Wildthorn Page 4

  "Thou shalt not steal?" I ventured.

  "Yes, and what else?"

  I shrugged.

  Mamma sighed. "You've also coveted what was not yours."

  This wasn't true. I'd much rather have had my pear drops.

  "And you have disobeyed me, for I made it quite clear when you were allowed to eat those sweets. 'Honour thy father and mother.'"

  I could tell from her tone that this was the worst crime.

  I shuffled my feet. "I'm sorry, Mamma."

  Her face softened a little. "Well, at least you're showing some remorse. But you know you will have to be punished, Louisa. You are old enough to know better now."

  A small worm of anxiety uncurled in my stomach.

  She went over to her writing desk, opened the drawer, and took out a thin cane.

  Cold fingers ran down my spine. Mamma had never used the cane on me.

  "Please, Mamma. I am sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise."

  "I am glad to hear you say that, Louisa." She looked at me sorrowfully and shook her head. "I don't want to do this, but you must be taught a lesson. Hold out your hand."

  My hand trembled as I held it out to her, keeping my eyes fixed on the lithe thing quivering in her hand.

  She raised the cane and brought it swiftly down. My hand flared with sudden heat. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I bit my lip, to stop myself from crying out.

  I looked up at Mamma and her face was tight, as if something was hurting her too, but she still raised the cane again.

  This stroke stung into the previous one. Instinctively I thrust my hand under my arm to deaden the pain. Through the blur of my tears, I saw Mamma putting the cane away. Furtively, I examined my hand. Two pink weals crossed on my palm.

  Mamma took something from her pocket. "I want you to put these in the kitchen range now." Her voice sounded funny, not as firm as usual.

  She placed a crumpled paper bag in my uninjured hand. My pear drops.

  We went to the kitchen together, and Mamma watched while I threw my treasure on to the flames. Then she took me upstairs and helped me to undress, as I couldn't have managed one-handed.

  Once I was ready for bed, Mamma produced a brown bottle and my stomach contracted. Rhubarb and soda. She was assuming I'd eaten all the missing acid drops, not just one, and needed a dose of purgative!

  Tom must have eaten the rest. And I was the one being punished. It wasn't fair. But it was no good telling Mamma—she'd believe Tom, not me.

  Mamma made me swallow a large mouthful of the horrid pink stuff. I gagged as it slid down. Then she stood over me while I knelt to say my prayers.

  "I want you to say this today, Louisa. 'Wash me clean of my guilt, purify me from my sins.'"

  I bowed my head.

  "Oh Lord, wash me clean of my guilt..."

  "Purify."

  "Purify me from my sins. Bless dearest Papa and Mamma."

  "You forgot Tom."

  I hesitated. Mamma frowned. "—and Tom. Amen."

  When Mamma carried the candle away, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

  It was all Tom's fault. He needn't have told. Especially when he ate the sweets and I didn't.

  And Mamma didn't love me. Would she tell Aunt Phyllis what I had done? Would Grace find out? She would think so badly of me.

  I hugged Annabel to me and wept until her cloth face was soaked with my tears.

  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.

  I find her in the day room, where a few women are already engaged in embroidery or sewing; most are doing nothing, staring into space, withdrawn into themselves.

  "What would you like to do? We have embroidery silks, or perhaps you'd prefer watercolours?" Weeks is waiting by a tall cabinet, its bottom doors open.

  This is absurd. I'm not going to waste time behaving as if I was at some ladies' sewing circle.

  "I want to see Mr. Sneed. I'd like you to take me to him now."

  "That's not possible."

  "Why not?"

  She doesn't answer. Her black eyes glitter, seeming to say: Just try to defy me.

  I can feel protest stirring inside me. This is so unjust. How can she simply ignore me?

  But then it hits me like a blow.

  The more I argue, the more they'll be convinced that I'm Lucy Childs, that mad girl. I must try to stay calm and prove to them that I'm rational, that I shouldn't be here.

  Weeks continues as if I haven't spoken. "What occupation would you like?" She's beginning to sound testy.

  If I have to stay here a little longer, I might as well do something to pass the time. But I can't see any harm in telling the truth. "I'm useless at painting and I can't understand the point of embroidery. It's a waste of time." Nothing mad about that. I look Weeks in the eye.

  Tutting, she snatches up a length of material from a pile. "Well in that case, you'd better make yourself useful and mend this sheet." She shows me the split in the middle, where it's thin. "You have to cut this in half—"

  "I know."

  I don't need to be told what to do. Mamma taught me how to cut a worn sheet in two, put the sides to the middle, and stitch it up again. I had to do this and other tedious tasks while Tom was allowed to play. Tom. Perhaps even now Mrs. Woodville is writing to ask him why I haven't arrived...

  Weeks thrusts the sheet into my arms, with a sour expression. "Oh, well, if you know, you don't need me to tell you, do you?" As she gives me a pair of scissors, her eyes narrow. "Make sure you hand them back to me when you've finished with them."

  Mechanically I start to divide the sheet.

  I've got to get out of here soon. When they hear from the Woodvilles, what will they feel at home? I know we parted on bad terms, but they'll be worried. They'll all think something awful has happened to me. And they'll be right. But it'll never occur to them that I'm somewhere like this.

  I look about me, seeing things I didn't notice this morning: heavy drapes at the windows; a piano in the corner, with some tattered sheets of music on it. A piano...

  A face flashes before me, a fall of red-gold hair.

  No, don't think about her. Look at the room: china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, a canary singing in a cage. Homely things.

  But this isn't a home. The shadows of bars fall across the carpet.

  "An asylum for the insane."

  But I'm not insane. So why am I here?

  It's a terrible mistake. But as soon as I can speak to Mr. Sneed, it'll be cleared up and I can leave.

  The door bursts open and a girl wearing the blue attendant's uniform rushes in, breathless and red in the face as if she's been running.

  "You're very late, Eliza," Weeks barks.

  The girl goes to speak but Weeks silences her with a wave of her hand. "No excuses. If it happens again, I shall tell Matron."

  The girl, Eliza, gnaws her lip. She doesn't look very contrite.

  She goes over to the table where an old woman with her grey hair trailing over her shoulders like a child's, is sitting staring vacantly.

  Eliza starts encouraging the woman to sort beads into their different colours. The old woman keeps sighing and wringing her hands but she finally achieves this simple task and Eliza claps her hands saying, "There now, look how clever you are."

  Weeks glowers across the room. "Too much noise, Eliza. Come and supervise the sewing. And straighten your collar."

  Eliza chews her lip again and frowns, grudgingly adjusting her collar as she changes places with Weeks. She seems about my age and hers is the first cheerful face I've seen here.

  But it doesn't matter what the staff are like. I shan't be here much longer.

  ***

  The shadow of the bars has crept into my lap when Weeks looks at her watch and says, "It's time for your exercise now."

  We can't go till the other attendant, Eliza, has counted the scissors. She frowns, glances at Weeks, who is pu
tting the beads away, and counts again.

  "What's the matter?" Weeks's voice is quiet, chilling.

  "There's a pair of scissors missing."

  Weeks is across the room in a second.

  "How could you have let this happen! You're so careless."

  A flush creeps up Eliza's neck.

  Weeks interrogates each of us in turn. With each denial, her expression hardens.

  "Have you taken the scissors, Miss Gorman?"

  Miss Gorman's face turns white then pink, her eyes blink rapidly. She seems unable to speak.

  Weeks barks, "Don't deny it. I see your guilt. Give them to me at once."

  I can't watch this. I look down and there's the glint of the scissors lying half-hidden under a chair.

  They could be useful, but dare I?

  For a second I hold my breath, then I cover them with my foot. No one has seen me; they're all looking at Weeks.

  Miss Gorman's mouth is a frozen "o." Weeks puts out her hand and Miss Gorman shrieks, a tearing sound that jangles my nerves. She starts darting round the room, bumping into furniture, uttering wild cries, like a trapped bird trying to escape.

  Eliza goes after her, catches hold of her and then puts her arms right around her. For a moment they struggle, then Miss Gorman sinks to the ground.

  "There now, see what your carelessness has led to," Weeks hisses at Eliza as she tugs on the bell-pull.

  We stand round watching Miss Gorman, who gibbers and jerks like a puppet whose strings have tangled. Eliza chews her finger, looking miserable.

  I can't bear it. "The scissors are here, look. They fell on the floor."

  Weeks swings round. Her black eyes narrow suspiciously. "You hid them."

  My legs are shaking, but I make myself look her in the eye. "I didn't. I found them."

  At that moment the door opens and another attendant comes in, diverting Weeks's attention.

  She makes Eliza and the other attendant haul Miss Gorman to her feet and they half-carry her from the room.

  After locking the cabinet, Weeks turns back to me, fixing me with her black eyes. "Mind yourself, Miss Childs. You think you're so clever, but I shall be watching you from now on."

  Eight Years Earlier

  "Keep your hands relaxed. Don't pull on the reins." Papa's instructions floated across the paddock from where he sat on Midnight, Uncle Bertram's black hunter.

  We were staying at Carr Head again. About once a year Aunt Phyllis managed to persuade Papa to leave his patients in the care of another doctor, and take a brief holiday. To entertain us, she organised various excursions: this time we had enjoyed a boat trip on the river and a picnic on the moors. But today we were staying at home and it was the best day of all.

  When Aunt Phyllis had proposed riding for this morning, Mamma had tightened her lips. But she hadn't said anything.

  Later I'd heard her arguing with Papa: she thought it was too dangerous and I certainly mustn't ride, it was unladylike.

  But Papa had said, "Lou has as much spirit as her brothers, if not more. Why should she be thwarted?" Then he'd said, "Don't worry, they won't come to any harm."

  Mamma never seemed happy when we stayed at Carr Head and briefly I wondered why. But then I forgot all about Mamma as Lady, the dapple-grey pony, moved easily beneath me, and I relaxed into her walk, breathing in the warmth of her coat, the smell of leather, aware of Grace watching from the fence.

  I was always a little shy of her, but this holiday, even more so. She was nearly twelve now, only three years older than me, but in her dark green riding habit my cousin seemed elegant, grown-up. She had a new mysterious way of smiling, as if she knew things I didn't. It made her look beautiful, like the princess in Hans Andersen's story about the wild swans.

  I sat up straighter, hoping she would notice me and approve of my seat.

  Behind her stretched the park, an expanse of grass, dotted with sheep and toffee-coloured cows. It was much nicer than the paddock, churned by hooves, but it didn't belong to Uncle Bertram.

  "Sit up straight, Tom. You look like a sack of coal. See how Lou is sitting beautifully upright."

  I flushed at Papa's praise but Tom scowled. He glanced across at Grace and I couldn't help sympathising—I'd hate to be shown up in front of my cousin.

  Tom was riding Chevalier, who belonged to Grace's brother, William. When I'd referred to the horse as "brown," Tom had explained, with that new superior manner he had nowadays, that Chevalier was a bay, because he had a black mane and tail. He was rather big for Tom. Grace had warned Tom to keep Chevalier away from the other horses because he could be aggressive and would bite if he got the chance.

  Tom seemed to be heeding her: he was keeping Chevalier several feet away from Lady but he hissed across the gap, "There's no need to look so pleased with yourself, Miss Smug-Boots. Just because you're Papa's pet."

  Mindful of Grace, for once I didn't retaliate, but I wished Tom would be more agreeable. These days he seemed so distant, as if now that he was almost thirteen and going away to school soon, I was beneath his notice.

  I sighed, thinking enviously of Tom's new box of mathematical instruments—the shiny compasses, and the folding ruler, that fitted so neatly into their red velvet grooves. They seemed like keys to an exciting world, from which I was shut out.

  I sighed again and then put it out of my mind—it was a lovely day and I was determined to enjoy myself.

  Still keeping my back straight, I glanced down at the riding habit Grace had lent me. It was her old one, too big for me, but I felt very proud. In my borrowed gloves and hat, I almost looked like a proper horsewoman. I would never look like my cousin though.

  Every night before we went to sleep, she let me brush her long tawny hair; it was fine and smooth, unlike my dark tangle. Then we'd curl up together in Grace's big bed, "snuggling" Grace called it, and talk.

  The night before Grace had been telling me about William, who was away at school. He wrote her letters all the time. I couldn't imagine Tom bothering.

  William was going to take over Uncle Bertram's business one day.

  "Should you like to do that?" I'd asked.

  Grace had laughed. "Of course not. I shall be a lady like Mamma. I'll marry a handsome man like Papa and have a big house with servants to do all the work. We'll have lots of children and horses and dogs. What about you, Lou?"

  This was easy.

  "I'm going to be a hero." I had been sneakily reading one of Tom's books, Every Boy's Book of Heroes. "I wouldn't mind being an explorer and discovering a new country no one else has ever seen before. But what I'd really like is to be a scientist and discover a cure for—for typhoid or diphtheria." These were some of the illnesses I'd discussed with Papa.

  Beside me in the dark, Grace had giggled. "Oh, Lou, you are funny. You can't be a hero."

  "Why not?

  "Because only men are heroes."

  I puzzled about this a long time. I was a bit bothered that Grace thought it was a funny idea. Why couldn't ladies be heroes? Perhaps they didn't want to be. In that case it was simple. Just before I fell asleep I made a decision. "I will be the first lady hero."

  Papa's voice broke into my musings.

  "Are you ready to try trotting?"

  "Yes, Papa."

  Papa smiled his approval at me. "Tom?"

  My brother nodded and we set off at a faster pace.

  "Remember to rise with the motion."

  Once I managed to adjust to Lady's rhythm, I loved it. I was riding, really riding.

  After a while Papa stopped and said, "Have you had enough?"

  "Oh no, Papa, not yet," I said.

  Tom narrowed his eyes at me. But he said, "I'd like to carry on, Papa."

  "I'll join you," said Grace leading her pony, Shadow, forward. Before Papa could help her, she was in Shadow's saddle, laughing. "Why don't we ride into the park? Squire Chilsey won't mind. And Tom and Lou are more confident now."

  Papa looked dubious, but I said, "Please,
Papa," and he gave in.