"Can I help?"
She gives a tiny nod. I plump up the pillow to form a support for her back. Under the scent of rose water, I can detect other smells: Condy's fluid, that common disinfectant; camphor; the stale whiff of a body that's been lying too long in bed in a stuffy atmosphere. The familiar smell of the sickroom. My chest tightens. But I mustn't think of Papa, not here, not now.
I place the tray on her lap. She stares at the soup, then she picks up the spoon. Her thin fingers are bloodless, almost transparent. I take a step towards the door.
"Must you go?" That violet gaze ... entreating. What does she want from me? What can I give? Be careful...
I shake my head.
She lowers the spoon into the soup and lifts it towards her lips, but her hand is shaking; the soup splashes over the tray. She stares at the spill and a tear runs down her face.
"Weeks says if I don't eat, they'll force-feed me again." She shudders, putting her hand to her mouth.
"Here, I'll help you." I take the spoon from her and dip it into the bowl. She opens her mouth obediently like a child.
She swallows a few more spoonfuls, then turns her head away. "No more. Thank you."
Time to go ... but her tears are welling again and I hesitate. "What's upsetting you? Is it—your baby?"
A look of terror leaps into her eyes. "What baby? What are you talking about?"
I blink. "I'm sorry."
She stares at me, her face a mask, and then the mask crumples and she starts sobbing, racking sobs that shake her thin frame. As she hides her face in her hands, the tears drip down her fingers.
I can't bear it; her misery wrenches my insides. Awkwardly I pat her back, feeling her thin, sharp shoulder blades, like wings.
"Shhh, shhhh, it's all right, it's all right."
Gradually her sobs subside. She whispers something.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Three months." She lifts her face from her hands and looks at me. "It's been three months since my baby died."
She sounds utterly sincere. But how could she have had a baby? "I'm sorry." It sounds horribly inadequate. I fumble in my pocket and offer her my handkerchief. She takes it and wipes her face.
I go to stand up, but she grips my arm. "Weeks is the worst—if I cry for my baby, I make her cross and she hurts me. They all say I'm making it up, that it's just a foolish fancy, a trick of the imagination. But it's not, it's not." She sinks back on to the pillow and closes her eyes. Her face is bleached with exhaustion.
Of course. She's mad. I'd almost forgotten. Gently I extricate my arm from her grasp and back away from the bed.
She opens her eyes. "They say, think of bright, happy things. Think of your home, your loving mother. And your generous stepfather." Her mouth twists into a bitter line. "Especially your generous stepfather."
A noise behind me makes me jump. Eliza has come into the room.
"You're still here, Miss? I wondered where you'd got to." Loud, cheerful normality.
She inspects the soup bowl. "Is this all you've managed to eat? This won't do, will it?" Like a mother hen, clucking at a chick. "You have a nice rest now." She picks up the tray and ushers me out.
Pulling the door shut, Eliza gives me a conspiratorial look. "I suppose she's been telling you those stories. I don't think she knows what she's saying half the time. And she's not well. She's too weak to walk and she's always fainting."
What can I say? What should I believe?
"You'd better go to the day room now, Miss. I've got to take this tray back to the kitchen."
Obediently I turn away and walk down the hallway, only half-aware of Eliza leaving the gallery.
I'm still inside that room. Hearing that voice. Seeing those troubled eyes.
One Week Earlier
We'd had a letter from Tom. He was coming home in a fortnight's time and bringing a friend called Woodville, who wanted to see our part of Yorkshire.
Why was he coming? And who was this stranger, Woodville? If this was another of Tom's schemes ... But he didn't yet know of my failure with William. Thinking of William led on to Grace, of course...
A hollow space opened inside me, a hot feeling of shame. Don't think about it.
I rubbed steadily at the brass candlestick until I could see a distorted reflection of myself in the polished surface. Focusing on the job stopped me thinking, stopped me feeling. I started on its twin.
A knock at the front door made me jump. Who could that be? Mary was out on some errands so I went to see.
"Oh, Dr. Kneale!" Flustered, I pushed back a stray lock of hair. Because of the cleaning, I hadn't put it up properly but had borrowed a cap from Mary. I was wearing my oldest dress and a grubby apron.
If he was surprised at my appearance, Dr. Kneale didn't show it. He raised his hat to me. "Miss Cosgrove."
What did he want? I hadn't sent for him; I hadn't seen him since he attended Papa. Seeing him now brought back painful memories.