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.
Why didn't I think of it before?
But I've no time to consider it, because, for the first time in the interview, Dr. Bull looks interested. "Tell me, do you hear voices when you are alone?"
"No."
"Do you see things other people can't see?"
"No."
He writes a final note, puts the paper into his bag. "Um, Weeks, see that Miss Childs is given daily a dose of castor oil, and some iron tonic. She needs a warm bath for at least two hours. Should she continue to refuse to eat or become overexcited, you know what to do." He is patently relieved that this is over.
I make a last effort. "Doctor, I must see Mr. Sneed."
He looks at Weeks, who shrugs slightly. Picking up his bag, he says, "I will pass the message on."
***
Back in the dayroom, supposedly mending sheets again, I can scarcely push the needle through the cloth, my fingers tremble so.
My own words ring in my ears: "some plot against me..."
Has someone contrived to have me shut up here? Who would do such a thing? And why? My mind races feverishly, thinking and thinking.
Suddenly I exclaim aloud. Because I know who's responsible.
"Are you all right, Miss?" Eliza is threading a needle for a patient.
"Yes—I pricked myself that's all." To keep up the pretence I suck my finger, inwardly elated by my discovery.
No wonder my travelling companion, Mrs. Lunt, behaved so oddly. Lunt probably isn't even her real name. Lucy Childs must be her daughter or a relative, who was meant to come here—and to save her from her awful fate, Mrs. Lunt tricked me into coming in her place. She will have contacted the Woodvilles and made up a reason why I'm not coming.
I'm certain this is what has happened; I never liked Mrs. Lunt.
Oh, the joyful relief of finding an explanation.
Weeks is frowning over some poor patient's shoulder, pointing out mistakes in her work. No good telling her—she won't believe me. I'd love to tell Eliza, but I can't as long as Weeks is within earshot.
Now it doesn't matter that the interview with Dr. Bull was a disaster. They probably won't take much notice of him anyway—he's clearly inexperienced. As long as he tells Mr. Sneed I want to see him—he's the one with the power to release me. And he will, as soon as I tell him about Mrs. Lunt.
By tomorrow I could be free!
I bend to my sewing again and try to concentrate but inside, beating in time with the thumping of my heart, I'm singing: I'm going to get out, I'm going to get out!
One Year Earlier
I eyed the corset with suspicion; with its stiff whalebone ribs and starched white casing, it looked very uncomfortable.
I was right. When Mary tightened the laces, I couldn't breathe. "You're pulling too tight. It's like a suit of armour."
"Now, Miss Louisa, stop fussing. You know what your mamma said."
I sighed—as well as I could with my rib cage imprisoned.
Mary put on her coaxing expression. "You want to be a lady, don't you?"
I didn't answer.
The dress was Mamma's choice—a green plaid taffeta that made me look washed out. It would have suited Grace, with her red-gold hair and creamy complexion. I remembered I hadn't replied to her last letter. I would do it after tea.
Mamma came in. "Are you ready yet?"
"No. All this takes an age."
"You'll get used to it." She put some hairpins and a small pot on top of the chest.
"I feel like a parcel," I complained.
"Don't be silly." My mother looked at me and sighed. "I'll deal with Louisa's hair, Mary," she said. "You'd better see to breakfast."
"Yes, Ma'am." Mary slipped out.
"You'll have to sit down," Mamma said to me. I did so gingerly, aware of the corset digging into me.
The brush kept snagging on tangles. Mamma tugged, jerking my head back.
"Ow." I pulled my head away.
"Keep still." The firm strokes continued.
When she was satisfied, Mamma lifted the top off the pot. Digging out a blob of greasy cream, she started smoothing it over my hair. Beneath the fragrance of rose petals, I could detect a whiff of castor oil and something else.
"What's that smell? Like something cooking."
"Lard."