When she describes the landscape of its waterways and gardens, Braddon deploys vivid visual imagery to introduce her reader to the beautiful but perturbing surroundings of Audley Court:
The broad outer moat was dry and grass-grown, and the laden trees of the orchard hung over it with gnarled, straggling branches that drew fantastical shadows upon the green slope.
The description initially paints an image of this grand old house in the readers' minds as rich and pastoral. The "broad outer moat" that's "dry and grass-grown" gives the place an ancient, timeless quality. In a way, the author is aligning it with well-known tropes of the English countryside in this passage. The "laden trees of the orchard" with their "gnarled, straggling branches" contribute to this aura of green plenty and enchantment. It’s almost as if Audley Court exists in a realm slightly removed from reality.
However, the "fantastical shadows" that the tree branches “draw” on the slopes of the moat hint at something beyond this. They suggest the supernatural imagery of a sinister fairy-tale, in which shadows coexist with brightness. This passage reinforces the idea that Audley Court isn’t just a house, but is a place that exceeds the limits of the everyday world of 19th-century England. This visual imagery not only sets the tone for the narrative but also indicates that beneath all the beauty and calm there might be some complex machinations going on.
Toward the end of the third chapter of Lady Audley's Secret, the author employs visual imagery and foreshadowing to tint a scene of late summer beauty with a sense of unease:
The same August sun which had gone down behind the waste of waters glimmered redly upon the broad face of the old clock over that ivy-covered archway which leads into the gardens of Audley Court. A fierce and crimson sunset. The mullioned windows and twinkling lattices are all ablaze with the red glory; [...] even into those dim recesses of brier and brushwood, amidst which the old well is hidden, the crimson brightness penetrates in fitful flashes till the dank weeds and the rusty iron wheel and broken woodwork seem as if they were flecked with blood.
The colorful, uniformly red visual imagery that Braddon uses here bathes Audley Court in scarlet. This at first seems pleasant but quickly begins to feel macabre. The passage starts by describing the beauty of the "August sun" and its "glimmering" light on the house. Like many of the descriptions of the mansion in the novel’s early chapters, the tone shifts gradually from describing lush, rich beauty to suggesting that something uncanny is also present. The sensory language transitions from depicting a peaceful sunset to introducing a more menacing atmosphere. The narrator almost seems to change their mind about the scene midway through the passage, as they abruptly interject that it was, in fact, “A fierce and crimson sunset.” This gradual descent into creepiness continues, as the reader learns that everything at Audley Court is so reddened by the light on it that it seems "flecked with blood."
The use of "blood" here directly foreshadows the underlying dangers and secret crimes that are soon to be discovered. The passage begins to describe hidden spaces and "dim recesses" where it might seem unlikely that any light would penetrate. At Audley Court, though, even these are pierced with “fearful flashes” of sunlight. The choice to associate these hidden spaces full of “dank weeds” and “broken woodwork” with this sensory language of redness, violence, and revelation hints at the importance of the novel’s hidden places. The well, after all, is later discovered to be the site of more than one vital “secret.” Through this imagery, the narrative foreshadows the darker events that will gradually unfold.
Just before the reader is introduced to Phoebe Marks and her hapless cousin Luke, the narrator uses auditory imagery to accentuate the eerie silence that envelops Audley Court in the early twilight:
The lowing of a cow in the quiet meadows, the splash of a trout in the fish-pond, the last notes of a tired bird, the creaking of wagon-wheels upon the distant road, every now and then breaking the evening silence, only made the stillness of the place seem more intense. It was almost oppressive, this twilight stillness.
The auditory elements that are highlighted here play an unusual role. Although they are sounds, their purpose is actually to highlight the silence of the scene around them. Because it is so quiet around Audley Court, it’s possible for the reader to “hear” lots of natural sounds that might otherwise be drowned out. While perhaps the "lowing of a cow" isn’t usually a quiet noise, the "splash of a trout" and the "creaking of wagon-wheels upon the distant road" give a sense of how intense the hush around Audley Court really is. Rather than making the house seem surrounded by busy country life, the fact that these small sounds would be audible actually deepens the sense of “twilight stillness.” By choosing to focus on sounds that are few and far between, the auditory imagery underscores the “oppressive” sense of anticipation that hangs over the scene.
There's a real absence of human activity in this quotation, which is only accentuated by the sparse sounds of nature and distant life. The suggestion that this stillness is "almost oppressive" gives weight to the idea that the scene isn’t exactly a peaceful one. It’s eerie, as if the narrator were holding their breath or waiting for something to happen.
When George and Robert go to Ventnor to investigate the mystery of George's wife, the narrator employs the sensory languages of smell and sight and appeals to the reader’s sense of pathos. This brings the scene of Captain Maldon's impoverished cabin to life for Braddon's audience and gives them some context about the circumstances from which Lucy came:
George mechanically followed his friend into the little front parlor—dusty, shabbily furnished, and disorderly, with a child's broken toys scattered on the floor, and the scent of stale tobacco hanging about the muslin window-curtains.
The visual imagery of the room being "dusty," "shabbily furnished," and "disorderly," combined with the detail of "a child's broken toys scattered on the floor," evokes a clear, moving picture of neglect. These elements hint at the hardships faced by Lucy's father and son, who are living in the cabin. The “broken” toys strewn everywhere suggest the boy lives a life of deprivation. Through this, Braddon also implies that Maldon’s daughter might have experienced similar treatment when under his care.
The cabin doesn’t only look badly taken care of. The scent imagery of "stale tobacco" reinforces the sense of neglect and dinginess the passage contains. The lingering and persistent odor of Maldon’s tobacco-smoke in the raggedy curtains suggests an environment that has not been well-maintained.
The scene immediately appeals to the reader’s sense of pathos, as the pitiful images of Georgey suffering under a lack of care are deeply troubling. And later in the novel, the stark contrast between Lucy’s past life (presumably in similar conditions) and her present elevated status ultimately evokes sympathy for her from the reader—sympathy that might be otherwise hard to obtain. It offers context to her later actions, providing a backdrop against which her ambitions, crimes, and perceived selfishness can be understood.
In a description of Lady Audley's mannerisms and showy taste in clothes, Braddon uses a simile and some auditory and tactile imagery:
Her fragile figure, which she loved to dress in heavy velvets, and stiff, rustling silks, till she looked like a child tricked out for a masquerade, was as girlish as if she had just left the nursery. [...]
Lucy’s appearance is brought to life with the appealing and luscious auditory imagery of her "stiff, rustling silks." The sound of her movement in these expensive fabrics paints a picture of opulence and indulgence. She’s so draped in finery that the soft “heavy” fabrics all rub against each other. The sensory languages of touch and hearing are combined here so that the reader can almost feel the thickness and luxuriousness of her “stiff” dress.
The simile that compares Lucy to "a child tricked out for masquerade" further highlights an important aspect of her character. Lucy chooses clothes the way a child might dress a doll up to play the part of a lady. She does this because that is what she’s doing: she is pretending to be something she is not. The simile suggests that there's an element of self-awareness and artificiality to her "frail" appearance. The narrator implies that Lucy's transformation into Lady Audley is a performance—a show she puts on for those around her—rather than an authentic expression of her true self. The word "masquerade" further underscores the element of disguise in her dress. By hiding her “frail figure” in these heavy fabrics, she’s actually making it seem even frailer and more “childish” than it might otherwise, “as if she had just left the nursery.”
In this passage, the narrator uses visual imagery and a simile referring to a signal light to describe Alicia Audley’s features and their contrast with Lucy’s. Even though Alicia is undeniably beautiful, it does her no good when Lucy’s next to her. Writing as if they are directly warning Alicia about this misfortune, the narrator notes:
So it was not in the least use, my poor Alicia [...]The black curls (nothing like Lady Audley's feathery ringlets, but heavy clustering locks, that clung about your slender brown throat), the red and pouting lips, the nose inclined to be retrousse, the dark complexion, with its bright crimson flush, always ready to glance up like a signal light in a dusky sky [...]
The visual imagery of "black curls," "pouting lips," and "dark complexion" as they’re described here paint a sharp picture of Alicia's intense, contrasting features. The reader is supposed to understand Alicia to be an attractive person. This isn’t subtle, as the imagery of the "heavy clustering locks" around the “slender throat” is suggestive and almost erotic. Alicia’s "red and pouting lips" and "nose inclined to be retroussé" (tilted upward) are also very much in line with the beauty standards of the Victorian period. However, the qualifier that her curls are "nothing like Lady Audley's feathery ringlets" underscores the insurmountable difference between the two women being described. Alicia is in love with Robert Audley, but he’s in love with Lucy. It doesn’t matter how attractive Alicia’s hair and eyes are: Robert Audley's clear preference is for Lucy’s “feathery ringlets.”
The simile at the end of the passage likens Alicia’s bright complexion to "a signal light in a dusky sky." This reference to her “crimson” cheeks and dark hair also suggests that Alicia’s face “signals” her feelings easily. However, Robert is completely oblivious to her “signals,” no matter how she tries to attract him. The rueful tone the narrator takes in this quotation underlines the reality that, despite her appearance, Alicia goes unnoticed because Lucy overshadows her.
In this section of Lady Audley's Secret, the narrator describes a portrait of Lady Audley when Alicia, Robert, and George sneak into her private rooms. Braddon uses visual imagery and a simile comparing Lucy to a demon to suggest the underlying, unpleasant facets of her character:
[Lucy] had something of the aspect of a beautiful fiend. Her crimson dress, exaggerated like all the rest in this strange picture, hung about her in folds that looked like flames, her fair head peeping out of the lurid mass of color as if out of a raging furnace. Indeed the crimson dress, the sunshine on the face, the red gold gleaming in the yellow hair, the ripe scarlet of the pouting lips, the glowing colors of each accessory of the minutely painted background [...]
The visual language of this passage clearly points to aspects of Lucy’s character that her physical appearance might usually mask. With this in mind, it's interesting to consider that the portrait is hung in her own (usually locked) private rooms. While she looks deceptively innocent in person, in this painting the artist has captured some of her malevolence. She still looks beautiful, but the mask she usually wears has slipped a little. It’s not obvious at first glance, but it’s subtly there. While the word "fiend" would usually refer to demons or other evil beings, its pairing with "beautiful" captures Lucy’s duality. On one hand, she is charming and attractive, while on the other, there is something sinister in her.
It's important to remember that she hasn’t been literally painted as a devil in this portrait. Rather, she has “some aspect” of one. The simile "as if out of a raging furnace" furthers this association with the demonic, connecting Lucy to motifs of hell and heat. The "crimson dress" and "yellow hair" of the painting point to her vibrancy and intensity, traits that would have been considered unfeminine in the Victorian period. Adding to this, the description of her dress as appearing like "flames" and the overall scene of the picture as reminiscent of a "raging furnace" implies that Lucy has something burning below her surface. This portrayal sharply contrasts with earlier characterizations of her, suggesting that it is possible for other characters—like this artist—to see that she’s not totally angelic.
Lucy is vividly described using the sensory language of sight, as she sits like a glowing golden vision by the fireside during an evening at Audley Court:
Lady Audley sat in the glow of firelight and wax candles in the luxurious drawing-room; the amber damask cushions of the sofa contrasting with her dark violet velvet dress, and her rippling hair falling about her neck in a golden haze.
Here, the narrator employs intense, colorful visual imagery to provide a striking depiction of Lucy. This character is often described as being swathed in jewels and luxurious fabrics, as if she exists in a nest of opulence. This passage is no exception, as all of its tones of gold, violet, and amber are rich and regal. Its sensory details incorporate many classical indicators of wealth. Her dress isn’t just purple, it’s “dark violet velvet,” an expensive fabric in the 19th century. Her hair isn’t just wavy or curly, but “rippling” in a “golden haze” around her. These details do more than just reiterate Lucy’s extreme physical appeal, although her good looks are one of the novel’s most prominent motifs. The colors and textures of this scene explicitly align her beauty with wealth, providing a rationale for her social advancement. In particular, the recurring use of the color gold in describing Lucy's appearance carries both literal and metaphorical connotations. It suggests that her beauty is a currency, serving as her protection from the harsh world outside.
Lucy Audley’s power as the female head of a household is underlined with an allusion and some powerful scent imagery in this passage from Volume 2, Chapter 7:
Surely a pretty woman never looks prettier than when making tea [...] [it] imparts a magic harmony to her every movement, a witchery to her glance. The floating mists from the boiling liquid in which she infuses the soothing herbs; whose secrets are known to her alone, envelope her in a cloud of scented vapor, through which she seems a social fairy, weaving potent spells with Gunpowder and Bohea. At the tea-table she reigns omnipotent, unapproachable.
Social tea-drinking was a regular ritual in Victorian households in England, and the invitation to take tea with someone was also an invitation to share secrets and various intimacies. This passage emphasizes the preparation of tea and its association with social power, particularly for the person hosting the event. The author employs scent imagery to evoke a sense of mystery and allure surrounding the act of brewing tea. The steam and mist of the tea are described as "evocative and mysterious" and as having the power to "weave spells." The reader can almost smell and feel the heat and fragrance of the vapors rising from the steaming hot liquids. This imagery enhances the significance of tea preparation in the narrative. In Braddon's England, it is not just an empty social nicety, but a mystical ritual that women preside over. Like many things at Audley Court, it’s an everyday act that is tinged with the supernatural.
What's more, Braddon also makes an allusion to the mystical-sounding substances "Gunpowder" and "Bohea" in this segment. These sound mysterious and esoteric but are, in fact, just types of expensive imported tea. This allusion would be significant to cultured and wealthy readers, who would have understood the reference. People who didn’t consume this kind of product, however, might also usefully read Lucy’s potion-making with mysterious ingredients as a way to coax people into sharing secrets. The passage highlights the role of tea in the novel and Victorian culture as a symbol of social influence and control. This is especially so when it’s in the hands of Lucy, a “social fairy” who becomes “omnipotent” and “unapproachable” when she’s behind the tea-pot.
