I began to tremble, but I bit back the retort that rose to my lips. I had to get him on my side.
I looked him straight in the face and said as calmly as I could, "I'm not joking, Tom. This is what I really want. I've worked hard and I think I nearly know enough for the preliminary exams. And Papa"—I stopped, swallowed, then went on.—"Papa supported me. He said I could, if Mamma agreed. That's why I'd like you to speak to her."
I think he could tell that I was serious. Abruptly his manner changed. The colour left his face and he just stared at me, shaking his head slowly.
A horrible feeling started to grow inside me. "Tom—"
He put out his hand to stop me. "It's out of the question. I am the head of this house now and I won't allow it."
I couldn't believe it. Papa had warned me that I'd face strong opposition from other doctors but I never thought my own brother would oppose me.
"But Tom—"
"I won't let my sister embark on an improper course that will bring shame on her and all the family."
It was my turn to stare. Why was he talking in that odd, stiff way? And then the full import of his words hit me and suddenly all thought of being grown-up vanished and we were back in the nursery again, all the familiar old frustrations welling up in me.
"But that's not fair. Why should you control what I do?"
Tom looked at me with the old maddeningly superior expression. "Because it's my right."
I felt as if I'd been struck. I clenched my fists and tried to control myself.
He turned back to the books as if the subject was closed. Over his shoulder, he said, "By the way, have you still got Papa's stethoscope?"
I was immediately suspicious. "Yes. Why?"
"Can I have it? It's much better than mine."
A hot flame seared my chest, but I managed to say, "No, you can't. Papa left it to me."
"But you won't be needing it, will you?"
My self-control vanished." I hate you! "I shouted and flew at him, pounding him with my fists.
He caught hold of my hands and calmly held me at arm's length until, my strength exhausted, I stopped struggling and glared at him, panting.
"You see," Tom said, with another smile, letting go of me. "What a temper. You'd need more self-control if you were going to be a doctor."
I had no breath to respond.
He moved towards the door, carrying a pile of books. "You're not to say anything to Mamma, by the way. I won't have her upset by your silly notions."
Then he went out, closing the door behind him.
Seizing the cushion from Papa's chair, I flung myself down and buried my face in it.
"Papa—oh, Papa," I murmured brokenly, and then I couldn't hold back any longer—all the unshed tears poured out, soaking into the fabric, washing away the last remnants of his scent that still clung there.
All night, fear has fluttered under my ribs.
What will Weeks say about yesterday evening? What will she do?
The door opens ... I hold my breath ... but she drops a bundle of clothes on to my bed without a word; she doesn't even look at me. I watch her go round the dormitory, her face closed, grim.
My swollen lip throbs, my arm is bruised where I fell. She was punishing me, I'm sure. For telling Dr. Bull about her or for eavesdropping on her attack on Miss Hill? Both probably. I could report her about the bath, but she'll say she was carrying out orders and Eliza can't support me. If I describe her cruelty to Miss Hill, she'll deny it. They'll say I'm making it up, that it's a delusion of my madness. And Weeks will punish me again.
I pull a garment from the pile of clothes. These are mine. My own clothes.
For a moment, I hug them to me, as if they are old friends. Then I examine my gown, my petticoats, my chemise. "Lucy Childs." "Lucy Childs." "Lucy Childs." The same name in each garment. Not my name.
Say nothing, play the game. It won't be for long now.
If I don't see Mr. Sneed today, I'll write the letter. Nothing will stop me.
Looking to see that no one is watching, I surreptitiously feel the waistband of my gown. The money is still there! That at least is something.
I dress, moving sluggishly into the routine of the day. My mouth is sore, and I have a dull pain behind my eyes; I feel worn out. I find it hard to sew, fumbling at the cloth with my shrivelled fingers, my eyes so tired I can hardly see the stitches.
By evening there's been no message from the superintendent, so after supper I approach Weeks.
My stomach is knotted, but I keep my face neutral and ask politely if I may write a letter. For a moment I think she'll refuse—she eyes me suspiciously—but then she unlocks the cabinet and passes the things to me without a word. A sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen, some ink.
I try to keep my voice level. "May I have two pieces of paper?"
Weeks frowns.
I look her in the eye, holding my breath. She's going to refuse. But no, she hands over another sheet. "That will be thruppence."
Five coins in my pocket. I give her one, then go to the table in the far corner. After some hesitation, I write:
Wildthorn Hall
Dear Mamma,
I have arrived safely and I am well, as I hope you are too.