‘Maybe soon?’ she persisted. I was surprised to see the glint of tears. ‘It’s just that sometimes, when he talks of you…’
‘He talks of me?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
It seemed I had no choice. As that perfect summer wore on, with day after day of cloudless skies, so life returned with it, making me restless. He would not let me go. I had understood that by now. That was not how the world worked, and for all the raging against it within me there was nothing I could do to change it.
I began to understand Aunt Beatrice a little more. I had never seen her gainsay my uncle, at least not to his face. But looking back now I could see that her life was at its fullest when Uncle Jolyon was not there. She had her friends, her charities, her occupations. She had no children of her own, but she had spoilt me to her heart’s content from the moment I had arrived, a bewildered five-year-old child, when the typhoid fever killed my parents and my baby brother.
As the summer wore on to autumn, it seemed to me that such a bargain was the only way open to me. At least it would be some kind of life. Who said that our next child would be a boy? With a girl, maybe, I reasoned to myself, at least I could find some meaning to my life again. And so I swallowed my pride and resolved to fight my husband no longer.
My first opportunity to demonstrate my new acquiescence came the very next day.
‘You ordered the carriage,’ said William. He was standing at one of the tall drawing-room windows, watching Judith making her way down the drive in the company of her cousin, Arabella Phelps, stalwart of the Treverick Widows and Orphans Society.
He had not spoken to me in so long I eyed him in surprise. ‘No,’ I replied.
‘Well, you should,’ he returned. ‘The sea air will do you good. I will order it for you now.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, grateful that he had made this first overture of peace between us.
‘Good.’ He was turned away from me, pulling the bell cord to summon the servants, so I could not see his face. ‘I shall accompany you, as Judith is otherwise occupied.’
I kept my pride firmly in check. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, in the humblest of tones. ‘That is very kind.’
‘There is no need for you to change,’ he added, as I made a move to return to my room. ‘We should go directly, before the rain comes.’
It was a beautiful, clear September day. I felt the sun on my face as we drove past Treverick Harbour and along the coastal road. I tried to speak to him, to demonstrate my gratitude and my wish for us to be friends again. He made little reply. But then, I reasoned to myself, he had his pride, too. He could not choose but hear. And, after all, had I not charmed him once? Surely, over time, I could charm him again. So I settled back on the cushions and watched the green fields pass by as the carriage began to take the road inland, away from the turquoise swell of the sea.
We took a road I did not know. A small, winding road that led onto a broad expanse of moorland with a distant glimpse of the ocean. I had eaten little for months, and I was growing tired by now, and dizzy with the movement of the carriage and the heat. I shut my eyes. I must have dozed a little, for the next thing I knew we were passing through high iron gates. For a confused moment, I thought we had returned to Treverick.
‘We are here,’ said William. The carriage door was opened. Puzzled, but thankful for the motion to have stopped, I followed as he stepped out, handing me down. A group of people were waiting for us. As if they had been expecting us, I suddenly saw, with the first stirrings of alarm. I looked up at the grim bricks of the building. The bars at every window.
‘William –’ I turned, fear rising inside me, strangling my voice. But already it was too late. He had already stepped swiftly back inside the carriage, and was impatiently calling to the driver to move off.
I was stunned. I stood there, unable to understand what was happening to me. Then I ran, as fast as my weakened legs could take me, towards the only link with my life, now vanishing rapidly out of the gates.
I did not get more than a few paces. ‘There, there, Mrs Adams.’ My arm was grasped firmly by a large, burly woman. ‘No need to fret. You’ll be safe here. No need to distress yourself.’
I stared at her. ‘I am not Mrs Adams. I am Ann Treverick. I wish to return with my husband. Let me go! I am not Mrs Adams.’
‘Of course you’re not, dear.’ The woman’s voice was cajoling. As if speaking to a child. A child who might protest, but would have to give in at some point. ‘You’ll be quite safe here.’
She was holding me easily, but securely, so that I could not even struggle. A woman accustomed to restraining those in her charge. I do not know if it was anger, or terror, that held the upper hand in me, as I was marched, helpless, towards the house.
I fought them. For hours, days, months, I fought them. I fought them every inch of the way. But there were too many of them. And they were accustomed to the strength that desperation can give a woman.
When I had no more fight left and they released me to be with the other inhabitants of the place, I was terrified. Every moment of the day and night I waited for a knife to be put to my throat, or wild, insane eyes to look into mine as clawed hands reached for my throat.
‘You won’t escape,’ the staff told me that from the start. I looked up angrily one day as an old woman approached the chair where I was sitting. I had no need of a fellow inmate to tell me so again.
‘I will,’ I replied to her. ‘I will. One day. Or I’ll die trying.’
Faded eyes watched me from a face wrinkled and worn with cares I could not imagine. ‘Then make it seem that you’ve given in,’ she replied.
‘I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction,’ I retorted scornfully.
‘Maybe not. But at least that way you will slip out of their notice. They will leave you alone.’ Her eyes rested on mine. ‘Sometimes being invisible can give you the greatest freedom.’
I stared at her. ‘You’re as sane as I am,’ I said, astonished. I had thought my fellow inmates to watch the world with vacant stares, or to be raving.
She laughed, a low hollow laugh. ‘What is it to be sane?’ she replied. ‘They say you lost a child, and that drove you to lose your mind. I’d say you were truly mad if you hadn’t been crazed, at least for a little while.’ She held my hands for a few minutes. ‘Fight them,’ she said. ‘All of us in here, we make for ourselves what lives we can. They are not all cruel, you will find. Some like to lord it, of course, others are indifferent. But there are a few who understand that their work here is keeping a place for those who are troublesome, or inconvenient.’
I stayed quiet all that day. Obeyed every order. And at the end of the week I was led to a small room of my own. Bare, furnished with a simple bed. But it was, I soon learnt, a mark of privilege. Of my husband’s wealth. Or rather, I thought bitterly, whatever still remained of my dowry.
Would I have lost my mind? Maybe. There were many women there who had, even though they had arrived saner than I. Sometimes I thought just being shut up inside with little company, no occupation for my mind and no hope would be enough to send me mad, staring out as winter faded and the spring flowers began to open in the gardens beyond the bars.
But then one day I heard a commotion outside my room. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. You cannot disturb her. It could do untold damage to Mrs Adams’ state of mind…’
‘Nonsense.’ I looked up at the familiar voice. ‘Did no one tell you I am now a patron of this place? I can do as I please.’
It was Judith, bristling and furious. She had pushed past those attempting to block her way, and had made her way into my room, deaf to all their protests. Thank Heaven they were a little afraid of her scorn and of offending a patron, and the money that might be lost should she take her patronage elsewhere. We were left alone.
I think we both wept as we held each other tight.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Judith brushed away her tears at last. ‘I’m
so sorry. I couldn’t find you. William wouldn’t tell me where you had gone. He told the servants you’d gone abroad for your health, and he tried to convince me of that, too. I never thought he could be so cruel as to put you in a place like this. Not until I made your Aunt Beatrice tell me, only a few weeks ago, what he had done. I’ve tried to reason with him, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear. Or won’t hear. He’s forbidden me to see you.’ She smiled. ‘But he can’t dictate what good works my allowance supports. It’s wicked,’ she added, growing passionate again. ‘Utterly wicked. But I’ll find a way to free you.’
She did not stay long, but she was back the next day, this time bringing with her my drawing materials. Now I had an occupation and a means of escaping, in mind at least, from my confinement. And hope. Most of all, I had hope. Though what I would do with myself should Judith enable me to escape in earnest, I could not even begin to consider.
For the next few weeks, Judith came as often as she could. William, she said, was watching her, but he couldn’t neglect his duties to the estate every hour of the day. I should have tried to dissuade her. Told her that I was resigned to my lot. But she was my one source of hope in this new dark world of mine. I clung to her, as one might cling to life itself.
The last time Judith came, it was as night was falling. She appeared in my room silent as a shadow, a finger to her lips.
‘William is sending me away,’ she said. ‘I’m to go tomorrow to my Aunt Elisabeth in Florence. For my education,’ she added, bitterly. ‘Much William has ever cared about my “education”.’ She fell silent as footsteps passed outside my door. ‘I had to see you this one last time,’ she whispered. ‘William doesn’t know I’m here.’ She placed a bundle on the bed beside me. We looked at each other. ‘I had hoped to have more time to make arrangements to get you out of this place. Now there will be no other chance.’
‘Where will I go?’ I looked at her in despair. ‘Not to my uncle. I know exactly what he would do.’
‘I know.’ Urgently, she was undoing the bundle, uncovering a dark dress that looked as if it had belonged to one of the serving women. ‘It will fit,’ she said, quickly. ‘My charity work has more than one use. And I know of a place you can go. In London.’
‘London!’ I gazed at her, suddenly frightened. I had been captive, one way or another, for so long the mere thought of the outside world terrified me.
‘They are good people,’ she said. ‘And it’s a place William knows nothing of. You will not be easily found.’ There were tears in her brown eyes once more. ‘Please. This might be your only chance. I can’t leave you here. Not in a place like this.’
I knew what she meant. I would most likely be alive in body when she returned, but in mind… I hesitated only for a moment. Judith helped me change my clothes, and then shrugged off her coat. ‘It’s an old one. William will be none the wiser, and at least it will keep you warm.’ Finally, she placed her own hat over my shorn locks.
We made our way quietly and quickly down the staircase, slipping into the shadows of doorways whenever footsteps approached. I think she must have bribed the doorkeeper, for no one was there to hinder our passing. In the yard she took my arm, sweeping me hastily onto the floor of the carriage, where I was covered with a shawl.
I don’t know which railway station she took me to. It was a large one, bustling with passengers. As far away from Treverick as she dared, I think.
‘I’ll write,’ she said, as we hurried onto the train, only moments before it prepared to leave. She pressed a ticket and a purse into my hands. ‘As soon as I get back to England, I’ll write to you.’
I turned as she prepared to step back down onto the platform. ‘But if William ever finds out…’
‘He won’t.’ She hugged me tight. ‘The coachman is a good man. He won’t say a word. Anyhow, it is not easy to find someone, once they are in London.’ I scarcely felt her place a handful of coins deep inside my pockets. ‘Just in case,’ she said, watching me anxiously.
Suddenly I was fearful. I held onto her, as the train prepared to leave. ‘You must tell me,’ I said. ‘If you are ever in trouble. You must tell me. I’ll find a way to help you, whatever it takes.’
‘I know you will,’ she said, smiling at me as she stepped down onto the platform at the first movement of the train. But she knew as well as I that any help I could bring was impossible. Should I ever return, William would know what she had done. I could never speak to her again. Never see her. She had saved my life, and all I could ever bring her, from this day forward, was harm.
She looked so young. So slight. For all her determination and her confidence, she knew so little of the world. She believed nothing could ever stem that free spirit of hers. Certainly a brother couldn’t. But William understood the power of a husband to curb a wife, where there could be no escape.
If there was one thing I had learnt in Ketterford, it was that in the end, when all hope is gone, the strongest of spirits can be broken.
‘Tell me,’ I called, as steam enveloped her, leaving a pale shadow on the station as the train pulled away. ‘You must tell me.’
But my voice was lost in the crash and whirr of machinery. I watched her waving until I could see her no more, as the train took me into the darkness of the night, away from my life, and into the unknown.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Karenza arrived shortly after breakfast the next morning, her eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement.
‘I knew there was something,’ she said, hugging Carys. ‘I just knew there was something. Stupid of me not to think, really.’ She paused, took a breath, and looked around the comfortable sofas of the little sitting room. ‘My goodness, this hasn’t changed a bit. And you’ve kept the open fire!’ she exclaimed to Mary, who had pressed her husband into duty on reception and followed their visitor with undisguised curiosity.
‘It was so lovely when we came to see it, and this room in particular, it seemed a shame to change it,’ replied Mary.
‘Wonderful!’ said Karenza. The mission that had brought her there so hot-footedly seemed to have been forgotten as she gazed at her old home. ‘I should have come here before,’ she sighed. ‘I’d love to look around.’
‘Of course,’ said Mary. ‘You’d be very welcome. It would be nice to hear what it was like when you lived here. After all, that’s history, too, nowadays.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ replied Karenza. ‘That makes me feel old.’
‘You said you had found something?’ prompted David, before their visitor could be completely distracted by a tour of the pub.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Karenza, her focus back on the matter in hand. ‘You were quite right: there is a connection between Treverick and Plas Eden. A huge one, in fact.’
‘Oh?’ said David warily.
‘Although not quite the one I’d been expecting,’ added Karenza. ‘But exciting, all the same.’
‘And you’ve found something that will show us what it is,’ prompted Carys, trying not to sound impatient as their visitor appeared to drift off into thought again.
Karenza grinned. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘First, I’m just going to have to dash to the loo after all that driving. Then you can take me up to Treverick Gardens. That’s where the answer lies, you see.’
The fire had burnt low as I finished speaking, and finally found the courage to lift my eyes to his.
Mr Meredith’s face was turned away from me, into the darkness. I should have expected no less. I should have been grateful he did not recoil from me. Gently, I pulled my hands free from his.
But they would not come free. He held them tight. And when he turned his face back to mine, I saw the glint of tears in the orange glow of the flames.
‘I must go,’ I said. ‘The gates of the hospital will be locked within the hour, and I will be missed.’
‘Yes. Yes of course.’ But his hands still held mine fast. ‘Marry me,’ he said.
I had steeled myself to show no emotion as he dis
missed me. But at that, I gasped. ‘It’s impossible,’ I said. ‘I don’t ask for your pity, and you cannot marry a mad woman. A lunatic.
One who has fled from her place of legal confinement. And I have no wish to end my days in your attic,’ I added tartly, ‘while you find yourself a quieter bride.’
At that, he laughed. ‘If you think Plas Eden is half as grand as Thornfield, you will be sorely disappointed, I’m afraid. Much as I admire Miss Bronte’s novels, I have no wish to be Mr Rochester. Far too much glowering, for my taste.’ His eyes became serious once more. ‘As for madness: you are the sanest creature I know. You forget: I have just returned from being with my mother after she lost a child. I saw what grief did to her.’ His smile was gentle this time. ‘I think that maybe grief makes us all a little mad, for a while.’
I had sworn to myself that, no matter what might pass, I would not weep. But at that, I leant against him, feeling his arms around me as the tears came.
‘There,’ he said, as if all was settled.
I brushed my tears away and regained my dignity. ‘You forget, Mr Meredith, that I am already married.’
‘To a husband who neither wants, nor deserves you.’
‘But in the eyes of the law still owns me.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I think whatever the scandal and the cost, he may well find he has grounds to seek a divorce.’ His fingers traced my cheek. ‘Or if not already, the fact of you being here with me might be enough.’
I returned his smile. My heart had begun to race. This was hardly the moment to confess it, but I, who had never felt true desire, found it flooding through my body until I could scarcely breathe.
‘Well?’ he said softly, as his lips found the corner of my mouth. I turned to meet him, my body softening.
But then I remembered.
He stopped as he felt me stiffen. ‘What is it?’
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