Mrs Wiggs looked at him and he looked at her, and she left the room. Thomas and I were alone. I stared at him, I don’t think I even blinked, while his eyes moved over the floorboards and his hands stayed buried in his pockets. He didn’t meet my gaze once, not without Mrs Wiggs there to protect him. When she came back, she was carrying a silver tray. In my enduring stupidity, I assumed it was my breakfast.
‘Where did you go last night, Susannah?’ asked Thomas.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ I said. ‘Your turn first.’
Mrs Wiggs cleared her throat, nervously and needlessly. She walked to the dresser and tinkered with something metallic. It made a clattering noise.
Thomas drew breath and started a monologue; I had the feeling he’d been rehearsing this for some time.
‘Mrs Wiggs has informed me of your bizarre adventures. Those who love you are very concerned, Susannah, and have been for some while, but it is time to face the fact that your condition is getting worse. I had hoped you would settle into marriage. I can only imagine it’s the combination of traumas you have endured – the adjustment to your new surroundings, and your upbringing – and that this has expressed itself in unhealthy behaviours, obsessions with murders and such. You are very sick indeed.’
‘Just because you say the words aloud doesn’t make them true. I’m no sicker than you.’
‘Oh, but you are, Susannah. You are very sick – so much so that we can’t look after you any more. You have become a danger to yourself and others.’
‘Oh God, go on, how on earth am I a danger to you, Thomas? Please, I’m dying to hear.’
‘I’m referring to your relationship with Nurse Barnard, Susannah. There, I’ve said it. There’s no ignoring it any more. You are… morally defective. It was an unhealthy interest and the hospital proved the perfect breeding ground for it. Women like Matron Luckes don’t understand the degree to which they encourage such unnatural friendships between women with their adoption of masculine ambitions. They don’t see the damage they cause with their careers and pursuits outside of the home.’
‘Where did you gather your opinions on all of this – from the surgeons’ lounge?’
‘Oh, please, it was common gossip at the hospital. There are always the odd ones who prefer the company of their own gender. “Susannah is in love with me,” I said. But I was naive. I was unable to see; being besotted, I failed to identify such a clear case of moral insanity – and myself a doctor!’
‘One of several ironies!’ I threw him a cold, sarcastic smile. ‘What treatment do you recommend? Are you going to tie me up for ever like a prisoner? Are you going to lock me away in your attic?’
‘Mrs Wiggs said she would look after you, and we had hoped we could care for you at home, which is certainly a lot less expensive, but you’ve made that impossible. Your illness is much worse than we anticipated.’
‘There is nothing wrong with me – any doctor worth his salt will see this. You can’t just have me locked away. There are laws.’
He sat down beside me and brushed the hair from my face. I shrank from him, but the restraints held me rigid. I could only turn my head.
‘Do you remember when you smashed your head in the looking glass and scared Mrs Wiggs to death? She thought you were possessed. Then you threw yourself down the stairs. And what about your wanderings around Whitechapel in searching of the murderer? Dr Shivershev even saw you in the Ten Bells, of all places. Do you know how embarrassed I was when he told me that? This macabre determination to loiter on streets with whores and murderers, the hysterical behaviour that drove the household staff away, your tearing your room apart and accusing Mrs Wiggs of stealing a bloody hairbrush. In front of the servants too. For crying out loud, Susannah, how can you not see that you are very ill? And the finale of last night, dressing up in men’s clothes. I must accept that I cannot treat you myself.’
I wanted to scream and shout and call him a liar, tell him that I knew exactly where he’d been the night before and had seen his own debauchery myself, but I knew to keep my mouth shut. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t be twisted to suit his story.
‘You know, I thought you avoided intimacy because you were naive, but now I understand you had… other preferences. I couldn’t help but blame myself when I learned that you threw yourself down the stairs because you thought you might be carrying my child.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘I try and tell myself it isn’t your fault, that it’s the disease.’
I didn’t answer. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at him, so I shut my eyes. But he carried on.
‘Of course, knowing what we know about your mother, how you were born a bastard, without a father, and her still a child, it’s clear that this is hereditary feeblemindedness. We should be thankful that there will be no more children to inherit your defective inclinations.’
I couldn’t help myself: I opened my eyes, and saw that he was laughing at me. There was only one person who could have told him about my mother – Dr Shivershev. It was the biggest betrayal of all. I was such a fool for trusting him. I felt my cheeks turn purple and my body tremble at the thought of his name. I’d kept my mouth shut about Mabel, just as he’d requested. All in it together. Not bloody likely. All the time I’d wasted in not running away, because I was worried about being poor again, that was
