"Eliza, no!"
But she's too strong and I find myself out on the dance floor with her arm firmly round my waist, as she shouts instructions in my ear. "Put your hand on my shoulder. That's it. And your feet go back, side, side, back, side, side. Don't look down. That's it. One, two, three, one, two, three..."
And I'm waltzing for the first time in my life. Stiffly, awkwardly, catching Eliza's foot with mine now and then, but nevertheless, waltzing.
We're an ill-suited couple. I'm more than half a head taller and I'm conscious of my big feet, my elbows sticking out. But a reckless spirit seems to have entered Eliza; she clasps me close and whirls me round, her cheeks flushed and strands of hair coming loose from her cap. She grins up at me and I find myself relaxing, listening to the music, letting myself drift away with it. None of the other couples are paying any attention to us as we swoop and swerve between them, coming close but never colliding.
I shut my eyes for a moment, enjoying this unusual sensation.
When I open my eyes, I see Weeks frowning at us. Losing the rhythm, I come down hard on Eliza's foot, causing her to stumble and let go of me.
"I'm sorry."
Rubbing her foot, Eliza says, "It's all right, Miss. Luckily you don't weigh much more than a pail of peas." We both laugh.
"See, Miss, it's done you good. I knew it would."
"It's been—fun."
I'm surprised. It has. And I feel different. Shaken up. More alive.
The final chords of the waltz die away and Eliza walks me back to my seat.
"See, I told you it were easy!"
"It seems so with you leading. How did you come to learn the man's steps?"
"I teach my little sisters and it works best that way."
Now Weeks is urging us to stand up and Mr. Sneed leads us in the National Anthem, which he sings strongly, accompanied by a ragged off-key chorus. I glance over to Beatrice but Weeks is wheeling her towards the door.
Eliza says, "I'd better go, Miss. There's supper to be sorted."
Watching her hurry across the floor, I have a sudden vision of her dancing in a cottage with her sisters.
It gives me a strange ache in my heart. But something else, too. I feel as if I've woken up from a long sleep. For the first time in a long time I feel more like my old self.
What have I been thinking of? Letting the days, the weeks drift by instead of acting sooner? I've been depressed, I have to admit it. And the chloral. That's been partly to blame, drugging me into a semi-stupor, an acceptance of my fate. But I am not Lucy Childs, a poor, mad girl. I am Louisa Cosgrove.
And I must do something, try to get out of here...
Today, when I enter the day room with the others, a stranger, a man with a shock of ginger hair, is standing by the fireplace talking to Mr. Sneed. The superintendent turns towards us with an insincere smile. "Come in, ladies, come in. Don't be shy."
We're huddling in the doorway, some stupefied, others suspicious. Weeks pushes her way through from the rear, saying sharply, "Come along now. Don't keep Mr. Sneed waiting."
We shuffle into the room.
"Ladies, allow me to introduce Mr. Allen." The superintendent gestures towards the ginger-haired man, who gives us a weak smile, his eyes nervously darting round.
With the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Mr. Sneed announces, "I have a surprise for you, something to celebrate the New Year. Mr. Allen has come to take your photographs."
His eyebrows shoot up expectantly but the response of his audience is disappointing: Miss Coles utters a moan and wrings her hands. Others stare uncomprehending.
Only Mrs. Smythe rises to the occasion, sailing forward and taking a chair near the window. "I believe this is my best side. The light catches my face to advantage here." As the nonplussed photographer fails to move, she gives him an imperious look. "I am ready, young man."
This is a change from sewing shirts and sheets.
I can't help watching with interest as the photographer opens a large box on the table. It's no ordinary box. Its lid opens on to the table to form a tray and an inner flap folds out to form a kind of roof. Inside I glimpse some small brown bottles, just like the medicine bottles I used to fetch for Papa. It must be a kind of travelling darkroom.
A hand falls on my arm. "Miss Childs, give the gentleman room."
Without realising it, I've come closer to the table. Weeks ushers me away, but not before I've seen gutta-percha dishes, a spirit lamp, a funnel ... What exciting experiments I could have carried out, if I'd had such a box of tricks.