Wildthorn (12 page)

"Tom, I've tried to keep on with my studies, but it's been very difficult—"

His gaze spun back to me and he thumped his tumbler down, making me jump. "What
is
the point, Lou? If you're still harbouring that foolish idea about being a doctor, then you might as well forget it. I told you it was out of the question."

"But, Tom, it was Papa's wish—"

"Oh, you and Papa!"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

But I persisted. "No, tell me, Tom. What about me and Papa?"

"Well, didn't it ever occur to you that I might have liked to join in your cosy chats?"

I stared at him, open-mouthed. "But you were Papa's assistant for two years—you had lots of chances to talk to him."

"I'm talking about before that..." Putting his elbow on the table and shutting his eyes, he rested his head on his hand.

I was silenced. It had never occurred to me that Tom might be jealous of
me.
I'd thought the appeal to Papa's memory would move him, but I could see now that every time I mentioned Papa's name I was only making things worse.

He lifted his head. "Let me tell you something, Lou—all that learning—besides being a waste of time, it puts fellows off,
you know." He leant back in his chair. "I can see that things are difficult for you at the moment, but if you forget this nonsense and concentrate on getting yourself a husband—"

"Tom!"

He ignored my outburst. "That would be better for you, wouldn't it? Mistress of your own home and so forth..." For the first time, he smiled at me. He looked just like a kind uncle offering sweetmeats.

Whatever made me think he was anything like Papa? He would never understand. My quest was hopeless.

I sat back, defeated.

Another silence descended. Then Tom cleared his throat. "Have you heard from Aunt Phyllis lately?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She asked if we were all right. She wanted to come and see us. But Mamma has turned against her." My voice trembled. The thought that I might not see my aunt again was sad—but not to see Grace...

Tom looked disturbed at my words. "Do you know why?"

"She feels that Aunt Phyllis didn't do enough to help when Papa was ill. But that's unfair—I know Aunt wanted to come but Papa wouldn't hear of it."

"Like he wouldn't hear of my being sent for?" Tom's tone was bitter and I knew he still blamed me.

I quickly went on, "There's something else. Grace's wedding."

"Oh?"

"Yes, they've arranged it for next month now, which seems a reasonable length of time—you know, since Papa ... but Mamma thinks it's too soon." I paused. "Aunt Phyllis did invite
me to stay, but of course, Mamma said no." I toyed with the button on my glove. "It would be lovely to go." I spoke lightly as if it was scarcely important. Tom was staring across the room again and I wondered if he'd heard me. "Aunt Phyllis said William has returned from Europe. He'll be joining Uncle Bertram at the works soon."

"William?"

"Yes."

"That's it! You must go to Carr Head and you must set your cap at William."

I'd just taken another sip of lemonade and I almost spat it out."
William?
"

"Yes. Don't you see? If you were to marry William, you'd have a fine life, Lou."

I stared at my brother as if he was mad. "But that's ridiculous. I hardly know William." Being so much older than me and usually away when I visited Carr Head, my cousin was virtually a stranger to me. "Besides," I added, "He wouldn't look at
me.
"

Tom regarded me judiciously. "You're right. You'd have to smarten yourself up a bit." He stared at the hole in my glove. I put my hands under the table. "And make yourself agreeable. Don't keep going on about all that reading you do. But if you play your cards right—it would solve everything."

"Solve everything? What do you mean?"

"Oh, I mean, make things better for you. And—and heal the breach between Mother and Aunt Phyllis, of course."

He wasn't joking. He meant it. He was carrying on as if the whole thing were settled.

"I'll write to Mother and persuade her to let you go."

He
was
mad. But still—a visit to Carr Head. A chance to see Grace...

Concealing my glee, I said, "I wouldn't count on anything coming of it."

"You don't know till you try. But Lou, you'll have to stop moping about. Fellows like a girl who smiles. And can't you brighten your clothes up a bit now?"

I stared at him. "But, Tom, it's only been three months since Papa..." I couldn't believe it. And I was puzzled too at his inconsistency—he disapproved of my travelling without a chaperone, but he seemed to care nothing for observing the propriety of mourning. Mamma would be so shocked if I started to wear colours again.

Mamma.
Abruptly the delightful vision of Carr Head vanished. "Tom, I can't go away. I can't leave Mamma."

"You left her today."

I flushed. "Yes, but it's only for one day."

"Well, Mary must see to Mother while you're at Carr Head. She'll manage." He took out his watch. My heart contracted painfully.
Papa's watch.
"Sorry, Lou, I've got to go."

I blinked with surprise.

"Don't look like that. I can't help it. You know the way to the station? And you've got your ticket?

"Yes." I found it in my bag and showed him.

"Third class! What on earth were you thinking of!"

"I—I didn't have enough money for anything else."

"Oh, Lou. You're impossible." He stood up, feeling in his pocket. "I say, you haven't any change, have you?"

***

We were saying goodbye in the street when a young man came up to us.

"Cosgrove, you rascal! How's your head? Recovered, has it? I hadn't the heart to wake you—you were spark out on the sofa."

"Hello, Taylor," said Tom stiffly. "May I introduce my sister?"

Taylor tipped his hat to me. "I beg your pardon, Miss Cosgrove. I didn't see you there. Come down to see the sights?"

I didn't know what to say but luckily Taylor rattled on, "Your brother's a wag, isn't he? A regular scamp. But I'll give him this, he's a good sport. He doesn't give up, even when he's losing, does he?" He hit Tom on the shoulder. "Will we see you tonight, old chap?"

Tom's reply was chilly. "I don't think so. I have some reading to catch up on."

Taylor raised his eyebrows, but glancing from Tom to me he said, "Right. Some reading. Of course. Well, I'll say cheerio then. Miss Cosgrove." He tipped his hat again and disappeared into the crowd.

I looked at Tom and made to speak but he said hastily, "I've got to dash, Lou." He bent and brushed his face against mine in an awkward embrace. "You'll be all right, won't you? And I'll write to Mother about Carr Head. Goodbye." He walked swiftly away and soon disappeared in the crowds.

I headed for the station, lost in my thoughts. I had failed to persuade Tom to change his mind. Why had I given up so easily? But then Tom was so unyielding...

His worn face came back to me.
He's a good sport.
Taylor had said.
Even when he's losing
...

I stopped, nearly causing an elderly gentleman to fall over me. I apologised, distractedly.

I suddenly understood why my brother was short of money—
he'd been gambling.

A great tiredness came over me.

How could he? Wasting his time, throwing away an opportunity that I longed for ... I smiled bitterly. The London School of Medicine for Women was somewhere close by. Well, I could forget my hope of ever going there.

I set my face towards the station and trudged on.

Now all I had was Carr Head ... and Grace: a brief joy before her marriage took her away from me.

Drops of rain cling to the windowpane. They gather weight, shift, catch, then slide in a trail down the glass, like tears. I stare beyond the drops. Nothing moves in the desolate park.

Five days I've been here now—it seems like an eternity.

No summons from Mr. Sneed yet and no news of Mamma. But Eliza posted my letter yesterday, so one might come from Mamma today—or she could be on her way. At any moment, I might be sent for...

Someone giggles, an unexpected sound in this place. Sitting by the fire, their feet on the fender, Roberts and Eliza are gossiping.

Roberts, a short, red-faced attendant with a bulbous nose, appeared in the dormitory this morning and I wondered, with a surge of hope, if Weeks was ill. But it seems it's her day off. At least that's something to be thankful for—a day without her close scrutiny, her spiteful remarks.

The atmosphere's noticeably different. If Weeks were here, Eliza, cheerful as she usually is, would never sit in the carefree way she's doing now. Her collar's askew and her cap's pushed back, revealing hair the colour of ripe corn. For once we can please ourselves. Some patients are still doing fancy work or embroidery, but others are dozing. It could be a Sunday afternoon in any parlour.

Roberts glances round the room, checking the patients. Seeing me at the window, she shouts across, "Now then,
Miss What's-Your-Name? It's no good mopin' about. Why don't yer read a nice book?"

Already she's turned back to Eliza. She obviously doesn't know I'm banned from reading, or doesn't care.

Idly I wander over to the cabinet and run my hand along the row of shabby volumes. My old friend,
Pilgrim's Progress
... Not today, not the Giant Despair ... I let my hand drop.

The attendants are talking in an undertone now, their heads close together, but I distinctly hear Eliza say, "Miss Gorman." Taking a book at random, I drift to a chair near them and pretend to read.

Roberts is in full flow. By straining my ears I can just catch what she's saying.

"...nothin' the matter with Miss Gorman, sane as you and me, then. After her mother died, she dint have nowhere to go so she went 'n' lived with her married brother. But his wife didn't care to have her in the house. So she made her husband send her here. Fancy, his own sister."

"How do you know all this?" Eliza is sitting forward, interested.

"She told me—in the early days when she was all right. Course that's not what it says in her papers."

"You've seen them?"

"Me? No, bless you." Roberts laughs. "It wouldn't do me no good if I had seen 'em, fer I can't make out nuthin' that's wrote but me own name. No, it was Alice wot had a peek, when she was cleaning the office. She can read like anythin'."

The papers.
What do mine—or rather Lucy Childs's—say? There might be a clue, a name, an address...

Roberts pours a heap of coal on to the fire. Then, settling down again, she puts her head close to Eliza's and whispers. Whatever she's saying, Eliza is drinking it in.

Roberts's voice rises. "She was out of here and in the Fifth before she knew what'd hit 'er."

"The Fifth, eh?" Eliza whistles.

"Yeah. But Weeks won't let it trouble her conscience. Bitch." Roberts spits into the fire.

The hiss makes me shiver. What is "the Fifth?"

Eliza stands up. "Time to go for Miss Hill's tray."

"So it is. When you come back we'll 'ave a game of cards."

The room is very quiet after Eliza has gone and suddenly I can't bear to sit still. I ask Roberts, "May I walk in the hallway?"

Weeks doesn't allow this: she likes to keep us under her eye.

Roberts shrugs. "If yer like. But don't go gettin' up to any mischief."

***

I walk up and down the hallway, thinking about what I've just heard. Miss Gorman ... Weeks ... the Fifth ... What does it all mean? I don't know. But one thing is certain. I have to get out of here, before anything worse happens to me.

As I reach the main door, it opens, and Eliza comes in. Seeing me, she gives a friendly nod and indicates the tray she's carrying. "All right for some, isn't it, being waited on?"

At that moment, Roberts calls from the doorway, "Eliza, Mrs. Thorpe needs the closet."

"Right, I'll be with you in a minute."

"Shall I take the tray in for you?" The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about them. Ever since I saw Weeks attack her, I've been wondering about Miss Hill. I'd like to speak to her, but she never seems to leave her room.

Eliza smiles gratefully. "Oh, would you, Miss? That'd be ever so kind. It's the door behind you." She goes off down the gallery.

I listen at the door.

There's no sound at first and then I hear a quiet sob and a long, despairing sigh. "My baby." Pause. And again, "My baby."

What can she mean?

I tap on the door, holding the tray carefully, so as not to tilt it.

"Yes? Who is it?"

Miss Hill's lying back, a paisley shawl wrapped round her shoulders. I almost drop the tray. The shawl, with its vivid swirls of blue and green, is very similar to one Grace sent me. I hung it over the foot of my bed, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke. Every morning, Grace was my first thought...

With an effort I focus on the girl before me: her face is white against the white pillow, her hair dishevelled. Now I can see her properly, her resemblance to Grace is slight. Miss Hill's face is thinner, her hair fairer. And she's much younger—she can't be more than fourteen, fifteen at the most.

"Do I know you?" Her voice is faint.

"No. That is, you may have seen me the other day—" I stop, feeling foolish. I'm still holding the tray. "Are you ready for this yet?" I take a step forward.

"You're not supposed to come in here." Large, wary eyes, dark blue, almost violet in their intensity.

"Eliza asked me to; it's Weeks's day off"

At the mention of the name, a spasm crosses her face. Pain? Fear? I can't tell. Her expression shuts down.

I put the tray down on the table next to the bed.

She looks at me curiously. "Who are you?"

I swallow. "Louisa." It's such a long time since I've heard my own name it sounds strange to me. "I'm Louisa."

"Beatrice."

Something shifts, as if exchanging names has drawn us closer. I lift the cover from the bowl and sniff. "It's soup. Will you eat some?"