Now hurry, hurry, out of the door, down the hallway, feet stepping as lightly as leaves, so that none of the other night attendants hear. A tiny click and the cloakroom door opens and then I search quickly for my dress—and here it is, on top of the pile! What luck!
I struggle into it, feeling at the waistband for the lump of money—still there, pull on the petticoat and look about for shoes—no time for stockings. These are much too small, try another pair—these will do—in fact I think they are mine—another stroke of good fortune!
I pick up the nearest bundle of clothes for Beatrice. Anything will do for now. I seize a cloak from a peg and put it on, take a couple for Beatrice and I'm ready.
Now I pause, and take a breath. I have to open the main door to the gallery and this could be our downfall. If someone hears—the key turning, the door opening, then closing behind me...
Another breath and then, to the door. I try the biggest key and it slides in as if the lock has just been oiled and it turns smoothly without a sound. I turn the handle and, like a dream, the door opens. My heart dances. We're going to do it!
Now to find the side door, the one the attendants and servants use. I've looked for it on my way to and from the dining room but not found it, so I go in the other direction, along a short corridor I've never seen before. At the end it turns right into another passageway. And here it is—the side door! I'm sure it will be locked but just in case, before I try the keys, I press the handle and it opens. Someone must have forgotten to lock it. And it's so close to the gallery. I'll be able to wheel Beatrice here quickly.
There's no time to lose but just for a moment I step outside. It's stopped raining and overhead, stars glitter in the night sky. I breathe in the cold air, its sharpness, the taste of freedom, stinging my throat.
My plan is to make for the side gate into the park—I'm sure there must be one for the attendants and tradesmen—then wheel Beatrice some way away and leave her hidden by the edge of the forest, while I walk to the nearest town. Luckily, it's not too cold. We'll take all the blankets from Beatrice's bed.
From my memory of the journey here, it's quite a distance to the town, but I should be able to manage it. As soon as it's light, I'll hire a carriage and come back for Beatrice and then we'll take the train to the north. I daren't go home. Mamma will tell Tom and there's no knowing what he'll do. So that only leaves Carr Head. Aunt Phyllis will take us in, I know it.
I'm not sure what will happen next, but Aunt Phyllis will sort everything out. She'll make Tom account for himself and decide how we can help Beatrice.
A fleeting doubt about Grace rises in my mind. Instantly I quell it. She'll be in London now, settled into her new home, her new life. She won't have said anything. She won't have broken her promise.
Once we get to Carr Head everything will be all right.
I take one last breath of air before turning back inside.
Hurry now, Beatrice will be waiting. Back along the corridor, round the corner, into the gallery. Pause here to check. Nothing stirring in the long dark hallway, no lights, no voices. No one knows I'm not where I should be.
Along to Beatrice's room, swiftly, silently, and here I am at the door and I have my hand on the handle and I'm turning it, but something's wrong. The door won't open. It's locked.
I tap on the door, calling quietly, "Beatrice, open the door," but there's no answer.
I don't understand. The door's never been locked before. I look at the keys in my hand. Perhaps one of them will open it.
And then a voice behind me, a voice I know so well, says, "You're wasting your time, Miss Childs. Miss Hill has gone."
I spin round. There's a sound of a match striking and then the steady glow of an oil lamp and in its light I see Weeks's face, mocking, triumphant.
I stare at her, not comprehending. What does she mean? "Beatrice has gone." She can't have gone. She's meant to be here, waiting for me, so we can escape, so we can be free. What is Weeks doing here? This is all wrong. This isn't how it was meant to happen...
And then what Weeks said filters through to me, begins to make sense. Beatrice has gone. Beatrice has gone.
Rage flares through my whole body and the words fly out of my mouth: "You bitch, you damn bitch, you've killed her."
Weeks just stands there, smiling.
I want to hurt her like she's hurt Beatrice.
I seize hold of the nearest object, a heavy pot of ferns, and I hurl it at her head. It misses and hits the window behind her and glass falls in a glittering shower, glass everywhere. I curl my hand into a fist and, crack, I punch her hard in the face. She gives a cry and one hand flies up to her nose.
Setting the lamp down, she catches hold of my arm, twisting it up round my back. She forces me down, down on to the matting, my face in the glass and she's shouting now and I'm shouting and kicking and struggling and hands seize my arms and ankles and I'm held so tight I can't move and something's pressing into my back, I can't breathe, I'm gasping for air and then my head's wrenched sideways and I just have time to close my fist before a cloth looms in front of my eyes, a cloth that smells sweet and engulfs me in blackness.