In August she gave birth to a daughter, Elizabeth Mary Frances Bishop, a nod to our mother, Fanny, and me. The birth had been hard, but what followed was worse. Eliza, it seemed, had fallen into a melancholia that erupted into fits of frenzy. Bishop, at his wit’s end, begged me come nurse my sister back to health, her right mind. What I found when I arrived shocked me. My sister seemed to be wasting away, never dressing for the day, not washing without help, rarely sleeping, never settling, sometimes waking with a scream. She spoke what can only be described as gibberish. Her eyes were vacant; she didn’t see the world quite right, or look anyone in the eye, except her little babe, Bess, whom she clutched to her breast like a doll.

I knew that women sometimes lost their senses after lying-in, but usually recovered with time. I thought Eliza just needed rest and relief. I held her in my arms, rocked her like a child. I washed and dressed her, took her for a drive in a coach. Sent the baby across the river to Everina, with instructions to send Bess home before dark, when Eliza would panic, going room to room if she couldn’t find her. The ravings seemed to lessen, but in their place was a wandering mind with disjointed ideas, like strange dreams in another language.

Bishop paced in front of me, out of her earshot, asking what happened to his wife, where did his Eliza go, how could this happen?

“A little patience,” I said, “is required of us all.”

“But it’s as if her madness moves about, with no discernible pattern, and certainly no improvement. I cannot continue to live this way.”

“We must think of Eliza—”

“We must commit her, Mary.”

“No!” I stood abruptly, a book falling in a thud from my lap. “You must believe in her.”

“Do you believe in her?” he asked me.

I felt sorry for him, I did. He seemed sincere in his concern, grieving the loss of the wife he knew, unsure if she’d ever return, and if not, what would his life be then?

“Please,” I said. “We must give her more time.”

I had saved Henry from the asylums in Hoxton. I didn’t know whether I could save Eliza. I couldn’t leave her alone, except at night when Bishop took her to bed. I was glad for the respite, but alone in my own room, felt her madness creeping into me.

Then one day, when I was drying her after a bath, she grabbed her breasts and squeezed them hard in her fists, grimacing. “This-this-this,” she repeated.

“Stop, Eliza.” I reached my hands for hers, but she took my wrist like a vise, pulled me close to her face, and looked at me, lucid.