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  "Look, Eliza."

  Behind us is a wild rose in full bloom, its delicate pink flowers trembling slightly, as if, another kind of butterfly, they have just alighted. Breathing in the lovely perfume, I go to pick one, and my thumb brushes against a thorn.

  I remember my first day at Wildthorn, how I stood looking through the gate, longing to escape...

  "Do you realise something? If Aunt Phyllis hadn't sent me to Wildthorn, we'd have never met each other ... Perhaps I should be thanking her, instead of hating her."

  Eliza smiles. "That's true enough."

  I offer her the rose and she takes it, and then we are kissing again, a long lingering kiss...

  With a sigh, I say. "I must go. But, listen, it won't be long before I see you again."

  She frowns.

  "Eliza! I mean it!"

  "But ... what about your studying ... and then you'll be off to London..."

  Now is the moment to ask her, and now I feel sure of her answer. "Look, I don't want to leave you, but I must, for now. But when I go to London, will you come with me?"

  Her eyes widen. "Come with you?"

  "Yes. I'll be sharing a house with other women from the college and you could live with us too."

  "You mean, like a servant?"

  "No! Not a servant! Don't be silly!"

  "What then?"

  I don't know what word to use. "My—my companion." I add hastily, "I don't mean like a paid companion, I mean ... as my true companion, my equal."

  Eliza's eyes are round, staring at me.

  Minutes pass and the trees sigh, as a breeze ruffles their leaves.

  Then she says, "I'm sorry."

  My heart drops to a place I never knew existed.

  She's very earnest, very clear. "That's daft, that is. I can't live with you as your equal. Those other women in your house, they won't like it. And other folk—what will they think?"

  I must say something but my throat has closed up and a drumming in my ears almost drowns out what she's saying, but I hear it clearly, and every word is like a dart piercing the most tender part of me.

  She says, "I won't come to London with you. I can't live with you like that."

  And she's saying more but now I can't hear her because everything at the edge of my vision, the pond, the lilies, the wild rose, the forest, is blurring and all I can see is Eliza getting smaller and smaller and smaller...

  * * *

  EPILOGUE

  The house is unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon.

  Pausing in the middle of writing my letter, I leave my chair to look out of the window, down at the street where nothing is happening, except a cat licking something in the gutter. I look at the bedroom windows of the houses opposite, at the cloud-filled sky. Then I return to my table.

  Papa's pipe-rack, brought down with me to London, rises above the litter of text books and papers; I like having the three wise owls watch over me as I study.

  Patting one on the head, I pick up my pen with a sigh.

  I'm struggling to think what to say to Grace. I've told her all the family news, including the fact that Mamma is glad to have Tom home, although I think she's having a hard time with him. I've told her how much I'm enjoying the classes in pharmacy and anatomy, though the chemistry's more difficult than I expected.

  I could tell her that I've been wondering about specialising in mental diseases...

  For a moment I indulge myself in my favourite daydream, the one where I take charge of a hospital like Wildthorn, only not like Wildthorn, because I see to it that the patients are cared for properly...

  I won't tell her that I'm thinking of going back there to visit Beatrice—I want to see for myself how she is, find out whether I can do anything for her. But Grace doesn't know Beatrice.

  This isn't getting my letter written. When I think of Grace trapped in that house with Charles and baby Richard, I don't think my hopes for the future are going to cheer her up, though she won't begrudge me my happiness, I'm sure.

  She is still estranged from her mother and I can't help feeling sorry for my aunt now. Her efforts to secure Grace's happiness have driven her daughter away ... she is cut off from her grandson ... and what is left to her?

  The door opens and the maid's face appears.

  "Nearly finished."

  She comes in and waits a respectful distance away from the table while I add to my letter, telling my cousin that I hope we can somehow meet soon. I send her all my love and sign the letter.

  With a sigh, I put it aside and turn to the maid.

  "Where is everyone?"

  "Miss Gaskin's out to tea and Miss Lloyd and Miss Summers have gone to the British Museum."

  I can't help it—all thought of Grace flies from my mind. "We've over an hour then."

  I look at the maid and she looks at me. Her face is solemn but her eyes are laughing.

  ***

  We pull our clothes off as fast as we can. The last thing to come off is her housemaid's cap, releasing a tumble of corn-coloured hair.

  When Eliza turns towards me my breath catches in my throat.

  I'm always amazed by her beauty: her creamy white skin, with its faint freckles like a dusting of gold. The first time I saw her naked I was dazzled; I didn't want to take my clothes off because I felt so ugly. But she undid my buttons one by one and her eyes and her mouth and her hands said You are beautiful too, and now, I almost believe her.

  As we climb on to my narrow bed, the springs creak, making us giggle. And we kiss, gently at first, my hands moving over the smooth warm curves of her body, her hands hot on my skin. But then our mouths become fierce, urgent, hungry, and soon we are dancing, my love and I, dancing together in a rhythm that's easy, sweet and easy...

  ***

  Afterwards, we lie quietly, my arm round Eliza, as she rests with her head on my shoulder, her hair spread like a yellow scarf across my chest.

  In a minute I know Eliza will stir and yawn like a cat, showing the pink inside of her mouth. She'll put on her demure dress, her white collar and cuffs and quench her hair with her cap. Then she'll go and put the kettle on. And when the others return, she'll bring the tea tray into the parlour and they won't have the least idea of what is between us.

  Sometimes I can't bear it. I hate pretending all the time, when the others are around ... the way she stands there, saying, Yes, Miss, No, Miss. I want to seize her hand and tell them the truth and never mind the consequences.

  But Eliza's so stubborn. She won't hear of it. She says that this is the way things are, the way they have to be. But I'm stubborn too, and I'm determined that one day we'll live together openly, as equals, in a home of our own.

  In the meantime, we have this.

  She opens her eyes and smiles at me and I smile back. The clouds in the window shift and a stripe of pale wintry sunshine falls across our tangled bodies, linking them with its golden band. And I rest my cheek on her head, knowing that sometimes, this is enough ... more than enough.

  * * *

  Born in Essex, England, Jane Eagland taught English in secondary schools for many years. After receiving her master's in creative writing, she now divides her time between writing and tutoring. Wildthorn is her first novel, inspired by true stories of women who were incarcerated in asylums in the nineteenth century. Jane lives in Lancashire, England.

  Houghton Mifflin

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT

  www.hmhbooks.com

  * * *

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Front

  Part One

  The carriage jolts and splashes along the rutted lanes flooded by the heavy November rains. Through its grimy window, all I can see of the unfamiliar Essex countryside are bare hedgerows, the skeletons of trees, looming out of the morning mist. I shiver and clutch my travelling wrap around me more tightly—the familiar roughness of its wool collar on my neck is comforting.

  Weeks ushers me into a high-ceilinged, narrow room
with a stone floor. It has a row of windows like slits, high up in one wall, and along the opposite wall are shelves stacked with linen. A musty smell pricks my nose, a smell of unwashed clothes and damp.

  As soon as lunch is over, I look for Weeks. I won't stay's here a minute longer. She must take me to the superintendent immediately.

  Our exercise takes place in what Weeks calls the "airing ' court." After the stifling atmosphere of the gallery, it's cold and raw outside and I pull the threadbare cloak I've been given more tightly round me and stand for a moment, breathing in the fresh air.

  After breakfast the following morning, Weeks makes us stand by our beds with Eliza stationed at the door to watch over us. As soon as Weeks goes out, the old woman, Miss Coles, collapses on to her bed, weeping.

  We haven't been out today: rain has been falling continuously. Looking out of the window at the end of the gallery, all I can see are dark clouds and bare trees whipped by the wind, patches of wet leaves on the muddy ground. It's so gloomy the gas jets have been lit already.

  Steam is rising from the surface of the water in the bath. I hunch into myself, but I can't cover my nakedness.

  All night, fear has fluttered under my ribs.

  Drops of rain cling to the windowpane. They gather weight, shift, catch, then slide in a trail down the glass, like tears. I stare beyond the drops. Nothing moves in the desolate park.

  Mr. Sneed has sent for me! At last.

  Eliza is hurrying me back to the gallery. My legs don't seem to belong to me, but they are carrying me along. My breath rasps, my ears ring, my heart hammers to the beat of one question: Why? Why?

  Part Two

  The thumping of the out-of-tune piano and the scraping of the fiddle are giving me a headache. I don't want to be here. But we all have to attend the Christmas dance, whether we want to or not.

  Today, when I enter the day room with the others, a stranger, a man with a shock of ginger hair, is standing by the fireplace talking to Mr. Sneed. The superintendent turns towards us with an insincere smile. "Come in, ladies, come in. Don't be shy."

  After lunch, the room still smells of chemicals, but the photographer has departed. Roberts is poring over our photographs, laid out on the table, and she looks up as we enter.

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

  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.

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

  I'm poised, waiting for my moment.

  Part Three

  Dark. A dank smell.

  Grey now. A faint light.

  I don't know how long I've been in here. The light fades... returns ... they come with the mug and the plate.

  I still feel weak and lethargic, even though I've been trying to eat a little. But I don't feel as lightheaded or confused and my hands aren't shaking as much now.

  I've looked out for Eliza every day, even though I've known it's too soon—she won't have another afternoon off yet. As time passes, I've begun to believe she won't come again. Why would she? I'm not anything to her, just as I wasn't anything to Beatrice, I realise that now.

  I've hidden the Fowler's Solution under my pillow—I don't need it now. Talking to Eliza has given me hope. I've been trying to eat more and I've taken to marching up and down the whole length of the gallery. Each day I can go farther, feel stronger. And I'm looking for ways out of here...

  I can't believe it! Eliza was here only two days ago and here she is again! I see her coming in at the door and Scratton, who's dealing with a screaming patient, puts out a hand as if to detain her. Eliza ignores them both and comes rapidly down the gallery. I'm grinning like an idiot and then I see her face and I go cold.

  I make myself eat as much as I can for supper, draining the bowl of greasy stew, cramming my mouth with bread until my stomach feels tight and uncomfortable.

  I've done it. I'm still alive and I'm in the Infirmary!

  Luckily it's a fairly mild night, but even so I'm shivering, perhaps more from excitement and fear than the shock of being outside in the fresh air. I take a deep breath, smelling damp earth and leaf-mould.

  I am back in the Fifth Gallery and an attendant is prodding me. I groan. I don't want to get up yet—my whole body aches, my shoulder throbs...

  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.

  Louisa, my dear."

  My voice falters into silence. I can't look at Eliza.

  Grace, here in the Shaw's kitchen! A vision in pale blue-grey silk that shimmers like opals, her flounced skirts draped in elegant curves.

  While I've been shut inside, the world has turned green, that fresh lovely green that comes at the very beginning of summer. All along the hedgerow, the may trees are clothed in a froth of white blossom.

  After a while I open my eyes to find Grace watching me. We exchange rueful smiles.

  Feeling numb, I gaze at the trees sliding past.

  Miss Louisa!" Mary positively beams, as she opens the door to me.

  On my way to Tom's lodging, I can't help thinking about the last time I was here.

  Lily and Arthur are in the lane watching for the carriage.

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