The Painted Bridge (13 page)

Catherine didn’t understand the handicap with which she was setting out in life. She was unaware of the prejudice she was likely to meet when she did finally decide to go out and about in society more. Perhaps it was for the best.

“Rejoice,”
Emmeline muttered, approaching the closed door. “
This is the day the Lord hath made.”

She prayed often, not from the staunchness of her belief but from its feebleness; she felt that faith must be like good grooming—desirable definitely and achievable possibly, through hard work.

“Catherine! Dear!”

The good humor in her voice sounded forced. Sometimes she wondered whether she feared her own daughter. She pushed open the door without waiting for an answer and walked in. The air was stuffy; dresses were strewn over the backs of chairs and silk shawls lay in puddles on the floor alongside unpaired shoes that looked as if they had been running around independently. Catherine had taken off her wrapper and was lying on the bed on her stomach, dressed in a chemise and a pair of red flannel drawers, a book propped on the pillow.

“What a mess it is in here. Hasn’t Hannah been up?”

“I told her not to.”

Emmeline stepped farther into the room and the loose board creaked under her foot—louder here than when she heard it from underneath, in her own bedroom. She stooped to pick up a stocking, considered whether she might risk sitting on the edge of the bed and decided against it. She would wait for an invitation.

“You didn’t eat your egg. Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well, Mother. I’m reading Mrs. Barrett Browning. Listen to this! ‘Some people always sigh in thanking God.’ Just like Aunt Flo does.”

She laughed and for an instant something in her face looked just as it did when she was five years old. Emmeline smiled.

“I’ve told Cook to make the biscuits you like.”

Catherine repositioned her book but made no response.

“I thought we might pay some calls this morning.”

“You go, Mother. I’m busy.”

Emmeline sighed.

“You can’t let your life slip away, Catty, while you lie in the gloom reading books.”

“This isn’t my life. And don’t call me that.”

“You know your cousins wish to see you. Especially Henry.”

Catherine rolled onto her back and pulled the pillow over her face.

“Stop it, Mother,” she said, her voice stifled by down. She removed the pillow. “If I get married, it will be to a poet. An Italian poet.”

“But we don’t know any Italians.”

Her daughter burst into laughter and Emmeline stood by the glass-fronted bookcase wondering what was funny. She felt rather like crying. She steadied her voice and spoke levelly.

“Darling, I want to pay some calls. I would like you to come with me. I worry about you not seeing anyone your own age. And of course I hope you’ll marry one day but not everything I say is about finding you a husband.”

“All right, Mother,” Catherine said, quietly. “I’ll come down soon.”

Emmeline descended the stairs, one at a time. She felt more tired going down them than she had going up. She straightened her spine, trying to remember her deportment, reached the landing and stopped, leaning both elbows on the banisters. Once, Catherine had loved nothing more than to be by her side. Even at seven, eight years old she used to beg Emmeline to stay with her at night to tell her stories and sing to her. Clung to her limbs with the whole of her fierce strength if she tried to leave her bedroom before she fell asleep.

It was all happening so quickly, Catherine growing up.

Lunch was two thin slices of ham, served with boiled potatoes and a dollop of yellow mustard that made Anna feel as if the top of her head was on fire. There were small burrowings around the heel of the loaf where mice or worse had been feeding on it. The scrape of spoons on china, the coughing and the banging of chair legs on floorboards were louder and more discordant than usual. The pudding, stewed apples still in their bitter, green skins under a white blanket of corn flour, set her teeth on edge.

“No appetite today, Mrs. Palmer? Are the apples too sharp for you?” Talitha Batt was standing by her with a bowl of sugar and a teaspoon in her hand. Anna pushed away her dish.

“I’m not hungry, Miss Batt, thank you all the same.”

Anna was in low spirits. She had delayed writing the letter to Maud Sulten from a belief that when she did, something must happen. She’d thought that even if she provoked Vincent’s wrath she would through Miss Sulten find a way to free herself. Eleven days later, there had been no response. She felt a sharp humiliation every morning as she asked whether any letters had arrived for her and Makepeace shook her head, affecting sympathy while her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Most of the others had left the table for the dayroom. Only Anna and Lizzie Button remained in their places. Mrs. Button seemed oblivious to the fact that lunch was over. She rocked to and fro on her chair next to Anna, muttering about her angels, her arms folded tight over the piece of wood held against her chest. Occasionally, a moan escaped
her. Anna turned to her. She’d been waiting for an opportunity to say something.

“Mrs. Button, I’m sorry for your loss. You have my deepest sympathy.”

Button put both hands in front of her face. “Leave me alone.”

“Mrs. Button, I only wanted to say that I’m so sorry you—”

Button dropped the stick, clamped her hands to her ears, and let out a wail that gave Anna goose pimples along the length of her arms.

“Let me alone, Mrs. Palmer. You know nothing about anything.”

Anna took a mouthful of water and pushed back her chair, her jaw clenched. She made her way into the dayroom and threw herself into the window seat, preparing to endure another interminable afternoon. Was it true what Button said, that she didn’t know about anything? It couldn’t be. But perhaps it was. The photographer doctor had not returned. Maud Sulten had not replied to her letter. Even her own sister made no response to her. She was completely alone.

*   *   *

She became aware of Makepeace standing in front of her.

“Visitor for you, Mrs. Palmer. In the office.” She jerked her eyes to indicate the door that led out of the dayroom and began leading the way toward it. “Come along, please.”

Anna followed on Makepeace’s heels down the stairs, almost tripping on the hem of the woman’s skirt. At the bottom of the stairs, in the short corridor that led to Abse’s office, she couldn’t contain her impatience. She pulled up her skirts and flew past Makepeace, almost falling through the door into the office.

“Where is she? Let me see her. Lou? Oh …” She stopped dead. “It’s you, Vincent.”

He was standing in the very spot from which he’d disappeared, dressed in the same long coat, his hat held over his chest.

“Good morning, Anna.” He took off his gloves and put his hat down on Abse’s desk, balancing it on its brim. “How are you getting along?”

She’d thought that when Vincent came she’d fly to him, kiss his hands, beg him to see reason. But she couldn’t take a single step toward him. She took in his hair, slick with bear’s grease, the fresh tone of his
skin and his air of wary benevolence. He wasn’t suffering from her absence. He didn’t share her anguish.

Her head felt light and hollow. She put out her hands to steady herself and Makepeace stepped forward, propelled her onto a chair.

“Mr. Abse will be here shortly,” she said. “Try not to upset yourself, Mrs. Palmer. The visit should not be a prolonged one, Reverend, if you’ll pardon me for observing. Visits meant to comfort can result in disturbed emotions.”

Anna interrupted her.

“I am dying here, Vincent. You have to take me out of this place.”

Vincent ran his finger along the top of his moustache.

“Come, Anna, please. Don’t exaggerate. A retreat is intended to provide respite for the nerves, not to inflame them.”

“I did not need to retreat anywhere, from anything. You … you tricked me into coming here.”

“Calm yourself, Anna.”

“Don’t tell me to be calm when you’ve taken my life from me. Have you been speaking to my sister? Trying to turn her against me? I’ve written to her again and again and heard nothing.”

Vincent’s air of smugness faltered. He turned to Makepeace.

“Are you the housekeeper? I understood from Dr. Abse that guests were able to remain in seclusion here? Without, er, unwelcome contact with the world outside?”

Makepeace’s face was at war with itself—her mouth opening and closing, waves of unexpressed thoughts passing over her features. She cleared her throat, loudly and at length.

“That’s right, sir,” she said. “I’m the matron. I’ll fetch Mr. Abse.”

Her mind racing, Anna barely heard their exchange. Makepeace left and Anna and Vincent were alone in the room. Vincent walked around it, tipping back his head as he surveyed the highest shelves of ledgers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

“Marvelous collection the doctor has.”

“Vincent, please. Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand.”

“Have you got out for walks much? Wonderful countryside.”

“I’m begging you.” Her voice sounded shrill. She took a deep breath.
“I’ll lose my mind, any woman would. Your own mother would go mad here.”

“‘The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish.’ Please don’t speak about Mother, Anna.”

Abse hurried in.

“Welcome, Reverend. This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought for a moment you were another party of visitors.”

“Good day, Doctor. God bless you.”

Vincent pumped Abse’s hand. Abse walked behind his desk, began shifting the papers around, leafing through piles. Vincent glanced at the door. He wasn’t staying, Anna understood. He had no intention of taking her away. She had the odd feelings in her body that had become familiar at Lake House—an ache in her lungs and a sense of her blood stopping in her veins, with the wrongness of things. She made a low, animal howl.

“You shouldn’t have come, Vincent, if you only intend to go away again and leave me here. Why have you come?”

“My wife appears emotionally excited still, Dr. Abse. I’d hoped to find her more rational.”

“She has made fair progress,” said Abse. “She hasn’t been troubled by any more
visions
.” He pronounced the word with a flourish, turned to her. “Have you, Mrs. Palmer? No boys jumping from rocks or anything of that nature. Eh?”

Anna turned away, feeling the words like slingshot. So Vincent had informed Abse about her visions. She had tried to explain to Vincent before they were married about what she saw. She’d thought he ought to know. Sometimes they came regularly, sometimes there were gaps of a year or more. Waking dreams that she’d had from the time she was a young girl. She’d never thought they were anything to be ashamed of. She thought of them as God speaking to her.

At first, they were always set down on the chalk shore, below the house. Sometimes she waded in the water. Picked and slithered her way over the rock pools or climbed the sheer white cliff in a way she never could in life—surefooted, supported.

Jesus had appeared in the very first one, pulling his boat up out of the waves, His bell-bottom trousers rolled to the knees. The boat was
narrow, painted green, with two wooden benches across the width of it. She’d run to help Him bail the water out of the bottom but found there was none. The boat was dry. Jesus had laughed at her surprise, although not unkindly. He had told her to expect the unexpected. He said He had work for her.

Vincent said it was impossible that Jesus should have laughed.

The study door opened and Makepeace returned with a maid carrying a tea tray that the girl set down on the table, looking nervously about the room. The maid left and Makepeace poured the tea and passed round the cups, while Querios Abse read from a ledger. “Full-blown hysteria on admission. Some lesser episodes since. Emetics have contributed to a slow but steady improvement. Matron has noted a lack of cooperation. Full cure likely to take some time.” He looked up from the ledger with sharp eyes. “It might be wise to think in terms of months rather than weeks, Reverend. We can review your wife’s case in the spring.”

“I see, Doctor.” Vincent was nodding, vigorously, as though he wanted to hear that she should be detained. “Yes, I do see.”

Anna gripped the teacup in the palm of her hand as Abse closed the ledger, opened another.

“I don’t believe that I ever informed the Reverend Palmer that I was a medical doctor although I have long experience with mental affliction. I am a doctor of the school of life. Some extra monies are owing for treatments, Reverend,” she heard him say. “As well as the regular monthly fee.”

Vincent emptied his cup and dabbed at the underside of his moustache with the handkerchief. He was still sweating, the perspiration on his face catching the light. For the first time, his eyes met hers and she saw again the regret in them that she had glimpsed on the day he brought her here. Regret and guilt.

“It’s for the best, Anna. Believe me, it’s for the best.”

“Why didn’t you tell me those men were doctors?”