Spider Light(97)

‘Dreadful for you,’ agreed George. ‘Shall we set off?’

At Toft House, he was indeed invited in, and old Mr Rosen, who had the fragile, papery look of ill health, was very grateful indeed to the unknown young man who had brought his granddaughter home after she had taken a fall. It was not sherry that was offered, but Madeira, and sipping it, George looked about him, and felt a surge of what the Bible called covetousness. This is what I want. I want to live in a house like this.

A second glass of wine was offered, but George declined, and said he must be leaving. But perhaps he might call in a few days’ time, to see if Miss Rosen had recovered? What else could Mr Rosen say to that, other than yes?

The news of Latchkill’s escaped patient got out of course, in the way things did in any small community. Apparently the man had been caught almost at once, and taken back to whatever room or dormitory or cell he had inhabited. Latchkill’s new matron, a hard-faced female only a little older than George himself, was believed to have said that escapes from properly run institutions were very rare indeed, and this had been an isolated incident.

George felt matters could be allowed to rest for a brief time. He would watch for his opportunity carefully, but he would allow Louisa a little time to recover from her ordeal before he made the promised call to Toft House.

But although he did call, and although he was made welcome, Louisa seemed withdrawn. It’s not going to work, thought George, despairingly. But perhaps she just needs a little longer to recover and forget.

Three months later he learned there was to be a consequence of that day which would ensure Louisa Rosen would never forget. Learning the truth had caused old Mr Rosen to suffer one final, fatal, heart attack.

If it had not been for the sudden death of her grandfather, the solution to Louisa’s dilemma might not have been so easy. A marriage between Miss Rosen of Toft House and the virtually penniless George Lincoln would probably not have been permitted. Or, if it had been permitted, it certainly would not have happened with such unseemly haste.

As it was, eyebrows were raised slightly. A burial and a wedding so close together? said people. Not what you would expect. Had anyone actually known of the attachment between Miss Rosen and Mr Lincoln? Ah, no one had. A secret romance, perhaps? Well, whatever it was, it was all very mysterious, although fair was fair, and nobody who knew George Lincoln could possibly suspect him of anything improper. Dear goodness, he was the vicar’s nephew, and one of old Josiah Forrester’s under-managers up at Twygrist. Josiah Forrester did not employ people who were not entirely respectable. But it could not be denied that George had done very well for himself. Louisa Rosen would have inherited Toft House and the Rosen money, which, put in plain terms, meant George Lincoln would be the owner of Toft House.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE




After she had been in Latchkill for a little while, Maud found all kinds of ways to avoid the things they tried to do to her. They gave her pills and horrid-tasting draughts; some made her sick and others made her crouch over the lidded-bucket-arrangement in a corner of the room, her stomach clenching in agonising spasms. She became skilled at pretending to drink the draughts, and then pouring them away afterwards. She folded the pills in a corner of her handkerchief and hid them, because you never knew what you might need.

But the thing she did not manage to avoid was the stone trough in the bath-house. The first time they took her there, Maud thought she was being taken to bathe in the ordinary way, and she was pleased because she had not washed properly for several days. She hated the smell of her own unwashed body, and of clothes she had worn for too long. Father had said he had left some of her clothes with matron–he had packed some of her nicest gowns himself, he said–but when Maud asked about these, the nurses said they did not know what she was talking about. She must be dreaming, they said.

Most of the nurses did not call Maud by name. Even the ones who brought her food called her ‘girl’; Maud was not even sure if they knew her name. But the two nurses who took her to the bath-house knew it. They called her Maudie, and they said they knew all about her being one of Thomasina Forrester’s little girls, and she was unnatural and a monster. Maud hated them, but she was quite afraid of them and so when they told her to undress, she did so. They made her put on a canvas robe, which was a bit like a bathing costume. It did not smell very nice but Maud did not say anything because of being frightened of them, and also because of wanting a proper bath.

The bath-house was a dreadful place. The walls and the floor were of rough harsh granite, and when Maud walked across the floor there were little gritty bits on it, which might have been flaking fragments of granite, but which might as easily be nail cuttings from people’s toenails that nobody had swept up.

The baths were like the stone troughs you saw on farms, and Maud was made to sit on the edge of one. The two nurses piled her hair onto the top of her head, and before she understood what was happening, they cut it off–scissoring it away in great ragged clumps that fell down around her shoulders. Maud struggled and tried to get away, but they grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides.

‘Restraints, I’m afraid,’ said the elder one. She had a hatchet profile and mean little eyes. ‘Matron’s orders. Thought we’d have to use them on this one, didn’t you, Higgins?’

‘Vain,’ said Higgins, nodding. ‘All the same these vain ones. Don’t struggle, girl, you’ll only make it worse for yourself.’