by Sarah Rayne
Supposing the sounds he could hear were something to do with that–supposing those women really were witches? That was ridiculous! It was an animal–an injured animal. Holding resolutely onto this notion, George went inside. As he walked across the wooden floor, the old joists creaked under his weight, and something moved in one of the corners near to the bottom of the wheels–something that had been huddled into the darkness, and something that was too large to be an animal.
George did not quite cry out, but his heart came up into his throat. Then the darkness shifted, and he saw the shape was human and female: a youngish girl with fair fluffy hair. Relief washed over him, and he was able to say, ‘Who is it? Is something wrong?’
At first she shrank back into the shadows, both hands thrust out as if to ward off an attack, but George had already recognized her. Miss Rosen, Louisa Rosen, from Toft House–the mellow old house that had formed part of that wild pipe dream.
He said again, ‘Is something wrong? It’s Miss Rosen, isn’t it? You know me, surely? George Lincoln from the rectory.’
Now he was nearer he saw her face was streaked and swollen with tears, and her gown was ripped. He was not very used to young ladies, but he took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, then knelt down on the wooden floor and took one of the small hands, trying to warm it between his own. He asked if she was ill. He was not sure what family she had, so he just asked if he should go along to Toft House and fetch someone for her.
‘No!’ cried Miss Rosen. ‘No, you mustn’t do that. I shall be all right presently. There’s only my grandfather, and he mustn’t be distressed. He has a–something wrong with his heart.’
George said, ‘You came to live at Toft House last year, I think?’ At least she had stopped crying.
‘Yes. My grandfather wanted new surroundings after my parents died in a carriage accident. We like Amberwood. But he mustn’t know what’s happened to me–he hasn’t got over my mother’s death. And if he found out about the man this afternoon—’
‘What man? Miss Rosen, has someone hurt you?’
‘He was from–that place,’ said Louisa, shuddering and starting to cry again.
‘What place?’
‘You know. The asylum.’
‘Latchkill?’ said George in surprise, and another shudder went through her. But he persisted. ‘D’you mean someone who works there or a–a patient?’
‘A patient. One of the mad people.’
George did not know a great deal about Latchkill’s occupants, but he knew, as everyone in the area knew, that the asylum’s gates were kept firmly locked and bolted at all times, and that patients were not permitted to roam around unchecked.
So he said, ‘But you can’t have been attacked by one of the patients, not unless you were actually inside Latchkill’s grounds, that is. Were you visiting someone, or—No, I’m sorry, of course you weren’t. Please don’t start crying again, I’m sure it’s not good for you.’
But more of the story tumbled out, as if Louisa wanted to get rid of the words as quickly as possible.
She had, it seemed, been intending to pick wildflowers to press and use for making birthday cards to send to friends throughout the year; it was something she had done ever since she was a child, she said, and George nodded, and thought it a very nice, very lady-like occupation. He imagined Louisa bent over a table, the flowers and the tissue paper scattered around, her fair curls tumbling free of a ribbon.
But, said Louisa, she had stayed out longer than she had intended and had not noticed how dark it was getting. Mr Lincoln would know that early autumn twilight that seemed to creep in from nowhere and catch one unawares? Quite frightening it could be.
‘So I was going to walk very quickly past Latchkill, and go home along Scraptoft Lane.’
She had been almost level with Latchkill’s gates, walking along the grassy bank that fringed the road.
‘I didn’t much like it, but I thought I’d soon be past the gates, and I was going to be firm about not looking in through them. Only then, a–a figure stepped out from behind a tree, and barred my way.’ The tears began to flow again. ‘I ran off at once, but he came after me–I could hear him running along behind me–like a giant pounding on the ground. And I didn’t really look where I was going–I just wanted to get away–or hide somewhere safe…That was when I saw the mill, and I thought I might be able to hide there. The door was locked, but it was only a thin sort of lock, and when I pushed hard it snapped off. I didn’t think Mr Forrester would mind, and I thought I could explain to him–I do know him; we’ve been to luncheon at Quire House, and for sherry after church on Sunday.’
George knew a ridiculous stab of envy at the casual way she said this, as if it was an ordinary thing to do. But for her, it would be an ordinary thing. Louisa and her grandfather would be invited to Quire House as guests, as a matter of course–they were neighbours, equals. It would not occur to old Josiah to invite an employee, a hireling, and it ought not to occur to the hireling, either. But one day, thought George, one day…
‘I didn’t think the man would follow me in here,’ said Louisa, ‘but he did. So I tried to hide over there’–she indicated the huge silent waterwheel–‘and I huddled right down behind it, and it smelt horrid–there’s some water in the bottom of the tank-thing. I prayed he wouldn’t find me–I prayed so hard, Mr Lincoln.’
‘Of course you did. It’s all right. You’re safe now.’
‘But he did find me. He came right up to the mill, and stood in the doorway for a moment. He was huge. He was the hugest man I’ve ever seen, and I was so terrified I couldn’t even scream.’
She broke off again, sobbing.
‘Miss Rosen, do try to be calm. I’m sure we can—’
‘He shut the door,’ said Louisa, as if George had not spoken. ‘So I couldn’t get out. And he saw me at once: he pulled me out from behind the waterwheel, and pushed me down on the floor over there. He was laughing–a horrid throaty sort of laughing–and then he lay on top of me—His hands felt like iron bars–he was so strong. I can’t tell you how strong he was.’
‘But look here,’ said George, not really wanting to know what had happened next. ‘None of this actually proves it was someone from Latchkill.’
‘He was from Latchkill,’ sobbed Louisa. ‘I know he was. He was mad–anyone could have seen that. He had great grinning teeth–like a giant’s teeth in a fairy story–and immense clutching hands. He slobbered over me–all over my neck, I thought I was going to be sick when he did that. And he lay on top of me for what felt like ages–he was so heavy I thought he would crush me to death, and I couldn’t cry out because he put one of his hands over my mouth. But he used his other hand to unfasten…And then he–he kept on hurting me, over and over, only I don’t quite understand what he did—’
‘You don’t have to tell me that part,’ said George hastily, recognizing this for extreme naivety, but nevertheless deeply embarrassed. ‘What did the man do afterwards? When he had stopped–uh–hurting you?’
‘He stood up and laughed again, as if he thought he had done something very good indeed. And then he went out,’ said Louisa. ‘I didn’t see where he went because I was crying and I was trying not to be sick–I didn’t dare go outside in case he was still there, and I thought I might have to stay here for hours and hours. It was awful, because my grandfather wouldn’t know where I was–nobody would know. And then you came in.’
‘Miss Rosen, I’m afraid we’ll have to tell someone about this. Because if you mean you were raped—’
She flinched at the word and began crying again, and this time it ended in what sounded, even to George’s inexperienced ears, dangerously like hysteria. He had a vague idea you smacked people’s faces if they were hysterical, but clearly this was unthinkable in the present situation so he said that Miss Rosen must calm down, and he would take her home. Did she feel well enough to walk along to Toft House if he helped her?
‘You don’t need to tell
your grandfather any of this if you think it would make him ill. Perhaps you could say you fell over somewhere? That wouldn’t upset him, would it?’
‘I don’t know. But I feel a bit better now. And I don’t think I was really–what you said–do you?’
‘Raped?’ said George, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
‘I can’t possibly have been,’ she said. ‘It’s a very shameful thing, isn’t it? People talk about you in whispers, and you never get a husband. So I really don’t want it to have been that. Only…’
Oh God, what now? ‘Yes?’ said George, warily.
‘I don’t know how to explain it to you.’ Even in the dimness he saw the hot colour come to her cheeks. ‘There’s blood,’ she said in a rush, not looking at him. ‘It’s–I mean it’s where he hurt me.’
George, struggling with his own embarrassment, managed to ask whether a doctor should be fetched.
‘No, please don’t. I’d be too ashamed,’ said Louisa at once. ‘I don’t know, really, why I told you, only you were so kind and I was so upset.’
‘The–the bleeding is part of being raped,’ said George after a moment.
‘Is it his blood or mine? If it’s his, I don’t care, but if it’s mine I don’t know what to do–Will I die from it?’
In as down to earth a tone as he could manage, George said, ‘It will be yours, but I don’t think it will go on for very long.’ He hoped this was right. ‘Could you walk home if I came with you? It’s not very far to Toft House, is it?’ He knew exactly where it was, of course: it was one of the houses that formed part of that absurd private dream. How many times had he walked past it, and stared longingly through its gates, and thought–if only…He glanced at Louisa Rosen, and the speck of an idea dropped into his mind.
As he took her arm, ideas were tumbling through his mind. Once at Toft House, Mr Rosen would surely invite him in–the nice, well-mannered young man who had been so kind to his granddaughter. He might offer George a glass of sherry, which was what the people in those houses did, George knew all about that. If so, he would accept the sherry and make polite conversation.
Aloud, he said, ‘I think we might tell your grandfather that you tripped and turned your ankle in a rabbit hole. And that you lay stunned and helpless for a little while. I know it’s an outright lie, but—’
‘I’ll have to lie, won’t I?’ said Louisa. ‘I shan’t like it, but if grandfather thinks I was–attacked, he’d probably be ill again. And even if he wasn’t, he’d want the man found and brought to justice, so the truth would come out, and everyone would know what had happened.’
‘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.’
Her arms were twisted behind her back, and then leather straps were put around her wrists. A buckle pulled too tight bit into her flesh. More straps were fastened around her ankles.
‘And you’ll have the gag as well if you don’t shut up,’ said hatchet-face, and they went on shearing her hair.
‘We shan’t mind if we have to gag you,’ said Higgins. ‘Quite enjoy it, in fact.’
‘We quite like punishing unnatural creatures who get into bed with other women,’ said hatchet-face, and they both laughed in a horrid jeering way.
Maud sobbed with despair and frustration, but neither of them took any notice.
‘If we take off the restraints for the bath, will you behave properly?’ said hatchet-face at length.
‘Or have we got to drop you in with the straps still on?’ said Higgins.
‘Take them off, please,’ said Maud, hating herself for pleading but hating the straps even more. ‘I won’t struggle again.’
‘That’s better,’ said hatchet-face. ‘But keep the gown on. We don’t want to see all you’ve got.’
‘We aren’t Thomasina Forrester,’ said Higgins. ‘Nor one of her pretty little sluts from Seven Dials.’ Both women laughed coarsely.
Maud clambered over the high sides of the bath. The granite scraped her skin through the canvas gown, and there was a scummy line where it had not been properly scrubbed out. The nurses brought two tall cans of water and poured it in a quick splashy torrent. Maud gasped because it was much too hot, and her skin had turned bright pink where it touched her. But when she tried to climb out, they held her down.