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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?"

  She sighs, but she struggles to sit up.

  "Can I help?"

  She gives a tiny nod. I plump up the pillow to form a support for her back. Under the scent of rose water, I can detect other smells: Condy's fluid, that common disinfectant; camphor; the stale whiff of a body that's been lying too long in bed in a stuffy atmosphere. The familiar smell of the sickroom. My chest tightens. But I mustn't think of Papa, not here, not now.

  I place the tray on her lap. She stares at the soup, then she picks up the spoon. Her thin fingers are bloodless, almost transparent. I take a step towards the door.

  "Must you go?" That violet gaze ... entreating. What does she want from me? What can I give? Be careful...

  I shake my head.

  She lowers the spoon into the soup and lifts it towards her lips, but her hand is shaking; the soup splashes over the tray. She stares at the spill and a tear runs down her face.

  "Weeks says if I don't eat, they'll force-feed me again." She shudders, putting her hand to her mouth.

  "Here, I'll help you." I take the spoon from her and dip it into the bowl. She opens her mouth obediently like a child.

  She swallows a few more spoonfuls, then turns her head away. "No more. Thank you."

  Time to go ... but her tears are welling again and I hesitate. "What's upsetting you? Is it—your baby?"

  A look of terror leaps into her eyes. "What baby? What are you talking about?"

  I blink. "I'm sorry."

  She stares at me, her face a mask, and then the mask crumples and she starts sobbing, racking sobs that shake her thin frame. As she hides her face in her hands, the tears drip down her fingers.

  I can't bear it; her misery wrenches my insides. Awkwardly I pat her back, feeling her thin, sharp shoulder blades, like wings.

  "Shhh, shhhh, it's all right, it's all right."

  Gradually her sobs subside. She whispers something.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Three months." She lifts her face from her hands and looks at me. "It's been three months since my baby died."

  She sounds utterly sincere. But how could she have had a baby? "I'm sorry." It sounds horribly inadequate. I fumble in my pocket and offer her my handkerchief. She takes it and wipes her face.

  I go to stand up, but she grips my arm. "Weeks is the worst—if I cry for my baby, I make her cross and she hurts me. They all say I'm making it up, that it's just a foolish fancy, a trick of the imagination. But it's not, it's not." She sinks back on to the pillow and closes her eyes. Her face is bleached with exhaustion.

  Of course. She's mad. I'd almost forgotten. Gently I extricate my arm from her grasp and back away from the bed.

  She opens her eyes. "They say, think of bright, happy things. Think of your home, your loving mother. And your generous stepfather." Her mouth twists into a bitter line. "Especially your generous stepfather."

  A noise behind me makes me jump. Eliza has come into the room.

  "You're still here, Miss? I wondered where you'd got to." Loud, cheerful normality.

  She inspects the soup bowl. "Is this all you've managed to eat? This won't do, will it?" Like a mother hen, clucking at a chick. "You have a nice rest now." She picks up the tray and ushers me out.

  Pulling the door shut, Eliza gives me a conspiratorial look. "I suppose she's been telling you those stories. I don't think she knows what she's saying half the time. And she's not well. She's too weak to walk and she's always fainting."

  What can I say? What should I believe?

  "You'd better go to the day room now, Miss. I've got to take this tray back to the kitchen."

  Obediently I turn away and walk down the hallway, only half-aware of Eliza leaving the gallery.

  I'm still inside that room. Hearing that voice. Seeing those troubled eyes.

  One Week Earlier

  We'd had a letter from Tom. He was coming home in a fortnight's time and bringing a friend called Woodville, who wanted to see our part of Yorkshire.

  Why was he coming? And who was this stranger, Woodville? If this was another of Tom's schemes ... But he didn't yet know of my failure with William. Thinking of William led on to Grace, of course...

  A hollow space opened inside me, a hot feeling of shame. Don't think about it.

  I rubbed steadily at the brass candlestick until I could see a distorted reflection of myself in the polished surface. Focusing on the job stopped me thinking, stopped me feeling. I started on its twin.

  A knock at the front door made me jump. Who could that be? Mary was out on some errands so I went to see.

  "Oh, Dr. Kneale!" Flustered, I pushed back a stray lock of hair. Because of the cleaning, I hadn't put it up properly but had borrowed a cap from Mary. I was wearing my oldest dress and a grubby apron.

  If he was surprised at my appearance, Dr. Kneale didn't show it. He raised his hat to me. "Miss Cosgrove."

  What did he want? I hadn't sent for him; I hadn't seen him since he attended Papa. Seeing him now brought back painful memories.

  He cleared his throat. "May I come in?"

  "Oh. Yes." I stood aside to let him pass. Pulling off the cap and apron, I rolled my sleeves down. Where should I take him? The parlour was all at sixes and sevens; it would have to be Papa's study. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door.

  I hardly ever went into this room now. I couldn't bear to see it—the empty shelves, the absences.

  The same thought must have been in Dr. Kneale's mind as he looked about, shaking his head. "Your poor father. A sorry business, indeed."

  He shifted from one foot to the other. "I have heard from your elder brother, Miss Cosgrove. He asked me to call."

  Tom? Why would he write to the doctor? Unless it was about Mamma. But he'd said nothing about Dr. Kneale in his letter. Perhaps he didn't want Mamma to know.

  "I'm afraid my mother isn't expecting you. She's resting at the moment."

  The doctor looked surprised. "Your mother requires my services?"

  I was disconcerted. "Yes ... that is..."

  "But it was you your brother asked me to visit."

  Me? The doctor must have misread Tom's writing. "Are you not mistaken, Doctor Kneale? Didn't my brother say Mrs. Cosgrove?"

  The doctor smiled indulgently. "Now, my dear young lady, if you'll allow me..." He put out his hand.

  I was puzzled, but followed suit. Why did he want to shake my hand?

  He held it tightly and drew out his
watch. He was taking my pulse. Silly old fool, couldn't he see that he'd made a mistake?

  I tried to pull back but his grip was firm.

  "Mmm, a little high," he commented.

  I found my voice. "Doctor Kneale, I'm not ill."

  Again that smile. Humouring a child. "Let me be the judge of that." He opened his bag and taking out a thermometer, he put it in my mouth. Affronted, I pulled it out. It dropped to the floor but didn't break.

  Dr. Kneale stepped back. "Miss Cosgrove! There's no need for that! Calm yourself."

  "How can I be calm, when you won't listen to me? I tell you, I'm not ill!"

  The doctor didn't respond. Instead he retrieved the thermometer and slipped it into his bag. Then he studied me, a faint frown between his eyebrows. "Tell me, Miss Cosgrove. You look thinner. Are you eating well?"

  "Yes." That wasn't quite true—since Papa had gone I'd lost interest in food. And I'd hardly eaten since the visit to Carr Head.

  "And are you sleeping well?"

  "Not very well," I admitted.

  "It's understandable, given your sad loss and the greater responsibilities you've had to take on."

  At the mention of Papa, my eyes filled with tears; I couldn't help it. I dabbed at my eyes with the apron I discovered I'd been holding all this time. What would the doctor say if he knew all the troubling thoughts that kept me awake ... Tom's gambling, what Grace thought of me now...

  The doctor pursed his lips as if considering. "You say your mother is indisposed?"

  "She's—" How could I put it? "Since my father's death, she's not been herself. She experiences great anxiety, even about small things."

  "I will look in on her next time I call—"

  Next time?

  "—in about a week. Good day, Miss Cosgrove." Picking up his bag, he left the study and I heard the front door open and close.

  I flung the bundled apron and cap on the floor. How dare he! How dare he come in patronising me and insinuating that I was ill! Tom would be annoyed when he found out that Dr. Kneale hadn't seen Mamma.

  ***

  Tom and his friend arrived in time for dinner. To my amazement, Mr. Woodville, a dark young man with intense brown eyes, proceeded to charm Mamma. He even persuaded her to take a thimbleful of wine. After one sip her cheeks flushed pink and she responded to Mr. Woodville's stories with a girlish giggle I'd never heard before.

  I could see he was enjoying his success. But even while he was engaging Mamma's attention, from time to time he looked at me with such interest I went hot and had to look away.

  I studied Tom covertly across the table. He was looking sprucer than when I'd seen him last, and in better humour, but his conviviality seemed forced; he was less talkative than usual and seemed rather weary. I noticed he was drinking a great deal.

  Catching my eye, he said, "You'll be interested in this, Lou. Woodville's a doctor. Qualified this summer." He smirked at his friend as if sharing a private joke.

  I wasn't smiling. How could Tom be so spiteful?

  Woodville wasn't amused either. He gave Tom a look I couldn't interpret and then his dark eyes turned to me.

  A response seemed called for. "Congratulations, Dr. Woodville. What are your plans?"

  Despite my chilly politeness, his manner was friendly. "I'm off to Vienna soon to further my studies—"

  "Vienna!" I couldn't help my envious interjection.

  He smiled. "—and when I return I will take up a position as a house physician at Guy's."

  Tom butted in. "Watch out, Woodville. My sister will pester you to death with questions, if you let her."

  I shot him a bitter look. Beyond what was necessary for good manners, I had no intention of talking to Dr. Woodville about medicine or anything else. It would be too painful to discuss the world I was barred from, and besides, his apparent interest in me was making me feel uncomfortable.

  Luckily Tom stood up and said, "Come along, old chap, let's have a smoke in the study."

  After they'd gone, Mamma was quiet, lost in her own thoughts.

  "Mamma?"

  She continued to gaze at the salt cellar. "Such a nice young man, Dr. Woodville, don't you think?"

  I shrugged. "He seems pleasant enough."

  "He reminds me of your father when he was younger." She fixed her eyes on me. "You could make yourself agreeable to him."

  "Mamma! Dr. Woodville isn't interested in me." But maybe he was..."Do you want to go to bed?" I asked abruptly.

  As usual I helped her to undress and tucked her in, before scrambling into my own truckle bed in the corner. I had taken to sleeping in Mamma's room as, troubled by anxious thoughts, she often woke in the night. But as so often, I couldn't sleep. I felt stirred up: Woodville's gaze, Mamma's ridiculous suggestion— no, don't think about that. But other thoughts were worse: medicine, Vienna ... all the old longing re-awakened. It was no good—I had to put it from my mind.

  Mamma was breathing deeply and I tried to relax and follow her into sleep. As I drifted off, the bittersweet image that kept haunting me arose in my mind—Grace smiling in her mysterious way, then her eyes meeting mine and her face changing as she turned away...

  ***

  The next morning Tom took Dr. Woodville out after breakfast but before long he returned alone.

  "What have you done with your friend?" Mamma asked.

  "I showed him where the livery stables are. He wanted a ride out into the country."

  "He's not chosen the best day for it."

  Mamma was right—st was overcast and every now and then a fine rain spotted the windows.

  "Oh, Woodville won't mind—he's keen to blow away the city smog."

  "Didn't you want to go?"

  Tom smiled. "I wanted to see you, Mamma." He pulled up a chair beside her and sat down. She turned to him with that fond look I remembered so well. No matter how long the intervals between his visits, she was always glad to see him. No matter how much care I took of her, she never looked at me like that.

  Tom coughed and looked at me over Mamma's head—a significant look. What did he mean?

  "Lou, could you ask Mary to bring me some barley water? You'd like some, wouldn't you, Mamma?"

  Why didn't he ring the bell? Then I realised—he wanted to talk to Mamma alone. What was it that I couldn't hear? I was annoyed at being excluded. But at least Mamma was occupied and I seized my chance to read in peace.

  After speaking to Mary, I fetched one of Papa's medical books—one that Tom hadn't wanted—and, taking it into the dining room, I stoked up the fire. Forcing thoughts of my visit to Carr Head out of my mind, I tried to concentrate on what I was reading.

  ***

  A little later the door opened and Tom came in. I didn't try to hide my book, but he didn't comment. Pulling out another chair at the table, he sat down next to me and said abruptly, "I need to talk to you."

  "If it's about William, you'll be disappointed."

  He looked surprised, as if he'd forgotten his grand plan for uniting the family. "No, it's not about William."

  "And Dr. Woodville—if he's another of your schemes..."

  "Woodville? Well, yes, in a way it is about Woodville."

  I regarded him suspiciously.

  "The thing is, Lou, I've been thinking about what you said—about not being happy here and so on, and it's bothered me."

  The turn of the conversation surprised me. It wasn't like Tom to be concerned for my welfare. I kept silent, wondering where all this was leading.

  "It isn't fair that you have the burden of caring for Mamma..." I suddenly felt lightheaded. Tom had changed his mind. He was going to let me be a doctor. My insides fizzed with elation. "...so I've arranged something for you."

  My elation faltered. "Arranged something?"