Gentleman told her they were two of his painter friends. She seemed not to care. She let me wash her and make her dull hair a little neater, and tidy her gown; but then she kept to her chair, saying nothing. Only when she saw their coach pull up did she stare, and begin to breathe a little quicker—and I wondered if she had noticed the blinds and the spikes, as I had. The doctors got down. Gentleman went quickly out to talk with them, and they shook hands and put their heads together, and looked slyly up at our window.
Then Gentleman came back, and left them waiting. He came upstairs. He was rubbing his hands together and smiling. He said,
‘Well, what do you think! Here are my friends Graves and Christie, come down to visit from London. You remember, Maud, I spoke to you of them? I don’t believe they thought me really married! They have come to see the phenomenon for themselves.’
Still he smiled. Maud would not look at him.
‘Shall you mind it, dear,’ he said, ‘if I bring them to you? I have left them now with Mrs Cream.’
I could hear them, then, in the parlour, talking in low, serious voices. I knew what questions they were asking, and what answers Mrs Cream would make. Gentleman waited for Maud to speak and, when she said nothing, looked at me. He said,
‘Sue, will you come with me a moment?’
He made a gesture with his eyes. Maud gazed after us, blinking. I went with him to the crooked landing, and he closed the door at my back.
‘I think you should leave her with me,’ he said quietly, ‘when they go to her. I shall watch her, then; perhaps make her nervous. It keeps her too calm, having you always about her.’
I said, ‘Don’t let them hurt her.’
‘Hurt her?’ He almost laughed. ‘These men are scoundrels. They like to keep their lunatics safe. They’d have them in fire-proof vaults if they could, like bullion; and so live off the income. They won’t hurt her. But they know their business, too, and a scandal would ruin them. My word is good, but they shall need to look at her and talk to her; and they shall also need to talk to you. You’ll know how to answer, of course.’
I made a face. ‘Will I?’ I said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t make game of me, Sue. Not now we are so close. You’ll know what to say?’
I shrugged, still sulky. ‘I think so.’
‘Good girl. I shall bring them first to you.’
He made to put his hand upon me. I dodged it and stepped away. I went to my little room, and waited. The doctors came after a moment. Gentleman came with them, then closed the door and stood before it, his eyes on my face.
They were tall men, like him, and one of them was stout. They were dressed in black jackets and elastic boots. When they moved, the floor, the walls and the window gave a shudder. Only one of them—the thinner one—spoke; the other just watched. They made me a bow, and I curtseyed.
‘Ah,’ said the speaking doctor quietly, when I did that. His name was Dr Christie. ‘Now, you know who we are, I think? You won’t mind, if we ask you what might seem impertinent questions? We are friends of Mr Rivers’s, and very curious to hear about his marriage, and his new wife.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You mean, my mistress.’
‘Ah,’ he said again. ‘Your mistress. Now, refresh my memory. Who is she?’
‘Mrs Rivers,’ I said. ‘That was Miss Lilly.’
‘Mrs Rivers, that was Miss Lilly. Ah.’
He nodded. The silent doctor—Dr Graves—took out a pencil and a book. The first one went on:
‘Your mistress. And you are—?’
‘Her maid, sir.’
‘Of course. And what is your name?’
Dr Graves held his pencil, ready to write. Gentleman caught my eye, and nodded. ‘Susan Smith, sir,’ I said.
Dr Christie looked at me harder. ‘You seemed to hesitate,’ he said. ‘That is your name, you are quite sure?’
‘I should say I know my own name!’ I said.
‘Of course.’
He smiled. My heart still beat hard. Perhaps he saw it. He seemed to grow kind. He said,
‘Well, Miss Smith, can you tell us now, how long you have known your mistress . . . ?’
It was like the time, at Lant Street, when I had stood before Gentleman and he had put me through my character. I told them about Lady Alice of Mayfair, and Gentleman’s old nurse, and my dead mother; and then about Maud. I said she had seemed to like Mr Rivers but now, a week after her wedding-night, she was grown very sad and careless of herself, and made me afraid.
Dr Graves wrote it all down. Dr Christie said,
‘Afraid. Do you mean, for your own sake?’
I said, ‘Not for mine, sir. For hers. I think she might harm herself, she is so miserable.’
‘I see,’ he said. Then: ‘You are fond of your mistress. You have spoken very kindly of her. Now, will you tell me this. What care do you think your mistress ought to have, that would make her better?’
I said, ‘I think—’
‘Yes?’
‘I wish—’
He nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘I wish you would keep her, sir, and watch her,’ I said in a rush. ‘I wish you would keep her some place where no-one could touch her, or hurt her—’
My heart seemed all at once high in my throat, and my voice was spoiled with tears. Gentleman still had his eyes upon me. The doctor took my hand and held it, close about the wrist, in a familiar way.
‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You must not be so distressed. Your mistress shall have everything you wish for her. She has been lucky, indeed, to have had so good and faithful a servant, as you!’
He patted and smoothed my hand, then let it go. He looked at his watch. He caught Gentleman’s eye, and nodded. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Very good. Now, if you might just show us—?’
‘Of course,’ said Gentleman quickly. ‘Of course. This way.’ He opened the door, and they turned their black backs to me and all moved off. I watched them do it, and was gripped suddenly by a feeling—I could not say if it was misery, or fear. I took a step and called out after them.
‘She don’t like eggs, sir!’ I called. Dr Christie half turned. I had lifted my hand. Now I let it fall. ‘She don’t like eggs,’ I said more feebly, ‘in any kind of dish.’
It was all I could think of. He smiled, and bowed; but in a humouring kind of way. Dr Graves wrote—or pretended to write—in his book, Don’t care for eggs. Gentleman led them both across to Maud’s room. Then he came back to me.
‘You’ll keep here, until they’ve seen her?’ he said.
I did not answer. He shut my door. But those walls were like paper: I heard them move about, caught the rumble of the doctor’s questions; then, after a minute or so, came the thin rising and falling of her tears.
They did not stay with her long. I suppose they had all they needed, from me and Mrs Cream. When they had gone I went to her, and Gentleman was standing behind her chair, holding her pale head between his hands. He had been leaning to gaze at her, perhaps to whisper and tease. When he saw me come he straightened and said,
‘Look, Sue, at your mistress. Don’t you think her eyes a little brighter?’
They were bright, with the last of her tears still in them; and they were red at the rims.
‘Are you well, miss?’ I said.
‘She is well,’ said Gentleman. ‘I think the company of friends has cheered her. I think those dear good fellows, Christie and Graves, were quite delighted with her; and you tell me, Sue, when did a lady ever not begin to flourish, under a gentleman’s delight?’
She turned her head and raised her hand, and plucked a little weakly at his pressing fingers. He stood holding her face a moment longer, then stepped away.
‘What a fool I’ve been,’ he said to me. ‘I’ve asked Mrs Rivers to grow strong, in this quiet place, thinking the quietness would help her. Now I see that what she needs is the bustle of the city. Graves and Christie saw it, too. They are so eager to have us join them at Chelsea??
?why, Christie is giving us the use of his own coach and driver! We are to leave tomorrow. Maud, what do you say to that?’
She had turned her gaze to the window. Now she lifted her head to him, and a little blood struggled into her white cheeks.
‘Tomorrow?’ she said. ‘So soon as that?’
He nodded. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go. To a great house, with fine, quiet rooms, and good servants in it, that waits there just for you.’
Next day she put her breakfast of eggs and meat aside, as usual; but even I could not eat it. I dressed her without looking at her. I knew every part of her. She wore the old gown still, that was stained with mud, and I wore the handsome silk one. She would not let me change out of it, even for travelling, though I knew it would crease.
I thought of wearing it back in the Borough. I could not believe that I would be at home again, with Mrs Sucksby, before it was dark.
I packed her bags. I did it slowly, hardly feeling the things I touched. Into one bag went her linen, her slippers, her sleeping-drops, a bonnet, a brush—that was for her to take to the madhouse. Into the other went everything else. That was for me. Only that white glove I think I have mentioned, did I keep to one side; and when the bags were filled I put it, neatly, inside the bodice of my gown, over my heart.
The coach came, and we were ready. Mrs Cream saw us to the door. Maud wore a veil. I helped her down the tilting staircase, and she gripped my arm. When we stepped out of the cottage she gripped it tighter. She had kept to her room for more than a week. She flinched from the sight of the sky and the black church, and seemed to feel the soft air hard upon her cheek, even through her veil, like a hand that slapped her.
I put my fingers over hers.
‘God bless you, ma’am!’ cried Mrs Cream, when Gentleman had paid her. She stood and watched us. The boy who had taken our horse, that first night, now appeared again, to see us leaving; and one or two other boys also came to stare, and to stand at the side of the coach, picking at the doors, where an old gold crest had been painted out black. The driver flicked his whip at them. He fastened our bags upon the roof, then let the steps down. Gentleman handed Maud in, drawing her fingers from mine. He caught my eye.
‘Now, now,’ he said, in a warning sort of way. ‘No time for sentiment.’
She sat and leaned her head back, and he sat beside her. I sat opposite. There were no handles to the doors, only a key, like the key to a safe: when the driver closed them Gentleman made them fast, then put the key in his pocket.
‘How long will we travel?’ asked Maud.
He said, ‘An hour.’
It seemed longer than an hour. It seemed like a life. The day was a warm one. Where the sun struck the glass it made the carriage very hot, but the windows had been fixed not to open—I suppose, so a lunatic should not have the chance to leap out. At last Gentleman pulled a cord to make the blinds close, and we sat jolting in the heat and the darkness, not speaking. In time I began to grow sick. I saw Maud’s head rolling against the padding of the seat, but could not see if her eyes were open or closed. She kept her hands before her, clasped.
Gentleman fidgeted, however, loosening his collar, looking at his watch, plucking at his cuffs. Two or three times he took out his handkerchief and wiped off his brow. Every time the coach slowed, he leaned close to the window to peer through the louvres. Then it slowed so hard it came almost to a stop, and began to turn: he looked again, sat straight and tightened his neck-tie.
‘We are almost there,’ he said.
Maud turned her head to him. The coach slowed again. I pulled the cord that moved the blinds. We were at the start of a green lane, with a stone arch across it and, beneath that, iron gates. A man was drawing them back. The coach gave a jerk, and we drove along the lane until we reached the house at the end. It was just like at Briar, though this house was smaller, and neater. Its windows had bars on them. I watched Maud, to see what she would do. She had put back her veil and was gazing from the window in her old dull way; but behind the dullness I thought I saw a rising kind of knowledge or dread.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Gentleman.
That was all he said. I don’t know if he said it to her, or to me. The coach made another turn, and stopped. Dr Graves and Dr Christie were there, waiting for us, with beside them a great stout woman, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows and her gown covered over with an apron of canvas, like a butcher’s. Dr Christie came forward. He had a key like Gentleman’s, and let up the lock from his side. Maud flinched at the sound. Gentleman put his hand upon her. Dr Christie made a bow.
‘Good day,’ he said. ‘Mr Rivers. Miss Smith. Mrs Rivers, you remember me of course?’
He held out his hand.
He held it to me.
There was a second, I think, of perfect stillness. I looked at him, and he nodded. ‘Mrs Rivers?’ he said again. Then Gentleman leaned and caught hold of my arm. I thought at first he meant to keep me in my seat; then I understood that he was trying to press me from it. The doctor took my other arm. They got me to my feet. My shoes caught upon the steps. I said,
‘Wait! What are you doing? What—?’
‘Don’t struggle, Mrs Rivers,’ said the doctor. ‘We are here to care for you.’
He waved his hand, and Dr Graves and the woman came forward. I said,
‘It’s not me you want! What are you doing? Mrs Rivers? I’m Susan Smith! Gentleman! Gentleman, tell them!’
Dr Christie shook his head.
‘Still keeping up the old, sad fiction?’ he said to Gentleman.
Gentleman nodded and said nothing, as if he were too unhappy to speak. I hope he was! He turned and took down one of the bags—one of Maud’s mother’s bags. Dr Christie held me tighter. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘how can you be Susan Smith, late of Whelk Street, Mayfair? Don’t you know there’s no such place? Come, you do know it. And we shall have you admitting it, though it take us a year. Now, don’t twist so, Mrs Rivers! You are spoiling your handsome dress.’
I had struggled against his grip. At his words, I grew slack. I gazed at my sleeve of silk, and at my own arm, that had got plump and smooth with careful feeding; and then at the bag at my feet, with its letters of brass—the M, and the L.
It was in that second that I guessed, at last, the filthy trick that Gentleman had played on me.
I howled.
‘You bloody swine!’ I cried, twisting again, and pulling towards him. ‘You fuckster! Oh!’
He stood in the doorway of the coach, making it tilt. The doctor gripped me harder and his face grew stern.
‘There’s no place for words like those in my house, Mrs Rivers,’ he said.
‘You sod,’ I said to him. ‘Can’t you see what he’s done? Can’t you see the dodge of it? It ain’t me you want, it’s—’
I still pulled, and he still held me; but now I looked past him, to the swaying coach. Gentleman had moved back, his hand before his face. Beyond him, the light in bars upon her from the louvred blinds, sat Maud. Her face was thin, her hair was dull. Her dress was worn with use, like a servant’s dress. Her eyes were wild, with tears starting in them; but beyond the tears, her gaze was hard. Hard as marble, hard as brass.
Hard as a pearl, and the grit that lies inside it.
Dr Christie saw me looking.
‘Now, why do you stare?’ he said. ‘You know your own maid, I think?’
I could not speak. She could, however. She said, in a trembling voice, not her own:
‘My own poor mistress. Oh! My heart is breaking!’
You thought her a pigeon. Pigeon, my arse. That bitch knew everything. She had been in on it from the start.
Part Two
7.
The start, I think I know too well. It is the first of my mistakes.
I imagine a table, slick with blood. The blood is my mother’s. There is too much of it. There is so much of it, I think it runs, like ink. I think, to save the boards beneath, the women have set down china bowls; and so the silences between m
y mother’s cries are filled—drip drop! drip drop!—with what might be the staggered beating of clocks. Beyond the beat come other, fainter cries: the shrieks of lunatics, the shouts and scolds of nurses. For this is a madhouse. My mother is mad. The table has straps upon it to keep her from plunging to the floor; another strap separates her jaws, to prevent the biting of her tongue; another keeps apart her legs, so that I might emerge from between them. When I am born, the straps remain: the women fear she will tear me in two! They put me upon her bosom and my mouth finds out her breast. I suck, and the house falls silent about me. There is only, still, that falling blood—drip drop! drip, drop!—the beat telling off the first few minutes of my life, the last of hers. For soon, the clocks run slow. My mother’s bosom rises, falls, rises again; then sinks for ever.
I feel it, and suck harder. Then the women pluck me from her. And when I weep, they hit me.
I pass my first ten years a daughter to the nurses of the house. I believe they love me. There is a tabby cat upon the wards, and I think they keep me, rather as they keep that cat, a thing to pet and dress with ribbons. I wear a slate-grey gown cut like their own, an apron and a cap; they give me a belt with a ring of miniature keys upon it, and call me ‘little nurse’. I sleep with each of them in turn, in their own beds, and follow them in their duties upon the madhouse wards. The house is a large one—seems larger to me, I suppose—and divided in two: one side for female lunatics, one side for male. I see only the female. I never mind them. Some of them kiss and pet me, as the nurses do. Some of them touch my hair and weep. I remind them of their daughters. Others are troublesome, and these I am encouraged to stand before and strike with a wooden wand, cut to my hand, until the nurses laugh and say they never saw anything so droll.
Thus I learn the rudiments of discipline and order; and incidentally apprehend the attitudes of insanity. This will all prove useful, later.
When I am old enough to reason I am given a gold ring said to be my father’s, the portrait of a lady called my mother, and understand I am an orphan; but, never having known a parent’s love—or rather, having known the favours of a score of mothers—I am not greatly troubled by the news. I think the nurses clothe and feed me, for my own sake. I am a plain-faced child but, in that childless world, pass for a beauty. I have a sweet singing voice and an eye for letters. I suppose I shall live out all my days a nurse, contentedly teasing lunatics until I die.