Wildthorn Page 22

  I make a dash for it and scramble through the hedge, twigs scratching my face. On the other side I crouch down in a ditch edging the field. What now? From here I have a good view of the backs of the cottages. I can also see the lane. If this is Smallcote and Eliza passes there or comes into the garden, I might see her. But she may still be at Wildthorn...

  Don't think about it. Keep hoping.

  I huddle in the ditch, wincing with spasms of cramps. I daren't move too much in case I draw attention to myself and I don't want to lose sight of the lane. My mind drifts...

  Every now and then a noise rouses me—a woman comes to feed the pig and let the hens out, I hear children's voices, the sounds of the cottagers going about their business ... but none of them is Eliza. Each time I hear a noise, I shrink down, holding my breath...

  The sun has come out with a brightness that dazzles me. The sky is too blue, overwhelming. I'm tormented by thirst now. My head aches, my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. I shake myself, stretch my eyes, but my lids keep closing...

  The sound of hooves jerks me awake, my heart pounding. Spying out from my hiding place, I watch the lane. Two horses appear. My muscles tense—I know the riders—the lodge-keeper from Wildthorn and one of the servants, a burly man. They must be searching for me.

  I flatten myself to the ground, not daring to raise my head to look. The hoofbeats stop, I hear voices. I shut my eyes, expecting at any moment to hear a shout, feel a rough hand on my arm...

  I hear a wonderful sound—the clop of the hooves moving off. But then I realise—the cottagers will know about me. They'll come looking for me. I must get away from here now. Now.

  I drag myself to my knees and start crawling along the ditch. One yard. Another. My vision blurs, my head swims with dizziness. A few more inches ... but suddenly my arms and legs fold under me, my cheek hits the ground. I can't move.

  I will be found, I know it. After all my effort, I will be found.

  Tears of frustration trickle down my face.

  Somewhere a voice calls. "Joe! It's dinnertime." A pause and then the voice again, nearer now. "Joe, are you there?"

  With an effort, I lift my head. My crawling has brought me to the back of a different cottage. Coming down the path is a girl with corn-coloured hair.

  Eliza.

  I blink, look again. Not Eliza. A younger girl.

  I try to call out, croak feebly. Clenching my teeth, I pull myself to my knees. I manage to raise my arm and wave it.

  A shocked face in a gap in the hedge. Round blue eyes staring at me. Then the gap is empty and I hear running footsteps, an urgent voice calling, "Mother! Come quick!"

  Part Four

  I'm lying on something soft, and I half-open my eyes and see a brown curtain hanging beside me. My eye-lids close, I drift ... and then I hear a slight noise, smell a dear, familiar smell. Eliza is here. Everything is all right. I sleep again.

  I drift in and out of sleep, and when I open my eyes, Eliza is here again. She brings warm water and a cloth and washes me, avoiding my injuries. Her hands on my bare skin are skilful, soothing, and I don't want her to stop. Once, she lifts her head and catches my eye. I feel a sudden heat in my face and I'm glad when she bows her head again.

  Another time she brings me soup and feeds it to me, the savoury taste fanning out over my tongue, like a blessing. All I have to do is lie here, which is just as well, because my body doesn't want to move...

  At some point in this floating timeless dream, I have a thought, like a sudden stab of toothache. Eliza is at home all the time, not at Wildthorn. I fumble for the words to ask her why.

  "I've been dismissed." She says it lightly, but immediately I'm full of guilt.

  "Because of me!"

  She doesn't answer, busies herself tidying my covers.

  "Tell me."

  "They thought I'd helped you to escape."

  "But that's not fair! You didn't."

  "I would've if I could. Saved you sleeping in a pigsty." She laughs.

  But I'm not laughing. "What if they come looking for me? Won't that make more trouble for you?"

  "They've been back since you've been here and Mother sent them packing. They won't come again."

  She sounds very certain. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps they don't trouble themselves about one lunatic more or less. And there are other things to think about besides being captured. "What will happen now?"

  But she won't discuss it. "Wait till you're better."

  ***

  After a few days, I do feel better. Well enough to sit in a chair while Eliza combs through my hair, cutting out the worst tangles, and then washes it and towels it dry. Wonderful to have clean hair at last! Well enough to dress, in clothes borrowed from Eliza, and come out from my alcove and meet some of the family.

  I feel very nervous, but as Mrs. Shaw, in a little flutter of fuss, waves floury hands towards the only chair, I realise she's as nervous as I am and I feel less daunted. I'm introduced to Lily, who stares at me with big eyes, and to curly-haired Arthur, who takes no notice of me at all. Then Eliza and her mother continue with their chores. I offer to help, but Mrs. Shaw won't hear of it.

  "You sit and rest yourself, Miss."

  "Please, call me Louisa."

  She smiles uncertainly and turns back to her mixing bowl.

  Getting up seems to have exhausted me and I feel shaky. Really, I'm glad just to sit and look around me.

  The door is propped open, presumably to let in light and air, as it's warm with the range lit. After the drab uniformity of the Fifth Gallery, the small and sparsely furnished room seems vivid and crowded with things vying for my attention: a rag rug on the clean-swept flagstones; a collection of bright crockery on the mantelpiece; a coloured picture of the Queen cut from a magazine, now somewhat yellowed and curling at the edges; bunches of dried lavender hanging from the beams in the low ceiling.

  In the doorway, the children are playing with some pegs, Lily wrapping them in bits of stuff and walking them about to entertain Arthur, while Mrs. Shaw rolls out pastry at the scrubbed deal table. Out in the scullery, Eliza hums to herself as she peels potatoes.

  The day passes peacefully. After dinner I take a long nap and evening brings Mr. Shaw home from the fields, with Annie and Joe.

  Having washed in the scullery, Eliza's father comes to greet me, his weather-beaten face turning a deeper shade of red, his blue eyes sliding shyly from mine. Annie is hugely excited to see me up—having been the one to find me, she takes a proprietorial interest in me and insists on sitting next to me at the table. After giving me one bold stare, Joe turns his attention to his "taters" and cabbage.

  The family talk as they eat, about the state of the ground, how much barley remains to be sown. I'm not part of this, but I don't mind. I feel comfortable, put at ease by their kindness, their acceptance of me. But then I catch Eliza looking gravely at me, and I wonder what she's thinking. I hope she's not finding it awkward to have me here. Catching my eye, her face breaks into a smile. I smile back, but I feel disturbed now, uneasy.

  ***

  I still have bad dreams from which I wake shivering, but every day I grow stronger.

  Every day I also feel more uncomfortable.

  I'm an extra mouth to feed and it's obvious that there's no money to spare. I don't like treated as a special guest, sitting about while everyone else is busy.

  One useful thing I'm allowed to do is help Eliza with her reading, but really, it's coming on so fast now, she doesn't need any help. Eventually, after much insistence on my part, Mrs. Shaw lets me do light jobs—darning stockings, mending torn pinafores—but she won't let me help with the real work of the household.

  I know this can't go on. I'm also worried about Eliza. I'm sure something's troubling her, but I don't get a chance to speak to her privately—all activities, except for sleeping, happen in this one small room. In a way I'm glad, because until we talk about the future, everything can carry on as it is.

  But one m
orning Mrs. Shaw ladles some porridge into a bowl, and calls in to Eliza, "I'm taking this down to Hetty. I'll see what else needs doing, while I'm there." She explains to me, "Hetty's a neighbour, Miss Cosgrove. Her lad came this morning to say she's poorly."

  As soon as she's gone, Eliza comes from the scullery, drying her wet hands.

  For a moment there's a shyness between us. Outside in the sunshine Lily and Arthur are making mud pies and their chatter floats in through the open door.

  I'm the first to speak, plunging in awkwardly. "Is anything the matter? Only you seem—I don't know—preoccupied with something."

  Eliza's gaze shifts away. "Oh, I've been thinking about what I'm going to do, that's all. But there's no rush."

  I clear my throat. "You know, I'm so grateful to you and your family for what you've done for me. I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you."

  It sounds all wrong—stiff and formal. At Wildthorn we talked easily. What's changed?

  "That's all right. We're glad to help you."

  "But listen, Eliza. We must talk about what I'm going to do."

  She spreads a worn cloth on the table. "Wait till you're right better."

  "You keep saying that. But I am better and we can't keep putting it off. I've been here nearly three weeks now—"

  Ignoring me, she sets the lamp on the cloth and fetches some rags. Removing the glass chimney, she starts to clean off the soot.

  "Are you tired of it here?" Her voice is low, muffled.

  "No!"

  "Only I wondered if you were missing your books ... and clever talk, like."

  "Not at all." How can I tell her how much I don't want to go?

  A silence falls as she rubs away at the glass and I watch her. I remember something I've been meaning to ask her.

  "Did you know Weeks was in the Infirmary? I saw her when I was looking for a way out."

  "I heard the others talking about it. Joking that no one would be able to escape from there now, if she were there. That's what gave me the idea..."

  I smile wryly. What would Weeks think if she knew that, in a roundabout way, she'd helped me to escape...

  Eliza goes on, "No one knew why she were there. They were keeping it hushed up, like."

  "It looked like smallpox to me."

  Eliza raises her eyebrows and I add hastily, "Don't worry, I didn't get too close. She was pretty far gone. I don't think she'll have pulled through."

  "That's a pity. She were a nasty piece of work, but still..."

  "Mmm."

  Eliza fetches a lantern.

  "Shall I do that, while you do something else?"

  "No. Mother will be cross if I let you."

  "Look, this is what I mean. I can't go on sitting about, like some fine lady, while your family feeds me. Especially as you're not working."

  "There's no need to fret about that. Father's paid steady, like, at the moment and Charlie and Florrie, they send most of what they get."

  "But I'm not contributing anything."

  She doesn't answer.

  "I've been thinking. The best thing to do is to write to Aunt Phyllis."

  Her hand freezes in mid-motion, and she looks at me in some alarm. "I wouldn't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "It's just that—" She puts down the lantern and rag. Her expression makes my heart start beating faster. What's she going to say?

  "I'm sorry, I haven't been straight with you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When I told you I'd been dismissed for helping you get out of there, that weren't the real reason—well not the whole of it, anyhow."

  Of course, she was suspended before I escaped. Why hadn't I remembered that? "So why? For coming to visit me?"

  Gnawing her lip, she shakes her head. Then she says, "You wanted to know what the signature was on your papers, so I thought I'd have a go."

  I catch my breath. "You were caught!"

  She nods. "With the papers in my hand—I couldn't find the right place to put them back in the drawer."

  My stomach lurches. "You saw it? The signature?"

  "Yes, and it weren't Thomas Childs—" She swallows.

  For a moment, I can't breathe. I stare at her, paralysed. I manage to say, "Who?"

  She grips the table. "I knew I was going to have to tell you, but I kept putting it off." Eliza fixes her eyes on mine. "It were your aunt, Phyllis Illing—something."

  "Illingworth." As I say the name, a terrible pain spreads through my chest, so bad, I don't think I can bear it. Aunt Phyllis?

  Everything solid is falling away from me, leaving me trembling, giddy. I keep trying to breathe, but the air is too thick ... I can't draw it into my lungs...

  Finally I manage it and the world stops spinning. I just keep thinking, why? Why has she done this?

  And then it comes to me, the only possible explanation. Grace must have told her what I did. Grace told her and she was so appalled, she wanted me locked away. She wanted to keep Grace safe from me.

  A vision of Aunt Phyllis's drawing room presents itself to me: flowers everywhere, painted, embroidered. And me sitting there like a serpent in her Eden.

  Eliza breaks into my thoughts. "Why would she do such a thing? Have you any idea?"

  I close my eyes. I want to tell her, more than anything in the world. But how can I?

  I open my eyes and there she is, looking at me so sympathetically, her blue eyes as honest as the day.

  I can't hold back. Taking a deep breath, I tell her what happened at Carr Head...

  Louisa, my dear."

  I fell into my aunt's arms, tears spilling down my face. After a long hug, I wiped my eyes and she said, "Let me look at you."

  We hadn't seen each other since Papa's funeral.

  "Are you well? You look so pale."

  "Yes. Of course I am." I tried to smile.

  Aunt Phyllis clearly wasn't convinced. "Come and sit by me and tell me how you've been. How is your mother? And have you heard from Tom?"

  I longed to pour everything out to her, all my loneliness and grief and disappointment ... but I thought of Mamma, and I couldn't. It seemed disloyal, but also, my aunt would want to know why I hadn't let her know all this in my letters. I couldn't tell her about Mamma's hostility towards her.

  "Lou?" My aunt was waiting.

  I said something stilted about Mamma still feeling Papa's loss deeply. Tom was—Tom was well. Of course Aunt Phyllis wasn't satisfied with my replies, I could tell. But she said, "We'll talk more later. While you're here, you must have a lovely holiday."

  "Thank you. I'm sure I will." Then, all I cared about—"Where's Grace?"

  Aunt Phyllis smiled. "She'll be down in a moment. Come and see what changes I've made in the house."

  ***

  We were in the conservatory admiring the passionflowers when I heard Grace's light step.

  She took my hand, exclaiming, "How cold you are, Lou! And on such a hot day too." Before I could speak, she laid her face against mine. It was a brief embrace but when she drew away, my cheek burned.

  "I'll leave you two to talk," said Aunt Phyllis. "The men will be home soon."

  The men. William. Remembering Tom's ridiculous idea about me and William, I went hot again.

  As we sat down, it came to me that we were sitting in the very seats we had sat in earlier in the year when she had drawn my portrait. That picture ... It was creased from my constant looking at it, not because I wanted to see myself, but because Grace had drawn it.

  "Do you remember?"

  Grace looked enquiring.

  "We sat here in April and you drew my portrait."

  "Did I? Such a lot has happened since then."

  "Yes it has."

  She was instantly contrite. Leaving her chair, she knelt in front of me. Taking both my hands in hers, she said, "Oh, Lou, how dreadful of me to be thinking only of myself." She looked up at me. "Has it been really awful without poor Uncle Edward?"

  "I'm all right." I couldn't t
ell her the truth.

  "I hope so, truly. And I'm sorry you aren't going to be my bridesmaid now, but I do understand."

  "It's not long now, is it?"

  Grace launched into details of the revised wedding preparations, the trip to Europe that was to follow, the new house in London. Her animation brought a flush to her face and I was glad I hadn't burdened her with my woes. I didn't want to make her unhappy and she was happy, I could see that.

  Eventually, she stood up. "It must be time for tea. We've been having it in the garden, it's still so fine." She went to the garden door and looked out. "Yes, it's there. And so is Charles of course."

  I had the sensation of falling. "Charles?"

  She laughed back at me from the doorway. "Yes, he's always first. He can't resist cake."

  I peered over Grace's shoulder. Charles was sitting at the tea table, napkin already in his lap, looking hopefully towards the house.

  "I didn't know Charles was here."

  She gave a little laugh. "Yes, poor dear. He's bored to death with all the wedding talk. Come and say hello."

  She stepped outside but I hung back.

  "I'd like a wash before tea. I'll come in a minute."

  I watched as Grace ran across the lawn. She sat down next to Charles and their heads moved together, as they spoke.

  I turned away.

  What had I been thinking of? I'd imagined the two of us, Grace and I, walking together, riding perhaps, talking...

  Now, here was Charles. Seeing him again reminded me of the stark reality: Grace really was going to be married, her heart belonged to someone else.

  She would never love me in the way that I loved her. There was no room in her life for me, except her cousin of whom she was fond, whom she would be glad to see now and then, but wouldn't miss, not really, in the intervals between meeting.

  My poor, silly dreams shrivelled, leaving behind a hollow aching space.

  I found the guest room Aunt Phyllis said I was to sleep in, where my things were already laid out on the bed. It was a spacious well-appointed room. But it wasn't Grace's bedroom.

  After I'd washed, avoiding the mirror, I walked down the stairs, along the passage to the back door, across the gravel, to the lawn.