Toward a Distant Shore: a Sapphic mini-story

“I am half sick of shadows,” said the Lady of Shalott. — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 'The Lady of Shalott' I. Lessons The library at Foxgrove House was the quietest room in the building. From its south-facing windows Agnes Drummond could see the garden where the lime trees grew, their yellow leaves moving softly in the autumn light. Among the leaded panes were a few small pieces of coloured glass that caught the morning sun and gleamed like jewels. A fire had been lit and crackled softly in the corner. Agnes’s governess, Miss Simmons, had crossed the room to place another small log on the embers. Agnes watched her stoop and stir the coals with the poker. Miss Simmons straightened, turned, and caught her watching. For a moment she simply looked back at her, then smiled. “Now,” she said as she returned to the table, “where were we?” Agnes lowered her eyes to the open French reader. “Le roi entre dans la salle—” “No, Agnes.” Miss Simmons repeated the word softly. “ Roi .” Agnes tried again, though the syllable faltered. She was aware of the proximity of Miss Simmons beside her and the rustle of her sleeve as she leaned over the page. Agnes lowered her eyes to the book and forced herself to read the line again, but the words seemed suddenly harder to follow. Miss Simmons leaned closer to see the page. Her hand came to rest lightly on Agnes’s shoulder, as it sometimes did when she leaned over the book. Yet today Agnes felt it even more keenly. The words on the page blurred. She turned her head. Miss Simmons’s hazel eyes met hers. For a moment neither of them spoke as the quiet between them deepened. Miss Simmons drew back slightly. “I think perhaps we have done enough learning for today.” Agnes closed the book. “No.” Miss Simmons looked at her. “I don’t want to stop,” Agnes said. Her voice had thickened, as though it belonged to someone else. “I can't keep pretending.” Miss Simmons hesitated. “We have to.” She drew a breath. “We can’t. Not here.” But she didn't step away. Agnes tugged gently at her sleeve, guiding her down to the chair beside her, close enough for their knees to touch. Miss Simmons’s composure faltered. “We mustn’t—” She whispered the words, releasing them with a sigh as she cupped Agnes's face in her hands. Agnes closed her eyes, feeling the soft pressure of Miss Simmon's mouth on hers; a kiss that lingered... “Agnes!” They sprang apart. Mrs Drummond stood in the doorway, one gloved hand clutching the frame. Her gaze moved from Agnes to Miss Simmons and back again. The colour had drained from her face. “You,” she said, pointing at Miss Simmons. “You will leave this house immediately!" There were tears in Miss Simmon's eyes, now spilling. “Madam—” “Do not address me.” Her voice, always so precise, was like a blade. Then her gaze swivelled back to Agnes. “As for you.... we will address this disgusting scene later.” Agnes, too, was sobbing as Miss Simmons hurried from the room, with Mrs Drummond close behind her. She could hear her mother say: 'Don't bother to pack your things. Just go". A pause, then the front door was slammed shut; an echoing sound that quickly turned into an awful silence. Agnes tried to stand but her legs buckled, while across the room what remained of the log settled into the pile of ashes, its embers barely alight. II. Confinement From the case notes of Dr Alexander Mayhew: October 3rd, 1877 Miss A., age eighteen, admitted to Larkhall Asylum, Lanarkshire, presenting symptoms of moral mania arising from an unnatural attachment to a female instructor. The asylum smelt faintly of carbolic and damp stone. "It's for your own good," her mother had said. "They will know how to cure you." Agnes’s room was small: a narrow iron bedstead, a washstand, a wooden chair, and a high barred window through which only a strip of sky could be seen. The walls were bare. When the door closed behind her that first evening, the key turned loudly in the lock. Her trunk was taken away soon afterwards. An attendant unpacked it under the matron’s watchful eye, removing her hairpins, ribbons, and the small silver chain she wore about her neck. “We shall keep these, until you leave,” the woman said. Her dresses were returned to her later, though the laces had been drawn from the bodices. The ward doors remained locked throughout the day. The attendants carried their keys at their waists, and Agnes soon learned to recognise the faint metallic clatter of them long before a door opened. Each morning the corridor smelled sharply of carbolic, the flagstones still wet from scrubbing. Even in the airing court — an enclosed yard of gravel and high brick walls — an attendant sat nearby with her sewing. Dr Mayhew spoke to her often. Always calmly. He asked whether Miss Simmons had encouraged familiarity. Whether Agnes had mistaken admiration for affection. He explained that such attachments between women were sometimes observed in cases of mania. Agnes listened. She answered politely. But she told him little. The weeks passed and winter came early that year. Frost formed delicate patterns on the window glass, and when Agnes pressed her fingers against it the cold stung her skin. The doctors believed quiet and time would restore her natural sentiments. Agnes said nothing. She did not attempt to explain the afternoon in the garden when Miss Simmons had bent beside her to read a passage from a book, and Agnes had felt, with sudden certainty, that the world had come into focus. Such things could not be described to men like Dr Mayhew. And so she held on to the memory: like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. III. Return June 21st, 1878 Patient discharged to family care. Condition much improved. What the doctors called cure was merely obedience. Agnes had learned to speak carefully, to lower her eyes, to smile when expected. Several weeks after her release she was sent to stay with an aunt who lived near the coast. The air there felt different. Sharp, salt-filled, alive with wind. Agnes spent long afternoons walking along the white cliffs above the water, watching the restless grey surface of the Channel. The world seemed vast again. One afternoon there came a knock at the door. Her aunt was out visiting neighbours, so Agnes answered it. And for a moment, she couldn't speak. Miss Simmons — or rather, Edith, her Edith — stood on the step, the wind lifting a strand of her hair as though she had stepped out of Agnes’s thoughts and into the world again. She smiled. “Hello, Agnes.” Agnes stepped forward and embraced her. The familiarity of it felt overwhelming. “You found me.” “It took some doing,” Edith said. "But where there's a will there's a way." “My aunt shall be home soon.” “I know.” Edith glanced toward the harbour road. “I've taken lodgings in town.” Agnes looked at her. “I can't believe you came back.” Miss Webb reached for her hands. “Ny darling, I never truly left." IV. Departure Extract from the journal of Agnes Drummond: April 2nd, 1879 The morning was bright and still. The cliffs shone white behind us, clear as paper against the sky. We stood together at the rail as the harbour slipped away. I felt then that the world had opened before us. A new life begins. The steamer’s horn sounded across the harbour. Passengers moved along the polished deck while smoke drifted above the funnel. Agnes stood at the rail. Beside her, Edith leaned lightly against her sleeve. “Are you frightened?” Edith asked. Agnes shook her head. “Only of turning back.” Edith smiled. “Then we won’t.” Slowly, irrevocably, the white cliffs grew smaller against the pale sky. Agnes slipped her hand into Edith’s. Edith held it fast. “Whatever lies ahead—” “—we’ll meet it together,” Edith finished. The ship turned toward open water. For a moment Agnes thought of the quiet library at.Foxgrove House — the tall windows, the smell of old books, the life she was choosing to leave behind. Edith squeezed her hand, and together they watched as the coastline faded and slipped away into the haze.