quickly and wisely, though he did not tell the authorities of my father's evil doings. I was given over to the care of one Abbott family from Southampton. A poor family to be sure. They lived in a small home by the seaport and my foster father and mother were good to me. I went to school. But tragedy struck again. My foster mother died in childbirth and my foster father fell into a depressive state. He quit his occupation as fisherman and butcher and took me to London where he studied medicine, something which he had secretly been doing. I was now in my teens and assisting him. He quickly grew popular and visited homes where families had sick ones in need of healing and medication. I would follow him along these trips, though he objected."

She paused. The memories were flooding over her like a giant wave. She was as if in a trance. She could see the wharf, the small canneries, the houses, the beds, the ill, the medical instruments, the vials, the needles, the doctor's bag, her foster father. He had been a tall, lanky man with a dour face and yet he was a good and loving man. She recalled how she had always admired him and wanted to be a lot like him. She went on:

"It was not suitable for a woman to be a doctor. It was unheard of. I wanted to be a doctor, and saw no reason why I could not perform the same tasks having acquired knowledge and experience from observation and from helping him in his trips. But my father would not accept me as a fellow doctor. He then took me to a most dull and lackluster finishing school. The ladies there were generous and good, but shallow and materialistic. My peers, all females, were equally as superficial and lovers of wealth and status. The purpose of finishing school is to develop charms and social graces so as to catch a husband, like a fisherman with a net. I caught a husband, most reluctantly, for he pursued me. He was an amorous suitor and truth be told, I succumbed to the new feelings of passion. Furthermore, he promised me a life of stability and adventure. He made a fortune in trading with America and he lived in a fine mansion in London. He romanced me as well as all the princes in fairy stories. I consented to be his bride after a ball in which we danced the provocative waltz. The man was a prince but inside he was a beast. His name was Lionel Ashton. This is when my true story begins. I will speak now of my first years of marriage."