"Miss Childs, Sir," she announces with a bob. Then she's off, the tap, tap of her footsteps soon dying away.
For a moment I feel strangely bereft, abandoned. How silly. Because this is the moment I've been waiting for. Everything will be all right now.
I stick out my chin and step into the room.
***
Mamma is not here. My hope dies, like a snuffed candle flame.
Steady, steady, I tell myself. She may not have been able to come yet. But she'll have written.
The superintendent's back is towards me as he stands at the window staring out at the rain. It drums insistently against the glass, cutting off the view. The room feels claustrophobic. Mr. Sneed spins round, the eye with the cast, which I'd forgotten, leering at me.
"Have a seat, Miss Childs."
Still that name. Mamma hasn't written. Perhaps Eliza never sent that letter The fluttering in my chest intensifies.
Steady, steady, I tell myself again. I must make my case calmly, clearly. He must listen.
He sits at his desk and, gesturing to the seat before it, starts to rummage in a drawer. Without warning I'm taken back to all the times I sat by Papa's desk and talked to him. I see him with his tired red-rimmed eyes and his rumpled hair and my throat closes, blocked by sudden tears. No, not now.
To distract myself I stare at the desktop. Each object: silver inkstand, pen-pot; pen-wiper; blotter; silver letter opener, is arranged with precision on the polished surface, which is otherwise bare, except for a document file and two sheets of paper.
At the sight of these, my pulse races. "Mr. Sneed, I asked to see you because—" He shuts the drawer with a thud.
I rush on. "Because I shouldn't be here. It's either a mistake or a conspiracy. I'd like to see my papers. Once I know what they say, I'm sure I can explain how this has happened."
His bushy eyebrows rise. Without speaking, he picks up one of the pieces of paper and thrusts it under my nose. A chasm opens inside me. My letter, the one I gave Eliza to post. She has betrayed me.
No wonder she was acting so strangely.
Mr. Sneed is speaking but I can't hear him for the ringing in my ears. Gradually I register what he's saying. "...causing your family great concern, which I share. From the evidence of this letter, in addition to your other problems, you seem to be developing acute paranoia." He tapped the paper. "These ill-founded claims only serve to worry your family and—"
I break in." Claims! Every word in that letter is true."
Mr. Sneed smiles at me. "Come, Miss Childs."
"That is not my name." I keep my chin up and stare at him.
He brushes this aside and waves the letter." 'They have locked me up.' How can you say you are locked up when you have the freedom of the gallery?"
"I can't leave it."
"That is true but it's for your own good. Your safety is of paramount importance to us. We couldn't have our residents wandering at will, could we? Supposing someone got hurt?" He sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers.
I regard him stonily. Whatever I say, he'll have the answer to it.
Mr. Sneed refers to the letter again." 'They stole my clothes.' "He looks at me, a reproachful expression in his one good eye. "Now, Miss Childs, are you not wearing your own clothes at this very moment?"
I glance down at my dress. "Yes, but—" I stop. I feel foolish, confused.
Mr. Sneed sweeps on, "As for your complaint about the bath, you obviously don't realise that this is the standard treatment for your condition. Dr. Bull is a qualified physician and knows what he is doing. And then your suspicion of the lady, Mrs. Lunt, who brought you here—plots, conspiracies ... classic symptoms."
"But she could have—"
He shakes his head sadly. "This just goes to show how ill you are. If you were rational, you would see that it was extremely unlikely. So you see, Miss Childs, in future I would rather you followed our procedures with regards to letters."
He suddenly leans towards me, his voice steel. "Now tell me, who did you give your letter to?"
Mute, I stare past his ear. The silence thickens. With a sigh, Mr. Sneed sits back. "Miss Childs—your poor mother is not to be bothered with your foolish fancies again, you understand? She was most upset."
Upset? I suddenly see that it's not Eliza who has betrayed me. She did post the letter, but it has been returned. Who by? Surely not Mamma?
"I don't understand. Who sent my letter back to you?"
He shakes his head, sighing, then with an air of great indulgence, he takes the other sheet of paper from his desk and holds it out to me, not so close that I can read the words but close enough for me to see the handwriting.
My heart contracts.
It is unmistakeable—I recognise the loops and curls, the distinctive ink.
My eye falls on the signature. And a white light bursts in my brain.