Beatrice gazes over my head, into the distance. "I didn't know what to do ... I knew Mamma would be so cross with me if she found out." Her bottom lip quivers. "I think I must have fainted. When I came to ... oh it was horrible ... I knew the baby was dead then. I cleaned up the mess as best as I could and wrapped her and everything in my nightdress. It was very early morning by now, just getting light, so I crept out of the house and down to the river."
She stops. Her voice, when it comes, is as soft as dust. "I found a heavy stone ... I tied it to the bundle ... and dropped it from the middle of the bridge."
I have a lump in my throat, imagining what it must have been like.
After a while I ask quietly, "What brought you here, Beatrice? To the asylum?"
"I couldn't stop crying. Mamma kept asking me why I was crying but I didn't tell her. I didn't. She would think I was so wicked ... The doctor said I should come here to be made better. I tried to keep it a secret here too, but they heard me crying for my baby. But they say it's all in my mind, my imagination, that I couldn't have had a baby that no one knew about."
Beatrice sighs. "I often think of Rosalie lying at the bottom of the river and how cold she must be and lonely..." She looks straight at me. "You won't tell anyone what I did, will you? Especially not Weeks."
"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. They wouldn't believe me, anyway. I'm a patient, like you, Beatrice." My voice cracks. I meant only to reassure her but my words have ambushed me.
Silently, she offers her doll. Once, cotton filled with rags could comfort me. Not now. Not here. I shake my head and wipe my face with my hand.
She is looking at me wonderingly. "The same happened to you?"
"The same? No. No."
"Only I thought, because you're crying ... You're very kind. I don't believe you can have done anything bad. I expect they'll let you go home soon."
Home. Can I go home? Will I be safe?
Beatrice interrupts my thoughts. "Who will sign for you?"
I stare at her. "What do you mean?"
"The person who signed for you to be admitted has to sign for you to be released."
I feel as if all the breath has been knocked out of me. "Are you sure?"
Beatrice nods. "Eliza explained it to me. When I am better, Mamma will sign for me to go home. Who will sign for you?"
The old question. Who has done this? Those papers would tell me...
Part of me still wants to think it was Mrs. Lunt. But really I think it was Tom, for reasons I can't begin to imagine. After all, he returned my letter to Mamma and pretended to be Thomas Childs ... it must be him ... I don't think Mamma would have done this to me...
Is that a noise in the gallery? I must be back in the day room before Roberts returns.
"Beatrice, I have to go now, I'm sorry."
Her face falls. "You will come again, won't you?" For the first time she puts her hand on mine.
"Yes, I will. I promise."
***
When Roberts and Alice come into the day room, I'm collapsed in a chair, pretending to look weary and ill. But inside I'm not feeling at all weary—my mind is working furiously.
I want to see my papers. I want to know the truth.
But whoever admitted me, it's no good waiting for them to sign my release. If I am going to get out of here, I will have to do it myself. And if I can, I'll take Beatrice with me. She has suffered enough.
From now on I must be alert. No more chloral.
And no more waiting. It's time to take action.
I've decided our only chance is at night. During the day we are watched too closely. Tonight I'll watch carefully—I will find a way.
It's the night attendant we often have, the one with eyes like currants. I haven't paid attention to her before—now, covertly, I watch every move. First she lights the lamp on the small table and, as if making herself at home, takes from her basket a pack of cards, and a large brown bottle. Then she comes round with the chloral. I'm the last to receive the dose. She doesn't bother to wait and see that we've swallowed it, so I hold it in my mouth, wondering what to do.
To my relief, she starts gathering up our clothes from the beds and as soon as her back's turned, I pull out my chamber pot and spit some of the chloral into it. I know that I mustn't give it up all at once—I might have hallucinations or become delirious. Luckily it's colourless, but its pungent smell might give me away so I use the pot.
When the attendant sees me, she looks disgruntled. "Pissin' already?" she grumbles.
I climb into bed, but after she's carried the armful of dresses, petticoats, and boots from the room, I tiptoe to the door and, peeping out, I watch where she takes them. She goes to the room at the end of the hallway, near the door to the airing court, where our cloaks and galoshes are kept.
I'm back in bed before she returns. She settles into her chair and, taking a swig from her bottle, begins playing patience.