“Hello, Mrs. Palmer.”
Catherine’s nose was pink, a fur muff swung on a cord round her neck. For a moment, Anna couldn’t say a word.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Don’t sound so indignant.” Catherine tossed half a muffin at the ducks congregated in front of them. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m out for a walk. Some air. Shouldn’t you be inside, in the warm?”
Before Catherine could answer, Anna began walking along the shore, toward the bridge. Catherine followed behind and their feet crunched in step on the frozen ground.
“I’m not meant to be out,” she called. “Mother says the cold is bad for the complexion. But I saw you from my bedroom window and came to wish you a happy new year.”
“How kind.”
“Please, Mrs. Palmer, don’t be nasty. I haven’t seen you for ages. Where’ve you been?”
Anna stopped and turned to face her.
“Where do you think? I’ve been in the dayroom. The dining room. The little cell called a bedroom.”
Catherine’s eyes met hers then flickered on past her.
“I’m just as much a prisoner as you are.”
Anna laughed.
“No, you’re not, Catherine.”
“‘I kept the life, thrust on me, on the outside / Of the inner life, with all its ample room,’” Catherine said. “That’s what Aurora Leigh does. It’s what I do, when I remember. You could try it too, Mrs. Palmer.”
They were at the edge of the thicket, closer to the bridge than Anna had ever been. The scarlet holly berries were magical-looking; beyond them was a clump of bare yellow stems the color of mustard powder, some beech saplings clinging to their crisp brown leaves. She couldn’t wait for another chance. She must act and it must be today while she still had the strength and the will to free herself. Anna wrapped her cloak more tightly round her body and imagined herself plunging through the tangle of branches, head lowered against the thorns.
Lovely had stayed back in the field, hopping from foot to foot, rubbing her hands together and pressing them against her cheeks, her suffering evident. Catherine was talking about an American. She waved the hands that she’d freed from her muff, eyes shining.
“She’s traveled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, from Boston, Mrs. Palmer. I absolutely have to go and see her. I’ll never get another chance in my whole life.”
“Catherine! Listen to me for a minute. It’s not true, what I said to you about my husband. I don’t miss him at all. He won’t be coming for me.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Catherine’s voice was flat, her breath a wisp of vapor in front of her lips.
“I have to escape. Will you help me?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” Catherine’s tone was sulky. “Even though I don’t know why I should.”
They glanced simultaneously over the lake toward the other bank. The bridge was to their left, not more than a couple of hundred yards farther along. It was as ethereal and still as if it was carved from the ice or had bloomed from its dull surface. Anna gestured toward it.
“I’m going to run away. Over the bridge.”
Catherine blinked and her face colored.
“You can’t, I told you before.”
“I’ve got to.”
Catherine stamped her foot.
“Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?” she shouted. “It’s not a bridge. My grandfather had the bridge pulled down after one of the guests fell off it. They say she fell but she didn’t. She jumped with her babies, one in each arm. I saw her.”
Catherine hurled the last crust out over the ice; two ducks skated after it, their shrieks tearing the air.
“I don’t believe you. I can see it with my own eyes.” Anna felt winded.
She turned and saw Lovely, almost upon them. Lovely arrived, her face scarlet, contorted with pain.
“Good morning, Miss Catherine. Let’s go indoors now, miss,” she said to Anna.
Anna looked at her.
“In a moment, Lovely. I’m freezing too. Didn’t you hear Mrs. Makepeace shouting for you? She was blowing her whistle.”
“Were she?” Lovely looked suspicious.
“Oh, yes,” Catherine said, her voice high and clear. “Father was calling for you too. I never heard such a bellowing.”
“Gawd. They must be ’ere at long last.” Lovely began to toil up the bank. “Hurry along, miss,” she called over her shoulder.
“Coming,” Anna said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“You can still get away,” Catherine hissed, her eyes alert. “Look.”
She plunged forward through a fringe of bulrushes taller than her and lowered a foot over the frozen surface. For a moment she stood like a skater with one boot on the ice and the other lifted behind her.
“Catherine, don’t. It’s not safe.”
Catherine didn’t seem to hear. She took another step, placing the second foot down flat in front of her.
“Come on, Mrs. Palmer.” Her voice was full of pleasure as she glanced back toward Anna, then went on, slipping and rebalancing in an odd, stiff-footed dance, laughing as she wobbled and regained her balance. Her white neck was caught by the light and her arms emerged from her cloak like two stiff wings.
Catherine was so slight, not fully grown. The ice would hold her. Even the water might have held her. Anna pictured herself stepping out onto the frozen surface—walking to the halfway point and on, until she arrived at the far bank. She looked over her shoulder. Lovely had got almost to the gate into the field. It would be faster to walk straight across from here, if she could, than it would be to fight her way through to the bridge.
She pushed through the rushes and put her foot out onto the ice, felt the chill of it seeping through the sole of her boot. Leaning forward, she put more weight on it, waiting for a fearsome cracking sound. Nothing. Anna held her breath as she brought the other foot in front of her and started to make her way out over the glassy surface. Drowned leaves and branches pressed up underneath the ice as if they fought for air. The dim, blunt-nosed shape of a fish glided underneath her. She raised her eyes and took another step, holding out her arms.
Catherine was almost at the far bank. Anna followed, hardly daring to breathe, putting down her whole foot at each step, spreading her weight over the length of it. Hearing a shout, she stopped and turned around. Her shadow lay in front of her, long and faint on the ice, stretching back toward the shore.
Lovely was careering down the bank, beckoning frantically for their return. Anna spread her hands in front of her, palms upturned.
“I can’t, dear Lovely,” she said aloud. “I’ve got to go.”
Lovely reached the edge of the lake and dragged up her skirts, showing her bare legs, the ends of her drawers. She screwed up her face, eyes closed, then jumped with both clogs onto the ice and plunged forward, falling. Anna heard the cracking sound she’d dreaded. Lovely screamed as she floundered, a high scream of shock and pain. She scrambled to get one bare foot onto the ice, then capsized again into the reeds. She crawled back onto the shore, righted herself and got to her feet. With her sodden skirts clinging to her round form, Lovely began to make a different gesture—throwing both hands out from her body as if urging Anna to make haste toward the other bank.
Anna lifted her hand in a wave, turned and carried on, moving quickly now, skating on the worn leather soles of her boots, trusting the solid support of the ice underneath her, a wave of excitement coursing through her from her toes to her fingertips. She reached the far side and jumped onto a frozen, muddy shore churned by cattle hooves. There was wood smoke on the air, a dog barking in the distance.
She glanced back toward Lake House. The rise of the land obscured the lower part of it; she could see only the dayroom windows on the first floor and above that the bedrooms, lit by the sun breaking through now, tinged with pink. The shore of the lake was empty, Lovely gone. They ha
d fifteen minutes at least before she would get back and raise the alarm. Anna lifted her skirts and scrambled up the far bank to a vista of open heathland.
Catherine was sitting on a log, blowing on her fingers. She smiled up at her.
“You took your time, Mrs. Palmer.”
Anna grabbed her hands and kissed them.
“I don’t know how to thank you. I’ll never forget this as long as I live. Go back now, Catherine, quickly. You’ll have to get on the bank in a different spot; Lovely’s broken the ice. Hurry and I’ll watch till you’re safe.”
Catherine looked straight past her to the horizon, her face lit up.
“Who’s going back? Not me.”
She jumped to her feet and set off, her hem trailing on the glittering earth.
TWENTY-ONE
Anna fell into step with Catherine and got hold of her arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Coming with you, of course.”
“Why?”
“I knew you weren’t listening. I have to go to the fair tonight. I must see the Fasting Girl before she goes back to America.”
“Catherine, go back home this instant. I’m ordering you to.”
Catherine giggled.
“I refuse your order, Mrs. Palmer.”
In front of them, the round gray dome of St. Paul’s waited patiently under the clouds. She couldn’t drag Catherine back by force but all her instincts were against taking her. If she had his daughter with her, Abse was certain to come after her. Anna would have to throw the girl off once they reached London. It was the only way. She would lose Catherine in the streets and let her find her own way home. She was old enough.
“Alright. If you absolutely must. Come on.”
Anna had no idea where the road might be and judged it better to stick to the heath, where they would be harder to find. She picked up her skirts and hurried on, heading toward the distant outline of the cathedral. Catherine followed, keeping pace, and the two of them ran through frozen bogs, through reeds and grasses as high as their waists and up onto higher ground—dodging through stands of elms and oaks, the ground underneath sharp with acorns. They encountered a farmer on his horse and by unspoken agreement slowed their pace and began to talk loudly about the benefits to ladies of taking a walk. As soon as he was out of sight, they picked up their skirts and ran again, faster than before. The dome grew bigger and more distinct with every glimpse they caught of it as if it too was on the move, advancing to meet them.
They reached the top of a hill and Anna stopped, bent double, gulping in cold air that hurt her chest. Catherine had both hands clutched to her stomach and could barely speak.
“I’ve got a stitch,” she gasped. “Let’s rest. I can’t go any farther.”
The top of the hill was flat and dotted with smooth stones, carved with names and dates. They sat, recovering their breath, surrounded by sky on all sides, the great panorama of London spread out before them. Scores of steeples pointed up from between lines of slate roofs. To the east, plumes of black smoke rose in columns from factory chimneys. The river snaked its silver path through the middle of everything and the city sent up a distant blur of sound at odds with the sharp detail that met their eyes.
Catherine spread her arms wide and tilted her face to the sun.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Mrs. Palmer? To be free.”
“Let’s carry on, Catherine. We’re not safe yet.”
Anna didn’t feel free. She wanted to be far away from Lake House and unencumbered by Catherine. She jumped up from where she sat and hurried on down the hill, encountered a path and began to follow it. It grew wider and better trod as they went. Before long, the sound of a train whistle pierced the air. Anna saw the man-made glint of a railway line through the trees. The air took on a smell of smoke and baking bread.
At a ditch with a plank laid over it, Anna stopped. They were close enough to a marketplace to hear voices and the neighing of horses. She tucked her hair back into her combs and examined a tear in her skirt. The idea of being in a crowd frightened her. She felt as if she’d become different from other people while she was shut away, that they would know it just by looking at her. She forced herself to cross over the ditch, walk on to where the path ended by a ragged line of barrows and stalls and join the people, affecting a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
Men and women were selling onions, pots and pans, old clothes from carts and ramshackle stalls. Anna and Catherine passed a man pattering about early birds and worms, his arm strung with watches on chains. Anna stopped and stared at a pyramid of oranges balanced on a sack on the ground, with a single cut half of the fruit glistening at the front. She felt as if she was seeing an orange for the first time. The color was full of life and heat, as if the sun had squeezed itself into it.
“Where shall we go?” Catherine said, raising her voice over the hubbub. “Now we’re here?”
“I’m going to my sister’s house in Wren Street.”
“You never told me you had a sister.”
“I’ve got four.”
“No brothers?”
Anna shook her head.
“Are you hungry, Catherine?” Catherine nodded. “Then wait here a minute.” Anna reached out and squeezed Catherine’s hands. The flush on her cheeks had subsided; the girl was white again with shadows under her eyes. “Stay here and don’t move.”
Anna made her way on through the crowd, following a singsong voice until she caught up with the watch seller.
“Excuse me, sir.”
He had ringlets in front of his ears and kind, brown eyes.
“Want to purchase a timepiece, missie? You won’t regret it.”
She pulled off her glove and held out her hand. The turquoise stones in her ring were bright in the sun, the gold coils of the snake shone.
“Will you buy this from me?”
“Take it off,” he said. “Let’s have a gander.”
“I’m not taking it off until we agree on a price. It’s gold and it cost ten pounds. I only want eight for it.”
He took her hand in his, turned it this way and that, then brought her wrist to his mouth in a quick movement and bit the gold between his teeth.
“I’ll give you five.”
“Seven.”
“You trying to put me out of business? Six pounds and ten bob on top for goodwill, miss.”
“Done.”
He let go of her hand and loosened the neck of a leather pouch around his waist, counting out the pound notes and four half crowns. She took off the ring and gave it to him.
“God bless,” he said, his eyes curious, the ring already secreted somewhere out of sight.
Anna looked down at the bare fingers of her left hand. The ring had left no mark and she felt easier without it. She’d only expected to get four or five pounds for it—it had cost Vincent six. She pulled her glove back on, sliding the folded notes inside it, and felt a sharp pang of loss. She’d forgotten her knife, the little penknife from Egypt that Captain Newlove gave her when she was eight years old. Left it behind in its dark hiding place.
She stood for a minute among the shoppers and hawkers then walked a few steps farther away from where she had left Catherine—past a man selling brooms, another flicking at a pile of old books with a feather duster. She felt she ought to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t in a dream, a dream of escape from which she would shortly wake. They would be certain to have raised the alarm by now. She must hurry to her haven at Louisa’s house. First, she had to rid herself of Catherine. Slip away out of this market and disappear into the streets of London.
Anna stopped and leaned on a plane tree. Its bark peeled up in strange shapes and shades that looked like maps of the moon. The air was filled with the twittering of caged birds. A line of a dozen or more thrushes were trapped in wicker baskets that swung from a wooden pole hung between two branches of the tree. Their song was piteous. She clasped her hands over her ears and began to retrace her steps,
hurrying back by the stacks of books and piles of turnips, past heaps of kindling and slabs of churned butter. She must at least get some food inside the poor girl before she left her. Would find a way to give her a half crown as well.
Catherine was rooted to the spot where Anna had left her, her eyes darting in all directions, her body stiff. From a distance, she looked twelve years old again. She burst into tears when she saw Anna.
“Where have you been? I thought you’d abandoned me.”
“Look!” Anna showed her the ends of the notes emerging from her cuff. “We have funds, Catherine. We can eat.”
She bought an orange, asked the costermonger to cut it into quarters, and they ate in silence, sucking out the flesh, juice running down their chins. Anna ate the peel as well, chewing it up between her back teeth, the bitterness as satisfying as the sweetness. She felt as if she was eating life. At the edge of the market they stopped again, this time for two cups of green pea soup with chunks of hot bread. They sat on a stone bench by a water trough and ate—more slowly now. Anna finished first. She brushed the crumbs off her lap and tucked the remaining notes down inside her boot, tying the lace tight and straightening up again.
Catherine wiped the inside edges of the cup with her finger, licked the line of green sludge off it. She tossed her bread in the direction of a pair of wary strays crouched by an old crate.
“Come on, pusses,” she whispered, holding out her hand to them. “Don’t you love cats, Mrs. Palmer? I do.”
Anna sighed.
“Are you ready, Catherine? We’ve got a long walk still.”
“Of course I’m ready. I don’t want to miss the Fasting Girl, Mrs. Palmer. I need to be at Vauxhall early. Will you come with me?”
“I suppose I’ll have to. I can’t let you go on your own. Come.”
Beyond the market lay an area of terraced houses, the narrow, cobbled streets full of people. Women chatted over gates, boys rolled battered hoops or dragged puppies along on strings and men leaned on walls, smoking thin cigarettes. The women looked with quick interest at Anna’s and Catherine’s snagged skirts and ruined boots and the men turned their heads, their attention caught by some quality of excitement in them—by Anna’s escaping hair and Catherine’s pale, bluish complexion.
The Painted Bridge Page 16
