The Unsuitable

by Molly Pohlig

  * * *

  you don’t know it’s something bad my darling read it first give your father a chance.

  he hates me he has always will always hate me. is it because he loved you so very much?

  i think that is not it.

  he did not love me he did not know me even couldn’t have told you my favorite color or dress or flower or how i smelled or what my hands felt like iseult never marry a man who does not know these things.

  yellow. the lace with the high square neck and pearl buttons. gardenias. soap and milk and clothes shut up for too long and the taste of blood from a bad tooth. my hands are rough and raw but if you feel the bones underneath they are ladylike and fine. as if someone would ever feel them to notice, or indeed to care. mother—

  * * *

  Iseult’s longest fingernail found the seam of her scar through the neck of her dress and dug fiercely downward. The red skin blanched white then back to red like the frayed skirt of a lazy jellyfish as the nail worked stealthily back and forth, seeking a new opening. An opening to let something in, to let something out. A weak trickle of blood smushed under her fingertip, but that’s not what it was seeking.

  * * *

  —mother what do i do? i know i know he’s determined to be rid of me at last but what is it that you want me to do? i never know you never tell me just this once can’t you tell me?

  you should go and read the note my dear. perhaps it is nothing after all.

  you are a riddle mother. obey father or disobey? marry or not? free you or free myself?

  * * *

  A little tired, a little stumbly, Iseult approached the envelope. It had been sealed with wax. Only her father would write a letter to his daughter, in his own house, and seal it.

  She bent herself in half at the waist to retrieve the offending missive. Even his stationery was like him: heavy, ostentatious, and of a creamy blandness that was somehow distasteful. She flipped the envelope over. At least he hadn’t addressed it to her, although if he had, that wouldn’t have surprised her. She slid a finger underneath the flap, willing a paper cut that didn’t materialize. She pulled the card out with a rasp; it fit too tightly in the envelope, but of course her father was aware of that. There was nothing he liked better than knowing he’d caused someone unnecessary trouble and irritation.

  We are expecting guests at luncheon. I take this opportunity to express the importance of your behaving with the utmost discretion and tact. Everything depends on it. I trust you understand my meaning.

  Signed,

  Your father.

  Edward Wince.

  Iseult gave a rare laugh. He had included his full name, in case she had him confused with some other Edward Wince, some other father.

  She was lost. Her mother would give her no instruction, her father had no thought but to bend her to his will, whatever that meant for her. She decided.

  She fumbled for hopes to cling to: an invalid husband who would forever be convalescing elsewhere, or a business-minded gentleman too obsessed with finances and futures to grace the family home very often, or even a man who had desperately wanted to marry someone else, and now preferred to pine alone and leave Iseult to her own devices. Surely there were even more palatable possibilities than those she could think of so hastily. And in any case, she would no longer experience every moment as a millstone around her father’s neck.

  She would not be headstrong, for once. She would do what he asked, no matter how odious. And see where it took her. She was a tiny vessel on the sea, no sight of land, no hint of wind, no hope of rescue. What else was there to do?

  9.

  The drawing room interlude was always the worst. The black collar that she suspected had been starched with iron ore, considering how it stretched her neck to unnatural lengths; the shoes that pinched but made her an appreciable inch taller; the stifling air; the furniture arranged in a way that signified that no one ever sat in that room with ease; the seconds ticked off by a clock that had a grudge against time. The waiting. He always made her appear in the drawing room half an hour before the guests were meant to arrive. She wondered if he knew how the ticking of the clock drove her mad.

  And it was hot. How could it still be so hot at this time of year? She felt that autumn should have come and gone a hundred times, and still the summer lingered on. Her fingers felt for the spot on her shoulder where the blood had stuck to her dress. She shuddered and ground her teeth again. If it was what her father wanted, she would marry. She would marry the man who came today. If her mother would not consent to guide her, she would make her own way, rather than be cast out onto the streets. (Did she really think such a thing would happen? It was hard to tell. Once when she was ten and she had continued speaking aloud to her mother despite constant admonishments, he locked her in the back garden overnight in the rain. Of course, to other people he behaved like a perfectly reasonable man. That was the problem. There was no telling, there was no warning.)

  It was hot. And Iseult was not one of those dainty English roses who turn all kiss curls and fetching blushes in the heat. Beads of sweat bubbled on her forehead and upper lip; her dress beneath her arms was stained a darker black. At least, she reasoned, this suitor would have ample reason to refuse her if he had half a brain in his head. Half a brain was the most she could hope for at this point. She would take half a leg, gladly. A hook instead of a hand. As long as he was decent and left her alone. But she didn’t know whether that was something a girl in her position had any right to hope for, decency. She had no friends to conspire with, no sisters to whisper with in the dark.

  She had only Mrs. Pennington. She assumed that Mrs. Pennington had a husband, or had had one at some point in her career, but for all she knew Mr. Pennington could have been a fabrication to secure her position in the house. Every few years or so there was a veiled reference to him, and there were children—that, Iseult had been assured of—but of course, children could be gotten without a husband. But such intimate things were not to be discussed.

  And after all, she’d never even met the children; she’d taken Mrs. Pennington’s word for their existence. She paused momentarily in her sweaty shifting, eyes widening at the realization that Mrs. Pennington could have made up Nigel with his troubles at school and his lustrous hair, and Elizabeth with her fine embroidery and her penchant for sweets; but then, it wouldn’t have been worth all that trouble, now would it? And if there was one thing Mrs. Pennington loathed, it was having too much on her mind. No. There were children. Relieved, Iseult relaxed and slouched, then bolted upright again. The sweat on the back of her dress had caught a breeze and was now chilled and slimy. It felt nice on her skin, but there wasn’t a chance that the heavy black fabric was stuck to her shoulder blades in an attractive manner.

  She jumped from her seat, seeing in horror what she knew she would see: a damp patch on the pale upholstery. Her eyes darted about for a doily that could be repurposed, but the only one of sufficient size to cover the stain was underneath a largish potted plant.

  Panicking now, breath coming short and fast through her nostrils, she looked at the wet spot and then at the plant, the spot and the plant, faster and faster, and she was just beginning the mad dash for the plant when the door opened.

  Of course. The guests had arrived.

  Three people stopped short in the doorway as Iseult tried to right herself. She managed it with only a slight bobble against the table, but the potted plant reacted with some violence, the faux-Chinese porcelain complaining against the wood. Iseult could see her father’s disapproval rising over the faces of a dignified-looking older gentleman, a gray-haired woman whose forehead spoke of someone perpetually unsatisfied, and a man who looked to be in his twenties or thirties.

  Their eyes met, Iseult’s and this man’s, and the trepidation clearly visible in all four eyes eased as they took each other in. Suddenly everything made sense, and all was revealed. Their faces relaxed. Ah, their expressions said. This is why we have been brought to
gether.

  The youngish man looked at Iseult and saw an uncomfortable, black-clad woman trying to stand in one place. She was sweaty and twitchy and held herself oddly, one shoulder arching higher than the other as if headed for escape. Her mousy hair was a little unkempt, and her large, washed-out eyes blinked too often. The pale skin of her not unpleasant but not remarkable face was blotchy; hives, perhaps? You could tell she was gnawing at the inside of her lip, and what she was thinking no one could tell.

  Iseult looked at the youngish man. He was of a good height, taller than her father. Well dressed by an excellent, subtle tailor. He had an open face with a warm expression, and dark, kind eyes. Thick brown hair waved attractively from his brow. He looked the perfect gentleman.

  One more pertinent detail: his skin was silver.

  * * *

  Iseult was always at a loss during these meals, but usually it was from boredom or self-consciousness or repulsion. This particular meal was remarkable, not for the routine, dull conversation, but for the fact that Iseult was in a state of high confusion, which made her act like a nervous coquette. She was obviously avoiding looking at Jacob, but the repression of her natural instincts sometimes burst at the seams, and she stared openly until the whole table was uncomfortable, and then she blushed a mottled red, all the more furiously when she wondered what color embarrassment would turn his skin.

  Early on he quietly asked her to pass the rolls, and in her agitation she upset a glass of water over them. She knew better than to look at her father. She was already familiar with his customary visage of anger and disappointment, so she just pictured it as she knew it would be. The three proper grown-ups chatted mindlessly. Jacob’s father was a relation of a business colleague of Mr. Wince’s. He was a lawyer, and it sounded very much as if his cases were all very dry and complicated and uninteresting and lasted, oh, for years and years. “Jacob here”—he gestured toward his son with a mild whiff of distaste—“is a clerk in my office. In the back library.”

  “Yes, in the back,” Jacob’s mother murmured, poking her fork at a morsel of beef Iseult suspected she had no intention of eating, although she did look longingly at the place where the sodden bread basket had been before Sarah whisked it away.

  Jacob’s parents asked about the steelworks, and Iseult’s father asked about the law courts, and then the conversation moved to the weather, and whether Surrey was an interesting enough place for a trip of several days. After the “back library” comment, Jacob was left out of the proceedings, and Iseult was never mentioned at all. She wondered whether this was how it felt in foreign countries where aristocrats arranged the marriages of their small children, talking over them, not even pretending they had a choice in the matter. In fact, she and Jacob had been so utterly forgotten that no one noticed when he said softly, “They don’t like you much, do they?”

  Iseult nerved herself to look at him properly. It was fascinating, really. Even the whites of his eyes were silver, with spidery red veins running through them, and Iseult wondered whether they were as sore as they looked. She looked away again.

  * * *

  ask him iseult ask him how he got to be this way because you don’t want to marry him you want to see this one off quick

  * * *

  “No.” Iseult looked at his silver hands sitting next to her ruddy ones. “Nor you.”

  * * *

  and what if he’s the last one, mother? what if there are no more to see off? father is done with me, no matter what. and they won’t let me into the convent. i know this one won’t love me they never do never will but i think he is the last. there are no more from today.

  * * *

  “Always silence.” Iseult spat the words out like a spoiled piece of meat. Jacob made a gesture she could not interpret with his silver hands, but he said nothing. She wondered whether she could look at him every day until one of them died. She looked back at her lunch, rapidly cooling under a layer of grease. Something between her shoulder and her neck twitched and Iseult scooped up a massive forkful of congealed potatoes and crammed it into her mouth.

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way to deal with things,” Jacob said in the same level tone as before, a gentle smile on his face as he regarded his parents and Iseult’s father. He looked for all the world as if he were having a perfectly normal conversation with the woman next to him, with cheeks puffed out with food and tears beginning to stream from her eyes. Jacob’s parents and Iseult’s father smiled blandly back and continued with their benign conversation.

  “Do you ever feel like a window display?”

  Iseult swallowed the last bit of potato and straightened herself in her chair. She tilted her head in an approximation of normalcy, but the last eye contact was still too recent, so she looked at the buttons on his shirtfront. “How do you mean … exactly?”

  “As if you were some curious or exotic good of unknown provenance set up in a shop window, gathering dust.”

  “And people walk by on their way to somewhere else and stop for a moment to stare and say unkind things that they don’t believe you can hear?” Iseult said, raising her eyes to Jacob’s collar, which met his silvered skin.

  “Precisely so. And later they tell someone of the oddest thing that they saw in the window that day, and wasn’t it funny?” Jacob spoke lightly, but Iseult listened closely and could hear the tinge of bitterness.

  * * *

  oh iseult i think not he is not for you for us so strange. people will laugh at you. better to be shut up in a convent than to be laughed at.

  * * *

  “I am laughed at already,” Iseult said to her mother, but she met Jacob’s eyes as she said it. Jacob looked as if he was about to speak, but thought better of it.

  “Miss Wince, do you have … hobbies?” Jacob’s father barked. Iseult looked up, startled, but Jacob seemed to accept it as a matter of course. Iseult tried to swallow, but there wasn’t enough saliva in her mouth.

  “I…” She looked at her father for help that she knew would not be forthcoming. His eyes had grown very bright; he tapped his fork on his plate once or twice, and Iseult knew that her answer was crucial to whatever was going to happen next.

  * * *

  tell them darling that you are quiet and good and a quiet good girl needs no exemplary hobbies as long as she has her mother with her

  * * *

  “I am…”

  devoted to my mother

  “I am a great…”

  listener who listens to my mother

  She could feel everyone at the table leaning forward in anticipation of something meaningful, and she found herself leaning forward too, waiting to hear what came out of her own dry mouth. She felt a great tug inside her pull her back, and the words burst forth. “I am a great walker, sir. I love to walk. That is my hobby. That is one of my hobbies. My greatest hobby, I do believe. Sir. I … read. And I sew. And I enjoy”—curse the liar!—“sitting with my father of an evening. But mostly sir I do love to walk whenever and as much as I can.”

  Iseult sat back in her chair, out of words. That number was usually her store for an entire week. She noted that while both of Jacob’s parents looked mildly alarmed at the force of the words that had come out of her, they did not look displeased, exactly. She was breathing heavily from the exertion, but felt a sense of satisfaction. Her father looked baffled, but hid it well. She did not look at Jacob. As if rewarding her for a job well done, the parents resumed their banal small talk and left Iseult and Jacob well out of it.

  There was a long silence, and Iseult’s thoughts had drifted away into a pleasant nothingness, when Jacob said, “Where do you walk?”

  She looked him full in his silver face and had to bite her tongue, hard, because the words “why are you silver?” almost slipped out. She concentrated instead on a little imperfection on his left cheek, maybe a dimple, maybe a twitch, it was hard to tell. She looked at his eyes again for a moment before she remembered that a question had been asked. “What?”
She sat on her hand, because otherwise it would reach for her neck.

  He smiled a polite, removed smile. “You said that you were a great walker, and I asked where your walks take you.”

  “As far away as possible,” Iseult said. He seemed like a decent human being. He didn’t seem slow, or sly, or cruel. She would try telling him the truth. Not too much truth, not so much truth that he turned and ran, but enough truth so that she wasn’t hiding. Much.

  “As far away as possible,” Jacob repeated, in what Iseult thought was a presumptuously amused manner for someone who was the same color as the forks on the table. “And do you always return?”

  This felt like a challenge, and Iseult was not used to being challenged. She was used to being fussed at or shouted down or ignored. And it was a silly question. “I always have so far. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He again smiled as if she had said something amusing. Iseult was sure she was missing something, but she wasn’t sure what. He didn’t seem altogether real. He was polite and apparently in control of all of his faculties, but he was laughing at her, however gently. And who was he to laugh at her? He was silver. But … could it be … she liked him? She didn’t hate him. That much could be said.

  “Will you accompany me on a walk one day? I know that it is impolite for me to ask you something like that, impolite and overconfident, so we had better pretend that I didn’t.”

  Jacob smiled again, a small smile this time. “I could pretend I asked you, and come to call one afternoon. Or we could plan to meet as if by accident, as if we were in the middle of a mad love affair.”