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.