Free The Painted Bridge by Wendy Wallace

was beaded with rain and his whiskers reached to his chin in the style that Vincent said denoted bad character, which he called Piccadilly weepers.
    “Good afternoon to you all,” he said.
    Makepeace was behind him.
    “She’s over there, Doctor,” she said, pointing at Anna.
    He brushed rain off his shoulders and pulled off his gloves, looking at her curiously. For a minute, Anna couldn’t think who he was or where she knew him from. Then she understood. Louisa had sent him. Louisa had sent her a proper doctor. How could she have doubted her?She clapped her hands as he crossed the room toward her, laughed with relief as she jumped up from the window seat.
    “Thank God you’ve come. Isn’t it strange, that a week or two can take forever?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Isn’t it? You must be the new patient.”
    His eyes rested on her for a long moment and traveled on. She became aware of Lizzie Button, leaning against the wall next to the window seat, her bundle in her arms.
    “Greetings, Mrs. Button. I am Lucas St. Clair, come to see you again.”
    “I know very well who you are,” Button said, laying one hand on his forearm. “What do you take me for, a cupboard head?”
    “Not at all, I …”
    “I am teasing you, Dr. St. Clair. Did you have a comfortable journey?”
    They left, the man closing the door behind them with a last glance in Anna’s direction.
    Anna sat down. She felt sick with disappointment. Foolish too. The silence in the room was deeper than it had been, punctured by the uneven tick of the clock. Something had caused Miss Batt to smile. Her teeth emerged, small and white and straight-edged, between parted lips, as she held up the cloth to the light and examined it, a silver thimble stuck on the tip of one finger. She seemed in no mood for further conversation.
    Anna decided to make an exception to her rule.
    “Who was that?” she said.
    Batt glanced around, her eyebrows lifted so high it appeared they might depart her face altogether.
    “Are you speaking to me?”
    “Yes. Who was that man?”
    “He announced himself to Lizzie. You can hardly have failed to hear his name.”
    “I heard his name. But who is he?”
    “He is a doctor, Mrs. Palmer. The one you decline to see. The photographer. He may also be a miracle worker.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It seems Dr. St. Clair has induced you to speak.”
    “I am perfectly able to speak, Miss Batt. It’s just that I … Well, I …”
    “You don’t wish to associate yourself with the insane. Quite understandable, Mrs. Palmer. I felt the same myself once.”
    Her voice was dry and Anna felt the beginnings of a blush creeping onto her face.
    She changed her mind about not talking to anyone; she was longing for some company. Asking Miss Batt about herself she learned to her surprise that Batt was the oldest in a family of eight, born in India in a bungalow among mountains whose tops disappeared in the mist. She’d grown up listening to the roars of tigers and being cooled by servants fanning her with banana leaves bigger than she was. In England, she worked as a milliner. Had her own little place in Fulham and spent her days plaiting straw and gluing feathers.
    “I’m a practical woman, Mrs. Palmer,” she said. “I do what needs to be done.”
    They lapsed for a while into silence. Mrs. Button had not returned. Anna glanced at the images on the wall.
    “I may agree to be photographed after all. Do you think it might help me prove my rationality?”
    Miss Batt stitched on for some time without speaking.
    “Dr. St. Clair is a well-intentioned young man,” she said, eventually. “Whether he holds any sway with Mr. Abse is another matter. And then of course there is the question of his techniques.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean that they may be misguided,” said Miss Batt. “That there is always the possibility of their doing more harm than good.”

EIGHT

    Anna breathed in the fog, felt it on her cheeks, her lips, her