Wildthorn (14 page)

"No indeed, Dr. Woodville, it is not."

At that moment Mamma came out of the parlour. She looked red-eyed, as if she'd been weeping. I steeled my heart. She glanced at Dr. Woodville. I guessed she wanted to say something to me, but I turned away from them both and walked up the stairs.

I managed to contain myself until I reach the turn of the landing, but, once out of sight, I rushed towards the sanctuary of my old room.

Its emptiness hit me. It was as if I'd already ceased to live there.

Shutting the door, I flung myself down on the bare mattress and seized hold of Annabel, who lay abandoned there. Just as in the old days, I hugged her to me.

She was the only friend I had left.

Mr. Sneed has sent for me! At last.

Mamma must have written to him. Perhaps she has come to take me home, is in his office at this very moment, waiting for me. Trust Mamma to wait until Monday; even for this she wouldn't travel on the Sabbath.

Eliza told me just now in the day room. She delivered her message as if it was the dullest news in the world, as if she didn't know how much it meant to me. But then Weeks was in the room, so perhaps she was being careful.

As soon as we're out of the gallery, I say, "Oh, Eliza, what do you think? I told you I should be going home!"

In a flat voice, she says, "I couldn't say, Miss."

What's the matter with her?

I start to speak, but she says, "We mustn't keep Mr. Sneed waiting, Miss." She sets off at a brisk pace and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

Oh, well, I can't think about Eliza. My heart is jumping too much and in my head I'm singing:
I'm going home, I'm going home,
over and over, in time with my boots marching on the stone flags.

Along the grey corridors we go, under the low arched ceilings.

At last we reach Mr. Sneed's office and Eliza turns to me. "Here we are, Miss."

She meets my eyes for the first time and there is something not right ... But what does she mean by her look? Is she warning me? Or asking for something from me?

"Eliza—" I begin, but she knocks, a voice calls, "Come in," and she opens the door.

"Miss Childs, Sir," she announces with a bob. Then she's off, the
tap, tap
of her footsteps soon dying away.

For a moment I feel strangely bereft, abandoned. How silly. Because this is the moment I've been waiting for. Everything will be all right now.

I stick out my chin and step into the room.

***

Mamma is not here. My hope dies, like a snuffed candle flame.

Steady, steady,
I tell myself.
She may not have been able to come yet. But she'll have written.

The superintendent's back is towards me as he stands at the window staring out at the rain. It drums insistently against the glass, cutting off the view. The room feels claustrophobic. Mr. Sneed spins round, the eye with the cast, which I'd forgotten, leering at me.

"Have a seat, Miss Childs."

Still that name. Mamma hasn't written. Perhaps Eliza never sent that letter
The fluttering in my chest intensifies.

Steady, steady,
I tell myself again. I must make my case calmly, clearly. He
must
listen.

He sits at his desk and, gesturing to the seat before it, starts to rummage in a drawer. Without warning I'm taken back to all the times I sat by Papa's desk and talked to him. I see him with his tired red-rimmed eyes and his rumpled
hair and my throat closes, blocked by sudden tears.
No, not now.

To distract myself I stare at the desktop. Each object: silver inkstand, pen-pot; pen-wiper; blotter; silver letter opener, is arranged with precision on the polished surface, which is otherwise bare, except for a document file and two sheets of paper.

At the sight of these, my pulse races. "Mr. Sneed, I asked to see you because—" He shuts the drawer with a thud.

I rush on. "Because I shouldn't be here. It's either a mistake or a conspiracy. I'd like to see my papers. Once I know what they say, I'm sure I can explain how this has happened."

His bushy eyebrows rise. Without speaking, he picks up one of the pieces of paper and thrusts it under my nose. A chasm opens inside me. My letter, the one I gave Eliza to post.
She has betrayed me.

No wonder she was acting so strangely.

Mr. Sneed is speaking but I can't hear him for the ringing in my ears. Gradually I register what he's saying. "...causing your family great concern, which I share. From the evidence of this letter, in addition to your other problems, you seem to be developing acute paranoia." He tapped the paper. "These ill-founded claims only serve to worry your family and—"

I break in."
Claims!
Every word in that letter is true."

Mr. Sneed smiles at me. "Come, Miss Childs."

"That is not my name." I keep my chin up and stare at him.

He brushes this aside and waves the letter."
'They have locked me up.'
How can you say you are locked up when you have the freedom of the gallery?"

"I can't leave it."

"That is true but it's for your own good. Your safety is of paramount importance to us. We couldn't have our residents wandering at will, could we? Supposing someone got hurt?" He sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers.

I regard him stonily. Whatever I say, he'll have the answer to it.

Mr. Sneed refers to the letter again."
'They stole my clothes.'
"He looks at me, a reproachful expression in his one good eye. "Now, Miss Childs, are you not wearing your own clothes at this very moment?"

I glance down at my dress. "Yes, but—" I stop. I feel foolish, confused.

Mr. Sneed sweeps on, "As for your complaint about the bath, you obviously don't realise that this is the standard treatment for your condition. Dr. Bull is a qualified physician and knows what he is doing. And then your suspicion of the lady, Mrs. Lunt, who brought you here—plots, conspiracies ... classic symptoms."

"But she could have—"

He shakes his head sadly. "This just goes to show how ill you are. If you were rational, you would see that it was extremely unlikely. So you see, Miss Childs, in future I would rather you followed our procedures with regards to letters."

He suddenly leans towards me, his voice steel. "Now tell me, who did you give your letter to?"

Mute, I stare past his ear. The silence thickens. With a sigh, Mr. Sneed sits back. "Miss Childs—your poor mother is not to be bothered with your foolish fancies again, you understand? She was most upset."

Upset? I suddenly see that it's not Eliza who has betrayed me. She
did
post the letter, but it has been returned. Who by? Surely not Mamma?

"I don't understand. Who sent my letter back to you?"

He shakes his head, sighing, then with an air of great indulgence, he takes the other sheet of paper from his desk and holds it out to me, not so close that I can read the words but close enough for me to see the handwriting.

My heart contracts.

It is unmistakeable—I recognise the loops and curls, the distinctive ink.

My eye falls on the signature. And a white light bursts in my brain.

The walls of the room are closing in on me, blurring. My blood roars in my ears. I dig my nails into my palm.
Breathe, breathe.

I am vaguely aware of Mr. Sneed saying something, but I can't hear him. I want to cry out, but I clench my teeth. With a tremendous effort of will, I manage to control myself. I even manage to say, "May I see my papers?" My voice sounds as thin as tissue.

Now a black pillar rises in front of me, and overhead, far away, a voice says, "Your papers are in order, Miss Childs. Trust me."

The pillar wavers, and turns into Mr. Sneed, tugging on the bell-pull. He says, "I think it's time you returned to the gallery."

I have been betrayed and I can't utter a word.

Eliza is hurrying me back to the gallery. My legs don't seem to belong to me, but they are carrying me along. My breath rasps, my ears ring, my heart hammers to the beat of one question: Why?
Why?

Suddenly Eliza stops and I cannon into her. She thrusts her face close to mine. "Did you tell him?"

I blink at her, dazed. What's she talking about?

"Did you tell him it were me that posted your letter?"

With a struggle I focus on her question. "No. He asked but I didn't tell."

She lets out a great breath. "Thank the blazing heavens."

With a stab I realise. "You knew Mr. Sneed wanted to see me about the letter?"

Eliza shrugs. "I guessed. Matron told us it'd come back and she's been on at us—asking if we took it for you."

I look at her. Her guileless blue eyes, the pink of her cheeks under their dusting of freckles. I've begun to think of her as a friend. And yet—

"You didn't tell me. About the letter coming back."

She looks away. "I didn't know how you'd take it, Miss. Thought you might have thrown a fit."

Of course. As far as Eliza knows I'm a mad girl who doesn't even know her own name. Every time I've objected to their calling me Lucy Childs, the madder I've seemed. Clever. Was this part of the plan?

She moves on and I follow automatically, the march of questions across my brain beginning again. Why has this been done to me? Why? Why?

Beneath the questions, a dark thought is forming. I try to squash it down but it persists until I can't think of anything else.

I stop dead.

Dread has seized hold of me, is spreading through my body. I start to tremble and the thought flies out in a whisper. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here."

Eliza has stopped too. "Miss?"

I can't help moaning.

"Miss, are you all right?"

I try to stop it but it won't be stopped. A wail that starts from the bottom of my stomach and rips its way out of my throat. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here! I'm not going to get out!"

My legs give way and I sink to my knees on the flags, burying my face in my hands.

All I can see, as if it's still in front of me, is that signature in bold black ink:
Thomas Childs.

The thumping of the out-of-tune piano and the scraping of the fiddle are giving me a headache. I don't want to be here. But we all have to attend the Christmas dance, whether we want to or not.

Christmas. That means I've been here over six weeks...

Eliza's looking forward to the dance. "It makes a change, Miss, don't it?"

I don't want a change. I prefer routine, the same mind-numbing activities, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. So I don't have to think. Or feel.

Otherwise it's too painful.

Tom knows that I'm shut in a madhouse and he wants to keep me here. Why?

Does Mamma know?

Has
she
done this?

I try not to ask these questions any more; it's easier to let the chloral dull the edge of my pain, to go on not thinking, not feeling.

Someone has tried to create a festive atmosphere in this dark panelled room: sprigs of holly tacked to the portraits of the asylum founders, a sparsely decorated Christmas tree leaning sideways.

Watched over by Mr. Sneed and the matron, both of them with fixed smiles on their faces, the dancers, patients from the First and Second Galleries, appear to be enjoying themselves, despite having their toes trodden on by their partners, male patients with whom they are allowed to fraternise on this occasion. Mrs. Smythe's partner is so short his head is almost buried in her ample bosom but she seem satisfied with her beau. There aren't enough men to go round so some attendants are joining in. Every now and then Eliza swings into view, bright-eyed and smiling.

I glance at Weeks. She's not dancing but standing with a sour expression on her face, keeping an eye on us wallflowers who are drooping on benches at the side. I see, with a start, Beatrice Hill beside her, watching the dancers from an invalid chair. That time I talked to her—it seems an age ago now. Again I see that faint resemblance to my cousin in her profile.

Grace ... Do
you
know I'm here?

The polka ends and Eliza comes over to me, out of breath and laughing. "Why don't you have a dance, Miss? It's fun."

"I can't. I don't know how."

"It's easy. You just have to follow the music."

The pianist is starting up again, the fiddler joining in and suddenly Eliza seizes my hand and pulls me from the bench.

"Eliza, no!"

But she's too strong and I find myself out on the dance floor with her arm firmly round my waist, as she shouts instructions in my ear. "Put your hand on my shoulder. That's it. And your feet go back, side, side, back, side, side. Don't look down. That's it. One, two, three, one, two, three..."

And I'm waltzing for the first time in my life. Stiffly, awkwardly, catching Eliza's foot with mine now and then, but nevertheless, waltzing.

We're an ill-suited couple. I'm more than half a head taller and I'm conscious of my big feet, my elbows sticking out. But a reckless spirit seems to have entered Eliza; she clasps me close and whirls me round, her cheeks flushed and strands of hair coming loose from her cap. She grins up at me and I find myself relaxing, listening to the music, letting myself drift away with it. None of the other couples are paying any attention to us as we swoop and swerve between them, coming close but never colliding.

I shut my eyes for a moment, enjoying this unusual sensation.

When I open my eyes, I see Weeks frowning at us. Losing the rhythm, I come down hard on Eliza's foot, causing her to stumble and let go of me.

"I'm sorry."

Rubbing her foot, Eliza says, "It's all right, Miss. Luckily you don't weigh much more than a pail of peas." We both laugh.

"See, Miss, it's done you good. I knew it would."

"It's been—fun."

I'm surprised. It has. And I feel different. Shaken up. More alive.

The final chords of the waltz die away and Eliza walks me back to my seat.

"See, I told you it were easy!"

"It seems so with you leading. How did you come to learn the man's steps?"