I gasp, I can't help it. "Did you?"
Shamefaced, she nods. "I didn't want to, truly I didn't, but I thought he might complain to Mamma about me. Afterwards he gave me a pretty glass paperweight and said Don't tell Mamma." Tears spill down her face. She brushes them away.
"How old were you?"
"Eleven, when it started."
"You mean, it went on?" I can't imagine it.
She nods. "He took lots of photographs. Lots and lots of photographs. He said I was a good girl to make so much money for him."
I don't understand. "Money? What did he mean?"
In a voice like a ghost's, she says, "He sold the photographs."
"Sold them? To whom?"
She shrugs. "To the gentlemen who came when the shop was closed."
A horrible cold sensation slides down my back.
I don't think I want to hear any more, but her thin voice continues, "I carried on posing for him, even though I didn't want to, because he said if I didn't Mamma would send me away like the others. At first I felt hot ... as if his eyes could look right into me. But he'd say, 'Don't fidget, Bella'—that was his name for me—and I learnt the trick of keeping my body quite still while my mind went away far away to somewhere else."
She's far away now, lost in the moment she is reliving, her hand trembling like a frightened bird.
"Don't talk about it if it upsets you."
She lifts her head and looks at me through her tears. "It's all right. I'm glad to speak of these things to you because I think you believe me. You do, don't you?" Her violet eyes are tunnels.
"Yes, yes I do." I respond instantly. And it's true.
The look she gives me is wretched. "Louisa, my baby—"
At that moment the door opens, making us both jump. My heartbeat steadies when I see that it's Eliza.
She looks at us holding hands and frowns. "Time you were back in the day room, Miss." Her voice seems louder than usual, dispelling the hush that has filled the room.
Beatrice is looking at me, a question in her eyes. I don't want to leave her in this state but Eliza is waiting, hands on hips.
On impulse I say, "Eliza, when do you think Weeks will be off again?"
"I couldn't say." There's an edge to her tone, but then she looks from Beatrice to me and her expression relents. "I'll tell you when I know, Miss."
Every day I watch the careful unlocking and locking of doors, on the lookout for someone to slip up, waiting for my chance.
So far it hasn't come.
But in the meantime, there's Beatrice: thinking of her helps me to bear the frustration of still being here, gives me something to focus on.
I haunt the corridor, loitering by the window, watching Weeks going in and out of Beatrice's room. Mulling over what she told me, I think I know what happened to her. If I'm right, it's monstrous. I wish I could do something to help.
Today at last Eliza tips me the wink. And sure enough, it's Roberts who comes to lead us back from the dining room after lunch. But it's not Eliza who's with her, but Alice, the sharp-featured servant girl, the one who can read.
This might be more risky. Still, I have to take a chance. But, instead of getting out the sewing things, Roberts says, "Nah then, ladies. A special treat this afternoon. Extra time in the airing court. So off we go fer some luverly fresh air."
I must do something. Think.
I have it. Sinking into a chair, I clutch my stomach and when Roberts says, "Off with yer outside, now," I say, "I don't feel at all well today. Can I stay inside?"
Roberts shrugs. "Suit yerself."
Alice doesn't like this, I can tell. She whispers in Roberts's ear. But Roberts gives her a push. "Garn—stop frettin'. When you come in to check on Miss Hill, you can check on Madam here 'n all."
The others shuffle from the room, their voices die away and I am alone.
I take a great breath and let it out.
I'm tempted to stay where I am, enjoying the peace, but the thought of Beatrice's troubled face sends me hurrying along the hallway.
What a curious feeling it is to know that the gallery is empty, that no one else is here. Even so, I knock gently at the door.
There's no answer so I go straight in.
She's in the rocking chair today, wrapped in her shawl; her face, turned towards the door, is full of fear. When she sees it's me, she sighs. "I thought you were Weeks."
A fleeting smile transforms her face, and taking it as an invitation, I settle myself on the bed. She looks at me expectantly, but I feel awkward; I don't know how to say what I've been thinking.
I notice she's cradling something under her shawl. "What have you got there?"
She looks embarrassed, but she shifts her arm slightly to show me.
It's a rag doll. Different clothes and hair from my old doll Annabel, but the same loved shabbiness.