Wildthorn Page 5

  We set off, Grace riding beside Papa, me following, with Tom at the back.

  In the park the grass was thick, still shining with dew. Every now and then we rode into the shade under the chestnut trees spreading their candles above us.

  Suddenly Tom's voice was at my ear. "So, Miss Beaky, I suppose you think very highly of yourself. You're not afraid, eh?"

  I pulled a face at him.

  Chevalier dashed his head at Lady, who skittered sideways.

  "Keep away, Tom. Remember what Grace said." I patted Lady.

  "Oh, I can handle Chevalier. You're not the only one who knows how to ride," said Tom. He pulled hard on the reins.

  Chevalier laid his ears back, rolled his eyes and lunged at Lady, nipping her neck. She shied and I lost my balance. The next minute I couldn't help screaming as Lady took off, galloping across the park.

  Bumping up and down in the saddle, I clung to her mane, my teeth rattling. I shut my eyes but that was worse. I opened them again to see a high stone wall looming ahead of me. I hauled on the reins trying to make Lady turn. It was no use. We were at the wall. Lady's neck arched up in front of me, I clutched at her mane, missed, felt myself sliding back then falling, falling, sideways towards the ground that rushed to meet me.

  ***

  "Louisa, Louisa!"

  The voice seemed to come from far away. I opened my eyes. Papa's anxious face was bending over me.

  I didn't want to move. Somewhere under me my wrist began to throb. "It hurts."

  Papa gently raised me into a sitting position. He felt down my legs and arms. When he touched my wrist, I bit my lip hard to stop myself crying out.

  Papa said, "Go back to the house, Tom, and fetch some help. You'd better run. We don't want any more accidents today."

  But Tom didn't seem to hear him. Gnawing his lip, he was staring at me.

  "Tom?" Papa spoke again.

  Tom came to with a start. "Is she badly hurt?" he asked anxiously.

  "I don't think so," said Papa. "But will you hurry?"

  With a last glance at me, Tom sped off.

  Grace appeared, leading Lady, who was still panting. "Is she all right?" she called out, tethering Lady to a tree.

  She knelt beside me. "Lou, I'm sorry. Lady has never done that before. Do you know why she bolted?"

  I hesitated. It was Tom's fault, but I didn't want to sneak on him.

  "No. I don't know what happened."

  A groom arrived and took charge of Chevalier and Midnight. Papa picked me up and carried me back to the house, while Grace and the groom followed behind with the horses.

  Mamma came out to meet us with Aunt Phyllis. When she saw me, she went white. "Oh, Louisa, what have you done?"

  She gave Papa an anxious glance and he said, "She's all right, Amelia. Nothing serious."

  Aunt Phyllis said, "Well, young lady. I hear you've been practising jumping. Next time you must remember to stay with the pony."

  This made me smile but Mamma wailed, "Next time! There will be no next time, it's too dangerous. I've said so all along." She seized Papa's arm. "Edward, I told you—"

  "Hush, Amelia." Papa gently disengaged his arm. "Louisa is not badly hurt, but she needs attending to."

  "I'll help you, then."

  Mamma gave me a wobbly smile, but I said, "I want Aunt Phyllis, and Grace."

  Mamma's smile vanished, her face crumpling.

  I felt a bit guilty, but she'd make too much fuss.

  Papa carried me upstairs and sat me on my bed. While he fetched his bag that always travelled with him, and Grace poured some water into the basin, my aunt helped me out of the riding habit. When she took off the jacket, I winced and tears sprang into my eyes.

  Aunt Phyllis smoothed my hair. "There, darling. It will be all right."

  Papa returned. He examined my wrist. It was puffy and swollen. Papa was trying to be gentle but his slightest touch caused me pain.

  "I think it's fractured," he said. Then seeing the puzzled look on my face, he said, "It means your wrist bone is broken. But because you are young, your bones are pliable. I may be able to push it back into place."

  I blinked at the thought of it.

  Papa said, "It will hurt. Are you ready?"

  I could feel my heart thumping but I nodded. Heroes had to be brave.

  Grace sat on the bed beside me. "Here, Lou, hold on to my hand with your other hand. Hold as tight as you like."

  Papa sat on my other side and put his hands on my wrist. I made myself keep my eyes open because I wanted to see what he did. He pushed hard with both his thumbs. The pain shot, red-hot, up my arm. I shut my eyes and cried out, clutching tight to Grace's hand as if I meant to squeeze it in two.

  "It's all right," Papa said. "It's done." I opened my eyes. I couldn't see anything for tears.

  "Can you let go now, Lou?"

  Grace's face swam into view. I released her hand, which had turned white, and she rubbed the circulation back into it, with a wry smile.

  Papa took a bottle of pink lotion from his bag and wiped some on the swelling. It was cool and smelled of peppermint. Then Aunt Phyllis held a splint against my wrist, while Papa wrapped a bandage tightly round it. Finally he made a sling so my wrist was resting against my chest.

  "That's my brave girl." He kissed my forehead. "Now you must lie down and rest. You've had a bad shock." He nodded at the others.

  I raised my head. "Papa, will I be able to ride again?"

  He exchanged a look with Aunt Phyllis, who laughed. "I expect so. Although it will take a while for your wrist to mend. Now try to rest." They went out, Grace going last and giving me a little wave at the door.

  I relaxed.

  My wrist was very sore but I didn't care. If Papa said I might ride, then Mamma could be ignored.

  I thought about Lady with her soft grey nose and sensitive mouth and imagined I was on her back soaring over hedge after hedge, while Grace applauded.

  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.

  I feel guilty about Miss Gorman—I should have given up the scissors sooner. But it's no good thinking about it ... I must think of myself and how I can get out of here. If I don't see Mr. Sneed soon, and explain this dreadful mistake, I might have to try something else.

  I set off along the gravel path, my eyes darting about, scanning everything, looking for ways to escape. The airing court is square with high walls. Too high to climb over.

  I walk on, passing shuffling figures. An old woman comes to a standstill and calls out, "Oh, help me, do. My legs are turned to glass. They are breaking."

  I feel a pang of pity for her, but what can I do?

  Across the court, a commotion breaks out. A gardener has been digging over a flowerbed, but now one of the patients is tugging at his elbow. Weeks pulls her away. I hear the patient's high voice protesting, "But it's Alfred come to visit me. Let me speak to him."

  Weeks says something to the gardener. He scratches his head, shrugs and pulls his fork from the soil. As he goes past me, I smell a whiff of beer and tobacco.

  At a barred iron gate in the wall, the gardener takes a key from his pocket and unfastens the padlock. I move closer, but he is already through, locking the gate behind him and walking off into the park. He nods at two attendants hurrying towards the building. They don't come to the gate but pass by, ignoring me.

  Without touching it, I examine the padlock. It looks heavy, the clasp as thick as my finger. With a sigh, I stare out through the bars at the khaki-coloured grass, the bare trees. Growing up the wall close by there's an ancient wild briar, its trunk gnarled and twisted. Perhaps it's one of those that gave this house its name. Some of its branches are pressing against the iron bars, as if the thorns themselves are conspiring to hold me in here.

  Despite myself, my e
yes blur with tears.

  A shout makes me look round. A patient with a paper crown on her head is approaching, trailing a shawl from her shoulders. She sweeps me out of her way, waving a piece of paper, and as she passes, she calls out, "A letter from Mamma. Her Majesty is quite well."

  I wipe my eyes and give myself a shake. It's no good giving way: I must be strong. I look round the perimeter, examining the walls carefully; there are no other gates, but the mention of a letter has given me an idea.

  A voice at my ear makes me jump. "You are not walking, Miss Childs."

  It's Weeks, carrying a hand bell by its clapper, so that it makes no noise. She's standing close, too close. Her eyes narrow to splinters. She grasps my wrist. "Be careful, Miss Childs, be very careful. Remember—I'm watching you." Her fingers are like claws of steel. Then as if nothing has happened, she releases me. "It's time to go in now." She moves away from me and starts ringing the bell.

  On the threshold, I stop and take a last breath of air. I can still feel the grip of Weeks's fingers and when I turn my wrist over there are red marks on my skin.

  ***

  After supper I'm relieved to see that it's Eliza supervising us in the washroom. After I've waited at the end of the queue a long time, she beckons me to a vacant sink, stained with a brown deposit. When I turn on the tap, black hairs float up from the outlet pipe.

  What am I doing in a place like this?

  Avoiding the hairs, I cup water in my hands and splash my face. A cold shock.

  As I'm drying myself, Eliza says quietly, "Thank you, Miss, for handing over the scissors. Most patients would've kept them. Then I'd have been in trouble all right."

  I look round. Everyone else has gone. "What would have happened?"

  She shrugs. "Don't know. Weeks would've probably sent me to another gallery."

  "Would you mind that?"

  Her eyes go big. "Of course, Miss. Despite Her Ladyship, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here. "'Cept the First of course but there's small chance of that."

  "Eliza, do you know what's happened to Miss Gorman?"

  She glances towards the door then says in a low voice. "Solitary."

  "Solitary?" I don't understand.

  "Till she calms down."

  "Is she—is she locked in?"

  Eliza nods. "Course."

  I go cold at the thought of it. "Do you know when she might be back?" I feel uncomfortably responsible for what has happened to her.

  Eliza shrugs. "If she comes back."

  Her words send a shiver down my spine. "What do you mean?"

  She looks round before saying in a low voice, "Weeks might not have her back."

  "But where will she go?"

  "To another gallery."

  Be sure to keep your place.

  I've got to get out of here.

  "Eliza, I need to see Mr. Sneed urgently. Is there a way? Weeks won't listen."

  Eliza snorts. "You're wasting your time, talking to her. The best thing to do is to ask Dr. Bull tomorrow."

  "I see. And there's another thing—can you tell me how I can send a letter?"

  "Ask Weeks for paper and an envelope tomorrow. You'll have to pay for it."

  It's all right. The coins are safe in my pocket.

  Eliza leans closer to me and says quietly, "You'd better give me the letter to post."

  We both jump as Weeks's face appears at the door. At the sight of us, she scowls. "Hurry up, Eliza. It's time Miss Childs was in the dormitory."

  ***

  I'm just about to get into bed when Weeks comes with a glass containing a colourless liquid. Before I drink it, I smell it. "Chloral!"

  Weeks's brows lift in surprise, but her black eyes give nothing away.

  It's like recognizing an old friend. Immediately I'm back in Papa's study, hearing his voice: You need to be careful with this one, Louisa, it's a powerful sedative. Four drachms to half a tumbler of water ..." My throat constricts...

  But Weeks is growing impatient. "Take it, Miss Childs," she orders.

  Obediently I swallow the draught down, and Weeks moves on.

  Perhaps it's just as well to have a good night's sleep, ready for my meeting with Dr. Bull.

  I was overcome by shock today, but it will be different tomorrow. I will insist that Dr. Bull arranges for me to see Mr. Sneed. And if that doesn't work, there's always the letter. I'm sure Eliza was warning me not to give it to Weeks to post. But if I ask Weeks for paper, she'll expect a letter. I'll have to work this out.

  Six Years Earlier

  I was on my way from the kitchen, where I'd been to borrow some more things I needed, when I caught my name. I pressed my ear to the dining room door and I heard Mamma say, "I'm worried about Louisa, Edward."

  I heard a "Hmm?" from Papa and I knew he was reading the newspaper.

  "She's getting out of hand."

  I suppressed an "Oh" of outrage. What had I done? Lately I'd been trying very hard to be good.

  "She's untidy, careless, but the worst of it is that she keeps taking things from the kitchen without asking. Cook has been complaining. And I don't know what she does in her room but the result is shocking disorder for poor Mary to clean up. You shouldn't encourage her to do these experiments."

  I held my breath. Would Papa tell me to stop?

  "Why shouldn't I encourage her? She's so keen to learn. You know how eagerly she asks questions and she understands my explanations so readily. You've got admit she shows far more initiative than Tom did at her age. Her incendiary experiments were most enterprising."

  I breathed again. I knew he would understand. These days he made more time for me and he seemed to enjoy our sessions together as much as I did.

  "How can you take it so lightly, Edward! It's a miracle she didn't burn the house down."

  Mamma always exaggerated so. The match had only made a small hole in the oilcloth.

  I was pressing so hard on the door, my ear was beginning to hurt. Swapping to the other ear I heard Mamma say, with a sigh, "I thought having a girl would be a pleasure. And easier, too ... but Louisa's turning into such a tomboy. If she doesn't grow out of it, I'm afraid she might—" Mamma didn't finish her sentence, and I wondered what it was that "I might." But then she said, "Perhaps if she had another little girl to play with, an example to follow, she might learn more becoming ways."

  I gritted my teeth. I wasn't a little girl, I was nearly eleven, which was very nearly grown-up. And I didn't play anymore; I had too many important things to do. Papa had recently given me my very own copy of "Science for Boys" and it was giving me lots of ideas.

  "Perhaps she is too much on her own, now that Tom's away ... I'll speak to Mitchell. He has a daughter about the same age as Lou." Papa's voice was suddenly louder as if he was coming towards the door. I fled upstairs, wondering about this girl. Would she be like Grace? I hoped so.

  ***

  The first thing I noticed about Charlotte Mitchell was her hat: a perfect miniature replica of the pork pie hats, made of felt and trimmed with a feather, that I had seen ladies wear in church. The second thing was her hair which fell to her shoulders in a cascade of perfect blonde ringlets. I couldn't think who she reminded me of and then I remembered the doll Evelina, long since consigned to the dustbin.

  I had asked Mary to show Charlotte to my room when she arrived. I knew that ladies received visitors in their best rooms and as far as I was concerned mine was the best room in the house because it had my own things in it. Mary raised her eyebrows at my request but she complied, even going so far as to announce, "Miss Charlotte, Miss Louisa." Then she spoilt it by biting her lip to stop herself smiling and I had to glare at her.

  Now Charlotte stood just inside the doorway as if wary of venturing farther. I had risen to my feet as I had seen Mamma do when a guest arrived but now I hesitated, not knowing what to do next.

  After some minutes of mutual silence, I remembered my manners. "Would you like to take off your hat? And your gloves?"

&nb
sp; She looked at me as if I had uttered the most shocking suggestion in the world.