The Unsuitable

by Molly Pohlig

  “What, in the foundry?” Mr. Wilkinson exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes. To show you at your work,” the young photographer said earnestly. “To get a true sense of a man, we must see him in his element.”

  Mr. Wilkinson wanted to clasp this young man to his bosom. But he didn’t—not because Henry was in the room, but because Mr. Wince was. It would be bad form. However, he did escort the young man into the foundry itself, the family trailing with visibly less excitement.

  Various parts of the foundry were scouted in order to find the safest and most dramatic setting. Several were rejected due to the noise and the possibility of soiling the ladies’ garments or their persons. After much animated negotiation (and much teeth-gnashing from Mr. Wince, who had been promised this venture would be completed within an hour), the perfect place was decided upon.

  There was a crucible of molten steel which one could look down into as if into the very mouth of hell, via a convenient set of stairs and a platform. If Mr. Wilkinson arranged himself in the corner of the platform, the photographer would be able to capture a fiery glow and wafting smoke behind him. The family arranged themselves below in an attitude of anticipation.

  (Mrs. Wilkinson was fretting that the roast would be dry when they finally reached home, and thus Mr. Wince would be peevish, which would set off the chain reaction of Henry needling him and Beatrice weeping. In hindsight, though, a dry roast would have been quite the preferable outcome.)

  “Back a little further, Mr. Wilkinson, back just a little further, that is almost the very thing!” the photographer shouted from underneath his hood as Mr. Wilkinson worked on maintaining his preferred expression of dapper nonchalance. Annoyed that the railing wasn’t situated another inch to the left to allow for the best view of the jaw he was angling toward the camera, he gave it a vicious nudge with his hip, which would leave him with a terrible bruise. Unbeknownst to Mr. Wilkinson, the railing had been put up carelessly, in contravention of his stringent safety regulations, during the week before Mr. Wince and Beatrice’s wedding, when he had absented himself to ensure that the wedding tent was up to the highest possible standards. Just as the photographer got what would have been the prize photograph of Mr. Wilkinson’s personal collection, the railing gave way and Mr. Wilkinson fell into the enormous crucible of molten steel not six feet below.

  For a moment, not unlike a photograph, nothing changed. The family on the ground, Mrs. Wilkinson, Beatrice, Henry, Mr. Wince, everyone still looked at the space where Mr. Wilkinson had been. The photographer underneath his hood remained unaware, temporarily blinded by the phosphorescent flash.

  The next instant was sheer chaos. Mrs. Wilkinson charged up the stairs, followed by Henry and Mr. Wince, and then by Beatrice, who had a new and uncomfortable petticoat to negotiate.

  Mr. Wilkinson had not uttered a sound when he fell. His backside made a noise as it hit the contents of the crucible along with the poorly constructed railing. Beatrice recognized the sound from childhood. She had once chased Henry round the nursery after he had stolen her hard-boiled egg. He climbed up on the table and held it over his head, then dropped it into the large pot of oatmeal which had yet to be divided between them. The sound was a wallop, but a muffled one. Beatrice never told anyone of this connection between the two sounds. Nor did she ever eat another bowl of oatmeal or another hard-boiled egg.

  When Beatrice and her petticoats reached the top of the stairs, she bumped into Henry, who had been held back by Mr. Wince, who attempted in vain to put a hand over Mrs. Wilkinson’s eyes, but too late, too late.

  By some miracle Mr. Wilkinson had been able to stand up, and he reached his hands, dripping molten liquid, up to his wife who, as a wife is wont to do when a husband reaches out to her, reached down to him. Luckily for Mrs. Wilkinson, it was from her that Beatrice had inherited such cold hands, and she had not removed her gloves; otherwise her hands would have been much more badly burned. As it was, the liquid instantly ate through her gloves as she tried to clasp Mr. Wilkinson’s hands, but when she did the skin of his hands and arms slipped off like meat from a bone that has been simmering for days.

  He fell back into the crucible and slipped beneath the surface. Mrs. Wilkinson was too busy shrieking to see what was happening, as the hands that had so recently been her husband’s charred spots into her dress as they fell sizzling to the ground. Beatrice fortunately had her eyes shut tight and did not see any of this; there are things that are hard to unsee. Unfortunately for Beatrice, there are also things that are hard to unsmell.

  Henry took one look at his father’s hands, emptied of his father, on the platform and promptly vomited. Mr. Wince was trying to stop Mrs. Wilkinson from screaming and injuring herself further; he almost carried her down the stairs. The photographer had run for help, all the while wondering whether he had enough money saved to beat a hasty retreat to his mother’s house in the countryside. Beatrice was left swaying on the platform with that smell in her dainty nostrils. Eventually, she got it over with and fainted next to the still-retching Henry.

  A difficult few months ensued. Henry was more useless than ever, but at least he was rarely home. Beatrice spent most of her days at her mother’s house, although it did neither of them any good. Beatrice wept piteously while her mother stared at the wall, constantly brushing an imaginary something off her hands. At first everyone assumed that this was a reaction to the bandages, but several weeks after the tragedy her hands had healed well enough for those to be removed, and still she did not stop. The doctor informed Mr. Wince that she most likely was attempting to wipe off the memory of her husband’s ghastly hands in hers, and that since she showed little sign of doing so, she should be given up as mad and institutionalized. (This was the sort of behavior that Mr. Wince liked to point to whenever Iseult acted up, saying to himself, “It didn’t come from my family!”)

  Beatrice was loath to have her mother confined thus, and Henry’s consent could not be obtained because he was always either absent or too intoxicated. Mr. Wince was beginning to fray at the seams. Although he appreciated the advantage of having Beatrice largely away from home, visiting with her mother resulted in Beatrice weeping every night upon her return to Mr. Wince.

  And then a stroke of luck, at least as far as Mr. Wince was concerned: Mrs. Wilkinson died. There was no one clear reason, but many possibilities. She hardly ate, she hardly slept, and she hadn’t said one sensible word since she was carried off that gruesome platform. She was like Beatrice, too, in that she didn’t have a hardy constitution. Mr. Wince thought it was excellent timing, as now they wouldn’t need to shoulder the expense of a private sanatorium. Beatrice was practically comatose herself by this point, but that would pass in time. There was only the difficulty of what to do with Henry. And as it turned out, that sorted itself out beautifully as well.

  Not two months after Mrs. Wilkinson’s death, which had come three months after her husband’s, Henry’s body was discovered in an alley in very insalubrious conditions. Mr. Wince luckily had a friend in the upper echelons of the police force, so the worst details were not released to the press, but it seemed that Henry had had the bad taste to involve himself with not one, not two, but three married women. And thanks to Henry’s brazen behavior, it didn’t take long for all three cuckolds to catch on. No one was ever arrested for the crime. Mr. Wince declined to press charges, as he frankly believed that Henry had gotten what he deserved. It wasn’t entirely clear what had caused Henry’s demise in the end, but it was either the worst of the head wounds (inflicted, presumably, with one of a number of bloody bricks found near his person) or blood loss from the violent removal of a piece of his anatomy (this was not found near his person, nor was it found anywhere else).

  Mr. Wince never breathed a word of this to anyone. Henry was buried without the company of friends or family, in a churchyard several towns away. Beatrice was mostly still in bed during those days, and hardly competent to ask what was going on. Mr. Wince intimated that something heavy had fal
len on her brother in an alley (which was true, if you consider that all three husbands happened to be men of above-average size). Beatrice had been grieving for three months. There simply wasn’t any grief left over by the time Henry died.

  Two months later Beatrice was expecting Iseult, and her family receded into the past.

  16.

  “Is there anything you can do to disguise these bony areas? Ruffles, perhaps? How puffed a sleeve is too puffed?” Aunt Catherine gingerly touched Iseult’s shoulder, afraid it might cut her.

  The dressmaker pursed her lips. “Too much puff and she’ll be overwhelmed. I think the simpler the better—don’t you, Miss Wince?”

  All eyes turned to Iseult. She was unaccustomed to having her opinion asked, and unsure as to how to show the small burst of pleasure she felt.

  “What do you think would be Mr. Vinke’s preference?” Elspeth said. Having known her since infancy, Iseult could detect the subtle tone in her voice which laughingly said not only that Mr. Vinke’s preference would be for something ridiculous, but also that Iseult would have no idea what he would prefer.

  * * *

  puffed puffed puffed

  i would be humiliated

  puffs as big as your head you’ll look like a fairytale

  you don’t care about my humiliation, do you

  i’ve dreamt of this and you should look beautiful

  but i’m not, mother, i’m not beautiful. and i won’t pretend to be for your sake.

  * * *

  Iseult was half prepared for the sharp twist she felt inside her—only half, because although she knew it was coming, she didn’t expect it at the base of her spine, so far from her mother’s usual purlieu. It nearly threw her off the dais, but Mrs. Pennington’s solid body was there to steady her. Everyone else gasped, but the stout woman just shook her head and lied, “She’s so excited she can hardly think straight.”

  “Simple would be best,” Iseult said a little too loudly, cutting off Elspeth and Aunt Catherine before they could begin cooing too much about her maidenly excitement. “I think Jacob would prefer simple. I know he would. That is how he likes me best.”

  Their coos became murmurs at her boldness. Iseult seemed on perilously intimate terms with her fiancé, certainly on terms more intimate than anyone had expected. Iseult knew that she was meant to blush prettily and say that that was what she assumed he might like, but whenever society manners looked to push her in one direction, she would set doggedly off in the other. She knew everyone thought it would be best to disguise her looks and her gauntness with frilly distractions, but in a burst of clarity she decided that if she were going to marry Jacob (even if that still didn’t seem realistic or possible) she was going to do it honestly.

  “I want it to be very plain,” Iseult said clearly, addressing herself to the dressmaker, holding her chin above the waves of disapproval that were coming off Elspeth and Aunt Catherine. “I don’t want lace or bows, and I don’t want a veil.”

  A sharp gasp from Aunt Catherine. “No veil?”

  Iseult took no notice, but continued with her sharp chin even higher. “And I don’t want a low neck but I don’t want a high one either. If it shows my scars, then it shows them. He’ll see them anyway. I see no reason why I should hide from him.”

  Iseult had to hold herself very straight and firm as Beatrice tried to twist her spine from side to side. Mrs. Pennington kept a hand on her shoulder, and Iseult gave her a quick grateful glance. Catherine, Elspeth, and the dressmaker were expressing their discontent, each trying to make her disapproval heard over that of the other two.

  “And”—Iseult raised her voice above the fray—“the dress should be ivory, as far from white as possible. That will look nicest against his skin.” She looked pointedly at Elspeth. “His skin is silver. I don’t know if you know that. Jacob’s skin is silver.”

  For the first time in her life, Elspeth looked as if she was on the back foot. She looked uneasily at her mother before meeting Iseult’s eye, and she stammered, “Y-y-yes, I … I believe I knew that his … that he was … It’s a medical condition, I believe?”

  Iseult peered down with what she hoped was a withering look and did not respond. She turned her attention back to the dressmaker. “I assume new measurements are to be taken?”

  The dressmaker nodded mutely. She had never heard Iseult speak so many words in a single visit.

  “Then let us take them. I should like to be by myself for a moment first. I will let you know when I am ready,” Iseult said, stepping from the dais and past the four women staring at her open-mouthed. Without a backward glance she went into the small dressing room and closed the door behind her.

  There was a long silence.

  “We’ll have a veil, in any case,” Aunt Catherine said.

  17.

  Iseult’s fingers were shaking so hard it was difficult to put the hook into the latch on the door. Her spine ached from top to bottom, and she arched it uselessly, trying to get out of her mother’s grip.

  * * *

  so you’ve chosen him over me already have you his wishes over mine is that how it is going to be iseult from now from now on am i to be an afterthought a thought a dream you try to shake off a nightmare you cannot will not wake up from

  stop it, stop it please. this is hard enough i need you on my side. you are the one who is making me do this—

  don’t you try to blame your father’s decisions on me i am only helping you as well as i can i know it isn’t much god knows—

  * * *

  Iseult had to move quickly. Her right hand shot out to grab a pearly-topped pin from the dressmaker’s pincushion. The dressmaker would be on her way in soon, requiring Iseult to bare her neck, so that was off limits. She didn’t have time to unlace her boots. Beatrice’s voice was rising like a river bursting its banks, building in shrillness and intensity to the point where the words were blurring into one long howl. Iseult hoisted up great handfuls of skirt and quickly jabbed the pin in and out of her right thigh. A bead of blood was just visible through her black stockings, and there was a perceptible dip in Beatrice’s mania. There was a timid tap at the door. Without a thought in her head other than to smother her mother’s voice, Iseult shoved the pin into her leg right up to its pearly top. Beatrice’s voice cut off like a door slammed shut, and Iseult let out a deep breath. She dropped her skirt and straightened up; the feeling of the pin in her leg made her feel stronger, bolstered. She checked the mirror briefly to see that her smile was pasted on correctly, and she opened the door.

  Iseult knew from experience that the dressmaker would get through the measurements as quickly as she could. Buttons were undone, laces untied. The whole affair was conducted in silence, save for the zzzzip of the dressmaker’s thumbnail against the tape measure as she extended it, the dull scratch of her stubby pencil making notes. Iseult focused her eyes on a water stain on the wall and enjoyed the quiet flooding her head. She would have to apologize to her mother later. In her dreamy, muffled state, even though she could see in the mirror that her bones were trying to poke through her underthings, she didn’t think she looked so terrible. Even her eyes felt comfortably packed in gauze.

  She floated through the rest of the appointment. Her clothes were put back on her; she raised and lowered her arms like a docile toddler. The dressmaker held out examples of fabrics and patterns and necks and sleeves, and Iseult pointed out her choices as if drawn to them by magnetism. She brooked no discussion, and the tsks and sighs of Elspeth and Aunt Catherine floated over her head unheeded. Iseult decided every last detail of the dress, with a clarity she rarely felt. It wasn’t that she’d suddenly developed a strong fashion sense, but simply that the right choices felt blessedly obvious.

  She felt lovely until she reached home and went to sit alone in her mother’s armchair to wait for Mrs. Pennington to bring her some tea. Suddenly she felt very alone. The room felt larger than usual, the air seemed thick and hot. Her thoughts, which were so used to bump
ing into her mother, were left to their own devices, swimming around stickily, uselessly in her head.

  * * *

  mother.…

  * * *

  No response. Iseult felt strange, but not strange enough to apologize. Not yet. She didn’t like this new mood of Beatrice’s, she didn’t trust it. The anger had frightened her. She would try it this way a little bit longer. She could always apologize later, after all. It wasn’t as if Beatrice was going anywhere. Surely not…? Iseult stood and paced back and forth by the window, arms crossed, fingers rhythmically stroking her elbows. A sharp pinch in her leg brought her up short. Startled, she looked down. There was blood on the wooden floor, and she had been traipsing through it, leaving footprints in front of the chair. She felt the bulbous head of the pin. She had forgotten it. She pulled her skirt up to where she could see it again. Blood ran down to her boot in a thick stripe, and the stockings, which would be difficult to take off, were a total loss.

  Still. She was surprised to have forgotten the pin completely.

  There was a knock on the door and Iseult dropped her skirt, shuffling about to see if the blood was still wet enough to smear into the floor any better (it was), and then she stood over the worst part. “Come in,” she said, finding she enjoyed the clear sound of her voice without Beatrice’s static in the background.

  It was Sarah with her tea, not Mrs. Pennington. The two women eyed each other warily, like dogs meeting on the street. Sarah did what she always did, standing awkwardly with the tray as if perhaps she expected Iseult to relieve her of it. Mrs. Pennington said that Iseult was under no circumstances to do this, and that if Sarah wasn’t prepared to do the duties of a proper maid, well then, she should have been born into a family with fewer daughters so she needn’t have gone into service. Still, Iseult stutter-stepped toward her, but then remembered that she needed to stay where she was to keep the bloodstain covered.