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“Why should you? No one ever talks about it any more, other than the fact that she was mad and drowned herself.”
“Oh dear,” Anna whispered. “I am so sorry.”
“She used to stay in your room, you know.”
She didn’t. “And before that, my grandmother used to stay there.” Another pause. “She was quite mad as well. They had to have her locked in the room.”
Marks had said the same thing.
“Anna.” Phoebe leaned forward, her eyes so wide the whites glowed. “What if I am destined to go mad, too?”
“Oh, Phoebe.” Anna got up and impulsively drew Phoebe into her arms. The girl froze, for a second, then melted against her and clung to her, sobbing. “Don’t leave me, Anna. Don’t ever, ever leave me.”
So that was what was troubling the girl. “Oh dear,” Anna muttered, patting her back helplessly. “Oh dear, oh dear.” What words could she possibly offer the girl?
After a while, she loosened Phoebe’s grip around her waist and tucked the wet strands of hair behind her ear. “Have you ever told your uncle about your fears?”
Phoebe laughed hollowly. “Uncle Christopher? What is he supposed to do about it? He’s mad himself.”
Anna shook her head with some irritation. “I don’t believe he is, Phoebe. In all honesty, you don’t really believe so yourself, do you? You merely keep insisting that he is, to roast me.”
Phoebe looked to the ground, sullen. “I might have exaggerated a bit to get you to take pity on me, so you’d accompany me here. I am sorry for lying to you. It is dreadfully dull here on my own. Uncle is busy all the time and I have no one to talk to.”
Anna nodded, sighing. She’d figured out that much.
“You exaggerated greatly. The truth is that you’re rather fond of your uncle, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “He took me in after my mother passed away. I barely remember her. He sent me to Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies. Things were a bit better there, but I’m in general not a very sociable person. Uncle understands that, because he is like that, too. We both prefer our own company over others.” She paused, reflecting on her words. “But that doesn’t mean I want to lead a completely solitary life. I’ve always thought having a companion would be nice. And I don’t mind whether you are the housemaid, or the headmistress. It is all the same to me.”
She slipped a cold, clammy hand into Anna’s and pressed it.
“Miss Phoebe, I still think you ought to talk to your uncle about how you feel. Unless you do so, he will never really understand you and he won’t be able to help you. I believe he cares about you more than you think.”
“Maybe I will,” Phoebe muttered. “One day.” She traced the embroidered pattern of her scarf with a finger. It was covered in roses. “My grandmother embroidered this. I remember her.”
“What sort of woman was she?”
“Sweet. She smelled of roses.” Phoebe sighed. “Uncle Christopher is the only one who says neither of them was mad. She had the same illness as Mama, Uncle Christopher said.”
“What kind of illness?”
“Melancholia.”
“So that was why the countess locked herself into the Rose Room…” Anna murmured to herself.
“Mama was exactly the same. And I fear I will be exactly like her.”
“Nonsense, Miss Phoebe,” Anna said with determination. “Stop thinking such morose thoughts. Look, it is summer, the roses are in bloom and today is a particularly fine day. If you can’t focus on your studies, how about taking a walk in the fields beyond? We could take our sketchbooks along and find a good vista to draw.”
Phoebe’s face brightened immediately. She jumped up. “That is a splendid idea, Miss Hilversham. Let us do that.”
Chapter 10
That night, Anna lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Phoebe’s words circled in her head, and the heady smell of roses kept her awake. She wondered where the smell came from. There were, other than the embroidered roses, no actual flowers in the room. She’d checked everywhere, even under the bed. And yet, as she lay there, the sweet, wistful smell of roses drifted into her nose. Maybe the sheets were perfumed, or there was a pot of pot-pourri hidden in the heavy oak wardrobe.
After another hour of restless twisting and turning, Anna sat up and lit a candle.
It was a sad household indeed, she decided. Beset by tragedy. Two women who had died of melancholia; the youngest who feared she would as well, and her uncle, who appeared to be a brilliant doctor and surgeon, grossly misunderstood by society and labelled mad due to his unorthodox behaviour and mysterious illness.
