Wildthorn (16 page)

She's far away now, lost in the moment she is reliving, her hand trembling like a frightened bird.

"Don't talk about it if it upsets you."

She lifts her head and looks at me through her tears. "It's all right. I'm glad to speak of these things to you because I think you believe me. You do, don't you?" Her violet eyes are tunnels.

"Yes, yes I do." I respond instantly. And it's true.

The look she gives me is wretched. "Louisa, my baby—"

At that moment the door opens, making us both jump. My heartbeat steadies when I see that it's Eliza.

She looks at us holding hands and frowns. "Time you were back in the day room, Miss." Her voice seems louder than usual, dispelling the hush that has filled the room.

Beatrice is looking at me, a question in her eyes. I don't want to leave her in this state but Eliza is waiting, hands on hips.

On impulse I say, "Eliza, when do you think Weeks will be off again?"

"I couldn't say." There's an edge to her tone, but then she looks from Beatrice to me and her expression relents. "I'll tell you when I know, Miss."

Every day I watch the careful unlocking and locking of doors, on the lookout for someone to slip up, waiting for my chance.

So far it hasn't come.

But in the meantime, there's Beatrice: thinking of her helps me to bear the frustration of still being here, gives me something to focus on.

I haunt the corridor, loitering by the window, watching Weeks going in and out of Beatrice's room. Mulling over what she told me, I think I know what happened to her. If I'm right, it's monstrous. I wish I could do something to help.

Today at last Eliza tips me the wink. And sure enough, it's Roberts who comes to lead us back from the dining room after lunch. But it's not Eliza who's with her, but Alice, the sharp-featured servant girl, the one who can read.

This might be more risky. Still, I have to take a chance. But, instead of getting out the sewing things, Roberts says, "Nah then, ladies. A special treat this afternoon. Extra time in the airing court. So off we go fer some luverly fresh air."

I must do something.
Think.

I have it. Sinking into a chair, I clutch my stomach and when Roberts says, "Off with yer outside, now," I say, "I don't feel at all well today. Can I stay inside?"

Roberts shrugs. "Suit yerself."

Alice doesn't like this, I can tell. She whispers in Roberts's ear. But Roberts gives her a push. "Garn—stop frettin'. When you come in to check on Miss Hill, you can check on Madam here 'n all."

The others shuffle from the room, their voices die away and I am alone.

I take a great breath and let it out.

I'm tempted to stay where I am, enjoying the peace, but the thought of Beatrice's troubled face sends me hurrying along the hallway.

What a curious feeling it is to know that the gallery is empty, that no one else is here. Even so, I knock gently at the door.

There's no answer so I go straight in.

She's in the rocking chair today, wrapped in her shawl; her face, turned towards the door, is full of fear. When she sees it's me, she sighs. "I thought you were Weeks."

A fleeting smile transforms her face, and taking it as an invitation, I settle myself on the bed. She looks at me expectantly, but I feel awkward; I don't know how to say what I've been thinking.

I notice she's cradling something under her shawl. "What have you got there?"

She looks embarrassed, but she shifts her arm slightly to show me.

It's a rag doll. Different clothes and hair from my old doll Annabel, but the same loved shabbiness.

"I have one—at home." As I say the word, my throat closes. I swallow. "She's called Annabel."

"This is Rosalie." She darts me a glance. "I hide her—sometimes in the drawer and sometimes in the bed." Her tone is gleeful like a naughty child's. "Dr. Bull said I shouldn't have her—that she encourages my fancies—and Weeks threw her away." She pulls the doll closer to her, cradling it in her thin arms. "But Eliza rescued her for me. She says it's our secret." A look of alarm crosses her face. "I've told you now."

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

This seems to reassure her. "Eliza is kind, isn't she? Very kind."

"Yes, she is."

"Not like Weeks." She squeezes Rosalie. "She's always doing nasty things to me. And saying nasty things. She says I could walk if I wanted to and I'm just pretending that I can't. And she says I tell lies to get attention." She starts to rock back and forth.

"Beatrice—the things that Weeks says are lies. Are they about your stepfather?"

The chair stills. Then she turns on me a look of such anguish I feel it myself.

"Did your stepfather—" I pause, not knowing how to put this delicately, then plunge on. "Did he—" I stop again, swallow and then ask quickly, "Is that how you came to have a baby?"

She starts rocking again, her grip on her doll tightening, turning her knuckles white. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.

We both seem to have stopped breathing. I don't know what to say.

After what seems a long silence, Beatrice looks at me. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes." It's true—I do believe her. Papa always said, "Listening to the patient, that's the secret, Lou, not rushing in thinking you know best, but listening to what they have to tell you."

She sighs and her shoulders relax. She starts smoothing Rosalie's hair.

As gently as I can, I ask, "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Another long pause. Then her face crumples and she starts to weep.

I put my hand on hers. "I'm sorry."

In a voice choked with tears she says, "It's all right. I can speak of it, to you."

Her trust in me makes me feel lighter, as if I've been given a present.

She looks at me confidingly. "I didn't know I was going to have a baby, truly I didn't."

Although this is surprising, I have read of such things in Papa's medical journals.

She shudders. "It was awful—that night. I started to have pains in my stomach, like cramps. After a while the pain was terrible, as if I was being pulled apart. It would stop for a few minutes and then come again. I didn't know what to do."

"Didn't you tell someone? Didn't they hear you crying out?"

She shakes her head. "I walked about with my pillow and when the pain was too bad, I buried my face in it. Mamma was away visiting my aunt, so there was only him and the servants in the house. I didn't want
him
to come."

She pauses and then continues. "It felt as if my insides were being pushed out. I thought I was going to die." A spasm shakes her at the memory. "And then—and then—" The thud of the rocking chair speeds up.

"Your baby was born."

The chair is suddenly still.

"Yes." It is a whisper.

She turns to look at me, her irises blue-black, her face contorted. "Only she wasn't right. She was
deformed.
" With the word a sob breaks from her.

"What do you mean?

She can scarcely manage to get the words out but I hear them. "She was quite still, and a dreadful blue-grey colour ... and there was a thing—a rubbery thing like rope—growing out of her tummy and into me. It was horrible, horrible." She puts her hands to her face.

"Beatrice ... listen to me."

She doesn't respond but keeps her face buried in her hands.

"Beatrice, the baby wasn't deformed. That rope—the rubbery thing—all babies have them."

She lowers her hands and looks at me through her hair. "They do?"

"Yes."

"But she was such a funny colour ... all wrong ... and she never cried."

I take both her hands in mine. "That's because she'd died already, I think. Before she was born."

She lets out a little cry. "So I was right. I killed her."

I squeeze her hands tight. "You didn't. It was an accident. These things sometimes happen.
It wasn't your fault.
"

She looks directly at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes.
Yes
."

She turns her head away. "But I'd been bad. It must have been my fault."

I shake her hands, wanting her to believe me. "You hadn't been bad. You couldn't help what happened. It was
him.
"

A pause then a great shudder passes through her and she lets out her breath. I realise that I'm gripping her hands fiercely and I let them go. "What happened after that?"

Beatrice gazes over my head, into the distance. "I didn't know what to do ... I knew Mamma would be so cross with me if she found out." Her bottom lip quivers. "I think I must have fainted. When I came to ... oh it was horrible ... I knew the baby was dead then. I cleaned up the mess as best as I could and wrapped her and everything in my nightdress. It was very early morning by now, just getting light, so I crept out of the house and down to the river."

She stops. Her voice, when it comes, is as soft as dust. "I found a heavy stone ... I tied it to the bundle ... and dropped it from the middle of the bridge."

I have a lump in my throat, imagining what it must have been like.

After a while I ask quietly, "What brought you here, Beatrice? To the asylum?"

"I couldn't stop crying. Mamma kept asking me why I was crying but I didn't tell her.
I didn't.
She would think I was so wicked ... The doctor said I should come here to be made better. I tried to keep it a secret here too, but they heard me crying for my baby. But they say it's all in my mind, my imagination, that I couldn't have had a baby that no one knew about."

Beatrice sighs. "I often think of Rosalie lying at the bottom of the river and how cold she must be and lonely..."
She looks straight at me. "You won't tell anyone what I did, will you? Especially not Weeks."

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. They wouldn't believe me, anyway. I'm a patient, like you, Beatrice." My voice cracks. I meant only to reassure her but my words have ambushed me.

Silently, she offers her doll. Once, cotton filled with rags could comfort me. Not now. Not here. I shake my head and wipe my face with my hand.

She is looking at me wonderingly. "The same happened to you?"

"The same? No.
No.
"

"Only I thought, because you're crying ... You're very kind. I don't believe you can have done anything bad. I expect they'll let you go home soon."

Home. Can I go home? Will I be safe?

Beatrice interrupts my thoughts. "Who will sign for you?"

I stare at her. "What do you mean?"

"The person who signed for you to be admitted has to sign for you to be released."

I feel as if all the breath has been knocked out of me. "Are you sure?"

Beatrice nods. "Eliza explained it to me. When I am better, Mamma will sign for me to go home. Who will sign for you?"

The old question. Who has done this? Those papers would tell me...

Part of me still wants to think it was Mrs. Lunt. But really I think it was Tom, for reasons I can't begin to imagine. After all, he returned my letter to Mamma and pretended to be Thomas Childs ... it must be him ... I don't think Mamma would have done this to me...

Is that a noise in the gallery? I must be back in the day room before Roberts returns.

"Beatrice, I have to go now, I'm sorry."

Her face falls. "You will come again, won't you?" For the first time she puts her hand on mine.

"Yes, I will. I promise."

***

When Roberts and Alice come into the day room, I'm collapsed in a chair, pretending to look weary and ill. But inside I'm not feeling at all weary—my mind is working furiously.

I want to see my papers. I want to know the truth.

But whoever admitted me, it's no good waiting for them to sign my release. If I am going to get out of here, I will have to do it myself. And if I can, I'll take Beatrice with me. She has suffered enough.

From now on I must be alert. No more chloral.

And no more waiting. It's time to take action.

I've decided our only chance is at night. During the day we are watched too closely. Tonight I'll watch carefully—I will find a way.

It's the night attendant we often have, the one with eyes like currants. I haven't paid attention to her before—now, covertly, I watch every move. First she lights the lamp on the small table and, as if making herself at home, takes from her basket a pack of cards, and a large brown bottle. Then she comes round with the chloral. I'm the last to receive the dose. She doesn't bother to wait and see that we've swallowed it, so I hold it in my mouth, wondering what to do.

To my relief, she starts gathering up our clothes from the beds and as soon as her back's turned, I pull out my chamber pot and spit some of the chloral into it. I know that I mustn't give it up all at once—I might have hallucinations or become delirious. Luckily it's colourless, but its pungent smell might give me away so I use the pot.

When the attendant sees me, she looks disgruntled. "Pissin' already?" she grumbles.

I climb into bed, but after she's carried the armful of dresses, petticoats, and boots from the room, I tiptoe to the door and, peeping out, I watch where she takes them. She goes to the room at the end of the hallway, near the door to the airing court, where our cloaks and galoshes are kept.

I'm back in bed before she returns. She settles into her chair and, taking a swig from her bottle, begins playing patience.

Gradually the others stop shifting and murmuring as the chloral takes effect. The attendant plays on, drinking at intervals, but her yawns become more frequent, and eventually she lays aside the cards and rests her head on the table. Once she's snoring, I slip from my bed and approach her cautiously.

Like all the other attendants, her keys hang from her belt, but I can only see three. Why does she have so few? Several locked doors stand between here and the front door to the asylum. And then I remember—on my very first day, looking from the gate in the airing court and noticing the attendants who spoke to the gardener. Perhaps there's a side door that the staff use. If so, it can't be far away.

The attendant stirs, muttering, and I dart back to bed. If I could take her keys ... But she's bound to wake up. And then there's Beatrice. She can't walk. How will I get her out? And if we succeed, what will we do then?