Read Online The Painted Bridge by Wendy Wallace - Free Book Online Page B

each side of her head in stiff ringlets. She wore a shiny, checked dress with mandarin sleeves slit to the elbow, white lace undersleeves. She stood at an angle, her face half turned, eyes raised to some far horizon. The picture was titled “Convalescence.” It waslabeled with the same initials, LM. Anna looked back at the other picture; saw the duplicate almond shape of the eyes.
    She turned away from the photographs, went back to the window seat and sat down. Picking up a magazine, she looked without interest at the advertisements for eiderdown petticoats, juniper hair tonic and skin creams that filled the back pages. She disagreed with the diagnosis. In the first picture, LM looked human. As if she might step off the wall and sit down for a proper talk such as women could find themselves having sometimes, one where something true or funny was said, some sorrow eased or laughter shared. In her convalescence, LM looked as stiff as the carved prow of a sailing ship. There was a dishonesty in her expression that hadn’t been there before.
    The door opened and a stout woman with white stripes like a badger’s in the front of her hair bustled through the room, nodding at Batt as she passed. The room came briefly to life, a current of interest running through the occupants; it subsided into torpor in her wake. Anna looked at the old grandfather clock again. It was eleven-forty. She dropped the magazine and covered her face with her hands. Someone must be ill. One of the children had whooping cough. Or Louisa had gone away for a few days, summoned by her mother-in-law. She would return to London at the weekend, come for her on Monday or Tuesday.
    Anna’s sense of expectancy was becoming weary. She could barely call it hope anymore. She loved her sister but Louisa wasn’t altogether reliable. Anna had always felt more like the older one, despite the four years between them. She must write to her again.
    Had Vincent been to see Louisa? Was it possible that he had persuaded her that Anna was ill? Had lost her reason? Anna had once told Lou, after their father died, that she believed God wanted her to go to the aid of seafarers.
    “Are you mad?” Louisa had said, screwing up her face. “Are you out of your mind, Anastasia?”
    *   *   *
    The drizzle outside thickened to rain, coming down with a dreary insistence. Anna stretched her arms in the air and reached downto retrieve the magazine from the floor. She avoided being indoors for long stretches, disliked closed windows and the lingering odor of past meals. Her father used to say she suffered from cabin fever. She wouldn’t spend another day waiting for the creak of the door on its hinges. If the door opened, she intended to take no notice at all. Louisa would have to squash up next to her on the seat, throw her arms around her, pinch her, scream her name, before she even knew she was there. Anna stared down at the magazine, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as a tear fell and formed a wrinkled circle on the print.
    “I find it is easier to escape Lake House by accepting one’s situation than by struggling against it,” she heard Batt say, quietly. “Enjoying what companionship one may find.”
    Anna looked up.
    “I will never accept it. I need to see a doctor. Not Higgins, a proper physician, Mrs. Batt.”
    “It is Miss Batt. I am unmarried. You could make an appeal to the other doctor. Present your case to him.”
    “Which other doctor?”
    “He visits occasionally.” Batt inclined her head toward the wall. “Those are his photographs. I notice that you found them of interest.”
    “I won’t be photographed as a specimen, Miss Batt. Labeled like a butterfly and put on display.”
    The door squeaked open and despite herself, Anna’s head flew up. It was a man. He stood in the doorway looking around with an air of purpose and interest. He was dressed in an old tweed coat, its collar turned up around a carelessly tied bow at his neck. His long hair