An Inconvenient Wife Part 22

"They're filthy."

"Yes. It's a long walk to Millie's. I didn't take the carriage."

"Millie's?" William's tone sharpened. "Is that where you were?"

I felt a surge of relief, but I could not look at him as I spoke the lie. "Yes. Yes. I had supper there."

"I see," he said. I saw his skepticism, and my relief fled. "Come upstairs with me, Lucy," he said. "We have some things to discuss."

"Of course. Yes, of course. Perhaps I could change-"

"Later," he said. He took my elbow, and his fingers were hard and unyielding, where only moments before Victor had held me gently.

"Will you be wanting anything, sir?" Harris called up. "Some tea?"

"No," William said curtly. We went up the stairs to the door of my bedroom. He released me, allowing me to go in before him. I had no sooner gone inside than he shut the door firmly behind us. The sound made me wince.

I went across the room to the window, as far from him as I could. Numbly, I pushed aside the curtains, searching the street for a shadow-his shadow-but the street was empty except for a pa.s.sing carriage.

"You weren't at Millie's," William said. "When you disappeared, I sent Jimson there first. She hadn't seen you or heard from you."

I should have thought of that, I should have known. I clutched the curtain. I could not think of what to say.

"Why the lie, Lucy? Where did you really go? Did you go to meet Seth despite what I told you?"

I had rarely heard him so angry. Despite myself, I glanced toward the fireplace, where there was nothing but a pile of ash. My drawings. The sight gave me strength. Slowly I turned from the window to face him.

"He's my doctor, William," I said. How calmly I said it, how strong I sounded. "I have been seeing him nearly every day for four months. Of course I went to him. I was distressed."

"You mean he was your doctor," William said.

"I went to his office," I went on. "But it was late. He wasn't there. And I didn't know what to do. I was so upset. So I stayed there."

"You stayed there?" William was incredulous. "In his office?"

"His office was locked," I said. "I stayed in the hall. At first I had some thought that he might come back, but then I fell asleep."

"You fell asleep. In the hall."

"Yes."

"You expect me to believe this?"

"What else was I to do?" I asked him. "Where was I to go? To Millie? To Papa? What should I have said? That I was afraid of my husband? That he had hurt me unbearably?"

William had the grace to look shamed. "No. No, of course not."

"You see? I had nowhere else."

"You did not meet Seth."

"He wasn't there."

"You saw no one else?"

"No one who knew me, William, if that concerns you."

"Lucy, what was I to think? You just left without a word. And you haven't been yourself. You can't know what I've been going through, how worried I've been."

"You needn't have worried."

"But those sketches-"

"The ones you burned."

"Your father said-"

"I was a child then. Now I'm a grown woman." I met his gaze. "A wife. The sketches were harmless, William."

"You've always been so fragile. You can imagine what I thought." He came to me, putting his hands on my arms, stroking me hesitantly. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he said. "I lost my head. It was a terrible day-an argument with a client, and then when I saw those drawings, when I thought . . . I love you, darling, and I was afraid. I hope you can forgive me."

I was not sure I could. My own anger was a tight knot, a terrible bruise, but I thought of what Victor had said, of how William could ruin us, and I contained it as best I could.

"Certainly," I whispered, looking at the terrible condition of my boots, remembering. "Of course."

He let out a breath. "Thank G.o.d."

I felt his kiss on the top of my head, and I pulled gently away.

"There's just one other thing," he said.

I went still. "Yes?"

"I think . . . Well, I do think it would be better if you didn't draw again. It seems to agitate you so."

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, clasping my suddenly trembling hands together. I made myself remember Victor's words. "But I love it."

William was behind me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing. "Yes, but you must admit you've grown too attached to it. It's unhealthy, Lucy. Surely you must see that. After what happened to your mother."

I turned, startled. He had never mentioned my mother before, never even alluded to her. "My mother?"

He looked uncomfortable. "You are very like her, I understand. Your father's been worried on that score for years. Please, I don't want to lose you that way. Remember what Dr. Little said."

I struggled to control my emotions. "And Dr. Seth?"

"There are other doctors. Better doctors."

"You said he was our last hope."

He kissed my shoulder. The heat of his breath made me s.h.i.+ver and grow cold. "I don't believe that any longer. We can try again for a child. All that electrotherapy-perhaps it made a difference, hmmm? Come, should we try again?"

I could not bear his touch a second longer. I pressed from his arms, trying to smile-a weak attempt, I knew, when I saw how his eyes darkened, how his own smile faltered. "I . . . not tonight, William. I'm so tired. The walk was long, and I'm still not recovered."

He was not soothed. I ran my fingers over his arm and kissed his jaw. "Surely you understand. I was so upset, and now, I must admit, I'm still undone. I really must get something to eat, and some rest."

He relaxed, and nodded, and backed away from me, saying, "Yes, you should rest. I'll have Cook send something up. A bowl of soup, perhaps."

"That would be lovely."

He went to the door. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt, but only smiled at him when he turned again to me with an uncertain expression.

"You do forgive me, Lucy?" he asked. "You will do as I ask? Do we understand each other?"

"We're in complete harmony," I rea.s.sured him, and I stood there smiling until he left.

Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth Re: Eve C.

April 23, 1885 I fear I have made a grave mistake in treatment. Yesterday Eve came to me at my home, obviously distraught, and I was so concerned to see her there that I rushed into a crucial step in her treatment. I had meant to take things more slowly, to bring Eve into the world of physical pa.s.sion more carefully, and now I am afraid I have undone all my painstaking work. She responded eagerly, of course-her reaction was exactly what I would have wished it to be in its right time and place. But now is too soon. Now she wants to reveal all to her husband, to leave him, and this would only cause a scandal, which would hopelessly cloud the acceptance of any scientific strides I have made. I should have planted the ground more carefully, more judiciously. I do not understand myself. I was never so careless before; in the past I have approached this level of treatment with the utmost care, as have all of the physicians I've known. Such treatment requires the most exacting dispa.s.sion. All I can think is that I have spent so much time thinking about her, agonizing over the correct path, caught up in the excitement of creating such a vibrant being-to mold her with my own hands!-that my judgment was momentarily impaired. Thus far I have been meticulous and deliberate. I cannot afford to be so careless now.

I can only hope this does not have the consequences I fear it will, though I am not confident. She told me that her husband has forbidden her to see me again. If she were to tell him of this episode, I have no doubt she would be removed from my care-from my reach-completely. I cannot allow that to happen. Not when I have come so far. I must meet with him, take pains to rea.s.sure him, and then I must retread this ground carefully and not allow my success to lead me into false confidence. I must not allow her presence to muddy my own thinking. Once the experiment is done, she will be free to pursue her own path, whatever it may be, wherever she can climb from the rubble of her past life, and I will ascend to greater heights, to the accolades of my peers. This is my purpose. Scientific inquiry. Knowledge to change the world. I must remember this and not allow my own pa.s.sions to gain sway.

Slowly. I must go more slowly.

Chapter 18.

Two days later, Moira came into the parlor bearing an envelope. "This just came for you, ma'am."

My fingers trembled as I tore it open.

You must come today at two o'clock. -S.

Relief made me giddy. I nearly broke into a smile before I remembered Moira, who stood waiting in the doorway, naked curiosity on her face.

"I must go out," I told her. "Ready my burgundy walking suit."

"Will you be needing the carriage, ma'am? Should I tell Jimson?"

"Yes. Tell him to bring the brougham around."

I turned to the window and stared across at the park, allowing myself the smile I'd hidden from Moira.

I knew that William had gone to see Victor yesterday, and that Victor had persuaded him that I still needed care. William had reluctantly allowed me to continue seeing the doctor "for now," as he put it, but I had heard nothing from Victor and had worried. I'd thought so much about him that I a.s.sumed it must be obvious to everyone, and now my antic.i.p.ation threatened to burst through my skin. He had sent word, as I'd wanted, but I had expected more. Words of love, perhaps, some sign that he felt as I did, anything. The note was so brief and so plain. What would he tell me when I went to his office? What did he mean to do? Would it be as it had been two nights ago, or had that simply been an aberration, something he would apologize for, a terrible mistake? I did not know whether I could bear it if he did that. I tried not to question myself or think about what my desire really meant or how I had betrayed my husband.

When the outfit was laid out, I dressed as quickly as possible, cursing Moira inwardly for her fumbling slowness as she fastened the tapes of the bustle about my waist. My mouth was dry, and I felt I was shaking, though I saw in the mirror that I looked perfectly composed. When I left the house, not a hair was out of place; I looked like a woman going about her business, not what I felt I was: a woman rus.h.i.+ng to an a.s.signation with a lover.

Jimson was waiting. When we reached Lower Broadway and he helped me down, I stood looking at the building before me. How things had changed since I'd last seen it. But now it was not evening, and the lights in the little shop were on, the sidewalks were full of men bustling about and street sweepers brus.h.i.+ng madly away and men unloading crates and barrels onto the walk. I hurried through them, not wanting to waste a single moment. I could barely contain myself when I reached his door, when I pulled it open.

The outer office was empty. Irene was nowhere to be seen. I did not wait to see if she would appear; I went to his door and rapped sharply upon it. I did not think I could bear those few seconds before he called, "Come in."

I turned the k.n.o.b and stepped inside, unsure of what I would see, afraid that it would not be what I wanted.

The electric lights were off; the room was dimly lit by the bright daylight surging around the cracks of the lowered blinds. He was at his desk. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair was tousled, much as it had been the other night. I carefully closed the door behind me and stood there composed and erect, searching his face for something, some sign.

He'd been writing. He put down his pen and said, "I wasn't certain you would come."

"Of course I would come." How breathless I sounded.

"William told you, then, that he came to see me?"

"Yes."

"And the result?"

"He said he had agreed to continue my treatment. 'For now,' he said."

"Is that how he worded it? Did he tell you that he told me it was you who wished to end it?"

"No," I said. I pressed my hands together. I felt a little faint. "No, of course not. Of course that's not what I wish."

"Are you sure, Lucy?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

He looked satisfied, even smug, but not relieved, as I had hoped. He had said nothing to rea.s.sure me; he had not referred to the other night at all. I felt miserable again and could not take my eyes from him, yearning for him so that I could not quite think.

He had not moved from his desk. He jotted a note in his notebook, and I began to perspire.

Then he rose, and I began to resent him for his obvious calm, for not mentioning the other night, for not touching me or kissing me, for not seeing how I wanted him.

"Take off your cloak," he said. "Come and sit down."

"Only my cloak?" I asked him, and his gaze shot to mine with an intensity that took my breath.

"Sit down," he said.

I did as he asked. He had turned to the window, and when I sat, he turned back again. I saw how restless he was now that he was standing, how he could not quite be still. He came toward me.

"Are you going to hypnotize me?"

He paused behind the other red chair.