Wildthorn (8 page)

"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?"

"She's already in the sewing room, Miss." Susan went out.

Grace stood up, making a rueful face at me. "More fussing. Can you bear it?"

I wasn't going to let Grace know what I really felt. "Of course."

"Thank you. You're a love." And she reached up and kissed my cheek. She'd kissed me many times, but, for some reason, today I felt a sudden heat spread over my face.

Luckily Grace was already on her way out of the room.

***

We found Maud, encased in pink and white satin, looking ecstatic. Aunt Phyllis was watching her younger daughter with a critical frown, while Mrs. Hiddlestone, her mouth full of pins, knelt at Maud's feet.

As soon as she saw us, Maud crowed, "Look at me. Isn't this heavenly? Put yours on, Louisa."

Aunt Phyllis hushed her. "Keep still, darling, or you'll have a crooked hem."

Mrs. Hiddlestone spat the pins into her palm. "Aye, Mrs. Illingworth, you're right there. You don't want to look like a merry-go-round, Miss Maud."

Maud dissolved into giggles.

Aunt Phyllis looked at us in mock despair. "Will you try yours on? Give this child a chance to calm down."

Maud pouted. "No, finish me first. I'll keep still."

She posed like a memorial sculpture causing Mrs. Hiddlestone to shake her head. "Eeh, Miss Maud, you're a mischief." But she resumed her pinning, while Aunt Phyllis helped us into our dresses.

I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. I was transformed into Maud's twin, albeit taller and gawkier. A crow dressed as a bonbon.

I looked away, looked at Grace.

Her bright face, emerging from a cloud of white satin and floating feathers, was like a flower on her slender neck. And again I had the peculiar flipping sensation...

Maud clapped her hands. Aunt Phyllis regarded her elder daughter with an expression of fond pride. Even Mrs. Hiddlestone paused in her work. Folding her arms across her broad chest, she surveyed Grace, before pronouncing, "Aye, I reckon you'll do, lass." Then she looked at me. "Now then, Miss, your turn next?"

Thinking she meant a wedding, I felt my face go red. Aunt Phyllis must have guessed my thought for she said, "Why, Lou, have you a secret sweetheart?"

Everyone laughed and Mrs. Hiddlestone waved her pincushion at me.

I realised my mistake. She only meant it was my turn to have my dress hemmed.

***

Afterwards we all sat in the morning room. It was so different from our dark, suffocating rooms at home; with its walls
papered with a design of pale leaves on a light blue background, it was light and airy. In front of the white marble fireplace stood a screen decorated with irises. Aunt Phyllis's handiwork. She'd even painted violets on the globed shades of the oil lamps.

Grace and my aunt were checking off acceptances against the list of invitations—and a very long list it was. I had a book in my hand, but I wasn't concentrating. I couldn't stop looking at Grace: her small white hands opening and refolding letters, her animated face, her gold-flecked eyes.

It was peculiar but I felt as if I was seeing her properly for the first time ... and she was lovely. It gave me a strange, fizzing sensation around my heart; it wasn't unpleasant, but at the same time I felt unaccountably frightened.

Suddenly Maud, who was idling in the window seat, shrieked, "Grace, Charles is here."

Grace coloured. "Oh no. He mustn't see me like this." She looked perfect to me, but she said, "Run down, Maud, and tell him I'll be down in a minute." They both left the room.

Putting down my book, I hastened to the window. Charles was dismounting. All I could see from this angle was the top of a hat and smart riding clothes. Not enough evidence to prove Grace's claim that he was "wonderfully handsome." The next minute Maud had joined him, talking energetically, and waving her arm at the house. Charles looked up and I shrank back.

Grace had said, "You're sure to like him, Lou." But I felt shy of meeting him. Apart from Tom and my cousin, William, whom I rarely saw, I didn't know any men.

Occasionally, in the holidays, Tom would bring his friends to the house, but I kept out of their way. I once met one in the hallway and afterwards I heard him say, "Was that your sister, Cosgrove? Didn't you say she was something of a bluestocking?" Tom had made some reply I didn't hear and they both laughed.

I hadn't heard the term "bluestocking" before, but I guessed it was an uncomplimentary reference to my interest in learning.

Now I watched as Grace ran to meet Charles and he bent to embrace her. From my angle it looked as though she were being smothered in his arms. Then her face emerged as she raised it for a kiss. My stomach lurched and involuntarily I clenched my hands.

Whatever was the matter with me?

I watched them walk off round to the back of the house, Grace's head at his shoulder, her face turned up to his.

Recently, often when I was supposed to be studying, I'd catch myself thinking about Grace. At night, she visited me in my dreams, a smiling mysterious presence, and I woke up and felt strangely bereft when I realised she wasn't with me.

Now it was coming home to me what her marriage meant. Although we only met now and then, in future it just wouldn't be the same. It was as if she was travelling away from me—I was losing her.

I jumped as my aunt put her arm round me. "Don't fret, Lou. Your turn will come."

Pulling away, I blurted abruptly, "I'm not fretting, Aunt. I don't want to be married." I blushed. What on earth had made me say that?

But as I thought about it, I realised it was true. In my plans for the future I'd never included a husband.

My aunt smiled indulgently. "You used to say that when you were a little girl. You're still young, but one day—"

I cut in. "I'm sixteen. I'm not a child any more. I know what I want and it's not marriage."

I was sorry immediately. I hadn't meant to be so sharp. My aunt stepped back, obviously disconcerted. She smiled tentatively and said, "But—how would you be happy without a husband or children to care for?"

I thought about this. I had a sudden vision of Mamma, with a furrowed brow, discussing mutton with Mary; the slow ticking of the clock in the airless parlour as she dusted the heavy dark furniture; endless afternoons spent visiting...

I said, "I should think it would be boring, spending your day fretting about tradesmen and laundry and meals, looking after small children and waiting for your husband to come home."

My aunt laughed and relaxed. "That does sound boring. But if you're lucky in your husband, as I'm sure you will be, you'll have servants to do that for you, and you may please yourself."

I didn't want to hurt her feelings—it was her own life she was describing—but I knew I wouldn't be satisfied. I wanted more than to fill my house with pretty, useless things, like the ones around us: pictures made from seaweed, boxes covered in shells, flowers made from feathers.

I chose my words carefully. "I want to be useful."

Aunt Phyllis nodded. "There are many opportunities for charity work."

I blurted out, "I don't want to do charity work. I want to be a doctor!" I stopped. I hadn't meant to tell any one yet.

"A doctor?" She half-laughed but I saw that I'd shocked her again.

"Yes." I spoke with more conviction than I felt. Hearing myself say it, it sounded absurd.

My aunt sighed and patted the sofa. "Come here, my dear."

I went and sat beside her. She regarded me seriously. "I know that some women are taking up nursing as a profession—"

I interrupted. "Yes! Papa has told me all about Florence Nightingale and her work in the Crimea. And I've read about her school for nurses at Saint Thomas's hospital. But—"

My aunt held up her hand. "It's admirable, of course. But those women have few other options, poor things. Whereas you—"

"That's it, exactly. I can choose. And this is what I want."

The more I'd read Papa's books and talked to him about medical matters, the more convinced I was that I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Since I'd found out there was a medical school for women in London, I'd been very excited, but so far I'd kept it to myself. I was sure Papa would like the idea, but I was equally sure Mamma wouldn't, and I didn't know if Papa would let me do something that would upset her.

My aunt was shaking her head. "I'm sure you could do anything you put your mind to. You're such a clever girl ... It's just—you don't need to work at all. It doesn't seem right that you should be thinking of it. You will gain such satisfaction from using your gifts to educate your children and support your husband in his career."

I was shocked. I'd always thought Aunt Phyllis was, like Papa, very open-minded, not stuffy at all. And here she was sounding just like Mamma!

In an effort to convince her, I said, "I've been out with Papa on his rounds and watched him. I've helped him sometimes."

"You haven't!" My aunt's eyebrows shot up.

"Yes. So, you see, I do know—it's what I want to do more than anything else."

Aunt Phyllis rose and went over to the window. She stared out into the garden. "Oh, Edward," she said, half to herself, shaking her head regretfully. Turning back to me she said, "You've discussed this with your parents, of course?"

"Um—no," I admitted.

My aunt looked at me gravely. "But you will?"

I sighed. "Yes, I'll talk to them about it when I go home."

***

The candles in their silver holders threw a flickering pattern of light and shadow over us. In a dreamy rhythm, I moved the ivory-backed brush up and down the bright fall of red-gold hair spread over Grace's shoulders.

It seemed just like the old days when we were children, but it wasn't.

For one thing, the nursery was now a young lady's bedroom. Bead-encrusted boxes full of silver necklaces and bracelets lay on the dressing table before us. Crystal bottles and jars glittered in the candlelight. Before we could climb into bed, Grace had to remove quantities of cushions from the lace counterpane.

But the most important thing that had changed, in a way I didn't understand, was me.

I had always been happy, if a little shy, to share Grace's bed, but tonight, sinking into the feather mattress and breathing in the smell of lavender from the linen sheets, I was painfully aware of her body lying next to mine. If I moved a fraction of an inch, we would be touching.
Touching.

I couldn't relax. There was a tension in the pit of my stomach, my skin prickled as if an electric current were running through it, and my heart was beating fast.

To distract myself, I said, "What are you thinking?"

She turned her head towards me. "Mmm?"

I repeated my question.

Grace looked embarrassed. "You'll think I'm silly, but I was just telling myself,
Soon I'll be Mrs. Charles Sedgewick.
"

"Oh." It was all I could manage.

She smiled. "I'm so glad Charles has met you. I want you two to become friends."