Already she's turned back to Eliza. She obviously doesn't know I'm banned from reading, or doesn't care.
Idly I wander over to the cabinet and run my hand along the row of shabby volumes. My old friend, Pilgrim's Progress ... Not today, not the Giant Despair ... I let my hand drop.
The attendants are talking in an undertone now, their heads close together, but I distinctly hear Eliza say, "Miss Gorman." Taking a book at random, I drift to a chair near them and pretend to read.
Roberts is in full flow. By straining my ears I can just catch what she's saying.
"...nothin' the matter with Miss Gorman, sane as you and me, then. After her mother died, she dint have nowhere to go so she went 'n' lived with her married brother. But his wife didn't care to have her in the house. So she made her husband send her here. Fancy, his own sister."
"How do you know all this?" Eliza is sitting forward, interested.
"She told me—in the early days when she was all right. Course that's not what it says in her papers."
"You've seen them?"
"Me? No, bless you." Roberts laughs. "It wouldn't do me no good if I had seen 'em, fer I can't make out nuthin' that's wrote but me own name. No, it was Alice wot had a peek, when she was cleaning the office. She can read like anythin'."
The papers. What do mine—or rather Lucy Childs's—say? There might be a clue, a name, an address...
Roberts pours a heap of coal on to the fire. Then, settling down again, she puts her head close to Eliza's and whispers. Whatever she's saying, Eliza is drinking it in.
Roberts's voice rises. "She was out of here and in the Fifth before she knew what'd hit 'er."
"The Fifth, eh?" Eliza whistles.
"Yeah. But Weeks won't let it trouble her conscience. Bitch." Roberts spits into the fire.
The hiss makes me shiver. What is "the Fifth?"
Eliza stands up. "Time to go for Miss Hill's tray."
"So it is. When you come back we'll 'ave a game of cards."
The room is very quiet after Eliza has gone and suddenly I can't bear to sit still. I ask Roberts, "May I walk in the hallway?"
Weeks doesn't allow this: she likes to keep us under her eye.
Roberts shrugs. "If yer like. But don't go gettin' up to any mischief."
***
I walk up and down the hallway, thinking about what I've just heard. Miss Gorman ... Weeks ... the Fifth ... What does it all mean? I don't know. But one thing is certain. I have to get out of here, before anything worse happens to me.
As I reach the main door, it opens, and Eliza comes in. Seeing me, she gives a friendly nod and indicates the tray she's carrying. "All right for some, isn't it, being waited on?"
At that moment, Roberts calls from the doorway, "Eliza, Mrs. Thorpe needs the closet."
"Right, I'll be with you in a minute."
"Shall I take the tray in for you?" The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about them. Ever since I saw Weeks attack her, I've been wondering about Miss Hill. I'd like to speak to her, but she never seems to leave her room.
Eliza smiles gratefully. "Oh, would you, Miss? That'd be ever so kind. It's the door behind you." She goes off down the gallery.
I listen at the door.
There's no sound at first and then I hear a quiet sob and a long, despairing sigh. "My baby." Pause. And again, "My baby."
What can she mean?
I tap on the door, holding the tray carefully, so as not to tilt it.
"Yes? Who is it?"
Miss Hill's lying back, a paisley shawl wrapped round her shoulders. I almost drop the tray. The shawl, with its vivid swirls of blue and green, is very similar to one Grace sent me. I hung it over the foot of my bed, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke. Every morning, Grace was my first thought...
With an effort I focus on the girl before me: her face is white against the white pillow, her hair dishevelled. Now I can see her properly, her resemblance to Grace is slight. Miss Hill's face is thinner, her hair fairer. And she's much younger—she can't be more than fourteen, fifteen at the most.
"Do I know you?" Her voice is faint.
"No. That is, you may have seen me the other day—" I stop, feeling foolish. I'm still holding the tray. "Are you ready for this yet?" I take a step forward.
"You're not supposed to come in here." Large, wary eyes, dark blue, almost violet in their intensity.
"Eliza asked me to; it's Weeks's day off"
At the mention of the name, a spasm crosses her face. Pain? Fear? I can't tell. Her expression shuts down.
I put the tray down on the table next to the bed.
She looks at me curiously. "Who are you?"
I swallow. "Louisa." It's such a long time since I've heard my own name it sounds strange to me. "I'm Louisa."
"Beatrice."
Something shifts, as if exchanging names has drawn us closer. I lift the cover from the bowl and sniff. "It's soup. Will you eat some?"
She sighs, but she struggles to sit up.