One useful thing I'm allowed to do is help Eliza with her reading, but really, it's coming on so fast now, she doesn't need any help. Eventually, after much insistence on my part, Mrs. Shaw lets me do light jobs—darning stockings, mending torn pinafores—but she won't let me help with the real work of the household.
I know this can't go on. I'm also worried about Eliza. I'm sure something's troubling her, but I don't get a chance to speak to her privately—all activities, except for sleeping, happen in this one small room. In a way I'm glad, because until we talk about the future, everything can carry on as it is.
But one morning Mrs. Shaw ladles some porridge into a bowl, and calls in to Eliza, "I'm taking this down to Hetty. I'll see what else needs doing, while I'm there." She explains to me, "Hetty's a neighbour, Miss Cosgrove. Her lad came this morning to say she's poorly."
As soon as she's gone, Eliza comes from the scullery, drying her wet hands.
For a moment there's a shyness between us. Outside in the sunshine Lily and Arthur are making mud pies and their chatter floats in through the open door.
I'm the first to speak, plunging in awkwardly. "Is anything the matter? Only you seem—I don't know—preoccupied with something."
Eliza's gaze shifts away. "Oh, I've been thinking about what I'm going to do, that's all. But there's no rush."
I clear my throat. "You know, I'm so grateful to you and your family for what you've done for me. I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you."
It sounds all wrong—stiff and formal. At Wildthorn we talked easily. What's changed?
"That's all right. We're glad to help you."
"But listen, Eliza. We must talk about what I'm going to do."
She spreads a worn cloth on the table. "Wait till you're right better."
"You keep saying that. But I am better and we can't keep putting it off. I've been here nearly three weeks now—"
Ignoring me, she sets the lamp on the cloth and fetches some rags. Removing the glass chimney, she starts to clean off the soot.
"Are you tired of it here?" Her voice is low, muffled.
"No!"
"Only I wondered if you were missing your books ... and clever talk, like."
"Not at all." How can I tell her how much I don't want to go?
A silence falls as she rubs away at the glass and I watch her. I remember something I've been meaning to ask her.
"Did you know Weeks was in the Infirmary? I saw her when I was looking for a way out."
"I heard the others talking about it. Joking that no one would be able to escape from there now, if she were there. That's what gave me the idea..."
I smile wryly. What would Weeks think if she knew that, in a roundabout way, she'd helped me to escape...
Eliza goes on, "No one knew why she were there. They were keeping it hushed up, like."
"It looked like smallpox to me."
Eliza raises her eyebrows and I add hastily, "Don't worry, I didn't get too close. She was pretty far gone. I don't think she'll have pulled through."
"That's a pity. She were a nasty piece of work, but still..."
"Mmm."
Eliza fetches a lantern.
"Shall I do that, while you do something else?"
"No. Mother will be cross if I let you."
"Look, this is what I mean. I can't go on sitting about, like some fine lady, while your family feeds me. Especially as you're not working."
"There's no need to fret about that. Father's paid steady, like, at the moment and Charlie and Florrie, they send most of what they get."
"But I'm not contributing anything."
She doesn't answer.
"I've been thinking. The best thing to do is to write to Aunt Phyllis."
Her hand freezes in mid-motion, and she looks at me in some alarm. "I wouldn't do that."
"Why not?"
"It's just that—" She puts down the lantern and rag. Her expression makes my heart start beating faster. What's she going to say?
"I'm sorry, I haven't been straight with you."
"What do you mean?"
"When I told you I'd been dismissed for helping you get out of there, that weren't the real reason—well not the whole of it, anyhow."
Of course, she was suspended before I escaped. Why hadn't I remembered that? "So why? For coming to visit me?"
Gnawing her lip, she shakes her head. Then she says, "You wanted to know what the signature was on your papers, so I thought I'd have a go."
I catch my breath. "You were caught!"
She nods. "With the papers in my hand—I couldn't find the right place to put them back in the drawer."
My stomach lurches. "You saw it? The signature?"
"Yes, and it weren't Thomas Childs—" She swallows.
For a moment, I can't breathe. I stare at her, paralysed. I manage to say, "Who?"
She grips the table. "I knew I was going to have to tell you, but I kept putting it off." Eliza fixes her eyes on mine. "It were your aunt, Phyllis Illing—something."
"Illingworth." As I say the name, a terrible pain spreads through my chest, so bad, I don't think I can bear it. Aunt Phyllis?
Everything solid is falling away from me, leaving me trembling, giddy. I keep trying to breathe, but the air is too thick ... I can't draw it into my lungs...