I thought about mine and Mrs Leverton’s conversation, then about Bertie. It is hard to keep my thoughts away from Bertie since our last meeting. I have never seen him so distant. It makes me sick with worry. All I want is to see him again, to put my fears to rest. Perhaps he’d just had a bad day? I hadn’t asked about him at all, I had only talked about myself. Perhaps his father had been difficult. Perhaps the cold weather was getting to him; Bertie much prefers the warmth of summer. Or perhaps he was coming down with the flu and didn’t want to pass it on to me, like last year, when he had refused to kiss me for three whole weeks so I remained healthy, although love-sick and frustrated.
It could be any of those reasons – I hope it is any of those reasons. If I could only speak to him and apologise for my sharp tongue! I hadn’t meant to ruin our afternoon. Why did I have to be so hard on him? If I’d have just said, Yes, you’re right Bertie, Marion is being unreasonable. Or, Yes, Bertie, I’ll leave if it happens again. Or better still, if I’d have never started talking about it at all – then our argument wouldn’t ever have happened.
‘Not coming back to the party?’
I’d been leaning against Mrs Leverton’s door and suddenly found Daniel behind me.
‘You shouldn’t be in the women’s wing.’
‘No one will know.’ His hands were in his pockets, and his hair had fallen out of its hold so that it flopped over his forehead. He was grinning. Did he ever stop grinning?
‘I’ll know.’ I strode past him to the desk. ‘I am on duty.’
‘Winifred is technically on duty.’ He sauntered towards me. ‘I told you I wanted to show you the stars.’
‘And I never agreed to that.’
‘I heard about Mrs Basildon, what she said to you.’ He leant over the desk, putting his hands on it. If the wood hadn’t been there, he would have been gripping my thighs. ‘Rumour has it that Doctor has no taste for his wife. I should say her mood would be improved by a good fuck.’
I stood up. ‘You will not say such things in front of me.’
‘I am on your side. She’s a stuck-up bitch who is as ugly as a pig.’
‘You should not talk about the mistress like that.’
He laughed. ‘You are a good little girl, aren’t you?’ He folded his arms, his smirk growing.
I would not rise for his bait. I would not give him the satisfaction. I held my ground; this was my ward, and he was not welcome.
‘Wini will be back soon.’
‘Good, then I can show you the stars after all.’
‘Do you never give up?’
‘Never.’
And I knew that he would not. I just wanted him to go away. I didn’t want his handsome face and his poisoned tongue anywhere near me.
There is a danger from Daniel I can’t explain. He is like a cat, lurking, waiting in the shadows, and I am scared he sees me as a mouse. I was sure the punch had emboldened him, even though Dr Basildon had drowned it in water, and I recalled tales of men coming home from public houses, unsteady on their feet, a menace to any woman in their path.
‘Daniel, I am tired. You might show me some other time.’
He considered this for a moment, and I thought he was trying to see if I was playing him, but in the end, he accepted it.
‘Another night, then.’ He slipped away as silently as he had arrived.
I only had to wait a few more minutes before Wini returned with red cheeks, beaming with pleasure. She held a napkin full of Christmas cake, and I left her stuffing it into her mouth as she swayed from side to side, a tune from the orchestra still playing in her mind.
Outside, the cobbles were already slippery with frost, glistening like water under the moonlight. I looked up at the stars – a vast, black sky filled with them, just as Daniel had promised.
I scuttled to my room before the cat had time to pounce.
16
1900
Sunday, 23rd December
Nobody wanted to get up this morning. I even had to wake Marion and prod her out of bed. The patients were just as reluctant, but we rounded them up for their baths and made them eat whatever breakfast they could stomach.
I wasn’t sure the change in routine suited all the patients. Mrs Huxley was on edge once again, and Alice was rather lively, charging about the day room, coming close to knocking the vases off the tables. But it is Christmas, so allowances can be made.
I asked Mrs Leverton if she will be having any visitors. I had expected some to come before now, what with them having to travel from Wales, but Mrs Leverton told me she doesn’t have any visitors at all.
‘The last time I saw Henry was from the carriage window when they took me away,’ she said as we stood on the mound in the grounds.
‘He has never been to see you?’
She shook her head.
‘Why?’
‘Because of what I did.’
‘You told me you had a sister, though?’
‘Alexandra.’
‘Surely she visits from time to time?’
‘She sent me a letter almost a year into my time here. In it, she said she’d had a baby and must put her son before her own feelings. She said she would not be as selfish as our mother, or me.’
Perhaps the letter had some effect when it was first received, but now Mrs Leverton looked nothing but bored as she informed me of her abandonment.
‘What about James or Patience? Do you think they might agree to it now? They are adults, after all. They might like to get to know their mother, and what better time to make amends than at Christmas?’
At last, a change came upon her face. Was she daring to imagine it?
‘I do not believe they would wish to see me.’
‘You don’t know that. When did you say James visited you that time?’
‘1883. He had just turned eighteen.’
‘There you are, then. He is a man now; he might be more reasonable.’
She nodded a little, regarding the silver landscape that stretched out beyond our feet.
‘Why don’t you write to them?’ She was forever writing letters; they were just always to the wrong person. ‘Tell them how sorry you are, how much you would love to see them, convince them you are…’
‘Sane?’
‘Yes, to put it bluntly.’
She laughed at me and cupped her hand against my cheek. ‘Forever hopeful. But where would I send the letters? I have no idea if Argoed is still standing, let alone if James still lives there. And if James is there, where is Patience? She will be married now, she will likely have children of her own.’ She was quiet for a moment, her face scrunching in the low sunlight. ‘I could be a grandmother, Katy. I have never thought of it before now.’
I could see her sinking. I took her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go and write those letters.’
At three o’clock, I knocked on Dr Basildon’s door. It took a few moments for him to answer, and when he did, his tie was loose, his collar undone, his hair unwaxed. When he saw me, he turned and tidied himself, but crusts of sleep remained in the corners of his eyes.
‘What do you want, Miss Owen?’
‘I have two letters here.’
‘You know where the mail bag is.’
‘Yes, but they are not from me, they are from Mrs Leverton. She would like to send them to her children.’
Dr Basildon tugged his gaze up from the floor, then stepped aside so I might take a seat.
‘Why?’
‘She wants to put things right.’
‘Did you have something to do with this?’
‘Not really, sir, but I said I thought it was a good idea.’
Dr Basildon shoved his fingers into the dark sockets of his eyes, and breathed a long, low sigh. ‘She cannot write to them.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Leverton has forbade it.’
‘He can’t stop her.’
‘He can do whatever he likes. He is paying for her to be here.’
I stalled, taken
aback by his ferocity. ‘I don’t understand. I thought the problem was her lack of interest in the children. Pue ... pueper...’
‘Puerperal insanity. Leading to delusions.’
‘Surely the root cause has been fixed? She wants to see her children now, begin a relationship with them. It shows she has recovered.’
‘And her delusions? She still prays for salvation?’
‘She did not last night.’
He paused for a moment, as if considering. ‘It is still no use. Mr Leverton will not have his children contacted.’
‘But why?’
‘It is not your place to question!’
I hoped his irritability was only from lack of sleep. I must remember, men do not like to be irritated, or questioned. I continued in a more soothing tone.
‘I am sorry, sir. I am only trying to do what is best for Mrs Leverton.’
‘I know you are.’ He softened, although his brow remained furrowed, as if in pain.
‘Can I get you some water, sir?’ I didn’t wait for him to answer before I poured him a drink from the glass decanters on the side of his desk. ‘I do think it odd of Mr Leverton.’ I kept my voice gentle, although I could not help but probe. ‘His wife’s recovery would only be a benefit to the family. Perhaps there is more to it than we know.’ I set the glass before him and did not chance to see his expression; I kept my gaze on the floor.
He gulped down the water and eased back in his chair. Only then did I look up, hoping I might have persuaded him about Mrs Leverton, but his eyes, though dull with fatigue, chilled me.
‘You must stop this, Katy. Your obsession with Mrs Leverton and her stories is… concerning.’
It was a warning. Fear made gooseflesh of my skin. I nodded and said nothing more.
‘Those letters will not be sent. You will stop indulging her fantasies. And you will tell her that no one is visiting.’
Monday, 24th December
I shall not see the morning. I will not wake, for I am in a nightmare.
I visited my parents for a couple of hours this afternoon. It had been three whole months since I last saw them. My heart was glad for it. Da has started to look old, the lines around his eyes are as thick as tree trunks, but Ma is ever youthful. May couldn’t make it because of work.
‘Working her like a mule,’ Da said, as he spat black phlegm on the fire.
I didn’t tell them about everything that has happened. They cannot understand why I should want to be at a place filled with mad folk. Ma was telling me there is work come up in the village and she is run off her feet. She is trying to tempt me back, I know, but I cannot leave Mrs Leverton.
It was so odd to be back at home. All my memories of the house are of when I was just a little’un. Hiding in the cupboard under the stairs when May hunted me. Snuggled under blankets and coats in the winter when the frost came on the inside of the glass. My ma on her knees, her face blackened from the soot of the old range as she cleaned it. Bacon fat on bread, sat at the table with the wobbly leg. All these things came upon me at once, memories that felt like they were from another child. I didn’t seem to belong there anymore. I’d been gone for too long, almost half of my life working away from those childhood walls.
It made me think of Mrs Leverton, how she was no longer the mistress of a grand house, though we had to pretend she was. She had lived longer in a madhouse than she had free.
I was eager to get back to The Retreat in the end, but not before I’d seen Bertie.
It was fading to dusk as I walked out of the village. I passed Jones and Sons Butchers, saw old Mr Jones behind the counter, surrounded by massive fowls and hunks of beef and pork. Customers were coming to get their Christmas meat, and I could smell cooking wafting down the streets – people preparing their feasts for tomorrow.
I walked over the bridge slowly; Bertie would be busy for a while by the looks of it, stuck somewhere in the backroom slicing up dead animals.
I followed the path by the stream. It had been another fine day for winter. There was no snow, but the ground was hard, the November mud solidified into dips and ridges which made walking difficult. I tripped twice, catching myself, checking over my shoulder to ensure no one had seen me.
A low, white mist smoked above the water, making the heads of the trees look as if they were floating on a cloud. The bare branches scratched against a sky that was no longer blue but rather a vibrant clementine, stretching into fuchsia pink. There was no sound but the thump of my footsteps and the cry of a blackbird rustling in the stiff leaves, trying to get its supper.
I wondered if Mrs Leverton was by her window watching the sun set too. She would have enjoyed the spectacle, and a part of me wished I was there with her. But it was nice to be alone too – alone but not lonely.
What would Dr Basildon be doing? His wife? I imagined them in their drawing room, their fire raging, both reading something and ignoring each other. My own isolation was physical, unlike theirs, and for a second, I had a pang of pity for Mrs Basildon. To be unloved, undesired, by your own husband must be the worst kind of loneliness. I thought I too would be bitter if Bertie had so deserted me, and I remembered how it had stung when he had pushed me away.
I would not let that happen again.
I sat on our usual stump in our usual place as the last of the orange light faded and the world turned silver. I leant back against a tree and watched the stars sparkle, thinking how different tonight was compared to the party and how much I preferred to be out here, though my feet were numb and my hands were stuffed under my armpits to warm them. I pulled my cloak closer. Mrs Leverton had leant me an old brown fur stole, and I tightened that about my neck, thanking her again under my breath.
I waited for Bertie. The silence was broken every now and again by a small creature shuffling in the undergrowth, and my heart started in fright when a ghostly spectre of a barn owl swooped nearby. I knocked on wood to prevent any bad luck. The longer I waited, the more I felt as if I had a hundred eyes trained upon me, faint dots in the darkness all around. I kept turning to peer past tree trunks, certain I would find a shadowed figure.
Then there was a yellow light in the distance, swaying from side to side, as if it were on a ship on the rolling sea. I heard the crunching of hoarfrost, the swishing of woollen trousers, the rapid breathing of someone walking too fast in the cold. For one awful second, I thought it might have been someone else, and I crouched against the tree, hoping whoever it was would not see me, but then the light stopped swaying.
‘Katy?’ Bertie whispered in the silence.
‘I’m here. Watch yourself.’
Bertie found me. He put the lamp on the stump and blew into his hands, his breath coming out in white puffs against the light.
‘It’s freezing. We shouldn’t be long tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, Bertie, for last time. I can’t stop thinking about how we left it. It has given me bad dreams. I shouldn’t have gone off like that.’
‘It’s all right.’ His dark eyes darted towards mine. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it again, then said, ‘You been well? No more attacks?’
‘Fine. Everyone is too happy for Christmas.’
‘That’s good… And Mrs Leverton? You still think she’s telling the truth?’
I smiled at him for asking and picked up his hand. It was colder than mine, and I wrapped it in my skirts, bringing him closer as I did so. ‘What she says is just so detailed. Her first dog dying, the birth of Patience. She admits her faults as a mother and as a wife. Why would she tell the truth about that and then lie about murdering someone?’
Bertie shrugged.
‘Dr Basildon says she has created a false guilt. It makes more sense to be guilty of murder, something she can understand, than to know why she could not love her own child.’
‘And you don’t think that’s it?’
‘I think it is a good explanation – a convenient explanation that fits with what her husband said. People are put into madh
ouses and forgotten. A reputation of a murderer in the family is not so easily swept away.’
‘But you like her?’
‘Oh yes. She is not how I expect a murderer to be at all.’
‘Does it really matter?’
I looked at him, at the dark side of his face, at his profile outlined in yellow light. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she’s mad, or she’s a murderer. Either way, she should be locked up. I don’t understand why you’re pushing for it to be true when that truth would mean the noose for her.’
The realisation silenced me. I hadn’t ever thought of it like that. What a dreadfully miserable notion! I kicked my heels against the stump.
‘I just want to know what really happened. It is like a scab I must pick until it bleeds.’
‘Don’t.’ He turned to me, his face now in total shadow, and pulled his hand free. ‘Can’t you see how it looks? You’re obsessed with her and soon you’ll have—’
‘I’ll have what?’
‘You’ll have gone mad too.’
I could have argued, but there was fear in his words; he was scared for me. He searched my face as if I might already be lost.
‘Yes. Yes, all right,’ I said and looked away before his fear infected me too. ‘I understand.’ I didn’t want another row. I didn’t want Christmas Eve to be like that. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘It’s getting late.’
‘It’s just dark. Tell me how your day has been.’
‘Busy.’
‘Yes, I saw the shop on my way from Ma’s.’
He was too quiet. He pulled back some skin next to his thumb nail, his spine curled inward and his eyes intent on the action. He pulled and pulled until the skin ripped off. The blood pooled against his nail, trickling down over his thumb in tiny veins as thin as spider’s silk.
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 13
