by Molly Pohlig
Prompted into action by Iseult’s movement, Sarah rushed forward and clanged the tray onto the table next to the armchair, milk sloshing out of the pitcher and onto the envelope that was propped up next to it. A silver envelope. Iseult’s stomach lurched, and there was a blank space where Beatrice would usually have been.
“Thank you, Sarah,” she said, again beginning to move forward but remembering too late. This time it was her torso rather than her feet that swayed forward and had to be recalled. To distract attention from her curious movements, her voice rose to a shout. “That will be all, please!”
Sarah turned tail and fled, thankfully remembering to slam the door behind her. Iseult first grabbed the napkin, dipped it in the glass of water, and wiped the blood smears from the floor before they got sticky or dry. She felt a twinge in her leg; she thought maybe she would take the pin out, but then she thought maybe she should read Jacob’s letter first.
She felt very composed as she opened it, and only slightly less so after she read it.
If you will consent to walk with me again, I will wait in the same place at the same time every day this week until you come. We should get to know each other better.
He had written neither his name nor hers. She checked the back of the page, in case they had fallen to the other side. She even looked inside the envelope, even though she knew they were unlikely to be there. “Miss Iseult Wince” was written tidily on the front of the envelope, but there was nothing inside. It wasn’t that she was such a stickler for epistolary etiquette, but the note seemed too intimate this way. She had been hoping this marriage could be conducted on an entirely formal level, with as much distance and chilliness as possible.
So here she was again, required to make a decision, with no one to ask for input. She searched briefly inside herself, but her mother was still wherever Iseult had sent her with the pin. Oh yes, Iseult thought, the pin.
She hoisted her skirts as high as she could on her right leg and observed the situation. The stocking would have to be ripped. She began, little rips, and her mind wandered where it wanted to, with no one and nothing to contradict it.
What would Jacob want to know about her? What was there to know that would please him? From listening to other girls talk when she was young, at school and with her cousin’s friends, she had the impression that the consensus was that it was unwise to be entirely yourself with someone of the opposite sex.
She couldn’t think there was terribly much about her worth knowing. He knew the basic facts. She had no real hopes or dreams, other than to live in as much peace and solitude as possible. There was nothing she felt she couldn’t live without. Did she have favorite things? Not really. Certain things moved her, but not in any way she could express except to her mother, who knew her feelings before Iseult knew them herself, so there was rarely any need to try to express them.
Maybe she was looking at this from the wrong angle, asking the wrong question. Instead of “What can I share with him?” the question was “What will be impossible to conceal?”
The stocking came free of the pin, although it was still gummed to her leg with a clot of blood. The pin came out easily, and clean, as when Mrs. Pennington checked a cake with a knife stuck in the middle. Iseult placed the pin on the floor on a napkin, to be disposed of later. She unlaced her boot and removed it along with the shreds of bloodied stocking.
Ah, there was something she would not be able to hide. Iseult wiggled the four toes on her right foot. As a squalling infant, Iseult had lived in the home of a wet nurse, a great bosomy girl who loathed babies, but was too indolent to earn money any other way. She would leave Iseult screaming for hours, only picking her up when she was scheduled to be fed. One day when Iseult was about six months old, Mrs. Pennington visited to check on her. (Not that Mr. Wince had asked her to visit; she went completely of her own volition.) She found the wet nurse sprawled on her sofa, asleep, as in the next room her own child slept as well, and Iseult in the crib beside him was hoarse and red-faced in screaming distress. Mrs. Pennington scooped her up and ran with her to the doctor, not even pausing to wake the slovenly nurse. The doctor examined the wailing child patiently. He was surprised to find that her collarbone, apart from the expected nasty scar, was healing on schedule and didn’t seem to be the cause of her immense discomfort. The contents of her diaper were nothing that would cause alarm. Her lungs were certainly healthy. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her at all. As a last resort, he thought a bath might soothe her, and she smelled as if she could use one anyway. He called upon Mrs. Pennington to assist, and when they removed the tiny knitted booties (completed by Beatrice mere days before the birth and her subsequent demise) the mystery was solved. A single strand of hair had gotten wound so tightly around the middle toe on Iseult’s right foot that no blood was getting to it at all. The hair functioned as a crude, cruel tourniquet, and the doctor suspected it had been in place for some days, as the poor baby’s toe was quite black, and he could catch a faint whiff of the sweet smell of gangrene.
Mrs. Pennington burst into tears. The doctor tried to gently explain that it was not an entirely uncommon occurrence, as babies weren’t very good when it came to communicating what troubled them, but that most parents and attendants noticed before so much damage has the chance to occur. Mrs. Pennington was positively inconsolable and wept right along with the now naked Iseult when the doctor told her that they could not possibly remove the hair themselves, but she would have to be taken to hospital where the toe could be safely removed. Mrs. Pennington promptly fainted, and the doctor, not for the first time, wished his practice would prove itself more successful, at least to the point where he could employ a proper nurse.
* * *
The amputation went smoothly. Mr. Wince was more upset about Iseult’s return to his home than he was about her missing digit. But once a suitable concoction was found to render a wet nurse unnecessary, she was such a quiet presence that Mr. Wince regularly had to remind himself that she was in the house at all. Mrs. Pennington was never to forgive herself for leaving her with that heinous woman, a woman she had vetted herself!
Since the toe was long gone by the time Iseult learned to walk, it never affected her balance. Very few people knew about it at all outside of her own home, and she was relatively certain her father had forgotten that particular detail years ago. Elspeth had teased her about it in childhood, but had not been cruel enough to tell other children.
So that was something she would need to tell Jacob, so as not to surprise him. But … Iseult nibbled her lower lip. Was he going to see her bare feet? If he saw her bare feet, how much more of her would he see in that state? The old revulsion flooded her stomach. She grabbed her teacup and took much too large a swallow of very hot tea, which then dribbled out the side of her mouth as she tried not to choke. But at least the tea shook her brain hard enough to shake away the thoughts that had arisen.
But only for a moment. What else? Iseult thought. What else must I confess before its inevitable discovery? She looked closely at the tiny dark red hole in her leg where the hatpin had resided so recently. She knew from experience that this would not leave a scar, if she refrained from picking at it. And she could restrain herself, if she put her mind to it.
Her mind started to race, running up and down her body, scanning for the marks of her own making. How many could be hidden forever? By her clothes, by her hair, by never venturing into sunlight? In truth, she didn’t know a thing about marriage. Surely there were some husbands who had never seen their wives’ bare shoulders? Weren’t there?
Things were going to be expected of her, that much she knew. Things above and beyond the economical running of the household and a pleasant attitude toward his family. Goodness knows those would be hard enough. But she had only the dimmest of ideas as to what else might be entailed. At school, once, the girls had spent a rainy afternoon discussing whose parents shared a bedroom and whose kept separate quarters. Iseult assumed that those who sha
red a bedroom were less prosperous, but then why did the girls look down on the girls whose parents had their own bedrooms? Iseult did not ask. Iseult never asked. And thus Iseult remained in the dark about a good many matters.
It was at times like this that Iseult most regretted not having a mother of flesh and blood and bone. Someone she could look at across a table, instead of probing her neck while watching in the mirror for some reaction. She often glimpsed moments of something like maternal affection from Mrs. Pennington, but Beatrice was always there to make her regret those moments.
But there was no one to tell her, and no one to ask. There was Mrs. Pennington, of course, but as much as their relationship had blurred the lines between house and help, this was a bridge Iseult did not think should be crossed. At least, she did not know how one would begin to cross it.
She wondered whether Jacob would know. And would he expect her to know? The answer was surely yes on both counts. Blood flooded her head at the thought, and she put the backs of her hands to her cheeks, cool against the now-hot skin. Iseult squirmed in her chair, trying to exorcise the feeling of her pulse in places on her body that she would prefer felt nothing. And the more she tried to stop it, the more her pulse beat.
She felt seasick, and knew that she would probably continue to feel that way until the wedding. At least until the wedding. She should meet Jacob again, if only to assuage the nausea. What was it Mrs. Pennington liked to say? “Better the devil you know.” Her father was fond of saying that you should always know your enemies better than your friends. Iseult could grudgingly see the wisdom in that, even though she was not in possession of either.
18.
Dinnertime. Iseult had not made an appearance at dinner for weeks, but had her usual thought upon entering the dining room: it was never not dinnertime. She was sure that at least a quarter of her life was spent sitting at the table, waiting with trepidation for her father to appear. Fidgeting in the heavy wooden chair, knowing that nothing would make the time go faster. Wishing there was at least a loudly ticking clock in the room to mark its passage, no matter how slow. There had once been a clock, but Mr. Wince had it removed in her adolescence, annoyed that she kept her eyes fixed on it as they ate in silence.
She wondered what the dining room at her new home would look like. She didn’t even know whether they were to live with Jacob’s parents and his silly sisters or on their own. She made a note in her head to ask Jacob. She wanted to be able to picture her future accurately, even if it was to be terrible. She wasn’t sure which would be more terrible. The most important thing would be to set a precedent wherein she dined alone in her room. This would be easier to accomplish if they had their own house.
She was lost in thought and did not register her father entering the room, but snapped to attention when he dragged his own heavy chair away from the table. She knew that he made the noise on purpose, because she recognized the same streak of petty vengefulness in herself. The key was to act just upset enough for Mr. Wince to know he’d had an effect, but not so upset that he felt encouraged to go on. She winced, as befitted her name, but threaded the expression through with a weak smile. Mr. Wince gave her a look a step or two above a sneer, and sat down.
“I didn’t believe you were truly ill, but now I can see that you were.” Mr. Wince’s mustache twitched in anticipation of a direct hit as he spread his napkin in his lap with exquisite care. “Your pallor, my dear, is simply cadaverous.”
Fight back just enough to protect yourself, not enough to prolong the battle. Iseult paused, waiting for the predictable voice of her mother to jump in and encourage her to back down quickly, but then she remembered there was only silence.
“I have indeed been ill, Father; I would not lie to you.” She held back a remark about the pleasure of his company. “And I am confident that the resumption of regular meals will return me to my former bloom of health. I hope for Mr. Vinke’s sake that I will not make too piteous a bride.” And she tried to resist, but without her mother to hold her back, she found she could not. “Since we are being so rudely forced upon each other.”
Mrs. Pennington burst through the dining room doors, red-faced and laden with plates. She was practically psychic in her ability to sense impending turmoil and thrust herself between the opponents.
“Now, Miss Iseult, you are going to eat every last bite of these greens so you get your strength back,” she said, far too loudly, placing a towering plate of dark green leaves in front of her. “And Mr. Wince, here’s some for you too, so you don’t feel left out.”
Mr. Wince grimaced, although Iseult was never sure whether the expression he was making wasn’t meant to be a smile that simply came out wrong. Iseult often practiced her expressions in the mirror, so she could at least mimic the face she should be making.
She would not have been surprised to learn that her father did the same thing—not for her benefit, of course, but more in a business capacity.
Mrs. Pennington swept out of the room, restoring the atmosphere to its previous chilly temperature.
“I am told you were fitted for your bridal attire today,” Mr. Wince said, although it was impossible to tell whether the distaste in his voice was directed to Iseult, the concept of bridal attire, or the profusion of vegetables before him, which he seemed unsure how to attack. This was one of his favorite conversational tricks with his daughter. Instead of asking a question or voicing an opinion, he merely stated a fact and left it to hang in the air to see whether Iseult would take the bait. She had just stuffed a great forkful of food into her mouth, and it was her trick to chew every bite slowly and methodically, as if she wanted to wrangle every last trace of flavor from it before swallowing. Thus it was common for both father and daughter to be rendered frantic with rage by the other during the course of dinner. It was rare for them to both finish the meal.
Iseult swallowed at last and heard her father’s breath catch as she took a dainty sip of wine. Usually Beatrice would be moaning pitifully about obedience to one’s parents by this point, but Beatrice remained silent. Iseult wondered whether Beatrice was all that had been restraining her from constantly telling her father exactly what she thought. Perhaps. Was she coming into her own voice after all this time? Perhaps.
“You heard correctly, Father. It all went well, I think. But I couldn’t help but wonder something. Would you tell me what you thought of my mother’s wedding dress?” And she shoved another large quantity of greens past her sharp teeth.
“It was…” Mr. Wince began, but paused to calm himself until the clamor of Iseult’s chewing subsided. “… It was, I was told, a very typical wedding costume for the time. You have seen the portrait yourself. I can assure you that your mother had no pretensions of grandeur. She did not aspire to fashion. She was simple and level-headed and did what her parents asked of her, as daughters are meant to do. Mrs. Pennington thought that you made some unusual choices regarding your style of dress. I’ll thank you to remember that until I hand you over that day I am regretfully still responsible for your expenses. Once you are married you may drape yourself liberally in gold and diamonds, but until then I expect you to behave with decorum, and within the strictures with which I believe you are well acquainted.”
Iseult found herself out of greens, but Mrs. Pennington was coming through the door with lamb chops and potatoes. Mr. Wince sat back smugly and waited for Iseult to volley the shot back to him, while Iseult smiled beatifically (and uncharacteristically) at Mrs. Pennington, who grabbed the plates from the previous course and headed back to the kitchen with great speed, taking cover before the gathering storm.
Beatrice’s absence echoed. Iseult found herself wondering, as she did when she was small, if Beatrice could still hear her when she didn’t seem to be present. She wondered whether she would get into a rip-roaring argument with her father to find Beatrice suddenly on the attack. She decided to put the thought to the side.
“Would you prefer I don sackcloth and ashes instead of the tradition
al white or ivory, Father?” Iseult said brightly, slicing her knife through the pinkish meat on her plate, feeling a twinge in her leg where the needle had been earlier in the day. She chewed slowly. The meat was dry, and formed a gloppy paste on her tongue.
Mr. Wince scraped his utensils against his plate deliberately. “That witticism doesn’t work, Iseult. You’ll not punish me with social humiliation; you’ll only punish yourself. Once this debacle of a wedding is over I intend to wash my hands of you. Although yes, I admit I would prefer you didn’t dress like a bejeweled strumpet. Call it my greatest wish as your loving father.”
The eyes of father and daughter met across the table. Mr. Wince pulled a piece of meat from his fork, teeth clamped and shrieking against the metal. Iseult held his gaze and steeled herself not to shudder. Why did it always end this way? Mr. Wince triumphant, Iseult furious and sputtering. She had a moment of sharp loneliness for Beatrice, her absence a vacuum. No mother to soothe her, no mother to prod her to flee to her room, no mother to pop something into her head to say that might temporarily appease her father, at least until the end of dinner. No mother to anything.
Was Beatrice gone for good? Had the needle vanquished her once and for all? The vacuum threatened to swallow Iseult whole. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted control. She wanted to be able to go into her room and close the door on the world, including Beatrice. Had she accidentally locked her out forever?