Wildthorn Page 8

After a while I looked at the clock. Papa was late. The committee meeting must have overrun as usual. I turned to the letters. The Dean of Saint Thomas's Medical College was justifying his refusal to admit women on the grounds that the arrangements of the medical school were not suited to the reception of female students.

  I threw down the paper in disgust. Then I heard Papa's steps in the hall. He went into the parlour, where Mamma was waiting. I stood up and paced about. Finally, he came in. He went and sat at his desk and looked at me over the top of his spectacles, his eyes red with tiredness. I'd been telling myself that Mamma didn't deserve any consideration, but now I felt a pang of remorse. I shifted my position, waiting for him to speak first.

  "Sit down, Lou."

  I sat in the chair where his patients sat.

  "Now what's all this about? Your mother tells me you were very rude to her this morning."

  This was unfair. I stuck my chin out. "I wasn't rude. I didn't want to go out with Mamma, that's all. I had studying to do. And Mamma said I had to go, she—"

  He held up his hand. "Whatever you feel, you should do what your mother asks, shouldn't you?"

  "But supposing what she asks me to do is unreasonable? Supposing she—"

  His look silenced me. I hung my head.

  He sighed. "You're too old for this now, Lou. You must realise that you can't always have what you want." He gestured at my dress. "You look like a lady—and very elegant too."

  I blushed but he went on, "Now you must learn to behave like one."

  This was too much. He was sounding just like Mamma.

  "But, Papa, I've got so much to learn. I don't want to waste time listening to a lot of ladies talking about—whatever ladies talk about."

  He smiled at this.

  Encouraged, I went on, "I'd much rather come out with you and help you with your patients, like Tom did." I'd envied my brother his two years as Papa's assistant before he started his course.

  His expression changed. "Would you, Lou?"

  "Yes. Mamma doesn't understand. She wants me to be just like her. But I'm not like her, am I?"

  "No, you're not like your mother." He regarded me thoughtfully without saying anything, and then he cleared his throat. "There's something I think you should know—and maybe it will help you understand your mother better."

  I was very curious. What was he going to say?

  "You know, don't you that your mamma lost her mother when she was a little girl?"

  I sighed. That old story again. It was sad but Mamma had been very young. It wasn't as if she'd known her mother.

  "But what you don't know is that Mamma had a brother, Thomas, whom she idolised."

  I stared. This was news.

  "He was twelve, two years older than Mamma, when he died of typhoid."

  "Why haven't I heard of him?"

  Papa shook his head. "Your Mamma has always found it difficult to speak about. I expect she doesn't want to bring back the sad memories. Think how hard it must have been for her growing up with only Grandpapa and the servants for company."

  I was touched. It must have been horrible. I couldn't remember my grandfather: he'd died when I was three, but there was a painting of him hanging in the dining room: a grim-looking old man with a bushy grey beard, like an Old Testament prophet.

  "What was Grandpapa like? Was he as fierce as he looks in his portrait?"

  Papa leant back in his chair. "He wasn't the easiest of men. Hardly surprising—he'd lost his wife and his beloved only son. Luckily, he seemed to like me. And"—he smiled mischievously—"your mamma was pleased I came to help him."

  This part of the story I did know. Mamma was old when Papa arrived, nearly thirty. She must have been very glad to see him. When I was little, I'd imagined Papa breaking into the house like the prince come to rescue the princess. He arrived on white charger and wore a dark green velvet cloak. My imagination had failed when I tried to picture Mamma as the princess...

  Now it was something else that interested me. "What was it like working with Grandpapa?"

  "By the time I joined the practice, he was ready to retire, so he was mostly happy to let me do things my way." Papa laughed. "We did have one or two fallings out—mainly over the wealthy women who fancied themselves ill when there was nothing wrong with them. I didn't have the time or patience to attend to them. They soon found themselves other doctors."

  I laughed too. I could just imagine it.

  Papa went on, "Your grandfather forgave me eventually. And he was delighted when we had our Tom. He had expected his son to be a doctor so he was glad he had a grandson to carry on the family tradition."

  "Is that why he left Tom a legacy for medical training?" I couldn't help the note of jealousy creeping into my voice.

  But Papa didn't seem to notice. "Yes, I'm sure."

  It was becoming clearer to me why Mamma always favoured Tom. It made sense but it still wasn't right.

  Papa's expression was serious now. "I want you to realise that, until she had Tom, poor Mamma had a difficult life with Grandpapa. I think she felt that, being a girl, whatever she did, she would always be a disappointment to him, that she could never make up for the loss of her brother. And your grandpapa had very rigid ideas about girls' behaviour."

  I could see what Papa was implying, that Mamma couldn't help treating me the way she did. But it still didn't seem fair. Just because Grandpapa had given Mamma a hard time, I didn't see why I had to suffer.

  Papa said, "Try to see it from her point of view. She's doing her best."

  I gave him a pleading look. "I can see that. But I still don't understand why I have to go visiting. I don't have to, do I? I'll tell Mamma I'm sorry, but I need to study. She can't make me go, can she?"

  He shook his head. "No, she can't make you. But I'm asking you to do it."

  I stared at him. "But—"

  "No, listen, Lou. You have plenty of time in your day for study. And Mamma's right: it's not good for you to work too hard. It only means giving up an hour or so to please her. And it's not even every day. That's not much to ask, is it?"

  I looked at his tired face. "No, Papa."

  He smiled. "Good. And as for going out with me on my calls, we'll see. It might be possible for you to assist me when it's appropriate."

  "Appropriate? Oh, Papa, you don't think it's improper for a woman to practise medicine, do you?" I couldn't believe that he did but I wanted to make sure.

  Papa laughed. "I think you are too young for some aspects of the work. And I am certain that some of my patients would think it inappropriate to have you present. But in other cases, you could be of great assistance, certainly handier than Tom, at times."

  I was thrilled. But Papa was taking off his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. He looked pale, drained. Suddenly I felt anxious. "Are you feeling all right, Papa?"

  "Yes. I have a headache, that's all. Now, are you going to speak to your mother?"

  "Yes, Papa." I stood up and kissed his forehead. "I'm sorry to worry you. I'll try to do better."

  He patted my hand. "I know you will."

  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.

  Since Dr. Bull's visit this morning, I've been waiting for the summons from Mr. Sneed. It hasn't come. Gradually during the endless afternoon, my optimism has evaporated. I feel an ache inside.

  Normally at home Mary would be drawing the curtains now and pouring the tea. I wonder what they're doing today. They must know by now that I never arrived at the Woodvilles. Will they have informed the police?

  I hope Mamma is blaming herself for sending me away.

  Eliza emerges from the day room. "All right, Miss?"

  I want to trust her but I don't know if I can.

  "Has there been any message for me from Mr. Sneed?"


  "No, Miss." She pulls a face. "Sorry."

  I can't wait any longer. If Eliza will post the letter for me today, I could be free by the day after tomorrow at the latest—that won't be so bad.

  I go in search of Weeks. She's not in any of the dormitories or the washroom.

  At the other end of the hallway there's a thin shaft of light from an open door spilling into the corridor. I hesitate. And then I hear a sound that makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. A high-pitched wail, as if someone's heart is breaking. It goes on and on and then subsides into choking sobs.

  Almost without realising, I've drawn nearer that finger of light and then I hear Weeks's voice low and urgent.

  I can't help myself, I have to listen.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself, lying around in bed all day, expecting me to wait on you. Do you think I'm your servant? If you were physically sick, there might be some excuse, but there's nothing wrong with you, is there?"

  The sobbing increases in volume, a hard, hopeless sound.

  Moving as silently as a cat, I edge towards the door. Through the narrow gap I can make out the end of a dressing table, part of a rocking chair, but I can't see anyone.

  Weeks's voice continues, "You might as well dry your tears, Miss Hill. You'll get no sympathy from me. And as for these claims of yours, this nonsense about a baby—you're making this up to get attention, aren't you? Admit it. Admit it."

  My heart is hammering so loudly, I'm surprised she can't hear it. There's no answer, only those dreadful sobs. Clenching my fists, I shift my position, carefully, carefully, a step at a time.

  I glimpse a figure sitting up in bed, a white face, framed by a fall of hair like pale silk. My chest tightens. There's something about Miss Hill, some echo of Grace in the shape of her face...

  My eyes are drawn to Weeks's hands, raised to strike. For a moment they're poised—I hold my breath—then they swoop and seize the girl's thin arms.

  "You will admit it, my lady, before I have done with you." Weeks's eyes are glittering coals. "And-I-am-not-your-servant-do-you-hear?"

  With each word, Weeks gives Miss Hill a hard shake so that her head flops like a rag doll's, then she flings her back on to her pillows, where Miss Hill goes into a kind of spasm, shuddering and choking, her eyes bulging, her face turning red.

  I'm trembling myself. This is outrageous!

  Weeks stands, hands on hips. She speaks calmly, as if nothing exceptional is happening. "Convulsions, is it now? Another of your fine tricks."

  Taking the jug from the washstand, she pours water over the girl's head, then, as her victim splutters, she seizes a towel and slaps her about the face and neck with it.

  Perhaps I move without realising. At any rate a floorboard creaks, and Weeks looks towards the door.

  At the sight of me, her face darkens. She launches herself forward and for a moment I think she's going to hit me but, instead, she propels me out of the room. "What are you doing, Miss Childs? You're not allowed in here."

  My heart's in my throat but I force myself to meet her eye. "I was looking for you. I wanted to write a letter."

  From the room I hear a kind of sigh. Abruptly Weeks pulls the door to behind her.

  Her eyes bore into me. "How long have you been here?"

  "I've just come from the day room."

  She isn't sure. I hold her gaze. She lets out her breath. "Well, return there now."

  She turns to go back into the room. I'm still shaking, but I'm determined. I try to keep my voice polite. "My letter?"

  She wheels round, frowning. "You must ask after supper. That's the time for writing letters."

  "Right, I see." I make myself sound meek, but my chest is tight, and I want to shout at her, shake her as she shook Miss Hill.

  I'm heading back towards the day room, when Weeks's voice floats after me.

  "Oh, Miss Childs, Dr. Bull said you must have a warm bath, didn't he? Go and wait by the washroom." She goes back into Miss Hill's room and shuts the door.

  Standing outside the washroom door, with only the hissing of the gas jets for company, I relive what I've just seen and heard.

  That girl, Miss Hill, she's nothing like Grace—not really—and yet ... my stomach tightens.

  No, don't think about it ... Think about Miss Hill.

  She doesn't deserve to be treated like that. How can Weeks be so brutal? How is she allowed to be? If Miss Hill were my patient, I would speak to her calmly and quietly, try to find out what's wrong.

  An image comes into my mind of Papa tending to a patient, his big hands gentle, their touch reassuring, healing.

  The ache in my chest starts up again, an ache of longing.

  Papa ... Grace...

  I watch the light fade from the window.

  Seven Months Earlier

  Keep still. I've nearly finished."

  The itch on my nose desperately needed scratching, but I forced my hands to lie still in my lap.

  Grace laughed. "You look like a rabbit."

  "Itch." I tried not to open my mouth too far.

  "You can talk. As long as you don't move."

  I didn't want to talk. I was quite happy to sit and watch Grace's serious face bent over her sketchbook, her hair striped gold and blue from the spring sunshine glowing through the stained glass window. But when she looked up at me, I suddenly felt oddly vulnerable—exposed, somehow, under the directness of her gaze.

  I told myself it was only that she was seeing me with an artist's eye.

  We were in the conservatory, my favourite place at Carr Head, apart from the library. It was peaceful to sit with Grace amongst the ferns, breathing in the scent of the camellias and hearing the musical splash of water from the dolphin fountain.

  Grace broke the silence. "I expect you're sorry we dragged you away from your studies. All this must be an awful bore for you."

  "No, I'm glad you asked me."

  This was only partly true. The thought of being a bridesmaid at Grace's wedding alarmed me, but I was very happy to see my cousin again.

  Now that I was old enough to come on my own, I tried to visit at least twice a year. On this occasion, discussions, decisions, preparations for the wedding had occupied nearly every minute since I'd arrived. I missed the evenings we usually had, when Grace played the piano and sang, her light, melodious voice sending shivers down my spine. But there were moments like this when Grace and I were alone together, and then I was truly glad I'd come.

  "Finished! You can move now."

  I jumped up and went to look over her shoulder, smelling the soft fragrance of her lily-of-the-valley perfume.

  "What do you think?" Grace turned her head to look up at me. I focused on the sketch. A serious girl with a determined chin and intense eyes stared out at me, but Grace had made my nose look smaller than it really was.

  I was distracted by Grace's hand, holding the drawing: on the inside of her wrist, a tracery of blue veins showed through the delicate skin.

  With a start I realised she was still waiting for my answer.

  "That doesn't look like me. Too flattering."

  "I don't think so."

  Her steady regard embarrassed me. I poked the drawing. "My nose is bigger than that, and that noble brow you've given me—that's not accurate."

  Grace smiled. "Maybe I've exaggerated a bit. Artistic license or ineptitude—I'm not sure which."

  "Not ineptitude. Look at the way you've done the wickerwork of the chair. I hope Charles appreciates you."

  I was only half-joking. I hadn't met Grace's fiancé yet, but I'd already decided he couldn't possibly be good enough for her.

  Grace blushed. "Oh yes. Charles is well aware of what an accomplished wife he'll have." A faraway look came into her eyes. "Dear Charles..."

  Something seemed to flip over behind my rib cage.

  The parlour maid appeared. "Mrs. Hiddlestone is here, Miss Illingworth."

  "Thank you, Susan. Does my sister know?"