After Alice Fell(20)

Cathy nods, raises an eyebrow, and leans closer to the window. “It’s so contained to itself.”

“Fresh air, responsibilities, and quietude of the mind.” Mayhew clamps a hand behind his back and rolls on his heels. “All within this small acreage. In fact, we can’t seem to stem the growth. I’ve got an eye on a further four acres, and a letter in the making to Mrs. Owens.”

The lock to the left clinks, and the long handle turns of its own accord. The ward door swings open just long enough for a girl to sidle out. It’s the girl from the road, in a gray skirt and apron. She carries a bucket and mop and startles when she sees me. The bucket sways, the water threatening to tip over the lip. “Oh.” Then she swings her gaze to Cathy before staring at the floor. Her mouth presses into a tight line.

“Miss Swain.” Mayhew clamps his pipe stem.

“Yes, it’s me,” she says.

“Everything right?”

“Everything’s right.”

“Well done, then.”

She nods and hurries to the stairs, slowing to shift the bucket before stepping down.

“Maintenance. Much to keep an eye on.” He points again to the barns and paddocks. “There. A lamb. Ha.”

I step forward. I don’t care about the lambs or the new roof on the chapel, or the rows of beets and garlic. I see the two brick-clad wings jutting either side of this landing with matching windows of metal grating and whitewashed glass. Meant to let in light but not life.

He peers down through the glass, mindlessly scratching his sideburn. His eyes follow the path Kitty takes along a slope with black ruts and dirt. When she reaches the bricked perimeter fence, the sun catches the metal straps on the bucket. She opens a door in the high wood gate and continues on and out of sight.

I trace the ruts to the building, follow their split around a narrow building set between the wings. Both tracks disappear in shadow, and I wonder: Is that where Alice first was delivered, and the road for her final journey out?

“Do they improve?”

“It is all a matter of the right mix of therapy. Healing the mind carries many complications.” He blinks and pulls at his pipe, but the ember has gone out, and with a frown, he tips the bowl of ash and half-burnt tobacco to a heavy brass ashtray near the stair railing.

“And Alice?”

Mayhew’s eyes slip to me. “She was, alas, not one of the fortunates.”

His gaze stays long enough that I am forced to look away. I make a show of smoothing my skirt. One of the ribbons has come loose. I tuck the string and then lift my shoulders. The sunlight slices through these windows, the only clear ones of the lot, and I squint against it.

Dr. Mayhew pulls a key ring from his coat pocket, swinging it from finger to thumb. Then he clasps it tight in his fist. “Let us visit the women’s wing. You have been here before, Mrs. Snow?”

Cathy nods. “We sat on the front porch and had lemon cake.”

“That cake is a wonder.” He presses the key to the lock, and the metal shivers and tumbles and thunks. One lock, then the other.

“There are thirty-six women on this floor. They will be at their labors. Sewing, I think. Some of the women are quite talented.” He pushes his shoulder to the door and leans in. “Mrs. Brighton. I have brought visitors.”

Beyond the door are voices, like cat’s paws padding around corners; they slip across the doorsill and bat my ankles. A woman in a gray apron and coiled mud-brown hair blocks our way. She twists a rag in her hands. The liquid drips and splatters to the floor. Her eyes are near to black. She doesn’t meet my gaze but looks just past my left shoulder.

“This is Mrs. Abbott and Mrs. Snow.” Mayhew gestures, palm up. “And this is our Mrs. Brighton.”

Cathy’s face pales to white.

Mrs. Brighton pushes out her lower lip. She twists the rag and cuts a look at Cathy. “Does she need to sit?”

But Cathy’s pallor has now flushed a deep red. She shakes her head and hooks her hand around my arm. “I am perfectly well.”

“The women are at sewing.”

“As I thought.” Dr. Mayhew moves aside, allowing us to enter. “Let us proceed.”





Chapter Eight


Mrs. Brighton moves before us, the hem of her skirts brushing the floor. She rolls and squeezes the rag in her hand, and then clears her throat. Ahem and ahem.

I am hit by the smell of the room now: the sweet, flat stale of breath and sourness of body. The arch of lye and menses and soap and too much lemon verbena spritzed to the air.

I press my handkerchief over my nose, but the odors have latched to the fabric, weaving themselves tight.

The room is like an elongated hall, the length exacerbated by the planks in the heavy timber floor. The walls are a white that assaults, and the metalwork on the long single window leaves shadows of concentric circles. Deep, inset doors line the facing walls, and benches without cushions sit between each. The women are in groups of two or three, in curved cane rockers, feet and heels pushing the chairs forward and back. Their hair is plaited, pinned up tight to the head. Old and young. They are intent upon their needlework.

Mrs. Brighton jerks her head for us to follow. The murmurs stop. Now there is but the matron’s shoe step and the swish of needles to fabric. Each woman we pass is dressed much as Alice, in rough cotton, though here and there I see a touch of colored lace at the collar or cuff. Each woman’s dress bears a number stitched across the left breast.