Wildthorn (9 page)

I thought this unlikely.

Charles had stayed for tea and I was shocked when I went into the drawing room and saw him: he seemed so old, a middle-aged man, not at all the gallant admirer I had imagined from Grace's description. When we were introduced, he nodded at me rather stiffly across the teacups. Afterwards he came across and said, "Grace tells me you're quite a reader."

There was something in his tone I didn't care for. Wanting to make sure he realised I didn't just read novels, I told him what I'd been studying lately. Rather than looking impressed, he frowned and said, "Hmm." Then he took his leave of me and went to sit beside Grace, leaving me struggling with painful feelings I couldn't untangle, except for the knowledge that I felt alarmed. Could my cousin really love
him?

Impulsively I asked, "Do you think you'll be happy?"

Grace smiled. "Yes, I think I shall." A faint pink flush appeared on her cheek.

Unbidden, the diagrams in a section of one of Papa's medical textbooks referring to "the act of sexual congress" appeared in my mind.

The first time I'd come across them, I'd stared at them, fascinated and yet with a creeping feeling of unease. I couldn't imagine the reality represented by the diagrams. And soon
Charles would be occupying my place in bed beside Grace ... my stomach lurched again and I felt slightly sick.

Pushing the thought from my mind, I made myself say, "I'm happy for you then."

Grace leant over me and I felt her lips brush my cheek. "Thank you, Lou. You're a dear. And now we must go to sleep. There's so much to do tomorrow." She turned away from me and blew out the candle. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Soon her breathing deepened into sleep.

I lay still, aware of the warmth of her body beside me, of that strange, sweet feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had the oddest desire to put my arms round her and hold her close. I felt such a longing, a painful, lovely feeling that we might be like this always, that we might never be apart. And suddenly with a hot rush it came to me:
I love Grace, I love her.
In a confused way I knew I didn't just love her as cousins do. This was different, this was ... I felt ...
I felt about her in the way that she felt about Charles!

My heart stopped. Then it sped on, as if I was running a race. I was trembling as if I had a fever and I tried to calm myself, to think, but my thoughts scattered like beads of mercury from a broken thermometer.

I told myself:
It can't be true, it can't.

But even as I was denying it, I knew I was deceiving myself.

***

"What do you think, Lou?"

"Sorry?"

"Should we have salmon
and
lobster?"

It was the next morning. We were all sitting in the morning room and Aunt Phyllis and my cousins were discussing the wedding meal.

I shrugged, trying to smile. But I really didn't feel like smiling. I couldn't stop thinking about Grace—and me.

I kept telling myself that I must be mistaken. Of course I loved Grace, that was natural. We were cousins...

But this was different. This was ... I didn't know what else to name it. This was being
in love.
But how could I be in love with her? If it were true, what did it mean? And what would Grace think of me if she knew?

I'd lain awake for hours, not daring to go to sleep in case I accidentally moved too close to her and gave myself away. Now I felt tired and wretched and the questions wouldn't stop chasing each other round and round in my head.

I dragged my attention back to the conversation.

"We must have jellies, blancmange,
and
fruit tarts." Maud had abandoned her efforts to be grown-up for the moment.

Aunt Phyllis laughed. "You won't be able to eat all those. You'll be sick."

"And don't forget there'll be the cake," Grace put in. She glanced at me, smiling, but I couldn't meet her eyes. What if she saw the truth in mine?

"But there'll be so many people," said Maud. "And it's very
grand
to have a choice."

She put her nose in the air as she said this, and everyone laughed. I joined in but I didn't feel like laughing.

Without warning the door opened and Susan burst in. Her cap was awry and her face was flushed.

"What is it, Susan?" said Aunt Phyllis, with unusual sharpness.

"Oh, Ma'am. It's a telegram. For Miss Louisa."

For a second no one moved or spoke. Then I seized the yellow envelope and with trembling fingers drew out the thin sheet of paper. As I read it, I felt the colour drain from my face.

"What's happened, Lou?" Grace was watching me with concern.

I stood up. "I have to go home immediately. Papa is ill."

There was a general exclamation.

"May I?" Taking the telegram from my hand, Aunt Phyllis scanned it. "Your mother doesn't say what is wrong." She gave me a lopsided smile. "Perhaps it's not so serious. You know your mother."

"Yes. But I must go. I must see how he is."

She nodded. "Of course. Whatever it is, he'll feel better for the sight of you. The maid will pack your things and I'll order the carriage."

***

I left in a confusion of goodbyes. At the last minute Grace thrust something through the carriage window. It was the sketch she'd made of me. "If Uncle Edward is all right, you'll come back again, won't you?"

Her beautiful face was creased with concern and I wanted to jump out of the carriage and bury myself in her arms. But I was also frantic to get home.

We set off. I sat staring at the sketch, but I didn't see it. Was Papa seriously ill? Had Mamma sent for Tom too? Or perhaps she was mistaken and it was a false alarm. Oh, if only it was and I could go back to Carr Head...

In time with the rhythm of the rolling wheels, my mind spun between two desperate poles: Grace, Papa, Grace, Papa.

***

The journey had never seemed so long. We had to stop to change horses, but I wouldn't go into the inn, I didn't want to waste a minute. And I couldn't eat. The coachman stood in the yard to have a bite of bread and a few mouthfuls of ale, then we sped on again.

When I reached home, Mamma met me at the door. She looked pale and the lines on her face were deeper.

"Where's Papa?"

"He's just gone upstairs to fetch something."

I stared at her. "He's not in bed then?"

She shook her head. "He says it's nothing. Just a bilious attack."

"You sent a telegram for a bilious attack!" My voice echoed in the empty space of the hall. I wanted to shake her for dragging me away from Grace, frightening me for nothing.

Mamma sat down on the hall chair as if she was tired. "I'm so worried about him."

"But why? What's the matter?"

Before she could explain Papa appeared on the landing. "Lou? What are you doing home?"

He started down the stairs but I ran up and met him halfway. I hugged him round the waist. Under his jacket, I could hear his heart, a steady, reassuring beat.

He smiled down at me. "I didn't expect you for another week."

"I couldn't stand any more fussing and furbelows." Angry as I was with Mamma, I didn't want to tell Papa about the telegram. That he was at home in the afternoon was unheard of. Perhaps Mamma had good reason to send it.

To change the subject I said, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I'm only feeling a little unwell. And I have been taking things easy."

I shook my head. "You should be lying down. That's what you would tell your patients."

He laughed. "Doctors make the worst patients. It's well known."

"And what are your symptoms?"

He ticked them off on his fingers. "A headache, a touch of diarrhoea, and I don't care for my pipe. Oh, and a disinclination to work. It's probably something I ate." He smiled. "You know how the ladies like to spoil me. It was probably Mrs. Petty's fruit cake. Months old, I expect. And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll read the paper."

He passed me and continued down the stairs. He was moving slowly and holding on to the banister but he was steady. He disappeared into his study.

I felt reassured. Mamma had caused unnecessary alarm and I was about to say so when something in her stiff posture silenced me. She hadn't moved from her seat and, in the dim light, her eyes looked like bruises in the pale oval of her face.

Steam is rising from the surface of the water in the bath. I hunch into myself, but I can't cover my nakedness.

"Stand up straight, Miss Childs." Weeks is thin-lipped.

I don't trust her for a moment. But Eliza is here, standing by the taps, and she gives me an encouraging look.

"But I had a bath yesterday when I arrived."

"This is good for you, Miss." Eliza glances at Weeks and adds in an undertone, "You know, for your monthlies." As if she thinks I might find the subject too indelicate, she mouths the last word. But Weeks has heard.

"Eliza's right—this is the recommended treatment for aymenoria." She stumbles over the last word.

I'm puzzled. I've never heard of this before. And then I realise—"Oh, amenorrhoea."

Weeks scowls. "Hold her arms, Eliza."

It's too late—I should have run. But without my clothes, how could I?

Weeks is holding a canvas strap in her hands. What's it for? My skin crawls. I saw what she did to Miss Hill. What's she going to do to me?

Eliza gives me a rueful look as if she's sorry for what she has to do. I cling to this. Weeks can't do anything bad while Eliza's here.

Swiftly Weeks wraps the strap around my chest, pinning my arms to my side.

"What are you doing?" My voice wobbles.

"Now, Miss Childs, don't make things worse for yourself" She is efficient. She has already put another strap round my thighs and is bending to fasten my ankles together, giving the strap a painful tug before standing up.

She reaches towards me. I can't help it—I jerk away, lurch, lose my balance, and fall. My chin cracks on the stone and hot pain shoots up my jaw. Stunned, I lie still for a moment.

"Miss, are you all right?" Eliza is bending over me.

"Of course she is, Eliza. Don't make a fuss." Weeks's tone is acid.

I feel foolish, lying naked on the cold floor, unable to get up. I explore my mouth gingerly with my tongue. All my teeth are in place but I can taste the metallic tang of blood.

"Let's get this done."

The next minute Eliza and Weeks haul me to my feet and before I can say anything, they pick me up and drop me in the bath. Water fills my mouth and nose. I can't breathe. Panicking, spluttering, I scrabble with my feet and manage to push myself up, bring my head into the air. I gasp for breath, inhale hot steam.

Behind my head, I hear a cupboard door opening. Now Eliza is standing beside the bath, her arms clasped round something that is rolled up; in the dim light, it looks like a thick blanket or a rug.

Weeks moves to the other side and between them, they unfold the roll and hang it over the bath. It's a canvas cover, which comes up to my neck and stretches down to the taps.

My spine prickles with apprehension. "What's this?"

Weeks ignores me. Eliza explains, "We can't stay and watch you, Miss." She's busy fastening the cover under the rim of the bath. Rough canvas chafes my neck.

"But I don't need watching. I won't climb out." How can I, strapped up like this?

"It's the rule," Weeks snaps, checking the fastening. The cover's too tight. It's choking me. I press my head against the back of the bath. This is mad. They know I'm sane so they're trying to drive me mad.

"Right, Eliza."

Eliza gives me another rueful look but she has to follow Weeks out. They take the lamp with them.

I daren't move. The darkness presses on my eyes and ears and I listen out for footsteps. Surely they'll be back soon? All I can hear is a muffled
drip drip.

I realise I'm holding my breath. I let it go, then breathe in just a little through my nose. I'm scared of swallowing the blackness.

Why have they done this to me? I've done nothing wrong.

You've made an enemy of Weeks. And you know what else you've done.

I close my eyes. Then jerk them open.

Don't fall asleep. Think. Think. Find something to focus on. How to amputate a leg? Yes. Apply a tourniquet.

I have to find a way out of here. If I write tonight, Mamma should get my letter tomorrow.

With the knife, cut through the soft tissue to the bone, leaving flaps of muscle.

I might hear from her by tomorrow night.

With the saw, cut the bone...

Or perhaps she won't write, but will come immediately.

With the forceps, trim round the edges of the bone

I might be home in a day or two. Unless Mamma is too anxious to come herself.

With artery forceps, pick up the ends of the major arteries and veins and apply ligatures to stop the bleeding.

She could send Mary.

Fold the flaps of muscle over the cut bone
...

Oh Mamma, I'm sorry I was so angry with you. Please send Mary...

and sew the edges together.

Or perhaps it's Tom I should be writing to. Yes, Tom, he's much nearer. But maybe he can't get away at the moment. Would Aunt Phyllis be better?

Who? Who will come and save me?

The hot steam rises round my face. My sore mouth is throbbing. Mustn't shut my eyes. Mustn't sleep. But I'm so heavy, drowsy in the heat, drifting...

I'm in a green leafy place. Somewhere water is trickling and I can hear laughter.

I go in search of it, brushing aside branches bowed down with white blossoms. It's warm—I'm hot in my heavy gown. And then I hear a familiar lilting voice. It's Grace! She says, "Why don't you take off your clothes?"

I obey, undressing slowly as I stroll dreamily on, leaving a trail of garments behind me. Grace's voice soothes. "Isn't it lovely? Feel the cool grass under your feet..."

For a moment I'm utterly happy...

But then a different voice hisses in my ear, "You're a bad girl, a very, very bad girl, and you must be punished..."