The Unsuitable

by Molly Pohlig

  pat pat pit-a-pat pat pat

  Her thrumming fingers began at her right knee and traveled down and down until they hit the white cloth tied around the wound. Dry-skinned fingers unpicked the knot and she began to unwind, around around around. The pasty skin was marked with lines like the ones you get on your face from the pillow. Wake up, little leg.

  The end of the bandage was stuck fast with blood to the wound. Iseult gave two experimental tugs and then yanked hard, and a thrill ran through her. Pain, but not. She peered closely; the blood running down her foot was black in the moonlight. She wadded the fabric under her foot so she didn’t stain the rug, and thought about how she disliked the word “wad.” She pressed a finger into the wound, squelching out more of the slow blackish liquid, so it looked like escaping slugs or leeches. She noted that the wound looked worse than it had yesterday, when she had sequestered herself in her room all day, picking and poking at the holes left by the hatpins until they were bigger holes.

  * * *

  but iseult iseult what is this going to accomplish

  i don’t know mother, shh, must all means have an end? can’t they just be means? this makes me feel more myself.

  it makes you distracted my dear

  no no quite the opposite. if i scatter my brain i can focus more clearly. i need to do more at one time. just the one thing is never enough for me for you for calm for peace.

  please stop—

  shh. shh.

  * * *

  The skin surrounding the wound was a flat sickly gray—Iseult imagined it must be a dull aubergine in daylight—where the blood was pooling lazily under the surface, waiting to see if it was needed in some other capacity. The edges had begun to pucker and crust—to heal? Iseult was not interested in healing. She was interested in what was underneath, what was inside. If she could find out what was inside this wound, perhaps she would be able to see into other, deeper wounds. Find Beatrice. Get her out. Of course, she was not sure what would happen then. She didn’t think that far.

  She always liked to think of the future, to race to it, hoping to reach it before anyone else, to take its measure, to size it up, for once to be ahead of the game and in control of something. In the present, she controlled nothing.

  She rubbed a fingertip back and forth over the crusted edge, and little black crumbs fell onto the white cloth. She bent her face closer to see what she could see. Wet and dark and impermeable. She nudged her finger inside and there was a slick noise that disgusted her. (You recall the family cook who ended up slaughtered by her seagoing sort-of paramour? Back in Iseult’s heady days of gluttony, she was eating a great quantity of creamed corn in a kitchen cupboard [you must go wherever the solitude is available] when she heard the cook in a romantic clinch with … someone; she never saw his face. But she would always remember the inimitably human sounds, the wetness, the smacking. Even as a child, she had hated to be touched. Nothing about the prospect of adulthood was enticing.) But she held onto the sound for a moment and stayed in it, and supposed that if it was a sound you made all by yourself, then perhaps it was different. She pushed her finger further, and the tip of her fingernail disappeared into her skin.

  Her lips curled into an approximation of a smile.

  6.

  After the hatpins, things were different. Iseult felt that she had a mission of sorts, or at least a calling. She was trying to please her father, for whatever that was worth, and a newfound sense of calm pervaded the house, rather than the usual uncomfortable chill she could feel, even in front of the fireplaces, when she knew her father was lurking.

  What Iseult strove for was a careful balance, and it was not easy to achieve. Her father had to believe that she was good and sane and docile, that she wasn’t going to derail everyone’s future by saying shocking things about Beatrice, by sulking or raging, by generally presenting herself as an entirely unsuitable prospect for marriage. On the other hand, she couldn’t appear to be too good and sane and docile, and thereby find herself affianced.

  It wasn’t easy, and Iseult was constantly on her guard. So many people to placate. Her mother, her father, Mrs. Pennington, the never-ending parade of dull men who marched through the house with their insipid parents. It would have driven a person of even the most placid disposition to tears.

  The wounds kept her sane, although Iseult was aware that would sound quite mad to anyone else. She knew exactly what she was doing. If she wasn’t feeling too terribly steady on the outside, it helped to see herself from the inside. Seen from the inside, Beatrice was quieter, kinder, more understanding. Why must pain be painful? Why couldn’t it be soothing instead? Iseult had stumbled upon the solution, and she felt genuinely sorry for the rest of the world, which saw pain as pain.

  It started with the scissors; it continued with the hatpins. Iseult realized that the actual madness would be to live by the rules of the rest of the world. She just had to be careful and quiet, and she could make herself like one of them.

  At least enough to pass.

  * * *

  After that one successful dinner party, Mr. Wince was confident. Confident that his daughter was at last close enough to normal to be pawned off on someone vaguely appropriate. But no matter how many dinner parties he hosted and dragged her to, no matter how many unobjectionable men she was put in front of, it never worked. Everything would start off well, with banal pleasantries exchanged over the various courses. There was no denying that she was odd, that she was off, but Mr. Wince had seen many an odd, off young woman successfully married. Happily was another story, but happily was a lot to ask. Happiness came very far down on his list of hopes for Iseult’s future. It certainly lagged far behind “financially provided for,” “in a decent circle of society,” “not a nuisance to anyone,” and “in a house situated not too terribly close to her current residence.”

  Sometimes things fell flat during the dinner, which was to be expected; sometimes things progressed a little further, and the gentlemen were interested in continuing their acquaintance with the peculiar Miss Wince. But somewhere along the way, over tea with someone’s mother, during a stroll in the park or an outing to a concert, things always went wrong.

  Part of the problem was that Mr. Wince was rarely available (a less charitable observer might have said “willing”) to accompany Iseult as a chaperone, so it was his sister who accompanied her. Aunt Catherine was not exactly an attentive chaperone, unless the topic somehow turned to her own children, in which case she could get very involved. In fact, several of Iseult’s would-be suitors defected to her cousin Elspeth’s long list of admirers.

  When Iseult was twenty-one, there was a spark of interest (only on her side) for a “J” entry in her little black book of names and notes, a James. He was bright and friendly, with pleasing gold ripples of hair. He was somehow connected with Mr. Wince’s banker, although it was never explained how, at least not to Iseult. They met on two occasions before it was arranged for Aunt Catherine to accompany them on a picnic. Her aunt mentioned Elspeth’s artistic abilities (which were negligible, if Iseult had been asked), and James, with his bright friendliness, peppered her with questions until Iseult realized that she was no longer a part of the conversation at all. By the time the picnic basket was repacked and the trio had set off in the direction of Aunt Catherine’s house in order to view Elspeth’s watercolors, James was already besotted with the idea of her. And—what luck!—Elspeth happened to be home for him to meet.

  It wasn’t that Iseult believed that her aunt was so wicked as to plan this usurpation, but James did call on Elspeth several times after that, whereas the Winces never heard from him again. And when Aunt Catherine explained why his relations with Elspeth inevitably progressed no further, she said, “You know dear, his family was really not of the rank that we would like Elspeth to marry into,” proving Iseult’s suspicions that although her aunt purported to love them as equals, the standards that a gentleman was required to meet in order to court Elspeth were much higher th
an those required for courting Iseult.

  Another part of the problem: it was all well and good to have trouble securing one’s future before one turned twenty. (Admittedly, Iseult had had a late start, her father pushing the idea from his head, wondering if she would improve in some way if he waited.) And until she was twenty-five or so (to be exceedingly generous) her continued state of unattachment could be blamed on her motherlessness, perhaps even on a bohemian free-spiritedness (it would explain away all of that infernal walking, at least), but … Iseult was twenty-eight. She was firmly wedged in the land of the spinster.

  Not that there weren’t a few things still in her favor. Her father was relatively wealthy, and it was known around town that any groom would be handsomely rewarded for his trip down the aisle. And she didn’t look twenty-eight.

  There. She still had those weapons in her arsenal. They weren’t much, but some were given less to work with than others.

  Over the past few years, it was true, the quality of gentleman had seriously declined. Iseult had for many years maintained her little black book for the purposes of remembering who was who, in the event that she was called upon to do so. In her head she liked to call it “The Unsuitables.”

  It began with that first matchmaking dinner. She started writing in a fury, needing an outlet and having only a shabby, empty diary in which to write cutting, purposefully cruel observations of her hapless suitors, although in time it became more of a means of keeping track.

  For instance, under “D” was the very first entry: “April 21, 1880. Donald Smythe. 23. Short. Ugly. Hair thinning. Employed as barrister, although presents as too timid for such an occupation.”

  Flipping through to “W”: “September 1, 1884. Winthrop Cavini. 36. Dazzling white teeth. Father owns shipping company in Uruguay. Handsome to the point of unpleasantness, does not look me in the eye after introduction. Would be strictly business and I would remain living with Father. Is he already married? Is this the Uruguayan way? I shall never find out.”

  And then back to “M”: “January 9, 1888. Malcolm Anderton. At least 65, likely older. Widowed with six grown children. Enormously fat. Hot vegetable breath.”

  The most recent entry was under “R”: “July 16, 1889. Randall something. Old. Falls asleep.”

  On Wednesdays, when the linens were changed, she shoved her notebook down the front of her corset and kept it there all day. Mrs. Pennington never laced her very tight for everyday. On Wednesdays she felt impenetrable.

  Beatrice was very helpful in making the entries, as the details slithered out of Iseult’s mind as soon as they went in.

  * * *

  william … william …

  william stockley.

  he looked fifteen.

  twenty-nine, dear.

  he had a nasty little beard.

  it was a nasty little mustache, dear. thin and uninspired much like the rest of him.

  oh yes now i remember.

  you do not my dear i know you you were deeply involved in a scrutiny of the china and didn’t answer a single question which was more than adequate since it was his mother asking all the questions and your father had no choice but to take up the cause.

  perhaps father should marry mrs. stockley.

  * * *

  It did not escape Iseult’s attention that Beatrice was not keen on even the slightest hint of talk of Mr. Wince’s remarriage. Iseult did not know much about her parents’ relationship, whether it had been a happy one or not. She knew the barest details: they had married when her mother was eighteen and her father twenty-three, after an engagement that was notable for neither its length nor its brevity. Mr. Wince had worked with Beatrice’s father for several years, rapidly moving up in the ranks. The marriage seemed the natural next step, and when Beatrice’s father died (extremely unpleasantly, it must be said), in the year after the wedding, it was considered extremely fortuitous that such steps had been taken. Mr. Wince slid smoothly into the position of head of the steelworks.

  Iseult’s father certainly never said anything very illuminating about her mother, and her aunt cannily avoided the issue by saying it wasn’t Christian to speak of the dead. Iseult got the bulk of her information from Mrs. Pennington, and although she trusted her honesty, Iseult was certain that she held back any details that might have been unfavorable.

  In the year when Iseult turned twenty-eight, she made fewer and fewer entries in “The Unsuitables.” The quality of suitor being received at the Wince household dropped off sharply. Each had more gray hairs than the last, with the exception of the very occasional youthful visitor, who invariably had his own set of problems. Among the younger candidates there was a butcher with one leg, a bank clerk who had very possibly been in jail, and a nineteen-year-old whose hand shook so badly he finally gave up on eating his peas. The more elderly (or as Mrs. Pennington said, the more “experienced”) among them included a number of widowers, one so fresh that he burst into tears twice during the meal.

  Several of the widowers had children, which was of no concern to Mr. Wince, but of very great concern to Iseult. She had held a baby once, her cousin Elspeth’s. (Elspeth had ended up marrying a man who wouldn’t have deigned to be introduced to Iseult, being in a much higher social stratum.) It had been after the christening, which Iseult and her father had been obliged to attend. Iseult was perched awkwardly in a corner, waiting for the afternoon to come to its natural conclusion, when Elspeth rushed by, wanting to show off some piece of furniture to a friend. She was trying to point out a particular feature but, finding her hands full, glanced around to see only Iseult.

  “Iseult, be a darling, would you?” Elspeth didn’t wait for an answer; she simply dropped the squirming bundle of lace and fat into Iseult’s lap. There was nothing Iseult could do but catch it. She held her breath, waiting for Elspeth to swoop in and take it back. Since childhood, Elspeth had been a swooper, like an eagle with manicured talons, soaring down from her place on high to steal toys and companions and eligible bachelors. But as Iseult sat, rigid, Elspeth flitted from the room, arm in arm with her companion, to show off the simply adorable arrangement of end tables in the library. Adorable.

  Iseult looked down at the bundle. It wasn’t moving any longer, but its enormous blue eyes were staring at her as if they suspected her of a great crime. Iseult had heard that all babies were born with blue eyes, but she thought that surely this couldn’t be so. It didn’t sound right. But this one had clear blue eyes like … certain flowers. And Iseult felt a distinct discomfort with this warm lapful of cousin. It knew something distasteful about her. Something secret that even Iseult was not aware of.

  * * *

  whatever is the matter with you girl it’s just a baby a sweet baby like you once were yourself, that i never got to hold i longed to hold you, you know that don’t you?

  i don’t like it, i don’t want it, i don’t think it likes being with me it can tell that i don’t trust it why does it look at me without blinking like i’m responsible for all of the wrongs of the world.

  oh my sweet darling, hold that look hold those eyes keep them for one hundred years.

  * * *

  Iseult felt an urge to stand abruptly and let the bundle tumble to the floor. A shudder ran through her, top to bottom, as she resisted. It was so hideously alive, so full of the in-and-out breaths that would continue for another sixty or seventy years if it was (un)lucky, and Iseult rolled her shoulders back, preventing her arms from flying forth to the baby’s neck, throttling it out of its ignorance. She could see only the squalling infant she must have been, all angles and slings, and wish that her father or Mrs. Pennington had had the good sense to end all this nonsense before it began.

  Before she knew what she was doing, but while she knew what she was doing perfectly well, Iseult’s left hand cradled the christening cap, full of flaky baby acne and hair smelling of sour milk, a smell that spoke of things that Elspeth now knew of but Iseult did not, things dark and secretive and holy and shamefu
l and vile; and her right hand crept. Crept surely and steadily. It snaked and crawled up through the lace to the fat neck with its sticky damp folds and—

  “Darling, thank you! You are an absolute angel and look how he loves you, he’s not even crying, he cries with absolutely everyone, it will drive Nurse frantic if I tell her how calm he is with you!” Elspeth swooped again, so Baby was summarily saved from whatever mischief Iseult might or mightn’t have been about to cause.

  (The moment the baby was out of her hands, Iseult felt an overwhelming combination of shame and nausea. How did such thoughts get into her head? As much as she might think dreadful things like that, she would not do them. She felt so ashamed that she nearly sought out Elspeth to beg forgiveness, but realized that to assuage her guilt in that way would likely be too complicated.)

  But you can never tell until the end of a life, can you? Whether a quick, merciful twist of the neck in infancy mightn’t have been preferable in the end to a normal life expectancy: an expectancy of hassle and heartbreak and dreams unfulfilled, loves unrequited and hopes dashed. It all depends on one’s constitution. It seems, after all, a pity that such a thing can’t be determined at birth, and that those unsuited for the travails ahead can’t be sent blessedly along to a purgatorial way station to wait out their natural life. It might, after all, be kinder than condemnation to a rich, lengthy life spent hoping for something that never materializes.

  But. The hapless child was rescued, and Iseult was left alone, forearms hollow and aching for she knew not what. But she knew it wasn’t that. She wanted no part of that. Children unsettled her, no matter what age. They were an invitation to disaster. Either you killed them or they killed you.