her heart, asking herself what she’d imagined she might find.
The children followed Anna back to the Sea View Inn, jeering, pulling at her soaked clothes. Back in the privacy of her room, she sent down for hot water for a bath. The water was plentiful when it came and smelled of wood smoke; it left a residue of grit in the bottom of the tub like pepper in a soup bowl. She left her sodden skirts drying by the window, put on her other dress and made her way down the creaking, wooden stairs to a snug off the saloon bar and ordered a chicken sandwich, warming herself by the fire, trying to think what she should do next.
Anna felt a growing awareness of the oddness of her situation. Anawareness brought about not just by the stiff politeness of the landlord, the guarded looks of the other residents at the inn, but by the utter novelty of the experience. She had never traveled such a great distance alone before or stayed in a hotel on her own. Yet this was the response she was impelled to make to the storm, to the wrecked ships and lives it had left in its wake.
In the afternoon, she set off around the cottages with the bag, intending to give away the things she’d brought and make inquiries about the boy at the same time. Some of the survivors turned down what she offered, refusing the sober shirts and jackets as not what they would wear even if they were about to be buried six feet under. One pointed out the worn knees on the trousers. Another grabbed her from his sickbed, took her by surprise. There were better things than socks to offer a man back from the dead, he said when she escaped to the other side of the room, the skin around her mouth rising in a rash of protest, her breast throbbing.
No one knew anything of a small boy, brought from the water still breathing.
SIX
Grace Jephcote’s brow was contracted, the gaze in her large eyes fixed. The muscles on each side of her mouth appeared rigid and her hands grasped each other under her chin, the tendons taut. She had a daisy chain on her head, slipping down her dark hair.
“What d’you think?” Lucas St. Clair said.
James Maddox picked up the photograph, brought it within inches of his face, then held it at arm’s length.
“Looks nervy. Then there’s the crown, of course. Why do they all fancy themselves as queens? I don’t know, St. Clair. Hysteria?” He dropped the picture back on the table. “I find it easier when I can see ’em in front of me.”
Lucas picked up the picture again and held it to the light still filtering through the dining room window. He blew particles of dust from the face and neck. The corners of the print displayed the fragile, curling boundaries of the collodion; the whole image appeared as if it could peel up off the paper like a layer of skin. He looked at the eyes, the dilated pupils. He’d done his best to reassure her but Mrs. Jephcote had crouched on the edge of the posing chair and scarcely drawn breath during the long exposure. She’d crossed herself again and again when it was over and hurried from the room.
“She’s suffering from religious mania, Dox. Can’t you see it? The raised, curved brows. The tension in the jaw and that terrified look in her eyes. The poor woman is possessed by some fearful vision, incited by her crackpot preacher, you won’t be surprised to learn. The daisy chain is her crown of thorns.”
“How on earth am I meant to know that?”
Lucas laid down the print again.
“By careful observation. The point is, Dox, that if you can diagnose patients, you might stand a better chance of treating them effectively. I got them to take away her Bible and set her to work in the gardens, planting beans. That was back in the summer. She’s much improved. They discharged her last week. If she stays away from the parson she might do well.”
Maddox ran a finger over his front teeth. He’d had a new one wired in, Lucas saw, filling the crater at the front of his mouth.
“Purging seems to do most
The children followed Anna back to the Sea View Inn, jeering, pulling at her soaked clothes. Back in the privacy of her room, she sent down for hot water for a bath. The water was plentiful when it came and smelled of wood smoke; it left a residue of grit in the bottom of the tub like pepper in a soup bowl. She left her sodden skirts drying by the window, put on her other dress and made her way down the creaking, wooden stairs to a snug off the saloon bar and ordered a chicken sandwich, warming herself by the fire, trying to think what she should do next.
Anna felt a growing awareness of the oddness of her situation. Anawareness brought about not just by the stiff politeness of the landlord, the guarded looks of the other residents at the inn, but by the utter novelty of the experience. She had never traveled such a great distance alone before or stayed in a hotel on her own. Yet this was the response she was impelled to make to the storm, to the wrecked ships and lives it had left in its wake.
In the afternoon, she set off around the cottages with the bag, intending to give away the things she’d brought and make inquiries about the boy at the same time. Some of the survivors turned down what she offered, refusing the sober shirts and jackets as not what they would wear even if they were about to be buried six feet under. One pointed out the worn knees on the trousers. Another grabbed her from his sickbed, took her by surprise. There were better things than socks to offer a man back from the dead, he said when she escaped to the other side of the room, the skin around her mouth rising in a rash of protest, her breast throbbing.
No one knew anything of a small boy, brought from the water still breathing.
SIX
Grace Jephcote’s brow was contracted, the gaze in her large eyes fixed. The muscles on each side of her mouth appeared rigid and her hands grasped each other under her chin, the tendons taut. She had a daisy chain on her head, slipping down her dark hair.
“What d’you think?” Lucas St. Clair said.
James Maddox picked up the photograph, brought it within inches of his face, then held it at arm’s length.
“Looks nervy. Then there’s the crown, of course. Why do they all fancy themselves as queens? I don’t know, St. Clair. Hysteria?” He dropped the picture back on the table. “I find it easier when I can see ’em in front of me.”
Lucas picked up the picture again and held it to the light still filtering through the dining room window. He blew particles of dust from the face and neck. The corners of the print displayed the fragile, curling boundaries of the collodion; the whole image appeared as if it could peel up off the paper like a layer of skin. He looked at the eyes, the dilated pupils. He’d done his best to reassure her but Mrs. Jephcote had crouched on the edge of the posing chair and scarcely drawn breath during the long exposure. She’d crossed herself again and again when it was over and hurried from the room.
“She’s suffering from religious mania, Dox. Can’t you see it? The raised, curved brows. The tension in the jaw and that terrified look in her eyes. The poor woman is possessed by some fearful vision, incited by her crackpot preacher, you won’t be surprised to learn. The daisy chain is her crown of thorns.”
“How on earth am I meant to know that?”
Lucas laid down the print again.
“By careful observation. The point is, Dox, that if you can diagnose patients, you might stand a better chance of treating them effectively. I got them to take away her Bible and set her to work in the gardens, planting beans. That was back in the summer. She’s much improved. They discharged her last week. If she stays away from the parson she might do well.”
Maddox ran a finger over his front teeth. He’d had a new one wired in, Lucas saw, filling the crater at the front of his mouth.
“Purging seems to do most
Similar Books
