Wildthorn (17 page)

I lie awake for hours, turning these questions over in my mind.

Gradually a plan forms, a risky plan, but one that might be possible. For Beatrice's sake, I have to try it. But how am I going to get to see her? I must tell her about the plan, but, like a cat, Weeks watches my every move. Perhaps Eliza can help.

***

Two days pass before I get a chance to speak to Eliza. I can barely contain my impatience. But on the third day, I have a stroke of luck. Eliza's on lavatory duty before breakfast, so I make sure I'm at the end of the queue.

"All right, Miss?" she asks, as I come out.

Checking that Weeks isn't about, I say in a low voice, "Eliza, I have to see Beatrice, Miss Hill, again. Soon."

She frowns. "It's risky, Miss."

"I know, but it's important. Can you help me?"

"I don't know." She chews her lip.

"Please, Eliza." I put my hand on her arm.

She looks at my hand then raises her eyes to my face. "I'll see what I can do."

"There's something else. I need to know what my admission papers say. Especially who signed them. Can you find out for me?"

Her face falls. "I can't. Sorry, Miss."

She looks so miserable I wish I hadn't asked. "Of course. You mustn't risk losing your place."

"It's not just that." Eliza's cheeks are red. "I'm not a right good reader, Miss."

I'd been counting on Eliza. I'll just have to go ahead without knowing what the papers say.

In the day room, I bend my head to my work, appearing to be a model patient. But, hidden beneath my skirt, my feet tap. Intoxicated by the thought of freedom, they're ready to run.

Lunch is over and it's raining too hard for us to go out.

The long afternoon stretches ahead. Eliza has just returned from some errand Weeks sent her on. They're standing behind me and I can hear every word.

"You took your time." Weeks, sharp as ever.

"Matron stopped me."

"For untidiness, as usual, I suppose."

"No." Eliza's tone is injured and I can imagine her expression. "She wants to see you. Now."

My heart jumps.

"Now?" Weeks is clearly surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The minute the door closes, I whirl round.

But before I can say anything, Eliza clutches my arm and draws me to the door away from the others. "Hang on. Wait till she's out of the gallery. Then you must be quick. You've got about ten minutes, I reckon."

"What?" I don't understand.

Eliza shakes her hand impatiently. "Matron doesn't want to see her—I made it up."

"Oh, Eliza! You'll be in such trouble—"

"Ssh! Don't waste time." She sticks her head out of the door, then bundles me through it.

I race along the hallway and burst into Beatrice's room. She starts up in bed, eyes wide with shock.

"Don't worry, it's only me. But I haven't got long. I've something to tell you." I can see I'm alarming her and I try to slow down.

"Beatrice, it's all right. How are you?"

"I—I've not been well. Weeks—" She raises her shoulders as if to ward off an imaginary blow.

"What? What's she done? Has she hurt you?"

"No, but—she keeps saying I'm lying. And she found Rosalie ... and took her away. She said she was going to burn her..." She starts to weep.

I seize her hands. "Beatrice, listen to me. I can get you out of here."

She frowns. She doesn't understand what I'm saying and I'm running out of time and this might be my only chance. "I'll come for you tonight."

"Come for me?"

"Yes, and we'll escape. I've worked it all out. We can do it, I'm sure." Instead of looking joyful, her face creases up.

"What is it?"

"I can't go."

"You can. We'll take the invalid chair. Don't worry about anything. I'll look after you, I promise."

My words don't seem to be having any effect. She's still looking distressed.

"Beatrice, trust me. I won't let you down."

How many minutes have passed? I don't know. I don't want to leave her but I must. If Weeks catches me here, Eliza will be in terrible trouble. "I've got to go now, but I'll come tonight, all right? Tonight." I give her hands a squeeze.

***

Before Weeks returns, I'm back in my place, hemming industriously. Without turning my head, I see her storm in, scowling. My face feels flushed, and I hope she doesn't notice.

"Eliza!" She snaps the name so abruptly nearly everyone jumps. "What were you thinking of? Matron didn't want to see me today."

"I thought that's what she said."

"Stupid girl! She said she'd told you she wanted to continue our discussions some time, but she didn't say when."

"Oh! I must have got it wrong." Eliza opens her blue eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

Weeks frowns. I can tell she's suspicious. Her eyes rake the room, checking if all is as it should be. Then her gaze comes back to me.

I look down, hold my breath.

The next moment, someone cries out, "No!" and I look up to see Weeks wresting a baby garment from Mrs. Thorpe. "Give me that! It's time you stopped this nonsense. There is no baby, you understand? No baby!"

Mrs. Thorpe starts wailing, a thin sad sound, and it sets off some of the others. With a
tut
of exasperation, Weeks stuffs the offending garment into the cupboard.

Behind her back, I send Eliza a grateful smile and she winks. I'm glad she's not in trouble. She's the only person I'll be sorry to leave. I wish I could say goodbye, but of course, that's impossible.

Tomorrow Beatrice and I will be safe. Tomorrow we won't be here.

I'm poised, waiting for my moment.

For the past few nights I've watched the night attendant and her routine hasn't varied. Now, the instant she's gone from the room with the clothes, I spit the chloral into my chamber pot. I look round. My roommates are huddled in their beds, twitching and sighing. No one's watching.

Quietly I go over to the table. I uncork the chloral bottle and pour some into the beer. The necks of the bottles chink together and I freeze. A quick glance over my shoulder reassures me—no one's looking my way, so I pour a little more, my hand trembling, and a few drops splash on to the table. It's hard to judge the dose. It must be enough to make the attendant sleep, but not too much. I don't want to kill her.

I push back both corks, mop up the spillage with my night gown and scurry back to bed.

I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep, but I listen out for the attendant's movements: her footsteps in the hallway growing louder, the swish of her skirts past my bed, her heavy breathing. When I hear the creak as she settles in the chair, I peer at her through my lashes, my heart beating faster. Will she smell the chloral?

I wait on tenterhooks, but, for once, she doesn't immediately take a drink.

Instead she rummages in her bag, and taking out a greasy package, proceeds to unwrap it. A savoury smell reaches my nostrils—some kind of meat pie perhaps.

She tucks into this, while turning the pages of what looks like an illustrated newspaper. She seems to be looking at the pictures mainly although every now and then she pauses to read, running her finger across the page and mouthing the words to herself.
Come on, come on, drink!
I silently entreat her. At last she reaches for the bottle and downs a big draught, her attention still on the newspaper. I breathe again.

I don't know how long I'll have to wait—a regular dose would take effect within the hour, but this isn't a regular dose. Peering out from my bedclothes, I keep watching.

Tonight of all nights she seems unusually alert. She starts to play patience, drinks, belches, scratches, lays out the cards again.

What if the dose was too small?

Hours seem to pass, but perhaps it's my agitated state that makes it seem so long. I think of Beatrice, awake and waiting for me, wondering where I am, thinking I've let her down. Once, my own eyelids close and I jerk awake, alarmed.
I
mustn't fall asleep. That would ruin everything.

Just when I'm about to give up, the attendant's head drops and the cards slip from her hand on to the floor. I wait until her breathing deepens, and then I wait some more. I have to be sure the chloral has taken effect, that she won't wake up.

At last I think it might be safe to move. I slide out of bed, trying not make a sound. Holding my breath I tiptoe to her and reach towards her belt. The keys aren't there!

I feel paralysed. I could cry with frustration. Then I pull myself together. Think! She must have the keys somewhere—she needs them to get into the gallery. I look in her basket—a purse and another bottle of beer, that's all. No keys.

I scan the table, and then I spot them, half-hidden by the newspaper. It would be so easy to take them, but her arm is lying across the page. Gingerly I stretch out my hand, catch hold of the end of one of the keys and pull. Surely she'll feel the disturbance under her arm ... There's resistance and then the keys come sliding towards me, and with the slightest clink, I have them in my hand! I feel so gleeful I could laugh. I can't believe how easy it was. It's a good omen, I'm sure.

Now hurry, hurry, out of the door, down the hallway, feet stepping as lightly as leaves, so that none of the other night attendants hear. A tiny click and the cloakroom door opens and then I search quickly for my dress—and here it is, on top of the pile! What luck!

I struggle into it, feeling at the waistband for the lump of money—still there, pull on the petticoat and look about for shoes—no time for stockings. These are much too small, try another pair—these will do—in fact I think they are mine—another stroke of good fortune!

I pick up the nearest bundle of clothes for Beatrice. Anything will do for now. I seize a cloak from a peg and put it on, take a couple for Beatrice and I'm ready.

Now I pause, and take a breath. I have to open the main door to the gallery and this could be our downfall. If someone hears—the key turning, the door opening, then closing behind me...

Another breath and then, to the door. I try the biggest key and it slides in as if the lock has just been oiled and it turns smoothly without a sound. I turn the handle and, like a dream, the door opens. My heart dances. We're going to do it!

Now to find the side door, the one the attendants and servants use. I've looked for it on my way to and from the dining room but not found it, so I go in the other direction, along a short corridor I've never seen before. At the end it turns right into another passageway. And here it is—the side door! I'm sure it will be locked but just in case, before I try the keys, I press the handle and it opens. Someone must have forgotten to lock it. And it's so close to the gallery. I'll be able to wheel Beatrice here quickly.

There's no time to lose but just for a moment I step outside. It's stopped raining and overhead, stars glitter in the night sky. I breathe in the cold air, its sharpness, the taste of freedom, stinging my throat.

My plan is to make for the side gate into the park—I'm sure there must be one for the attendants and tradesmen—then wheel Beatrice some way away and leave her hidden by the edge of the forest, while I walk to the nearest town. Luckily, it's not too cold. We'll take all the blankets from Beatrice's bed.

From my memory of the journey here, it's quite a distance to the town, but I should be able to manage it. As soon as it's light, I'll hire a carriage and come back for Beatrice and then we'll take the train to the north. I daren't go home. Mamma will tell Tom and there's no knowing what he'll do. So that only leaves Carr Head. Aunt Phyllis will take us in, I know it.

I'm not sure what will happen next, but Aunt Phyllis will sort everything out. She'll make Tom account for himself and decide how we can help Beatrice.

A fleeting doubt about Grace rises in my mind. Instantly I quell it. She'll be in London now, settled into her new home, her new life. She won't have said anything. She won't have broken her promise.

Once we get to Carr Head everything will be all right.

I take one last breath of air before turning back inside.

Hurry now, Beatrice will be waiting. Back along the corridor, round the corner, into the gallery. Pause here to check. Nothing stirring in the long dark hallway, no lights, no voices. No one knows I'm not where I should be.

Along to Beatrice's room, swiftly, silently, and here I am at the door and I have my hand on the handle and I'm turning it, but something's wrong. The door won't open. It's locked.

I tap on the door, calling quietly, "Beatrice, open the door," but there's no answer.

I don't understand. The door's never been locked before. I look at the keys in my hand. Perhaps one of them will open it.

And then a voice behind me, a voice I know so well, says, "You're wasting your time, Miss Childs. Miss Hill has gone."

I spin round. There's a sound of a match striking and then the steady glow of an oil lamp and in its light I see Weeks's face, mocking, triumphant.

I stare at her, not comprehending. What does she mean? "Beatrice has gone." She can't have gone. She's meant to be here, waiting for me, so we can escape, so we can be free. What is Weeks doing here? This is all wrong. This isn't how it was meant to happen...

And then what Weeks said filters through to me, begins to make sense. Beatrice has gone.
Beatrice has gone.

Rage flares through my whole body and the words fly out of my mouth: "You bitch, you damn bitch, you've killed her."

Weeks just stands there, smiling.

I want to hurt her like she's hurt Beatrice.

I seize hold of the nearest object, a heavy pot of ferns, and I hurl it at her head. It misses and hits the window behind her and glass falls in a glittering shower, glass everywhere. I curl my hand into a fist and,
crack,
I punch her hard in the face. She gives a cry and one hand flies up to her nose.

Setting the lamp down, she catches hold of my arm, twisting it up round my back. She forces me down, down on to the matting, my face in the glass and she's shouting now and I'm shouting and kicking and struggling and hands seize my arms and ankles and I'm held so tight I can't move and something's pressing into my back, I can't breathe, I'm gasping for air and then my head's wrenched sideways and I just have time to close my fist before a cloth looms in front of my eyes, a cloth that smells sweet and engulfs me in blackness.