by Molly Pohlig
* * *
Mr. Wince, of course, remained oblivious. He thought, in his dim, disconnected way, that a child (Iseult’s own or a stepchild; he saw no difference between the two) might be exactly what Iseult needed to become what he considered a normal member of the human race.
Mr. Wince believed that his own child was the worst thing ever to have befallen him. What had she ever brought him but misery? She had killed his wife. It wasn’t that theirs had been a great love affair; Mr. Wince was never capable of such a thing, and possibly neither was Beatrice. But she had been his wife, dammit. When he married Beatrice and took over the company, everything had slotted into its prescribed place. Iseult had been meant to be merely an addition to the previous successes.
With Beatrice suddenly gone, he had no one to rely on to see to the social side of business affairs, and after a brief, grim episode when Iseult was lodged with a wet nurse, every night he came home to the screams of an inconsolable infant. At great expense, an army of nurses traipsed in and out the door, each one more dismal at dealing with his daughter than the last. And things got worse as she grew. Not that it was so terrible to be unsettled by your own child. Mr. Wince’s own father had been extremely distant with him and his siblings, and when they were children he often told them not to bother him: they could speak to him once they turned eighteen.
But Mr. Wince actively disliked Iseult, and was even perhaps a bit afraid of her. When she was a solemn, silent toddler, she would frighten him by suddenly appearing at his elbow as he worked in his study. She would stare at him with those fathomless gray eyes that were too large for her head. And he had no notion of whether she’d been standing there for a minute or an hour. He had a lock put on the door.
She was a nuisance, and he sometimes sat and pondered what exactly had gone wrong. He had colleagues and acquaintances whom he would run into around town with their daughters, and they looked contented; happy, even. He would overhear the men in his office or at his club bragging about their daughters—their beauty, or a good match they’d made. It was completely alien to him. If someone asked after Iseult, he said that she was fine, in a tone that put an end to the matter.
He had no idea what Iseult did when she was not in his presence, apart from the information in reports given to him weekly by Mrs. Pennington. Whenever difficulties arose, he charged her or his sister with sorting things out. Whenever a weighty decision had to be made, such as where her schooling was to take place, Mr. Wince was mightily put out, and his jaw would ache from the constant clenching of his teeth. He believed his agony came from being unsure that he was making the correct choice for Iseult’s future, but it was always the correct choice for Mr. Wince’s present that won the day. He chose her school because it was where colleagues of comparable social standing sent their daughters. He let his sister choose Iseult’s clothing because he knew that her own daughter was considered well and respectably dressed.
And oh, the relief once a decision had been reached! He could put the wretched child out of his mind again, as he had put her out of his study when she was small.
7.
Mr. Wince wouldn’t have known it, but the avoidance went both ways. Most of the week Iseult had the comfort of knowing that his schedule was rigid enough to set one’s clock by, but on Saturday afternoons and Sundays one couldn’t rely on it. Generally Iseult had Mrs. Pennington by her side, from the front door to the bedroom, to the dining room and back, and if her father was in the house, she knew where he was. But even with hypervigilance like Iseult’s, it was possible to be caught unawares now and then.
Last Sunday, for instance, several days after the disastrous dinner with the Finches, Iseult had awoken past midnight, too thirsty to fall back asleep. She crept through the house in her fluttering nightie, like a ghost. Not a vengeful ghost, just a wayward spirit who got turned in the wrong direction. She flitted her way to the kitchen, where she stood at the sink drinking her water, gulping at first, breathless, then slowing. Searching through the window for the moon but having little luck despite a curious brightness, she slowly rose up on her toes and then down again, up and down.
* * *
back to bed you’ll catch your death. if i were here i would tell you so. you would call to me from your room and i would bring you a glass of water and take it away again when you were through
but you are not and i must get it myself. i won’t catch cold, i promise.
i would at least make sure that your slippers were always next to the bed. that woman will never be your mother she will never remember those simple things a mother would never forget.
i like the feel of the wood floor under my toes. it is soft somehow. i want to feel everything and remember everything, in case, in case,
* * *
“In case what?”
The glass crashed out of Iseult’s hand and onto the white porcelain, shattering into a fine spray of shards that twinkled in a weak ray of moonlight. Before she turned around, before she thought the entirely natural thought Why didn’t he make his presence known when I entered the kitchen? she thought: He knew I would do that. That’s why he said nothing. He wanted the glass to smash.
Iseult swallowed a shudder, and turned to face her father. She had the advantage of the light on him, as her face was in shadow. His was displayed with every fault highlighted.
“You were talking to yourself again,” he said with a sneer.
It was too late at night for a battle, and Iseult had no stomach for it. Another time she would have told him that she had been talking to her mother. But she did not need to see the crystal decanter on the table, its remaining liquid cloudy, to know that he was drunk. He only wandered away from his study when he was at a particularly cruel level of drunk. She could see his bitterness and anger as if they were another person in the room, and they always rose as the level of the liquid fell.
Sometimes she felt sorry for him. She knew he was jealous that she had her mother, and he did not. But she wasn’t in the mood to humor him, to confirm every bad thing he thought about her.
“Yes, Father. I’m sorry. I was talking to myself. You should have said you were here.”
“Would it have made any difference?” he said, getting to his unsteady feet. He picked up the decanter and glass, and raised his eyes to her. They bulged unpleasantly, pushed out of their sockets by the years of distaste that had collected in his head. “You will always talk to yourself, you will always talk to her. I should send you away. But who would have you?” A mixture of a laugh and a hiccup burst out of him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Iseult saw with revulsion that a smear of saliva glistened at the corner of his mustache. “I’ve even asked at the convent!”
* * *
we are not even catholic
* * *
“If I had known that your Church of England membership made you completely ineligible I would have had you baptized a Catholic. I always thought the nuns would take any lost cause. Sadly I was mistaken.” He spat the last words out and turned to go.
“You should have drowned me at birth.”
Mr. Wince paused mid-step, then turned his head—enough so she could hear him, but not enough so that he had to look at her again. “Your words, Iseult, not mine.”
He shuffled toward the hallway, all of the fight suddenly having left him. “Not mine,” he said again, to no one in particular.
Iseult stood for a few moments, rising and lowering on the still-pleasant floor. Iseult liked to remember that no matter how bad things were, pleasures remained to be had.
* * *
darling girl you mustn’t listen to him when he’s like that he doesn’t you know he doesn’t mean those things
he does. he does and i understand why and it almost doesn’t hurt. i understand him better than he thinks. i cannot be as angry as he can because i have the one thing that he wants and that is you. and he cannot have you.
i am afraid you will end up destroying each other.
; we will, mother. there is no way around it. but there is no need to fear it. it is just what will happen. it’s only a matter of who gets there first.
iseult i think you are bleeding.
* * *
Iseult looked down and saw that her left hand was covered in droplets of blood that were beginning to run together like raindrops chasing each other down a windowpane. It must have happened when the glass broke, she thought. Funny, she hadn’t felt a thing.
8.
“Whatever happened between you and your father, love?” Mrs. Pennington burst in early the next morning, and for a moment Iseult, bed-warm and crusty-eyed, wondered with alarm whether the dream she’d had the night before had been real. She had thrust her arms in through a window, grabbed her father by the shoulders, and dragged him out through the glass. Woozy, she rubbed her eyes. Mrs. Pennington’s button eyes grew several sizes. “What on earth have you done?”
Now truly alarmed, Iseult saw the blood smears still on her hand. She remembered the grim scene in the kitchen, but exhaled with relief. It could have been so much worse. “Oh, nothing, I promise. Father startled me in the kitchen last night and I dropped a glass and it must have cut my hand. No, no, there’s no need—”
There was no point in saying there was no need, Mrs. Pennington was already hustling off for water and a bandage.
* * *
don’t you tell her i won’t have her meddling any longer.
she isn’t meddling, mother. she wants to help she wants me happy she wants me to get along with father.
she wants you wrestled wrenched wrapped stuffed in a lovely box just like your father does.
* * *
Sometimes the one thing Iseult truly wished for was that her mother would give her some straight instructions. And then sometimes Iseult thought perhaps this was too much to ask of the dead: a solid message from someone who had lost corporeality. But it was like grabbing at an object that seemed real enough, only to find yourself falling through a shimmering mirage. You could tell yourself all you liked that it wasn’t real, but when it was what your brain thought it saw, which part of you was the winner? And that’s why Iseult asked for clarification, every time, even though she had never once received it.
* * *
mother. can’t you stop confusing me i don’t understand what it is that you want. would you like me to obey him? obey him and marry? pretend that you aren’t here, forget you? be a good little wife? or shall i keep defying him? fight and kick and swear and scream?
oh don’t swear my dear. a lady doesn’t swear.
just. just. get me. just get. JUST GET—
* * *
“Now let’s see to that hand.” Mrs. Pennington’s mouth was bunched and colorless, which meant she thought Iseult had done it herself. Iseult currently had a number of self-inflicted wounds that the housekeeper was unaware of, and she was not going to be caught out by one that wasn’t even her fault.
“But I promise you, it was an accident. I promise.” Iseult fixed her most earnest expression on Mrs. Pennington. She knew it was very earnest: she’d practiced it in the mirror.
Mrs. Pennington’s eyes shrank back to their normal size but kept searching Iseult’s face for any sign of a lie as she wiped off the traces of last night’s blood.
“Your father is very upset this morning. What do you know about that?”
Iseult thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame women couldn’t work as police detectives; Mrs. Pennington would have made an excellent one, ferreting out the truth from wily, hardened criminals. But Iseult was well versed in this interrogation process.
“I’m sure I’ve no idea. Perhaps he is upset that the glass was broken. I believe it was a wedding gift. Why do you say he is upset, anyway?”
“He’s walking about the house like a madman, mumbling and wild-eyed.” She dropped her voice, as if there were someone else in the room listening. “I believe he’s been drinking since last night. His bed wasn’t touched.”
“Oh, is that all?” Iseult said airily, although in truth the breath had left her lungs. This behavior was too agitated for her liking. It was especially odious because she knew it didn’t result from concern for her, but from pity for himself. Something was about to happen, and she knew from experience that it wouldn’t be anything good.
* * *
The household saw nothing of Mr. Wince for the next week. The first day’s absence was not out of the ordinary, until he failed to appear for dinner. The second was tense and uncomfortable, as he could arrive at any moment. The third felt joyous, as if they had received news that he was never coming back at all, but his salary would continue to pay for everyday expenses.
The fourth day Iseult roamed the city, light and easy, stopping at an open-air market with Beatrice on her shoulder like a good angel.
* * *
look there iseult such beautiful flowers my mother used to fill our house with bluebells
would you like me to get some, mother? now that father seems to be away, i daresay we could fill a room at the very least.
darling you know he will be back though
* * *
Iseult leaned over a display of peonies inhaling their scent. She was too happy to let any thoughts of her father intrude.
* * *
wouldn’t it be lovely, though, just you and me and the house full of bluebells?
of course it would of course but
but what?
but could we have anemones too
* * *
Iseult laughed aloud, startling a policeman who looked her up and down disapprovingly, as if a woman in mourning dress had the right neither to laugh nor to smell peonies. When he turned away, she stuck out a smidgen of her tongue at him. She bought four large bouquets of anemones before adding a posy of bluebells. And a very large peony plant.
She set off toward home with what could have been described as a flounce, relishing her arms and legs that felt strong and purposeful and confident. She nodded and smiled at the other pedestrians, wanting to share her good mood as she so often wanted to share her bad. She even stopped and gave a cornflower to a winsome baby in a pram.
* * *
it would be so wonderful, mother.
what would my dear my darling
if he were dead.
* * *
For a strained moment, Iseult thought she’d gone too far.
* * *
it would solve a good many of our problems
* * *
It was one of those times when Iseult wished she could hug her mother. She longed to know how Beatrice would feel: Would she be thin and birdlike and breakable, or more substantial? Would she return the embrace with any strength, or remain passive? Iseult knew that she was taller than Beatrice had been, but by how much? Would she be able to see over her mother’s head, or could she rest her chin on top? It was too hard to tell from just two pictures.
Back at the house now, Iseult hugged the damp and fragrant bundles to her chest and was about to kick the door with her foot when it suddenly opened, Aunt Catherine on the other side and on her way out, as usual.
“Always passing like the proverbial ships, aren’t we, Iseult? You must come round for tea soon.” Catherine paused a moment to scrutinize her niece over the flora. “I must say you’re looking remarkably well.”
Iseult leaned in as far as the bouquets would allow and kissed her aunt’s powdery cheek. “Thank you. And I will come for tea. I promise.”
At the time, she even meant it.
* * *
Day five dawned temperate and beautiful, but it was as if a gray, shifting cloud roiled above the house. By the afternoon of the sixth day, Iseult was nearly catatonic with panic. Even Mrs. Pennington couldn’t sit still, and the house itself felt as if it were about to snap from tension.
And then he walked into the house as though he had never been gone. He gave Mrs. Pennington his hat and overcoat and asked what was for dinner. She muttered, “Lamb,” h
er button eyes racing over him, looking for … what? A sign that he’d been kidnapped or mugged, maybe a suitcase he’d hidden behind his back somehow?
“My dear Mrs. Pennington,” he said, with a disturbing hint of a smile (his smile was as rare as his daughter’s, and he certainly never referred to his housekeeper as “my dear”), “I can see you have been fretting over my absence. I have merely been staying at my club because I had some very important business that I simply could not afford to be distracted from. Please tell Iseult to dress for dinner, as I’ve some wonderful news.”
Mrs. Pennington gawped after him as he walked smartly off to his study. There wasn’t even the faintest whiff of alcohol on his breath. He reached the study and then, hand on the doorknob, turned back. “Lamb, you say?”
Mrs. Pennington nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ll be having lamb.”
Again, the smile that didn’t even believe in itself. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”
* * *
Later in the afternoon, an envelope slithered under Iseult’s door. She was sitting stiff and motionless in her mother’s faded armchair, as she had been for hours, staring at but not seeing the mottled gray sky out her window.
The sound of the sliding paper was a shock to the silence, a sort of aural papercut, but Iseult did not flinch. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, since a cold several days in the making was blocking her nostrils. Her right hand floated to her left shoulder.