Wildthorn (21 page)

She becomes intent on her frill, pleating it between her fingers, smoothing it again.

"Eliza? What is it?"

At last, she looks at me. "I thought you were sweet on her."

I stare at her for a moment, not believing I heard right. Then I have to look away, my blood racing. I can't think of a single thing to say.

Eliza chews her lip, her eyes anxious. "I'm sorry. I've spoken out of turn."

I turn back to her. "No.
No.
"

There's an awkward silence and then abruptly, she stands up. "I'd better be off"

She's embarrassed now and probably thinks she's offended me. But I'm not offended at all. I feel as if I'm floating, light and free.

I hasten to assure her, "I felt sorry for Beatrice, too, you know. I wanted to rescue her. That's all."

"Oh." Her eyes clear, become as blue as a summer sky. More silence as I look at her and she looks at me.

Then she says softly, "I'll get you out of here, Louisa. Somehow."

There's something in her tone that makes me look at her hard, and she's looking at me and in that moment something happens, I don't know what, as if a spark leaps between us and my heart falters and then goes on faster than before. I want to say something without having the least idea of what it might be. The silence stretches and we go on looking at each other.

She is the first to break it. "I nearly forgot." Fumbling in her bag, she pulls something out and gives it to me. It's an orange.

I hold it cupped in my hands. The colour is so vivid it hurts my eyes. And the smell ... I close my eyes and breathe it in.

"It's not just for sniffing—you make sure you eat it. There's more where that came from."

I open my eyes. "Thank you."

"Is there anything you want next time?"

Automatically, in a kind of dream I reply, "No. I don't need anything, thank you."

***

Even after she's gone, I go on feeling happy for hours. I sit in a daze, holding my orange, but I'm not thinking of it, I'm thinking of Eliza, her expressions, the things she said. Especially that one thing."
I thought you were sweet on her
" She said it so simply. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if it was
all right.

At last, with a sigh, I turn my attention to the orange and for a long time I just look at it, savouring its colour, enjoying the weight of it in my hand, the anticipation. Finally, I start to peel it, digging into it with my nail, releasing the sharp sweetness, the sticky juice.

I'm just about to put the first segment into my mouth, when I see that my neighbour has suspended her blanket-shredding and is watching me. On an impulse, I offer the piece of orange to her, but she rears back with a squawk of alarm. She utters a word which sounds like "pisspallet" and then she starts on her blanket again. So I eat the segment myself and it's delicious.

Very slowly, bit by bit, I eat the orange, enjoying every mouthful. And all the time, it's as if Eliza is still with me, buoying me up.

I can't believe it! Eliza was here only two days ago and here she is again! I see her coming in at the door and Scratton, who's dealing with a screaming patient, puts out a hand as if to detain her. Eliza ignores them both and comes rapidly down the gallery. I'm grinning like an idiot and then I see her face and I go cold.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"I've been suspended."

"What? What does that mean?"

"I've been taken off the gallery for now. I'm to go to my room and wait there until Mr. Sneed send for me. I had to tell you, in case—" She doesn't finish the sentence.

In case. In case she's forbidden to see me again, in case she's dismissed...

All the possibilities are bleak. And they all mean the same thing—I won't see her again. And there will be no escape.

"Oh, Eliza." I can't say any more. My throat is blocked and something is clawing at my chest. I seize her hand and press it to my face.

"I must go."

"I know." But I can't let go of her hand. I search her face, taking in all the familiar details, committing them to memory.

She puts her face even closer to mine; I can feel her breath hot on my ear. "If you can get to the Infirmary, you might be able to get out."

"Out? How?"

But it's too late. Scratton is at the bedside, with a twisted smile on her face. "I don't think you're supposed to be here, Miss Shaw." She gives the name a mocking emphasis.

Eliza straightens up. She draws in her breath. She gives me one last agonised look then she walks away from me, down the gallery to the door, and she's gone.

Scratton leers down at me, but I turn my back on her and curl myself into a tight ball.

This has all happened so quickly I can hardly take it in.

I can still see Eliza's face, feel the pressure of her fingers on mine. It's as if someone has plunged a knife into my heart and I can't do anything, I just have to endure the pain.

***

After a long while I come back to myself and try to think.

I must somehow get myself taken to the Infirmary, like Eliza said. It's a separate building across the park. Maybe it's easier to escape from. But how do I get to it?

What if I tried to break a limb? But that's no good if I'm going to run away. Could I feign an illness?

My mind goes round in circles until I can't bear it any longer. In frustration I thump my pillow, feel something hard under my fist.

I feel a great leap inside.

I don't know whether I have the courage to do it.

If I misjudge it, I'll kill myself ... and now I don't want to die. But if I don't try, what's the alternative? Without Eliza, I won't survive, I'll end up like Beatrice, in a living death.

This is the only way out I can think of.

I make myself eat as much as I can for supper, draining the bowl of greasy stew, cramming my mouth with bread until my stomach feels tight and uncomfortable.

All night I hardly sleep. If I do doze off, I wake suddenly again, my heart thudding—is it time?

I've decided early in the morning would be best. It's the likeliest time for a doctor to be on the premises. I'm hoping he'll recognise the symptoms and know what to do...

And now grey light filters in through the windows. Soon the attendants will arrive, filling the ward with their noisy chatter. Now there's no more space for thought, for fear—now, it
is
time.

With trembling fingers, I uncork the bottle of Fowler's Solution, Eliza's gift to me.
Wish me luck,
I say to her, in my head, and then I swallow down what I hope is about five drachms of the liquid.

At first I feel nothing, just a metallic taste in my mouth.

Perhaps I haven't taken enough. Should I take a few more drops, just to make sure?

I make myself wait, to give it time to work its way into my system. After a while, I feel pins and needles in my hands, a pain in my head and my heart starts beating rapidly. I push the bottle of Fowler's Solution inside my dress, feeling its cold glass against my skin.

I want them to find it, but not yet. I want them to think this is something like gastric influenza, something contagious. I'm relying on their fear, their ignorance.

Now I'm feeling nauseous, my head is starting to spin. I have to lie down ... My hands and face feel clammy, my throat is dry, darkness keeps coming and going at the edge of my vision. Griping pain is building in my stomach—I know I'm going to vomit at any moment and as much as I want this to happen, my body resists it—my teeth clench involuntarily in an effort to prevent it. But then my insides surge and heave, I can't stop it, with spasm after shuddering spasm, the contents of my stomach spew on to my pillow.

I come back to myself to find my cheek is resting in the yellow, bloody stinking mess, but I can't raise my head, I'm too weak and shaken, my eyes swimming with tears.

Come and find me. Please come and find me.

But no one comes. It's all been in vain, I'm going to die...

I've done it. I'm still alive and I'm in the Infirmary!

I was very lucky. They found me just in time, Dr. Bull said.

He's a better doctor than I thought. It didn't take him long to discover the bottle of Fowler's solution and then—the stomach pump...

All I want now is to lie here in this quiet ward, swallowing the prescribed doses of rice milk and egg white. But it won't do. Although I still feel weak and wretched from the effects of the poison, I'm better. Any day now I'll be sent back to the main building and I'll have missed my chance.

The trouble is, I don't know what Eliza meant. I don't know how to escape from here.

The ward is on the ground floor, but the windows are barred. The door isn't locked, perhaps in case of emergencies, and when I first discovered this, I felt a surge of hope. But I heard Dr. Bull tell the nurses that I was to be closely watched and so far they've been vigilant, by day and night.

The other patients lie quietly: one elderly woman has pneumonia and looks to be very near the end, while another has had surgery and is too weak to move. If I were to try to leave the ward, I have little to fear from them. But how am I to do it?

Oh, Eliza, where are you? Have they let you back yet?

No use thinking of it. I must concentrate and be ready to seize the opportunity if it presents itself...

***

I jerk awake, my heart thudding. A commotion out in the corridor—voices, and someone screaming, as if in agony. Blinking to clear my sight, I see them sweep into the ward—two men carrying a stretcher with a body on it—a woman writhing in pain—and a young nurse with a lantern, calling out in agitation.

Sleepily, I watch the ward nurse direct the men to transfer the patient to an empty bed at the end of the ward and then dismiss them. Two other nurses look in at the door but they too are dispatched. The ward nurse seems to have the situation in hand.

After swiftly surveying the patient, whose screams have subsided into a low moaning, she hands the younger one a key. "Fetch dressings and brandy from the dispensary."

The girl scurries off, lantern swinging wildly, while the ward nurse moves her lamp to the patient's bedside. It's hard to see what's going on—the nurse has her back to me, but her shadow looms on the wall and I have the impression she is cutting at something, perhaps the patient's clothing.

The young nurse returns with her arms full, and together they minister to the patient. I overhear snatches of their conversation. It appears that the woman knocked over a lamp and her nightgown caught fire. An attendant extinguished the flames by rolling her in a blanket but she has extensive burns.

Suddenly I am alert. This could be my chance! It could take them some time to dress the burns and they're both fully occupied, their backs towards me.

Moving slowly and quietly, I slide one of my pillows under the bedclothes, to make it look as if the bed is still occupied. Holding my breath, I make for the door, expecting them to call after me, but nothing happens.

Out in the corridor, I pause for a second. Which way should I go?

Off to the left the corridor is in darkness, but to the right there is a light. I speed towards it as quietly as I can, passing what seems to be another ward on the right, with a low light showing, voices murmuring. My heart is in my mouth. At any moment I expect a nurse to appear.

The passage opens out into a vestibule and here is the front door. I seize the knob and turn it, but nothing happens.
It's locked.

I blink back tears of disappointment. No time for that. There must be a way out somewhere.

I daren't go back past the ward. Instead, I cross the vestibule into another corridor. I try the nearest door and it opens. But it's a cupboard, with shelves stacked with linen and blankets. I seize one of these and move on. At any moment they will discover my empty bed.

I try every handle as I pass. All locked. But then I come to another door that opens. Peering in, I see that the gas light has been left on low, and I can make out a small room with a single bed in it. My heart jumps when I see that the bed is occupied, and I'm just about to retreat when the patient stirs.

"Water ... please."

It's a croak, hardly audible, but there is something familiar about it...

I should go, now, before she sees me and raises the alarm. I haven't time for this.

But I can't stop myself, I have to know. I go closer to the bed.

I was right. It's Weeks. But how changed.

She is tossing about, muttering incoherently, as though in the grip of delirium. She's obviously not aware of me, but, nevertheless, when she turns her head my way, I start back, my hand at my throat. For her face is covered in blisters, weeping pus.

Smallpox.

She is clearly in the final stages of the disease and just for a second I can't help thinking,
Serves her right.

But then her parched lips open and she croaks again. "Water..."

There is no water, and I'm sorry. This end is too horrible, even for my old enemy.

A noise in the distance pulls me back into the moment.
What am I doing? I must hurry.

Out in the corridor once more I see light spilling from an open door farther along. I approach cautiously, then breath with relief, when I discover that the room is empty. It must be the dispensary—the young nurse's lantern is on the table, illuminating shelves of labelled jars and bottles, a cupboard of apothecary's equipment. And suddenly I have an idea. But I must be quick.

I scan the shelves. The jars are in alphabetical order, as they should be. I quickly find the one marked "sal nitri"—saltpetre. Just along, is a jar marked "sacch"—sugar, ready ground. My eye races round the items in the glass-fronted cupboard, and then with a great leap of excitement, I see what I'm looking for—an old-fashioned iron mortar, quite narrow and deep. Hurriedly I fill the mortar with saltpetre and sugar, stirring it together. The quantities might not be right—it might not work. But if it does, it will buy me some time. Now all I need are some matches.

I look on the shelves, pull out drawers, feeling more and more frantic. I'm making too much noise, this is taking too long. I look round one more time and then I see it—a box of lucifers, left on the table, next to the lantern.