I am torn from sleep by the most dreadful screams. I sit bolt upright. The walls of my room tremble with the sounds of running feet and shouts and the banging of doors. I jump from my bed and rush to the door. ‘Fetch the doctor!’ someone shouts. As I reach the landing I see the stairs are crowded with servants. The screams have stopped, and instead there is a loud keening noise, like nothing I have ever heard before. I think of wild animals and of a kitchen cat we once had that made a similar sound before it gave birth to six dead kittens. But this is worse. I want to put my fingers in my ears to silence it. Suddenly I think of Mama and how she didn’t come to my room last night. Something terrible has happened to her, I am sure of it. My first feeling is one of relief. Now perhaps she will never have to know that I burned my stays.
Then Eli is standing next to me, hastily belting up his dressing gown. ‘What has happened, Alice?’ he asks me quickly.
‘I … I don’t know,’ I stammer. ‘I think, Mama. Maybe?’
Eli pushes past me and begins to take charge of the chaos. ‘Move out of the way. Let me see,’ he orders. The clamour quietens and the servants step back to make room for Eli. There is a moment of silence.
‘It’s all right, Alice,’ he shouts back up to me. ‘It is not Mama. It is only Lillie.’
Disappointment clutches at my stomach briefly. I peer over the banisters and the first thing I see is blood. It is smeared all over a kitchen maid’s apron and hands and is splotched onto the pale rose-covered paper that runs up the stairwell wall. Lillie is slumped against the wall and a blood-soaked cloth is being held to her mouth by another servant.
‘What has she done?’ asks Eli. ‘Do we really need to call for a doctor?’
‘She’s bit her tongue off, sir,’ says the servant with the cloth. ‘Look. Here it is.’ She opens her hand and I see what looks like a small piece of red meat resting in her palm. Eli recoils and starts walking back up the stairs towards me.
‘Get her into a bed,’ he says. ‘And yes, indeed, please call Dr Danby.’ His face has paled. ‘Don’t look, Alice,’ he tells me as he reaches the landing. ‘Go back to your room and let them deal with it.’
But I cannot move. I hold on to the banisters and I cannot tear my eyes away as Lillie is helped to her feet by the grave-faced servants and led away, her moans echoing down the hall.
‘Alice!’ hisses Eli. ‘Don’t be so ghoulish. Come on.’
He doesn’t understand.
I don’t understand.
I made this happen.
My wish came true.
I turn from the stairs and start to walk slowly back to my room. I am dreaming all of this, surely?
The floor feels soft beneath my feet, and the walls on either side of me are closing in. I think that if I were to touch them, they would give beneath my fingers, like melted wax. My bedchamber is at the end of the corridor, but it seems much further away. My belly is rolling around inside and I have to move faster, although it is hard to lift my feet. My belly forces its way up into my throat and suddenly I am in my room and vomiting into the bowl on my washstand. Now I know I am not dreaming. I see again the small piece of meat in the maid’s hand and I shiver.
I wanted Lillie silenced. But not like this.
As I catch my breath and reach for a towel to wipe my mouth, I hear a small noise. A quiet, shifting, stirring sound. I lift my head from the bowl and my throat tightens as I see Mama. She is standing by the fireplace. She has the poker in her hand and is swirling it around in the ashes. Every now and then it clinks on the charred steel bones of my stays. She has her back to me, but I can see by the movement of her shoulder blades – sharp as elbows through the thin silk of her robe – that she is breathing deeply. ‘How dare you,’ she says quietly, her voice quivering slightly. I retch into the bowl again.
‘Unforgivable.’ Her voice comes closer. I look over the rim of the bowl. She is standing next to me and I see the poker still clenched in her hand. It has left a trail of soot on the pale pastel of her morning robe. ‘One night,’ she says, in a voice so calm it makes the base of my skull prickle. ‘For one night I leave you. And look what you do.’ She aims the poker under my chin and slowly forces me to lift my head from the bowl. ‘I was quite convinced it was your screams I heard just now,’ she says. ‘It is the sort of thing I have come to expect from you. But no. Jane told me it was Lillie. A foolish accident, I believe?’
She slides the poker out from under my chin, and instead of leaning to the bowl again, I get to my feet and dare myself to look her in the eyes. The green of her irises is a little too bright and the narrow furrow between her brows twitches a heartbeat. I think it is best I keep quiet for now.
She strolls back towards the fireplace. ‘I was pleasantly surprised to find it was not you shrieking like some vile creature,’ she says. ‘But then I come to your room, and what do I find? That you have spent an unremarkable night sleeping? That although I was remiss in not coming to check on you last night, all would be in order? All would be well?’ She places the poker back in its companion set and wipes some imaginary soot from her hands. ‘How foolish of me to think that.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Not only did you defy me by removing your stays, but you saw fit to burn them.
‘It is my fault,’ she says, still so strangely composed. ‘I should never have listened to your father. He said you would change as you grew older. That you would calm down, and become more biddable.’ Mama laughs, but it is forced and hard. ‘I should have done what needed doing years ago.’
She turns to the window and stands looking out, with her hands clasped neatly over her belly. The butter-soft light of the morning catches in the pale down on her cheeks. I wait for her to say more. To explain what she means. What needs to be done?
In the silence that follows, I think of Lillie again. There was so much blood. I never wished for blood. Will she bleed to death?
Then Mama clears her throat. ‘Such a beautiful day,’ she murmurs to herself.
I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. It bothers me that Mama can make even a beautiful day sound so wrong and sinister.
My throat is tight and bitter with the aftertaste of vomit. I want to ring for Lillie to bring me tea. I want her to clear the mess I have made and bring me warm water so I can wash the staleness and fear from my skin. I want Mama to leave now, to tell me what my punishment is and to leave. But I know, even as I think all this, that none of it will be.
Nothing will ever be as it was.
Suddenly, Mama turns from the window and fixes me with a determined glare. ‘I believe I heard that Dr Danby has been called?’
‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘To attend to Lillie.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Then I shall have him come to attend to you afterwards.
‘But I am not ill,’ I say. I glance down at the froth of vomit in the bowl. ‘It was only the shock of seeing Lillie. And the blood. I am recovered now. There is no need to bother the doctor on my account.’
‘Oh, but it is not on your account, Alice. It is for my sake he will attend you.’ She smooths back a wisp of hair from her forehead. ‘You will stay in your room from now on. It would not be safe to have you running loose in the house.’ She flicks her gaze around my room. ‘There will be no more fires in here and, of course, no candles.’ She looks back at me and shudders slightly as her eyes fall on the washstand bowl. ‘I will send a maid up. You will wash, and ready yourself for the doctor.’
‘But there is no need for the doctor, truly, Mama. Why do I need a doctor?’ A thread of fear is stitching my insides tight. I had expected anger, coldness and the usual blank disappointment. But a doctor?
‘Do not question me, Alice!’ she says through clenched teeth. Her composure disappears and she is now the Mama I know best. ‘You are always questioning, questioning, questioning.’ Spots of dangerous red have marked her pale cheeks. She grips her robe tight at her throat and sweeps from the room, slamming the door behind her. I hear the thunk of the key in the lock, and my heart drops like a stone into my empty belly. My sentence has been passed, but I have no idea what my punishment will be.
I sit on my bed and wait. There is nothing else to do. My head is a muddle of thoughts that I cannot untangle. I think of Lady Egerton and her broken ankle and Lillie and her severed tongue. But the edges of my thoughts are tinged red with Lillie’s blood. I want Papa to come back from Bristol and make everything better. And I want Eli. He has always cushioned me from Mama’s wrath. But where is he? Why has he not come to me? When I was little, he would always come; as sure as the long-case clock in the hall chimed each hour, Eli would find a way to offer me small comforts.
I remember a summer long ago when I was confined to my room for some misdemeanour that I cannot now recall. But I remember how I longed for the outside world, for the feel of the sun on my skin and for the scent of grass and roses and the taste of fresh air. Eli would sneak into my room and bring the outside to me. He brought me feathers, soft downy ones, which I imagined the garden sparrows had shaken from their tails. He brought me polished pebbles, ‘jewels for a lady,’ he would say, and once he brought me a rose head in full bloom that I pressed between the pages of my Bible. Even after the petals had dried and crumbled to dust, I could still smell the sweetness of that rose whenever Mama instructed me to read the scriptures.
I have heard the long-case clock strike twice now. Eli is not coming this time.
Eventually, my door is unlocked and a young maid with red-rimmed eyes and a plain face scuttles into the room carrying a large jug and bowl. ‘Water for you, miss,’ she says shyly.
I look at her closely. I am not certain I have seen her before. But maybe it is just that she has never been upstairs. ‘Can you tell me how Lillie is?’ I ask, as she covers the soiled bowl with a cloth and replaces it with the new bowl and jug of water.
The girl looks at me and her eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh, miss,’ she says, sniffing loudly, ‘the news ain’t good. She’s gone ’alf mad with the pain she has. And the blood … she won’t stop bleeding. They say … they say Lillie might bleed to death.’ On the word death, her voice rises to a wail and the tears she has been trying to control come tumbling down her face.
‘I … I am sure she will not die. I am sure she will be fine,’ is all I can think to say to her.
‘I hope so, miss,’ says the girl. ‘Doctor says she’s to be taken away. There’s nothing more can be done for her here.’ She takes up her apron and messily wipes her face. ‘Sorry, miss, sorry,’ she says. ‘Must be terrible for you, miss. Her being your lady’s maid an’ all.’
‘Yes,’ I manage to say. ‘Yes, it is terrible.’ The girl stands there, twisting her apron around in her hands. ‘Is everyone so upset?’ I ask. A dreadful guilt is pressing hard on my chest. ‘Was she well liked downstairs?’
‘She weren’t, miss, I’m sorry to say. She had a wicked tongue on her – oh.’ The girl realises what she has said and she clasps her hand to her mouth as though she can stuff the words back in.
I smile at her and nod gently, to tell her it’s all right. I don’t mind.
The girl clears her throat. ‘Like I said, miss, she weren’t well liked – nasty piece she was, beg your pardon – but biting off her tongue! You wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy, would you?’
I don’t answer. How can I? I rub at the goose pimples on my arm. I am cold all of a sudden and sick to the stomach again. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean Lillie any harm. There’s another voice, nagging behind my temples. You did this, Alice, it says. You wished Lillie to be silenced. You did this, Alice, and you meant it to be. ‘You can go now,’ I tell the girl. ‘I should like to get dressed and I can manage well enough by myself.’
The girl sniffs loudly, then takes up the bowl of vomit and leaves, locking the door behind her.
I don’t want to think any more.
I pin my hair up and strip naked. The water the girl brought is cold on the washcloth. I quickly wipe and rinse my skin and I’m surprised at how good the sharpness of the water is. I splash my face several times and gradually my skin begins to feel tight and clean and the layer of night sweat and the slick of fear that covered me are washed away. I dress loosely in chemise, drawers, petticoat and a plain gown. I examine myself in the mirror and think I look well enough. The absence of stays has not harmed my posture.
I sit at my desk and take up my journal. I tidy the edges of the pages that I tore last night and I put pen to paper. I write nothing of any sense; only words that are in my head and I want out of it.
Blood and tongue and silence
Mama and cold and hatred
Eli and envy and anger
The words pour onto the paper and I have filled a whole page when I hear the key in the lock again. This time it is Mama and Dr Danby. They stand in the doorway and Mama says something in the doctor’s ear and directs her gaze towards the fireplace. The doctor looks and nods gravely, then pats Mama reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Now then, Alice,’ he says. ‘I hear you have been quite unwell?’ He walks towards me. There is a shock of blood on his collar.
‘You have been misinformed,’ I tell him. ‘I am quite well, thank you. But tell me, how is Lillie?’
‘She is being taken care of,’ he says. ‘Now would you mind coming to the bed so I can examine you?’
I don’t move.
‘But how serious is her condition?’ I ask. ‘Will she recover?’
The doctor sighs. ‘That I cannot tell you. She has been taken to Bristol. To the infirmary. She will be in good hands.’
I point to the blood on his collar. ‘Is that hers? Is that Lillie’s blood?’
‘Alice!’ hisses Mama. ‘You see, doctor? She is like this all the time. I can do nothing with her.’
‘Perhaps, Mrs Angel,’ says Dr Danby, ‘it would be better if you stepped out of the room while I examine Alice. And perhaps you should take a glass of claret to calm your nerves. You have had a most trying morning.’ He takes Mama by the arm and guides her out of the door. ‘There,’ he says, as the door closes and there are only the two of us left in the room. ‘Perhaps we will get on better now.’
‘Perhaps it is Mama who needs your services, not me?’ I suggest.
Dr Danby frowns. He has a lot of eyebrow, so much that his eyes are almost invisible under the tangle of black and granite. ‘I think that is for me to decide,’ he says brusquely, and proceeds to take a selection of gleaming instruments from his battered leather bag. He lays them in a neat row on my bedside table. ‘Now, please. Come and lie on the bed.’
I feel myself shrivelling inside. I don’t want this man to prod me with the tools of his trade. I don’t want him anywhere near me. ‘Dr Danby,’ I say. ‘There is nothing wrong with me. I’ve never felt better. I do not need you to examine me.’
The doctor raises his eyebrows – as much as he can – and picks up something that looks to me like a small trumpet. He runs his fingers over the glossy brass surface. ‘I would suggest your refusal to cooperate is a symptom of your condition.’
There is a button come loose on his frock coat, a black thread dangling. I think if he puffs his chest out any further, the button will pop off altogether. I fix my gaze on the button. I look at how polished it is and how it is crimped around the edges like a pie crust. Dr Danby prowls around my room tapping the small trumpet in the palm of his hand. I glance over at the other objects laid out on the table: scissors, knives, long silver needles, and small brown bottles with faded labels. I am filled with a squirming horror.
‘Now, Alice,’ says Dr Danby. ‘You have been menstruating for over a year, your mother tells me. Are you regular with your bleeds?’
I feel my face flush hot. What business is it of his?
‘Alice,’ he prompts. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you,’ I say. ‘But I do not care to answer you.’
Dr Danby sighs heavily and puts the small trumpet away in his bag. Then he takes out a notebook, and reaches into the inside pocket of his coat for a pencil. He turns a page in the notebook and slips out the tip of a fat, livery tongue to lick the end of the pencil. My belly heaves again. I turn from him and stare instead at the words I have written in my journal. They are just black lines and flicks and curls of ink now. Dr Danby scratches in his notebook, grunting now and then with the effort. ‘What about the fire, Alice? Will you talk to me about that?’ he says. ‘Why did you burn your stays?’
He is impatient now. I can tell by the way he spits his words out. He wants to get home, I think, to his wife who will fetch him a fresh, clean collar and a cool drink for him to sip in his study while he smokes on his pipe. I am not one of his submissive patients. He will get nothing out of me. I pick up my pen and dip it into the ink pot. I let a drop of ink fall from the nib onto a clean page of my journal. I idly put the pen nib into the centre of the blot and pull it into spider legs.
‘Are you writing down your answers, Alice? asks Dr Danby. ‘Would you rather write them than speak to me?’
Why is he still here, when he can see I have no need of him? I press my pen hard onto the page; so hard that the nib snaps off. Clean off, like Lillie’s tongue. I am furious that my pen has broken and that this maddening man is still in my room. I turn to him suddenly and the pen leaves my hand and flies across the room. ‘Get out!’ I shriek. ‘Leave me alone!’
The pen hits the doctor high on his chest. He blinks, startled. I hold my breath. His collar is splattered with ink now, as well as blood. A drop of ink has found its way onto his weathered cheek, and it is sliding down slowly, like a dark tear. He wipes his hand across his cheek and the ink smears into the loose crepe of his face. He looks at his hand, then back at me. I see the knot of veins at his temple throbbing angrily through the thin stretch of skin.
‘Your mother was right to call upon my services,’ he says, gathering his instruments and putting them back in his bag. ‘You are indeed a disturbed young lady.’ He throws me a look of pity, takes up his bag and leaves the room.
I let out a breath and go to retrieve my broken pen from the floor. I hope this is the last I will see of Dr Danby, but something in my bones tells me otherwise. I hold the pen in my hand and a stain of ink spreads across my palm. I squeeze my hand shut and when I open it again, the ink has altered and I am disturbed to see instead the face of a strange man, with a full beard and piercing eyes. I wipe my hand quickly on the skirts of my gown. With all that has happened, I think, my imagination is playing tricks on me.
It is then that I hear low voices outside my door. I press my ear against the wood and listen closely.