When Weeks circles the room to check what we're doing, this is the letter she sees, this is the letter I'll give her to post. Hidden beneath it is the other piece of paper. As soon as Weeks has passed on, I pull this out and hurriedly write on it:
Dearest Mamma,
Ignore my other letter. If you have heard from the Woodvilles and are wondering where I am, I'm afraid I have some bad news. I am locked up in an asylum called Wildthorn Hall. I don't know where it is exactly, but you should be able to find it. It's somewhere in Essex, in a forest. Please come and rescue me or arrange for someone else to do it.
I pause and glance round.
Weeks is lecturing Mrs. Thorpe, who's been shifting from chair to chair, leaving a trail of white threads on the carpet. I'm safe for the moment.
I think it was that woman, Mrs. Lunt, who engineered this. I'll explain it all when I see you.
This is a dreadful place. They have locked me up and stolen my clothes. They spy on us all the time, and I mean all the time, even in the most private moments. Their treatment of the patients is appalling. Yesterday they tried to scald me and they left me in the dark for hours trapped in the bath.
And they're trying to drive me mad by pretending I'm someone else—they want me to be like all the other mad people here, but I know who I am and I know I'm not mad. But if I stay here much longer, I'm afraid I will go insane.
I pause, my hand trembling. I imagine Mamma at her writing desk, reading my letter ... my heart twists.
I dip my pen in the ink and write:
Mamma, I'm sorry for how we parted. Please make them let me out. Please come and take me home.
The paper is full. Just enough space to squeeze in.
Your loving daughter,
Louisa
If Weeks opens the other letter and wonders why there's only one sheet of paper, I'll tell her my pen leaked on the second sheet and I screwed it up and threw it on the fire. This letter, the real letter, I'll give to Eliza, with some money for an envelope and stamp. Perhaps she'll be able to post it tomorrow.
In spite of everything, Mamma will come to my rescue, I know.
All I have to do is wait.
Three Months Earlier
I let myself drift with the swaying motion of the train that was carrying me to my new life at the London School of Medicine for Women.
Something hard hit my leg and I opened my eyes.
I was squashed between a fat woman and a girl with a wriggling toddler on her lap. The child kicked my knee again, but the girl turned her head, pretending not to see. Someone was smoking a pipe; people were unwrapping greasy brown packages and soon the smell of ripe cheese and sausage filled the carriage, making my insides heave. The toddler grizzled and the heat rose.
My head was beginning to throb so I shut my eyes again, but this time I couldn't escape into my daydream. I had to face reality. I wasn't on my way to begin a new life; I was going to see Tom, to plead with him.
My stomach was tying itself in knots. I'd never been to London before, never even travelled any distance on my own. On top of that I was apprehensive about seeing Tom.
I tried to reassure myself. We hadn't corresponded at all in the three months since Papa died, but as long as I stayed calm, and stated my case clearly, I could get him to agree, couldn't I?
To distract myself, I started writing a letter to Grace in my head.
Dear Grace,
Do you remember how I wanted to be a hero?
Now my days are spent dusting ornaments and deciding between scrag end of mutton and fatty strips of belly of pork for dinners that Mamma and I push around our plates, each of us pretending to eat...
As you know, Mamma has always been thrifty, but now, although Papa left us plenty of money, she has got it into her head that there isn't enough, and she doles out the money for the housekeeping in such small amounts, I have to scrimp to make ends meet.
Mamma has other anxieties, too, and whatever I'm doing, she follows me about, because she can't bear to be alone. I try to set her mind at rest about whether Mary has remembered to buy candles and why Tom hasn't written...
And I keep thinking I hear the front door open and Papa's step in the hall...
Oh, Grace, I know you must be busy planning your new life, but it would be lovely to hear from you ... I do miss you...
I opened my eyes, blinking the tears away.
I would never send this letter, of course. I wouldn't want Grace to be burdened with my troubles. And Mamma wouldn't want anyone, certainly not Aunt Phyllis, to know how her grief had affected her. Only Mary and I really knew.
I sighed. I didn't like leaving Mary with the responsibility of looking after Mamma, but I had to come. I had to try.