The walls of the room are closing in on me, blurring. My blood roars in my ears. I dig my nails into my palm. Breathe, breathe.
I am vaguely aware of Mr. Sneed saying something, but I can't hear him. I want to cry out, but I clench my teeth. With a tremendous effort of will, I manage to control myself. I even manage to say, "May I see my papers?" My voice sounds as thin as tissue.
Now a black pillar rises in front of me, and overhead, far away, a voice says, "Your papers are in order, Miss Childs. Trust me."
The pillar wavers, and turns into Mr. Sneed, tugging on the bell-pull. He says, "I think it's time you returned to the gallery."
I have been betrayed and I can't utter a word.
Eliza is hurrying me back to the gallery. My legs don't seem to belong to me, but they are carrying me along. My breath rasps, my ears ring, my heart hammers to the beat of one question: Why? Why?
Suddenly Eliza stops and I cannon into her. She thrusts her face close to mine. "Did you tell him?"
I blink at her, dazed. What's she talking about?
"Did you tell him it were me that posted your letter?"
With a struggle I focus on her question. "No. He asked but I didn't tell."
She lets out a great breath. "Thank the blazing heavens."
With a stab I realise. "You knew Mr. Sneed wanted to see me about the letter?"
Eliza shrugs. "I guessed. Matron told us it'd come back and she's been on at us—asking if we took it for you."
I look at her. Her guileless blue eyes, the pink of her cheeks under their dusting of freckles. I've begun to think of her as a friend. And yet— "You didn't tell me. About the letter coming back."
She looks away. "I didn't know how you'd take it, Miss. Thought you might have thrown a fit."
Of course. As far as Eliza knows I'm a mad girl who doesn't even know her own name. Every time I've objected to their calling me Lucy Childs, the madder I've seemed. Clever. Was this part of the plan?
She moves on and I follow automatically, the march of questions across my brain beginning again. Why has this been done to me? Why? Why?
Beneath the questions, a dark thought is forming. I try to squash it down but it persists until I can't think of anything else.
I stop dead.
Dread has seized hold of me, is spreading through my body. I start to tremble and the thought flies out in a whisper. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here."
Eliza has stopped too. "Miss?"
I can't help moaning.
"Miss, are you all right?"
I try to stop it but it won't be stopped. A wail that starts from the bottom of my stomach and rips its way out of my throat. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here! I'm not going to get out!"
My legs give way and I sink to my knees on the flags, burying my face in my hands.
All I can see, as if it's still in front of me, is that signature in bold black ink: Thomas Childs.
Part Two
The thumping of the out-of-tune piano and the scraping of the fiddle are giving me a headache. I don't want to be here. But we all have to attend the Christmas dance, whether we want to or not.
Christmas. That means I've been here over six weeks...
Eliza's looking forward to the dance. "It makes a change, Miss, don't it?"
I don't want a change. I prefer routine, the same mind-numbing activities, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. So I don't have to think. Or feel.
Otherwise it's too painful.
Tom knows that I'm shut in a madhouse and he wants to keep me here. Why?
Does Mamma know?
Has she done this?
I try not to ask these questions any more; it's easier to let the chloral dull the edge of my pain, to go on not thinking, not feeling.
Someone has tried to create a festive atmosphere in this dark panelled room: sprigs of holly tacked to the portraits of the asylum founders, a sparsely decorated Christmas tree leaning sideways.
Watched over by Mr. Sneed and the matron, both of them with fixed smiles on their faces, the dancers, patients from the First and Second Galleries, appear to be enjoying themselves, despite having their toes trodden on by their partners, male patients with whom they are allowed to fraternise on this occasion. Mrs. Smythe's partner is so short his head is almost buried in her ample bosom but she seem satisfied with her beau. There aren't enough men to go round so some attendants are joining in. Every now and then Eliza swings into view, bright-eyed and smiling.
I glance at Weeks. She's not dancing but standing with a sour expression on her face, keeping an eye on us wallflowers who are drooping on benches at the side. I see, with a start, Beatrice Hill beside her, watching the dancers from an invalid chair. That time I talked to her—it seems an age ago now. Again I see that faint resemblance to my cousin in her profile.
Grace ... Do you know I'm here?
The polka ends and Eliza comes over to me, out of breath and laughing. "Why don't you have a dance, Miss? It's fun."
"I can't. I don't know how."
"It's easy. You just have to follow the music."
The pianist is starting up again, the fiddler joining in and suddenly Eliza seizes my hand and pulls me from the bench.