Wildthorn Page 17

  "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?

  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.