"I have one—at home." As I say the word, my throat closes. I swallow. "She's called Annabel."
"This is Rosalie." She darts me a glance. "I hide her—sometimes in the drawer and sometimes in the bed." Her tone is gleeful like a naughty child's. "Dr. Bull said I shouldn't have her—that she encourages my fancies—and Weeks threw her away." She pulls the doll closer to her, cradling it in her thin arms. "But Eliza rescued her for me. She says it's our secret." A look of alarm crosses her face. "I've told you now."
"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."
This seems to reassure her. "Eliza is kind, isn't she? Very kind."
"Yes, she is."
"Not like Weeks." She squeezes Rosalie. "She's always doing nasty things to me. And saying nasty things. She says I could walk if I wanted to and I'm just pretending that I can't. And she says I tell lies to get attention." She starts to rock back and forth.
"Beatrice—the things that Weeks says are lies. Are they about your stepfather?"
The chair stills. Then she turns on me a look of such anguish I feel it myself.
"Did your stepfather—" I pause, not knowing how to put this delicately, then plunge on. "Did he—" I stop again, swallow and then ask quickly, "Is that how you came to have a baby?"
She starts rocking again, her grip on her doll tightening, turning her knuckles white. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
We both seem to have stopped breathing. I don't know what to say.
After what seems a long silence, Beatrice looks at me. "You believe me, don't you?"
"Yes." It's true—I do believe her. Papa always said, "Listening to the patient, that's the secret, Lou, not rushing in thinking you know best, but listening to what they have to tell you."
She sighs and her shoulders relax. She starts smoothing Rosalie's hair.
As gently as I can, I ask, "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Another long pause. Then her face crumples and she starts to weep.
I put my hand on hers. "I'm sorry."
In a voice choked with tears she says, "It's all right. I can speak of it, to you."
Her trust in me makes me feel lighter, as if I've been given a present.
She looks at me confidingly. "I didn't know I was going to have a baby, truly I didn't."
Although this is surprising, I have read of such things in Papa's medical journals.
She shudders. "It was awful—that night. I started to have pains in my stomach, like cramps. After a while the pain was terrible, as if I was being pulled apart. It would stop for a few minutes and then come again. I didn't know what to do."
"Didn't you tell someone? Didn't they hear you crying out?"
She shakes her head. "I walked about with my pillow and when the pain was too bad, I buried my face in it. Mamma was away visiting my aunt, so there was only him and the servants in the house. I didn't want him to come."
She pauses and then continues. "It felt as if my insides were being pushed out. I thought I was going to die." A spasm shakes her at the memory. "And then—and then—" The thud of the rocking chair speeds up.
"Your baby was born."
The chair is suddenly still.
"Yes." It is a whisper.
She turns to look at me, her irises blue-black, her face contorted. "Only she wasn't right. She was deformed." With the word a sob breaks from her.
"What do you mean?
She can scarcely manage to get the words out but I hear them. "She was quite still, and a dreadful blue-grey colour ... and there was a thing—a rubbery thing like rope—growing out of her tummy and into me. It was horrible, horrible." She puts her hands to her face.
"Beatrice ... listen to me."
She doesn't respond but keeps her face buried in her hands.
"Beatrice, the baby wasn't deformed. That rope—the rubbery thing—all babies have them."
She lowers her hands and looks at me through her hair. "They do?"
"Yes."
"But she was such a funny colour ... all wrong ... and she never cried."
I take both her hands in mine. "That's because she'd died already, I think. Before she was born."
She lets out a little cry. "So I was right. I killed her."
I squeeze her hands tight. "You didn't. It was an accident. These things sometimes happen. It wasn't your fault."
She looks directly at me. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yes."
She turns her head away. "But I'd been bad. It must have been my fault."
I shake her hands, wanting her to believe me. "You hadn't been bad. You couldn't help what happened. It was him."
A pause then a great shudder passes through her and she lets out her breath. I realise that I'm gripping her hands fiercely and I let them go. "What happened after that?"