Wildthorn Read online

  "Mamma says it's the mark of the truly genteel lady that she never removes her hat and gloves in company."

  I stared at her in amazement. I'd never heard anything so silly. And I was already tired of playing at ladies and wanted to do something interesting. A hat and gloves could only get in the way. But I knew one had to make a guest feel comfortable so I didn't say anything.

  I thought she would like to see my treasures, and I started with my most precious possession, a gift from Grace, in pride of place on my chest of drawers.

  She stared in incomprehension. "Why did your cousin give you a ship?"

  I thought it was obvious. This creation in blue and white glass seemed like a miracle to me. "Look how delicate it is—the ropes are as fine as hairs. The pennant seems to be flying in the wind and see, there are even tiny sailors in the rigging."

  Charlotte shrugged. "Ships are for boys."

  I searched about the room for something else to show her. "This is Annabel."

  She gave poor Annabel one disdainful glance. "Is she your only doll?"

  I frowned—Annabel wasn't a doll—she was my companion, my confidante.

  Charlotte tossed her ringlets. "I have ten dolls and four sets of dolls' chairs and tables and five little china tea sets and a doll's house this big." She raised one gloved hand to shoulder height.

  She was obviously proud of these things so I tried to look impressed.

  Searching for something to impress her in my turn, I said, "Would you like to see my collection?"

  This seemed to provoke a spark of interest. "Oh do you have a collection? I have three drawers of shells my sister gave me."

  I thought the whole point of collecting was that you did it yourself, but it seemed rude to say this so I didn't. "My collection isn't one thing—it's more of a variety," I explained, rummaging under the bed for the box.

  Smoothing her skirts, Charlotte sat down on the bed and I proceeded to lay out my collection on the counterpane: beginning with a handful of leaves I had picked up because I liked their colour and shape. The original reds and golds had faded now, but I liked to trace the pattern of veins and to hear their crisp rustle. I had five big shiny conkers from the tree down the street, several feathers from different kinds of birds, and a dead beetle in a matchbox. I couldn't tell what Charlotte was thinking. She regarded everything with a small frown but she shuddered at the beetle.

  I had saved the best till last and brought it forth with a flourish. "And this is my mouse!"

  Charlotte's reaction was disappointing. She shrieked and put her hands to her mouth.

  "Don't worry, it's dead," I reassured her. "And it's not rotting because it's in formalin. Papa showed me how to do it." I regarded the contents of the glass jar fondly.

  "Take it away. It's disgusting. Ugh, I'm going to be sick."

  I was disconcerted. "But look, you can see everything—the pink lining inside its ears and its little claws."

  Charlotte wailed.

  I obviously wasn't going to be able to interest her in the finer points of my specimen so I put it back in the box, together with the rest of my collection, and stowed it under the bed.

  Charlotte leapt up as if she'd been stung.

  I tried not to let my exasperation show. I knew from observing Mamma that a polite hostess hid her true feelings from her guests, but I was finding it very hard indeed. Charlotte wasn't anything like Grace. The long afternoon stretched before us interminably.

  But then I noticed her legs, and I cheered up. Surely this would interest her. "I see you're wearing green stockings."

  She looked affronted. "That's a very personal remark. Why do you comment?"

  "Would you like me to test them for arsenic?"

  "What?"

  "Arsenic. Green clothes often have it in them. It's quite easy to test for it, Papa showed me how." I felt under the bed again and pulled out the old case I kept my equipment in.

  I took a phial from it and removed the stopper. My eyes immediately started watering but I pressed on. "What you do is drop liquid ammonia on the stocking and if they've used arsenite of copper for the green colour, it turns blue. Isn't that exciting! It means your stocking is poisonous."

  I held out the phial towards Charlotte. "Do you want to have a go?"

  She backed away, staring at me with eyes as round as pennies. Then she let out a sigh, as if she had been holding her breath. In a voice as small as a pin she said, "I think I would like to go home now."

  Glee filled me at her words.

  "All right. I'll go and ask Mamma."

  As I went towards the door, Charlotte shrank away from me, pressing herself against the wall, as if she was frightened of me.

  Well, I didn't care. As long as I could continue with my experiments, which Papa approved of, I didn't care what Charlotte Mitchell or anyone else thought of me.

  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.

  Eliza has been peeping out of the door.

  Suddenly she announces, "Ladies, Dr. Bull is coming."

  Everyone stands to attention. Even Miss Coles, red-eyed, hauls herself up from the bed. A procession enters the room: an imposing woman who must be the matron, followed by the doctor, then Weeks, who is carrying a set of document files. They halt at the bed opposite mine.

  This is wrong.

  We should be able to talk to the doctor in private.

  But I will speak. I must speak. The doctor will listen to me and soon I'll be leaving.

  Dr. Bull is nothing like Papa. He is young with bushy side-whiskers and black hair gleaming with macassar oil; his parting looks as though it has been drawn with a ruler. An expanse of white linen cuff extends beyond his coat sleeve and he carries a large shiny leather bag. His appearance suggests he thinks a lot of himself.

  But he is a doctor; it may be all right.

  The matron announces the first patient's name. "Mrs. Thorpe."

  Without greeting Mrs. Thorpe, the doctor makes a quick check of her tongue and pulse. Then he turns to the matron.

  She reports that Mrs. Thorpe is eating and sleeping well, is in good health, and behaves in a quiet and orderly manner.

  How does she know all this?

  I suppose she gets her information from Weeks. She doesn't tell him that Mrs. Thorpe makes baby clothes all the time for the baby she isn't going to have. I heard Weeks telling Eliza about her. But maybe the doctor knows already. He doesn't ask any questions. Mrs. Thorpe doesn't say anything. She clasps her hands in front of her and keeps her eyes on the floor. Only the matron speaks.

  "Continue with the treatment?"

  Like an echo, Dr. Bull agrees. "Continue with the treatment."

  He moves on. He hasn't asked to look at a file and his bag has stayed shut.

  The pattern is the same at the next bed. I can feel myself tensing with annoyance. These poor people deserve better than this.

  The routine is disturbed when Miss Coles grips the doctor's hand and won't let go. "Oh, Doctor, I'm so sad today. You can't think how miserable I am. It's my own fault I know, I've been so wicked. I deserve to be punished. Don't you think so?"

  The doctor doesn't answer. His face reddens.

  The matron says, sharply, "Let go of the doctor's hand now." And when the hand is reluctantly released, she says to Dr. Bull, "Dover's powder?"

  The doctor coughs and says, "Ah yes, Dover's powder, three times a day." He nods at the matron and they move on.

  It's an opiate, a sedative. They must want to quieten her down.

  Being nearest the door, I'm last. I brace myself as they approach. At that moment Miss Coles darts across the room and falling on her knees, she seizes the doctor's hand again and cries out piteously, "Oh, Doctor, help me."

  My heart goes out to her, but I keep my eyes on Dr. Bull. This is my chance.

  Matron nods at Weeks
who pulls Miss Coles away. "You mustn't bother the doctor." She jerks Miss Coles to her feet and back to her side of the room.

  The doctor tugs at his sleeves clearly embarrassed by this episode. The matron announces, "This is our new resident—ah, Miss Childs?" She looks at Weeks for confirmation and Weeks nods.

  Immediately I say, "Doctor, I am not Miss Childs, I am Louisa Cosgrove. And I shouldn't be here."

  Dr. Bull reacts as if a specimen under his microscope had spoken. He looks at the matron for assistance.

  She frowns at me and says, "Miss Childs arrived yesterday. You will need to examine her. Eliza, take Miss Childs to the examination room."

  "But, Doctor, please listen to me, I—"

  The matron interjects. "Dr. Bull will speak to you in a minute. Now go along with Eliza." She nods towards the door.

  Out in the hallway, I screw up my face and clench my fists with frustration.

  "Why won't anyone listen!"

  After a moment, something touches my arm. "You'd better come, Miss."

  Eliza's freckled face is wary but her warm hand lingers as if she wants to reassure me. Her fingers and the back of her hand are red and raw-looking, like Mary's when she has been scrubbing floors.

  I take a deep breath and compose myself. "Sorry. It's just that I have to see Mr. Sneed. It's very important."

  Eliza nods sympathetically. She points along the hallway to a door next to the entrance. "If you wait there, the doctor will come when he's finished in the other dormitories."

  "Thank you."

  She gives me a quick, surprised look. She's obviously not used to patients speaking to her with normal politeness.

  I nod at her hands. "They look sore."

  Eliza flushes, putting her hands behind her back.

  "Have you tried Fowler's Solution? That might clear it up."

  She looks even more surprised, but her face breaks into a smile. "Thanks. I'll try it."

  I hear a sound. Someone nearby is crying quietly. I remember the keening I heard yesterday when I arrived. "Who is that?"

  "Miss Hill. That's her room. She's always upset, poor thing."

  "She has her own room?"

  "Yes. Her family must have some money 'cos those rooms cost more. Mrs. Smythe's in one—you know, her that reckons she's related to the queen."

  I nod, but I'm not thinking of Mrs. Smythe. Who is paying for me—or rather, Lucy Childs? And if I am here in her place, where is she?

  Eliza clears her throat. "I have to get back, Miss, to watch the others."

  ***

  Alone in the hallway I try the handle of the gallery door. It stays shut.

  I want to beat it with my fists but I stop myself. You must be calm. They must see that you're not mad. Concentrate. This is your chance to escape.

  Dr. Bull approaches, followed by Weeks, who is now carrying one file. It must be mine, or rather, Lucy Childs's. I wonder what it says.

  Unlocking the door for the doctor, Weeks allows him to enter first. He doesn't look at either of us, which is just as well. I can tell from her expression that Weeks doesn't think much of him. She nods at me to enter.

  The room is small, windowless. There's nothing in it apart from an examining couch, a desk, and a chair. Putting down his bag, the doctor sits at the desk and turns to me. "Ah, take a seat on the couch—"

  He seems nervous. Perhaps he is missing the matron's support. Maybe the imposing bag and cuffs are not to show off but to boost his confidence.

  "Now, Miss—"

  "Childs," says Weeks. "Lucy Childs." She hands him the file.

  He is opening it, when I say in a loud, firm voice, "I told you, that isn't my name. I am Louisa Cosgrove. And I'm not meant to be here. There's been a mistake."

  He pauses, glances at Weeks, then turns to read the page of cramped writing I can see inside the folder.

  It suddenly occurs to me—perhaps they're pretending they don't know who I am. Perhaps they're trying to drive me mad.

  I take a deep breath. "I'm not mad, Doctor. You can see that, so—"

  "Just a minute, Miss Childs. I'm reading your notes."

  I glance at Weeks, who's watching me narrowly. Perhaps it's better to play the game for now. Make them see how rational you are.

  "Put out your tongue, Miss Childs."

  Obediently I stick my tongue out and the doctor inspects it. Then he feels my forehead. His hands smell of soap and black hairs curl out from under his cuffs. He takes my pulse, writes.

  If he is trying to find out how mad I am, this won't tell him.

  He takes a stethoscope from his bag. A stethoscope. I catch my breath. It's just like the one I have in my box—my box that they've taken from me. Instantly, I'm back in Papa's study, hearing his voice...

  Dr. Bull misunderstands my reaction. As he unscrews the stethoscope and tips out the contents, he says, "Don't be alarmed, Miss Childs. With the aid of these, I can check the condition of your heart and lungs."

  "I'm not alarmed. I know what those are." I point at each item, naming it. "Stethoscope. Pleximeter. Percussor."

  His mouth drops open. Weeks frowns.

  "You seem very familiar with these instruments, Miss Childs."

  "My father taught me how to use them. He shared a lot of his medical knowledge with me."

  "Oh?" He seems surprised and something else. Disapproving?

  After he has listened to my chest, he makes a brief note, then turns to Weeks. "Have you anything to report?"

  She speaks rapidly, mechanically, Dr. Bull struggling to keep up with his notes. "Miss Childs keeps denying her name. She has been argumentative at times."

  "I haven't!"

  Weeks ignores me. "She has not been eating. She attempted to conceal some scissors."

  "Doctor, that isn't true!"

  But the doctor is sweeping on. "I would like a urine specimen. And has Miss Childs opened her bowels today?"

  This is for me to answer. But Weeks says, "No, and not since she arrived."

  My face goes hot. No privacy, not even in this.

  The doctor turns to me again. "You haven't been eating?"

  "Would you eat that food? It's not fit for pigs."

  He blinks at that and writes something in his notes. "And, um, do you menstruate regularly?"

  I can feel my face flushing again, but I'd better say. They'll find out. "No."

  "When was the last occurrence?"

  "I can't remember." This is true. I can't remember exactly. About six months ago?

  I suddenly go cold with anxiety. What if Dr. Bull gives me a physical examination? His hands are white, like lard.

  But he's pulling out his watch, frowning as he writes some more. Time is running out.

  I take a deep breath. "Doctor, I must speak with you. Alone."

  Startled, he looks at Weeks for help. "I don't think—"

  "Please. I am entitled to a private consultation." I don't know if I am or not, but I say it assertively and I can see him hesitating.

  He makes up his mind. "Very well." He nods at Weeks, who purses her lips, but she goes.

  As soon as the door is shut, I drop my voice. "I have to see Mr. Sneed. I have to explain to him that I shouldn't be here. As I told you, I'm not Lucy Childs."

  "Right." He nods thoughtfully.

  Encouraged by his apparent willingness to listen, I press home my advantage. "Please don't take any notice of Weeks—she's not telling the truth about me." As I say it, the sense of injustice that I've tried to repress, wells up, and I can't help myself. "Do you know, yesterday afternoon, I wanted to read and she said I couldn't. She behaves like a tyrant, making up petty rules—"

  Dr. Bull interrupts me. "You're misjudging Weeks, Miss Childs. She's merely carrying out orders."

  "Orders?"

  "Yes. Mr. Sneed has prescribed a period of rest from reading for you—"

  "But that's absurd!"

  Ignoring my outburst, the doctor continues, "...and I would support him in that recommendatio
n. Excessive study, especially in one of the fair sex, often leads to insanity..."

  I gape at him. I've never heard anything more ridiculous. But he is standing up as if the interview is over.

  "Wait! There's something else about Weeks—she terrorises the patients."

  Instantly his manner changes. "That's a serious charge, Miss Childs. What evidence have you to support it?

  "She—" I falter. What has Weeks done? Nothing obvious. But the other women are scared of her.

  The doctor is waiting. "Well?"

  I look down at the floor.

  He makes another note. By leaning closer I can just make out the words moral derangement.

  I've made a terrible mistake. I must try to save myself.

  I can hear my voice, much too loud. "I'm not mad. You can see I'm not! Why don't you say so?" I can feel the tears rising.

  The doctor looks alarmed. Going to the door, he calls Weeks back in.

  She enters with a suspicious glance at me. Did she hear what I said? But that doesn't matter now. What matters is that the interview is over.

  In a last desperate attempt I say, "Doctor, please, I'm not meant to be here! It's a mistake. Or some plot against me."

  I don't know why I said that but as soon as the words leave my mouth I experience a tremendous jolt.