The Painted Bridge A Novel

THIRTY-FOUR





Emmeline was convalescing in Catherine’s bedroom. Querios Abse thought he heard the sound of laughter coming through the floorboards from the bedroom above. He sat up in bed, adjusted the bolster behind him and lit the candle. A board creaked overhead. Women’s voices. Then another sound that might have been weeping leaking through the blank ceiling, seeping through the cracks in the plaster. Then laughter again.

It was unsettling. Querios stretched his hand over the cold expanse of cotton on Em’s side of the bed, felt the uninterrupted contact between the top sheet and the bottom one. He brought his hand back and laid it over the solid warmth of his own chest. He missed her. Sometimes, between sleep and waking, he reached out for her and then remembered, readjusted himself to what was. Emmeline alive but injured and at his hands—all because of the blasted bird.

Everything was different. He and Benedict ate alone at one end of the dining table. Catherine spent all her time with her mother. Catty wore eccentric costumes—bloomers one day, a red velvet scarf wrapped around her head another, Em’s old opera slippers on bare feet. She appeared at odd hours of the day and night, made brief responses to inquiries, and disappeared again, bearing plates of shortbread or almond pudding, trays of soups and jellies up to the sickroom, all fancifully decorated with leaves or berries for which she had rooted around in the garden. She treated him coolly.

The fact of the matter was, she spoke as if he was the child and she the head of the household.

“Mother’s tired,” she would say, putting her head around the door of the sickroom when he tapped for admittance. Or, “Not now, Father. We’re talking.” It irritated him, but since, as she seemed silently to remind him, he had been the one to cause the injury, Querios felt at a loss to protest. Everything would return to normal once Emmy was better.

Benedict had been a comfort. He was easier to get on with when it was just the two of them. The work the young man was doing at the ragged school was admirable, if you stopped to think about it. Some of the lads arrived starved and half-naked. They only came for the food, the warmth of the fire, Ben said. Spent their time playing, throwing chalk around the room, and generally being children when, in the world, they had to act like men. A proportion settled to their studies.

Boys graduating from the school were employed by makers of guns, canes, cabinets, matches, blacking, shoes, cards, locks, ink, watches, emery cloth, gold lace, violin strings. They’d found work with paper stainers, bookbinders, type founders, ivory turners, engravers, jewelers, smiths, printers, bricklayers, horsehair pickers.

They had a new benefactor, a man who’d never been to school himself yet made a fortune in patent remedies—a liver powder that Querios in actual fact had used on occasion. The philanthropist wanted to give a chance to young boys. They were looking for premises in order to start a boarding school.

“What about Lake House, Father?” Ben had joked. “It would fit the b-bill perfectly.”

Benedict’s stammer seemed mainly to have cleared itself up. Querios had told Emmeline it would. Children did get better so long as you didn’t interfere too much.

There was one consolation for him in the accident. It had driven the magistrates out of his mind. He could barely remember to anticipate their next visit unless he spotted the note he’d written himself on the desk, listing the preparations still to be made. The list was too long to tackle now and somehow he didn’t have the heart for it. When he tried to work on the figures he could not remember what the information related to, had no more idea what they meant than if they had been hieroglyphs or Hebrew.

Lately, Querios Abse felt like that about all of his life. That he could not recognize it, that it did not belong to him except by accident, by some mistake at the lost and found, and that his allegiance to it was ended.

* * *

The whistle blasts, three long, distant shrills, startled everyone. Violet threw her shawl over her head and whimpered that her time had come. Lizzie Button dropped to her knees. Mrs. Featherstone grabbed a curtain and began to wrap herself in it, turning in circles until she disappeared in a shroud of frayed brocade. More blasts pierced the air, louder this time and from nearer by. The air seemed to tremble with them.

Anna ran to the window, kneeled on the seat, and tried to pull it open. The frame refused to budge; it was nailed shut, she saw, like the bedroom window. She pressed her nose against the glass. The sky outside was thick and low, the sheep gathered in one corner of the field with their heads up. Men’s voices hung on the air, along with the sound of wheels turning on gravel.

The door opened and Lovely came toward her at a noisy run, tying her apron strings over her stomach. She stopped in front of Anna with her face alight with excitement and laid her hands on Anna’s shoulders.

“It’s them, miss.”

“Who?”

“The magistrates. It’s yer chance to speak out.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You’ve got to.”

Anna’s heart began to pound.

“I can’t. I’m too frightened. Of the chair.”

Lovely’s face was urgent. She glanced over her shoulder and shook Anna lightly.

“You oughter be more frightened of staying here the rest of yer days. It’s yer chance, miss.”

She ran out of the room in her small, quick steps, her clogs bouncing on the boards, back toward the patients’ rooms. As the door closed, Mrs. Featherstone stumbled; the curtain hooks tore away from the rail and she toppled to the floor, still wrapped like a mummy. A cloud of dust rose, filling the air. Anna helped her out of the tangled cloth and sat her in Batt’s chair. Mrs. Featherstone’s eyes were terrified.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Featherstone,” Anna said, her own heart thumping with terror, her voice high and unfamiliar. “No one is after you. The magistrates have come to help you. To help all of us. Sit down and be patient.”

A smell began to seep into the room, like a bonfire. Anna made herself return to the window seat. It was true that she was frightened of the chair. She was terrified of being strapped into it again, kept there for as long as Makepeace’s whim demanded. But Lovely was right. It was her chance. The only one remaining to her. She had to take it.

She would speak calmly. She must make an impression without appearing to be a hysteric. She must speak slowly and make sure they understood. Not so slowly as to try their patience. If only she had her own clothes. Her hair. She ran her hands over the bristles on her head and groaned. Hearing a tinkling sound, she looked up. Makepeace was in front of her, her keys swinging on their holder.

“Mr. Abse says you’re to see the gentlemen. I don’t know why, I’m sure. There’s others here more deserving to give an account of themselves.”

Anna jumped to her feet, goose pimples rising on her flesh under the scratchy dress. She swallowed and tried to keep her voice level.

“Where are they, Makepeace? I will speak with them.”

Whistles shrilled again and Makepeace’s mouth twitched.

“I told him we should introduce Miss Todd. Or even Button. But he doesn’t listen to me. He never did.”

“Take me to them.”

Makepeace turned on her heel and walked toward the door without a backward glance. Anna followed, her heart pounding faster than ever. As she passed Lizzie Button, Button reached up from where she sat and caught at Anna’s skirt.

“Don’t go, Anna. It’s a—”

“I must, Lizzie.”

She hurried past her—through the dining room, where a maid was engaged in a violent sweeping of corners and on past the linen store, the wardrobe. As she walked, she rehearsed her appeal. She would speak on behalf of the women of England, any of whom could suffer this same injustice. No. She would convey only her own case—her personal experience. She took a breath and changed her mind again. She would speak unemotionally, as a man might, as if she explained the case of a friend and was barely concerned about it herself at all. No …

They were outside Makepeace’s room. The door stood ajar. Makepeace pushed it open with an expression of disgust.

“The patient’s here,” she said loudly, gesturing for her to enter. “As per instructions.”

Anna stepped into the room and looked around. It was empty. A cup of coffee sat untouched on Makepeace’s table and some other odor hung in the air, sweet and thin. As she opened her mouth to protest, a man stepped forward from behind the door and clamped his arm around her waist, his hand over her lips. It was Fludd. He forced her down onto the chair. Makepeace smiled as she stooped in front of Anna and pressed a cloth over her nose and mouth.

The cloying smell filled Anna’s head. She saw Fludd’s blue eyes, intent on some purpose and felt her limbs trapped in the vise of his hands. Makepeace’s voice was distant, too far away to make out what she said or for it to matter. Anna’s eyes slid past her to a host of spotted butterflies dancing over gold and purple and scarlet petals.

* * *

The magistrates were used to being delayed in reception rooms. It was generally acknowledged that a quarter of an hour was fair play and all three men, as the twentieth minute approached, had begun to fidget with their cuff links and drain the dregs of their sherry glasses.

Sir John Earle was once again leading the party; he had Mountford-Smith with him and a new chap, Hogben, on his first inspection. Querios Abse stood between them and the door. The signal from Makepeace, two rapid shrills, long pause, two more quick blasts, had not come. Querios rocked on his heels.

“Won’t you take another glass?”

Thumps came through the molded plaster ceiling. As one, the magistrates glanced upward. Sir John Earle straightened his wig and got to his feet.

“Thank you for the refreshment, Abse. Now, if we could proceed.”

He pushed straight past Abse and set off from the study, Abse hurrying to get in front of him on the stairs. Sir John had been to Lake House before on several occasions. It was he who had described the airing grounds as “dismal” and suggested carriage rides for the guests, bemoaning the lack of recreation.

“How many d’you have at present, Abse?” Sir John said, on the landing. “Numbers up at all? Any improvement on cures?”

He had a way of curving his mouth as he spoke, as if the curt smile could take the sting out of the words. Querios assumed his most dignified voice.

“The figures are in the ledgers, Sir John, all in the proper order. Ready for your perusal. I believe our cure rate is as good as anybody’s, although there is, as you would expect, wide variation within the different classes of disorder.”

“We don’t need chapter and verse, old chap. Just a fair sample. I’ve got an early dinner date in town.”

They were at the top of the stairs. Makepeace had had more than enough time to straighten things out and to take the agreed steps. He must have failed to hear her signal, Querios told himself. He grasped the handle, flung open the door to the dayroom and flattened himself against the wall of the landing.

“After you, gentlemen.”

He followed the magistrates into the room. The sight met his eyes like a physical blow. One of the curtains lay in a heap on the floor. Button was on her knees, praying. Violet Valentine called for her mother. Featherstone cowered on what used to be Talitha Batt’s chair, her face covered in smuts. There was no sign of Makepeace.

“Looks like a battleground in here, Abse,” Sir John remarked pleasantly.

“Is there a piano?” came an eager voice from behind. “Any caged birds? The room doesn’t appear to offer sufficient diversion.”

Button jumped up off her knees. She got in front of Sir John before Querios had a chance to prevent it and stood twisting her hands together, the charred piece of wood clasped under one arm.

“Sir. It’s not right. There’s a patient who wished to speak with you. She’s been taken from us this very minute.”

From the dining room beyond, Querios at last heard the signal. Two short blasts. Long pause. Two more. The magistrates glanced at each other as Makepeace hurried across the floor toward them. Her eyes were dull and her cap askew.

“This lady fancies injustices at every turn, Sir John,” she said, getting hold of Button’s arm, thrusting her to one side. “She’s not herself.”

She made a gesture as if she brought a bottle to her lips, winked at the men. Querios could smell the gin from where he stood. The magistrates had remarked in the last report on her “unwearied kindness.” All a charade. He turned his head away and made a sudden, overdue, decision. He would dismiss Fanny Makepeace as soon as he found a replacement. Might even do it before he found someone else.

Button had bobbed around Makepeace and stood in front of Sir John again, flushed to the roots of her hair.

“I have never taken alcohol in my life, sir. You must find Mrs. Palmer. Speak with her.”

“I commend you for it,” Sir John said, drily.

Hogben was watching, holding his new notebook open with one large thumb, a look of foolish sincerity on his face. The grandfather clock in the corner struck the quarter hour and the party moved on and followed Makepeace through the dining room. Querios brought up the rear. The magistrates showed no interest in the linen stores, the wardrobe. They passed the treatment room and although Hogben seemed inclined to linger and ask questions, Sir John did not. He sneezed more than once, brought out a fine white linen handkerchief from his pocket and passed it under his nose.

“Herbs, Sir John,” Querios said. “To freshen the atmosphere.”

Sir John’s aristocratic nose twitched. “Smells like rot to me,” he said. “Have you made the investigations that we talked about?”

Outside the seclusion room, Sir John stopped.

“What’s going on here?”

Querios spoke confidently. Almost dismissively. “Nothing, sir. We rarely have recourse to any form of restraint. We prefer to employ more up-to-date methods with our guests.”

“Really?” said Sir John. “In that case, what’s that noise?”

In the silence that followed, Abse heard moaning coming from inside. He looked at Fanny Makepeace for an explanation.

“A melancholic turned maniac, sir,” she said to Sir John. “She was determined that you’d done her wrong. Got it into her head to wreak some kind of vengeance. She’s been sedated for her safety and for yours.”

Querios couldn’t immediately think who she was talking about. He could only stand and watch as Sir John stooped to the observation window and pulled back the wooden shutter. He remained in that awkward-looking stance for some time before standing up with a sigh. As Sir John straightened his long, lean body, Hogben bent his short, stocky one to the observation window, then stood up looking flustered.

“I say, Sir John. This can’t be right.”

“Can’t it?” Sir John said. “Pray do explain, why not?”

After Mountford-Smith had also satisfied his curiosity, Querios stooped and looked into the room. It was smaller than he remembered, lit only by the light that filtered around the edges of a barred and shuttered window. Something lay on the floor—a large bundle of cloth, or an old sack. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the half light, the bundle first twitched, then raised itself to a sitting position. He saw a white hand, a flash of bright eyes before it collapsed down again onto the padded canvas. It was Mrs. Palmer. She was in a restraint waistcoat, a gag at her mouth. He stepped back, feeling off-balance. Fanny continued to avoid his eye.

Sir John sneezed again; his wig tipped back on his head, showing a second fringe of silver hair underneath it, sparser and straighter than the one on top. It wasn’t too late to retrieve the situation, Querios told himself. There was no law to say noisy patients should not be secluded for their own good, restrained in a humane manner if necessary.

“Best place for her,” he said.

Sir John made no response. He looked at his watch, turned on his heel and set off back down the corridor as if he owned the place. Abse had no option but to hurry behind him.

* * *

The sand was rough against Anna’s skin, the waves shushed and murmured in her ears. She must have fallen asleep on the beach. She couldn’t hear him, chattering to himself. Where was he? She should have been watching him.

Anna tried to sit up but her own arms refused to help her. She raised her head and saw a flash of a silver wig, heard men’s voices. The sound of the waves died away. She must tell the men something, she knew, if she could only remember what it was. Trying to right herself, get her bearings, she collapsed again. Her head was heavy, her eyelids weighted with shells.

Someone was touching her. She opened her eyes and saw Lovely’s face.

“Let me sleep.” The words dissolved in her mouth, ran down her chin. Lovely pulled her into a sitting position and propped her against the wall. Lovely slapped her face, then loosened the band around her mouth. The corners of her mouth were stinging. Lovely untied the bonds at her back and her arms returned to life.

“Swaller it, miss.”

Anna could smell something familiar and bitter. Lovely pressed the rim of a china cup against her lips and tipped liquid into her mouth. It was cold on her tongue. Coffee. She opened her eyes again and looked around. She was in a narrow room, one she’d never seen before. Curious that such a large house should contain so many small rooms. Like the chambers of the nautilus. The floor under her feet and the wall behind her back were soft, as if she was in a dream still. She had been dreaming about something. Something that left her heavy, waterlogged with some imagined or remembered grief.

Lovely shook her again and pinched her cheeks.

“You’re going to speak to them.”

“Speak to whom?”

She sounded drunk. She laughed. Lovely slapped her again, harder.

“It ain’t a joke, miss. Get up.”

Lovely pulled Anna to her feet, held her up with one strong arm and walked her, half stumbling, back along the treatment corridor, through the dayroom and down the stairs.

* * *

From outside the office door, Anna could hear Querios Abse and other, unfamiliar voices. Lovely lifted her apron, wiped Anna’s chin with it.

“Now, miss. This is it. Here’s yer chance.”

Lovely opened the door, pushed Anna through it in front of her and closed it behind the two of them. The study expanded in front of Anna; the floor rocked and tilted under her feet. She reached for something to steady herself and found nothing.

The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Scores of ledgers had been taken down from the shelves, set out across every available surface, some laid open, some stacked in piles. Abse was there, standing behind his desk, in the company of three other men.

One, leaning back in his chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him, wore a silver wig. He had curved brows that precisely mirrored the curve of his eyelids, steady, doubtful eyes and a spotless white stock tied at his neck. A younger man, bursting his buttons, stared at her with his mouth hanging open. A third sat with his fingers linked under his chin.

The youngest man broke the stillness; he got out of his chair and carried it forward to where she stood.

“Do sit down,” he said. “You appear a little unsteady. On your feet, I mean.”

“Thank you.”

She took hold of the back of the chair.

“You’re wandering, Mrs. Palmer. You know you shouldn’t be down here.” Abse’s voice was jovial, tense. “Lovely, take her back upstairs.”

Anna glanced at the window and saw a flurry of snowflakes outside, colorless against the thick sky.

“I want to speak to the magistrates, Mr. Abse.”

Her heart had slowed now that she was here in front of them. She could feel it beating strongly in her chest. Abse approached the man in the silver wig, who sat leafing through a ledger.

“I apologize, Sir John, for the interruption.” He thumped down another armful of files. “Patients’ particulars. Daily observations. It’s all here. The weather seems to be worsening but I hope you may at least cast an eye over the paperwork without jeopardizing your dinner date.” He raised his head. “Off you go, Mrs. Palmer. You’re disturbing the gentlemen.”

“I have a right to speak with them.”

“I say, Sir John,” said the young one. “Oughtn’t one to hear …?”

The snow was falling in earnest, thickening, the flakes huge and clumsy in their descent. The door opened behind Anna. She heard Makepeace enter and clear her throat in a parody of indignation. Anna tightened her grip on the chair. The man in the silver wig, Sir John, sat up straighter, adjusted his stock. He was so engrossed in the file, so intent on his reading matter, he had not noticed that she was there. Abse called across the room.

“Remove her, Mrs. Makepeace.”

Sir John crossed one long leg over the other as he turned another page.

“Do sit down, Mrs. Palmer,” he said. “Take your time. When you are ready to speak, I am ready to listen.”

* * *

“My name is Anna Palmer.”

“A little louder, if you can,” Sir John said.

“They say the best place to start is at the beginning, Sir John. My problems began before I arrived at Lake House, when I married a dishonest man.” As she heard the words, she felt a lightening of her whole self. It was true. She had barely known it herself until she said it aloud. She had married a dishonest man. She breathed and resumed. “I married a dishonest man. Mr. Abse had no hand in that. But when that man brought me here, on false charges of hysteria, Mr. Abse was only too happy to oblige and serve as a jailer.

“I was brought here without my consent or knowledge and kept here against my will. Mr. Abse claimed it was a place where a woman might find solace. I did need solace, Sir John. I needed it more than I understood at the time. But there has been no solace here. And if I was not ill when I arrived, I was likely to have become so afterward.”

She swallowed. The young man leapt forward again and handed her a glass of water. She smiled at him.

“Thank you.”

“Go on,” said Sir John.

“When I tried to protest against my detention, they called me hysterical. I had either to go along with my imprisonment and surrender my life, or to speak against it and be told I was a lunatic. I have been made sick with powders. Frozen half to death in a cold shower. Tortured in a whirling chair. My hair, which had never been cut, has been taken from me.

“The person given the title of matron offers petty cruelties in place of the kindnesses that might make life tolerable. She turns to a treatment of her own. Mr. Abse knows what happens.”

Abse banged his fist on the desk. “She’s a maniac, unsuitable for Lake House. I requested her removal some time ago. Husband doesn’t want to know.”

“Be quiet, Abse,” said Sir John.

“Some of us here are not ill at all. And those who are don’t get any better. Miss Talitha Batt, whom I was proud to call my friend, met her death in this shabby prison. Mrs. Lizzie Button is a mother, parted from children whom no one could love as well as she does. Mrs. Valentine, whom you saw upstairs, deserves better than this at the end of her long life.

“All I want is to be allowed to leave. I have nothing that can be taken from me, apart from life itself. I have lost my reputation. My health. I have come close to losing my mind. As close as I will ever come.”

She turned her gaze to Abse.

“For that, I am grateful to you. You have shown me that except by the will of God, I will not be destroyed. Not by powders or potions, not by spinning chairs or cold showers or locked doors or petty cruelties. Not by razor blades or confinement or blows. Not by boredom or hopelessness. Nothing short of murder can kill me.”

She stopped. She had finished.

“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer,” Sir John said.

He rose to open the door for her; his eyes met hers and he nodded his head up and down, slowly, for a long time.