Even if they had formed a search party, I’d known nothing of it. I shrugged again and sat on the stoop beside her, feeling her black wool skirt rub against my bare arm.
“They didn’t look for me?” Marilla’s voice raised an octave. “B-but I ran away. Surely they care a little.”
Ran away? Was she an inmate or servant, and what had forced her to leave? Even more puzzling, what had brought her back? I longed to ask these questions, but I couldn’t. My ruse would only work if everyone believed it. Silence was part of my ploy. I’d only just obtained safety; I’d not risk it.
I slid closer and patted her shoulder. A sad smile pulled at her lips. Crickets chirped all around us and, after a moment, she shook her head and knocked my hand away.
“Never thought I’d be back here. Joe, that’s my husband, should’ve been overjoyed to have me home. But when I opened the door, there was another woman wearing my apron, washing my dishes. Joe didn’t even apologize—just got mad and insisted I return here till he signs my release papers. Thing is, he never visits . . . never told me why he put me here in the first place. I don’t know if he’s ever going to come get me.”
She fell silent again. I swallowed, hoping to put some moisture back in my throat. Two things battled for my attention: If this woman ran away from here, what was so bad she couldn’t stand to stay, and who had to sign papers for me to be released? Who held that power over me?
“Do you think he’s replaced me?” Her voice was so soft; I knew this was her true fear. How strange that the first person I met was willing to run away to be with her husband, when I was here avoiding my fiancé.
We sat in silence as the sun continued to crawl up from beneath the horizon. The kitchen door screeched open, breaking the silence.
“I knew I heard you, Mrs. Farthing!” A nurse rushed down the porch steps. Her red hair was still flowing down her back; she must’ve rushed from her room to collect Marilla.
“Oh, Agatha,” Marilla exclaimed and jumped into her arms.
Agatha rubbed Marilla’s back for a moment before she noticed me. “And what are you doing out here, Miss Isabelle?”
Surprised by her knowledge of me, I pointed toward the outhouse, but Marilla sniffed loudly and replied, “She was talking with me.”
Agatha lifted her eyebrows. “Talking?” She gave me a knowing look. I turned away from her; she knew too much about my “illness” without having met me. In the real world such forwardness would be curtailed, but here such societal rules didn’t apply.
Marilla stepped back and looked down at me. “She’s a wonderful listener.”
“Now that I’ll believe,” Agatha said, laughing. “Time to get you in bed, Mrs. Farthing. Isabelle, your breakfast will be in your room shortly.” She put an arm around Marilla’s shoulders and led her inside, leaving me on the stoop of the outhouse.
I let them have a sizable lead before dusting off my robe and heading back inside. The smells of breakfast were nearly overpowering, and I couldn’t bring myself to move from the kitchen doorway. The kitchen was enormous. Herbs hung alongside pots over a large wooden table in the center of the room, while another table with six stools occupied an entire wall. The metal stove in the corner was an orchestra of boiling water and crackling fire. The shelves and countertops were cluttered with spice jars and dried herbs.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in,” a woman ordered as she scrubbed a pan in the wide sink. Her back was to me, and I wondered how she knew I was even there. “There’s a bowl of porridge on the table. Agatha was supposed to take it up to your room, but she’s a bit behind this morning. You’re welcome to eat with me.”
When I still didn’t move, she turned around and put her hands on her hips. “That food isn’t going to eat itself. Now get in here and sit.”
I didn’t want this woman to think I was stupid, so I followed her orders. The porridge was still steaming and had brown sugar sprinkled over the top. Without waiting another moment, I lifted my spoon and dug in.
The cook wiped her hands on a towel and walked over to where I was sitting. She wasn’t heavy like our cook back home, but wasn’t thin like Mother either. Her figure was like her smile, warm and loved. Her gray hair showed signs of auburn, and her eyes danced with amusement despite the flour and egg on her cheek. I liked her immediately.
“So you’re the child who joined us yesterday evening,” she said, eyeing me. “I wonder what they will do with you.”
My eating slowed. Now that I was living here, perhaps I should wonder what I would fill my days with as well. I’d been so intent on arriving, I’d given no thought beyond that.
“If you ever need someone to pass the time with, you are always welcome here.” She dried her hands and moved to work on her rolls just as another woman burst in. I wondered if Cook had known she was coming.
The woman had an air of authority about her, created in part by her tight bun and high cheekbones. Recognizing her from the family portrait on Dr. Patterson’s desk, I assumed this was Mrs. Patterson.
Putting a pile of dishes on the table, she turned to me and shook her head. “You certainly leave a unique impression on people. Marilla is up there telling Agatha every detail of why she left, and she’s normally quieter than you! It’s good you distracted her enough for us to find her, but don’t expect me to thank you for that.”
I filled my mouth with a spoonful of porridge to avoid answering her. I swallowed under the pressure of Mrs. Patterson’s gaze.
“She’s just a girl, and a good girl from what you’ve said,” Cook interrupted. “Let her finish her breakfast before badgering her.” I paused my chewing to see the slap I was sure Mrs. Patterson was going to give Cook for her impertinence. That was how Mother handled mouthy servants. To my surprise, Mrs. Patterson simply walked over to my side of the table.
Mrs. Patterson tilted her weary head and examined me head to foot. Given the questioning crinkle of her brow, I don’t think I gave her much to be impressed with. Perhaps I did look a mess, but she herself was hard to look at. Her gray gown was so starched and straight that it made me wonder if she ever sat or even bent over.
“Agatha is busy so I will dress you this morning. Give Cook your bowl when you are done and return to your room. I’ll be there shortly.”
I did as she ordered. Once I was out of the room I heard Cook ask her, “What are we going to do with such a young lady?”
I wondered the same thing.
CHAPTER 11
My mind swirled with the morning’s events, and it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. As I returned to my room, hoping the privacy would be calming, I was once again disappointed. Everything was wrong. Things were too clean and too sparse for comfort. I hadn’t packed any of Papa’s letters or my paintings. The only personal item I’d brought from home was my copy of Jane Eyre. Where had my mind been? I was supposed to feel safe here, not lost. Slowly I backed into a corner and covered my face with my hands.
Moments later Mrs. Patterson flung open the door without even announcing herself and stalked over to the wardrobe. Her face was damp with perspiration, and a rogue hair had fallen from her stiff bun. Though thin, she filled my room with an authority that I dared not cross. As she fixed her hair, I allowed myself a good look at her. It was clear that she had once been pretty, but now there were too many lines streaking her face for her to look anything but stern.
“Don’t just stand there, girl. Get that nightgown off you!” She opened my wardrobe and pulled out a sage afternoon dress. “What were you doing in the outhouse, child?” she asked.
She knew I didn’t speak, so why did she persist in asking me questions? I ignored her and lifted my nightgown over my head. The skin on my arms and thighs prickled in the cool air as I stood in the barest of underclothes.
“Surely you had chamber pots where you lived before?” she asked, grabbing my gown and tossing my clothes in a basket by the door.
I nodded. Mrs. Patterson must have thought me dumb.
&
nbsp; She sighed. “Then why didn’t you use yours? We keep two in each room for just such . . . emergencies.”
I opened my mouth slightly. How could I tell her that there was no pot in my room? Was this the point at which I should behave insane or find a way to answer? I shrugged again and hoped she would simply hand over my dress.
She did not.
Standing to get my dress, I was surprised when she held my clothes out of reach. “Listen,” she began. “Now I don’t care if you speak to them or not, but I expect answers to my questions.”
I crossed my arms over my nearly naked breasts and glared at her. For a moment we stood in my small room, eyes locked. Mrs. Patterson’s gray dress blended into the shadows until she was merely a head, floating in the air. She needed to learn that I deserved to be here. I grabbed a strand of my hair and yanked it out and tried not to wince as my scalp pinched. Then I grabbed another and another and another. My scalp screamed for relief, but I couldn’t stop until Mrs. Patterson saw that I was a patient, not a girl to boss around.
After a few minutes of watching me, she grabbed my hands, held them together to stop my actions, and said in a soft, clear voice, “Listen, Isabelle. Perhaps you’ve fooled your mother with this act. Now, I don’t care if you go bald, and I don’t care if you’re vocal, but we will find a way to communicate.”
Her straightforward nature was oddly reassuring. I suspected that as long as I did what she needed to be done, she’d leave me alone. That was a bargain I was willing to make. I walked over to the bed and lifted the dust ruffle so she could see under it. With one hand, I made a sweeping gesture and then gave her a pointed look. She had to squint to make out the shapes under the bed, but my meaning was clear.
“Well, that explains things,” she said. “I will make sure you have two by this evening.”
I nodded my thanks. Without another word, she held the gown out in front of her and had me dressed in no time. She pulled my corset laces too tight. I rolled my shoulders until I found a comfortable posture.
When it came to my hair, I had absolutely no say. She yanked my hair back with a brush and began twisting and pulling until it was in a neat bun identical to hers. It was unfortunate, as I’d done my own hair for years now and was much more original than she. “There,” she said as she dug the last hair pin into my scalp. “Now you are ready to join the others and start the day.”
I didn’t move from my stool. “Joining the others” was not something for which I’d prepared. I imagined a dozen giggling women corralling me into a corner and begging me to speak. Or worse, a dozen women chained to their chairs, howling and moaning to be understood in a world that made no sense to them anymore. I turned away from Mrs. Paterson and wondered why I had chosen to be left here, surrounded by women whose husbands didn’t want them or who screamed in the night from imaginary pain.
Mrs. Patterson sighed and knelt in front of me. “Isabelle, no one is going to hurt you here. We all have a duty in this world, and yours is to get well. We will give you the tools, but you must do as we say.”
I looked into her gray eyes and realized that she felt sorry for me. Heat raged through my chest. The anger was enough to push the fear from my mind and gave me the strength to face my fellow inmates. No one was going to pity me.
Mrs. Patterson grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Dr. Patterson and Dr. Deston are away on consultation in the city today so therapy is canceled. However, you’ll find that today will be like any other day. In the morning we do work for the less fortunate. Today we are mending clothes. You’ve been taught to sew, haven’t you?” Before I could nod she continued, “No matter. One of the ladies can teach you if you cannot. It will do you good to be around people.”
I followed her out of the room as I wondered how sewing ever helped anyone feel better.
* * *
Mrs. Patterson led me down the staircase and into the main hallway where Marilla stood waiting, shifting a card between her hands. Agatha had braided Marilla’s hair down her back and dressed her in a pale pink day gown. The change made her look even younger than before, and I suddenly missed Lucy so much it hurt. I was incarcerated and had no way of knowing what my best friend was enduring. Was she packing for her trip yet or had her mother forgiven her? Was there another suitor on the horizon? So many unknowns with no way to obtain answers.
Marilla interrupted my thoughts and held the card out to Mrs. Patterson. “This arrived for you a moment ago.”
Mrs. Patterson pulled the card out of the envelope and clucked her tongue. “I must respond straight away. Isabelle, find a basket and make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a moment.”
Marilla grinned. “Don’t worry. I can take care of her.”
Although Mrs. Patterson’s lips pressed tightly together, she agreed before walking away down the hall.
“Agatha told me you can’t speak,” Marilla said as she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the front parlor. “I can’t imagine that, but I won’t bother you about it none.” I clenched my jaw. Behaving like we were bosom buddies only made me feel more alone, but I needed someone to be my guide, and Marilla was willing.
She smiled and walked through a circle of chairs toward a pair of empty ones in the far corner of the room. Cherry bookshelves lined the walls on either side of a fireplace, but were almost completely blocked by the circle of chairs and baskets that dominated the space. If the windows had been opened, it could’ve been a friendly room, but the lack of outside noise and fresh air prevented any joy.
The few women scattered within the circle didn’t look up as we entered, but I could feel their silence press down on me as if they were a pack of hungry wolves. It didn’t matter whether I liked Marilla or not; I now clung to her like a life vest. Once I sat down she handed me a sewing basket and pulled out a child’s nightgown for me to hem.
“Looks like some women just can’t stay away,” a blond lady to our right smirked.
Marilla didn’t reply, but her fingers shook as she tried to thread the needle. Mrs. Patterson had said she was a quiet woman, but watching her among the other patients, it was obvious that it went deeper than that. Marilla was ashamed.
An elderly woman in a large chair by the fire said, “Seems to me her problem isn’t staying away, it’s keeping her man happy.”
Marilla’s cheeks burned red.
“What would you know of that, Mrs. Allan?” the blond woman asked.
“Some of us have intuition. One look at her and I knew she’d be back one way or another.”
Mrs. Patterson entered at that moment, her stern presence silencing the conversation. My heart broke for Marilla. They had no need to be cruel. After all, each of them had been brought to Bellevue for a reason. The fact that Mrs. Allan picked on any of us made me instantly wary of her.
“Start your mending, Isabelle. The orphans cannot clothe themselves,” said Mrs. Patterson, sitting across the fireplace from Mrs. Allan in a wooden rocking chair.
I nodded and began a row of stitches. Whoever had started this nightgown had stitched uneven and sometimes crooked lines. I should’ve pulled them out, but without knowing who had started the work I didn’t want to risk insulting someone, especially if that someone was one of the women sitting in this circle. If they were so eager to ridicule Marilla, what might they do to me?
Mrs. Allan whispered something to Mrs. Patterson, who frowned and shook her head. Marilla snorted slightly. Marilla whispered so only I could hear. “Every time the doctor is gone, Mrs. Allan tries to obtain more tonic from Mrs. Patterson. Even though it is her addiction that forced her husband to admit her here, she never feels she’s had enough.”
My stomach revolted at the thought. Who would want to feel drugged all the time?
“Is the doctor gone to town today?” one of the other women asked before cutting thread with her teeth. Her skin was an unhealthy pink, and her hands shook. She reminded me of Demi-tri, the local drunk. I’d never met a woman who was afflicted with that conditi
on. I could hardly look her in the eye. Was this a rest home or a house for addicts?
“Of course he is,” another spat. “Looking for new patients, no doubt.”
“Silence,” Mrs. Patterson interrupted. “I won’t tolerate any gossip.” The women bowed their heads in such a way that I gathered this wasn’t their first scolding.
I pulled the thread through the fabric in a smooth motion, then took a moment to look around the room. Through the double doors, a nurse sat at a table in the drawing room, helping another woman with a puzzle. The woman’s head jerked to the right over and over in what appeared to be an obsessive twitch. The nurse’s eyes caught mine and darted from the patient to me. She flashed an exasperated look my way before standing up and closing the doors.
“You saw her?” Marilla asked, nodding toward the patient in the opposite room.
I shrugged. The nurse’s reaction confused me. There was nothing wrong with observing my surroundings.
“That’s Jesminda. She has good and bad days, but her constant twitches and stuttering are off-putting. I avoid her whenever I can. There’s something not right about her,” Marilla said, and the other women nodded their heads in agreement. Even Mrs. Patterson let Marilla’s gossip slide.
Mrs. Allan pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t remember the last time my head hurt this bad.”
“It’s the heat.” Mrs. Patterson continued to sew and rock her chair. “You’ll be fine if you keep working. In a little bit, I’ll fetch us all some lemonade.”
That was not what Mrs. Allan wanted to hear, for she dropped her sewing in the basket and stood up. “No,” she demanded, “it is not the heat and having to sew is only making it worse. I need—”
“Hush,” Mrs. Patterson interrupted. “You will be fine. Now. Calm. Down.”
“I will not hush,” Mrs. Allan spat. She lunged at Mrs. Patterson and grabbed her wrist. “I know what I need and you know it, too. Now give it to me. Give me th—”
“Isabelle!” Mrs. Patterson cried out. I blinked, startled to be involved in this argument. “Go to the kitchen immediately.” When I didn’t move, she stamped her foot. “Do as I say, young lady, and leave. Now!”
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