The Unsuitable

by Molly Pohlig

  Mrs. Pennington came over and unwrapped Iseult’s makeshift hat, inspecting the damage. She sniffed. “Could be worse, I suppose. We’ll put cool cloths on it for the rest of the evening and hope for the best in the morning. Upstairs with you now, you’ve a new dress arrived that needs seeing to, you’re supposed to be wearing it tomorrow.”

  Iseult allowed herself to be pulled up from the chair. She hoped that even when she was an old, old woman and Mrs. Pennington much older still, she would still pull her out of her chair like a small child. “What’s your daughter like?” She fumbled in a dim corner of her memory replete with cobwebs. “Elizabeth. What’s Elizabeth like?”

  “Awfully curious today, aren’t we?” Iseult didn’t even think about picking up the bowl of dough to take with her; she knew that Mrs. Pennington would.

  * * *

  she treats you like an idiot like a child born without a brain in your head maybe she’s right because she’s coddled you for all these years never having to do a single thing lift a finger say the word know your mind you aren’t prepared for the world it would eat you alive

  * * *

  “I can’t remember exactly how old Elizabeth is.” Iseult hoped that sounded convincing, but she doubted it. As they walked up the stairs, she could see that the rain was slowing, and with that and a belly full of raw dough, she felt about as good as she ever did.

  * * *

  it’s because you don’t care that’s why you don’t remember you don’t care for anyone but yourself i could just leave again and it wouldn’t bother you at all would it you care for no one you are a selfish little witch

  where do you go?

  i go where you go tied around you you tied around me you are the millstone round my neck and i will never be free of you so you will not be free of me

  but i mean when you are not with me, when you are quiet. when i can’t find you there inside. where do you go?

  i won’t tell you not with her here

  * * *

  Beatrice was talking faster, shriller, and Iseult missed the chance to find out much about Elizabeth. From the snippets that made it through Beatrice’s irritated pronouncements, Iseult gleaned that Elizabeth was one year younger than herself, and was married, perhaps with children, but she couldn’t have sworn to that detail.

  Mrs. Pennington asked Iseult to wait in her room while she got the new dress; when she returned, Iseult just stared. What could she say? Gingerly she reached out to touch the fabric, trying not to display her pleasure. Mrs. Pennington held out the dress, awaiting a response.

  “It’s pink,” Iseult finally said softly. Beatrice stayed quiet, but Iseult could feel her beginning to writhe inside, like a cat stretching after a nap.

  “Deep rose, the dressmaker called it.” Mrs. Pennington laid the dress on the bed with satisfaction and turned her attention to undoing Iseult’s things. “Your father was against it, but I said it was high time you were out of those drab colors after all these years, about to be a bride and all. Never have worn a girlish color in your life; I might worry you’d faint dead away when you finally see yourself in your wedding dress, from the sheer shock.”

  Iseult nodded weakly and let herself be undressed. She’d always told herself she didn’t mind dark colors, but suddenly, seeing those yards of gauzy pink fanned out on her bed, she wondered whether that had just been what Beatrice had told her. Mrs. Pennington arranged the skirt and helped her step in and pull it up, the fabric making a whispery shhhh as it was pulled over her petticoat and to her waist. The housekeeper paused a moment to tut over Iseult’s scarred shoulder, and Iseult felt a twinge of shame, knowing that Mrs. Pennington was pleased not to see any fresh cuts, all the while unaware of the now festering wound on her thigh incurred with the hatpin. More worryingly, she could hear Beatrice, but so low she couldn’t make out the words. Mrs. Pennington slid the sleeves over Iseult’s arms and began on the buttons in the back, chatting about how the dress would look better over a corset, but there was no need for that right now; this was just to show her how lovely she was going to look in pink. She pushed Iseult over to the mirror.

  The first thing that was apparent to Iseult as she looked at her reflection was that no, she did not look lovely. She knew that Mrs. Pennington meant it, and possibly even believed it, but that was because Mrs. Pennington loved her. Mr. Wince would not think her lovely, nor would Elspeth (although she would say she did, too effusively to be believed). Jacob … Iseult wasn’t going to think about what he would think at this precise moment.

  Her jaw looked … well, it looked as if it had collided with a wall. She was no beauty and she never would be. The pink made her pale skin appear paler, and the red lumps on her cheeks had an unhealthy yellow undertone. The shadows under her eyes were as purple as ever.

  But. But.

  She didn’t look like a little girl anymore. The neckline of the dress was ingeniously cut, something Iseult would not have thought the dressmaker capable of. The base of her neck was just visible, but her scars were still hidden. Her face might still have been painfully pale, but her long neck appeared almost ivory in color against the rose. Her ribs strained against the fabric, but she could see that Mrs. Pennington was right, and that her figure would look much more attractive with a corset.

  She turned this way and that. She could hear the hum of Beatrice’s voice gathering momentum, volume, but it seemed far away, like the sound of the seaside before you can see it. Mrs. Pennington was smiling at her in the mirror, and Iseult smiled back, then covered her mouth with her hand to hide her pointy teeth, upper lip sticking momentarily to that offensive incisor. But even with her hand over her mouth, she thought that maybe her eyes looked … pretty. Not lovely, not beautiful, not captivating or enchanting or anything that would be recalled half an hour afterward, but pretty. They could qualify as pretty.

  22.

  In the hours leading up to the dinner party, Mrs. Pennington instructed Iseult to stay inside and rest. She was to keep quiet and not get excited about things. Various peculiar herbal mixtures were applied to the bruise on her cheek, which subsided somewhat. There was to be a very long, very perfumed bath.

  Mrs. Pennington and Sarah were rushing around with preparations and instructions and last-minute errands which of course were of no real importance whatsoever, at least to Iseult’s mind. She had asked if she could help, but Mrs. Pennington just slathered Iseult’s hands in lotion, shoved them into white cotton gloves, and shooed her back to her room. This was helpful, as it’s nearly impossible to wring one’s hands while wearing cotton gloves. Instead, Iseult paced her room from corner to corner and back again, sliding along the walls, clambering over furniture that stood in the way, and nearly breaking her neck trying to move her dresser, on the odd chance that she would be able to hear her mother there. She moved slowly, she moved quickly. She would catch a word or two, but always when she was in motion.

  * * *

  cruel … and … what …

  how … it … i … you …

  * * *

  She tried communicating with her mother, thinking her questions as she usually did, then whispering, before graduating to her regular speaking voice. But it was like talking aloud to a wall, and it made Iseult feel foolish, which in turn made her feel angry, because who was Beatrice to purposefully make her feel foolish? Iseult even tried hiking up her skirt and picking at the hatpin injury to her leg, pressing on the raw wound with her thumb, digging in with a fingernail until black stars hovered around her field of vision like dark lace, but Beatrice’s drone continued unabated at the same unintelligible pace and volume.

  When the hour of the very perfumed bath arrived (which would not have usually been so thrilling to Iseult, but Mrs. Pennington told her she could have her tea while she bathed, which felt delightfully frivolous, not to mention crumby), Iseult was glad to at least have a distraction. Her stomach felt jumpy, and she couldn’t work out the main cause: certainly Beatrice, Jacob, and the expectation that she would be
have as she ought to at dinner were the key components, but she wished that she knew what bothered her most. She often felt such warring anxieties. Knowing precisely what the trouble was didn’t exactly solve the problem but could at least make it a touch easier to attack.

  Steam was pouring from the bathroom door by the time the bath was ready. Sarah carried in a stool and then the tea tray. Iseult was pleased to see her favorite dainty tea cakes, but worried that the steam would have an adverse effect on their daintiness. Mrs. Pennington very much took her time getting Iseult undressed, inspecting her bare skin closely for wounds. She started breathing very loudly through compressed lips and flaring nostrils when she saw the sprinkling of bloodstains on Iseult’s petticoat. Iseult screwed up her own mouth and twisted in her hands the gloves she had finally been allowed to remove. She felt ashamed, but what could be done? It could always be worse, after all.

  “What is Mr. Vinke going to say?” Mrs. Pennington’s voice went high and shrill, and her face was red, not merely from the steam.

  Iseult’s stomach lurched. “About … He’s not going to see it! Is he?”

  Mrs. Pennington looked as if she had something to say, but had no idea how to say it. Iseult could feel panic contorting her face, and Mrs. Pennington backed off, instead helping her out of the last of her clothes and into the bath. They both winced as the hot water sloshed over the hatpin wound, but no one spoke.

  Once Iseult was fully submerged, Mrs. Pennington began to brush her hair in long, soothing strokes, at least as soothing as could be achieved with the number of snarls that Iseult’s hair generally harbored. Mrs. Pennington went over the menu for the evening aloud, but Iseult’s brain was crowded with those women, those girls from her father’s study. She had looked at more of them than she had pretended to recall. All in their various states of undress. Surely that wasn’t something a decent woman would do, let herself be seen in such a state, even by her husband? Surely?

  Iseult crammed two tea cakes into her mouth, which was only big enough for one, and found to her displeasure that, as she had feared, the steam had given a leaden quality to the usually airy confections.

  Had Mrs. Pennington’s dreadful husband seen her naked? Iseult laughed, then choked. Mrs. Pennington had to whack her on the back several times, and she ended up just spitting the whole soggy mess into a napkin. Mrs. Pennington took the disgusting bundle, a lecture about the virtues of small bites and deliberate chewing barely veiled in her eyes, and left the bathroom.

  Iseult took an enormous breath and sank completely under the water. The buzzing was no clearer. But Iseult shut her eyes and said anyway—

  * * *

  are you there?

  * * *

  She opened her eyes, blew a few bubbles out of her nose, and said—

  * * *

  are you?

  * * *

  Breath run out, she burst up through the surface, a bedraggled, gasping mermaid. She rubbed her eyes hard, as she’d been told never to do. The water from her hair streamed messily down her face. The buzzing was gone. It was eerily quiet, but not the quiet that signified Beatrice’s absence. Iseult ventured a silent

  * * *

  mother?

  yes

  * * *

  mother will you help me?

  * * *

  A very long pause.

  * * *

  of course my darling if i lived you know it would be for you and no one else there can be no one else you belong to me and i with you not even death could change that

  * * *

  Iseult thought about the fact that her parents had kept separate bedrooms. Did she dare ask?

  * * *

  never never your father was a gentleman

  * * *

  As a response to an unasked question, it was spectacularly unhelpful. Iseult reached from the bath for a sip of tea, which seemed tepid when compared with the bath. She screwed up her courage.

  * * *

  mother i feel there is some important knowledge that i am lacking and there is no one that i can ask but you

  what is it that you wish to know

  * * *

  Iseult ground her molars. Beatrice knew her every thought. She was obviously still angry, and punishing her through humiliation.

  * * *

  what happens … what happens when we are alone, he and i? what will i be expected to do?

  * * *

  Beatrice sighed, which always felt like a draft blowing through from one of Iseult’s ears to the other. There was also a little water still in Iseult’s right ear and she tipped her head to drain it out. Beatrice sighed again.

  * * *

  didn’t your mother tell you anything before you married? or is every woman consigned to the terror of finding out for herself?

  it is the way that it is if i told you i couldn’t i can’t i don’t know the words to explain they don’t tell them to women i am sorry my love i would tell you if i could the only thing that you must know is that you must do as you should as he says as he will and remember that it will be over soon

  * * *

  Iseult made herself think of him. Was she frightened of him as a whole, or of his component parts? Of course his silverness made her uneasy, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary to be put off by that. Everyone was put off by it. His eyes were warm and friendly but not intrusive. You just had to be sure not to look at them too long, or you would notice the silvered white. His size wasn’t alarming, exactly, although the closer he got the more alarming it became. He was a very medium-sized man. Perhaps it was his hands that made her most uneasy. Hands that looked normal (barring their color, of course) were still hands that could push and pull a girl to places she had no interest in going.

  His voice was pleasant enough, if … hollow, somehow. She wondered whether he could hear its echo in his head. It was a weary voice in comparison to Iseult’s own, which was too crammed with nervous energy.

  Maybe it was the plain fact of Jacob being a man that frightened her. All men frightened her. It was a pity that, if one absolutely must marry, one couldn’t marry a like-minded, similarly frightened, and solitary woman. Wouldn’t that be glorious, she thought, taking a swig of tepid tea and swirling her fingers slowly in the still-hot bathwater. Especially if the house were large, then she and her introverted wife would never even have to meet.

  * * *

  you are a silly and wicked girl you mustn’t think such thoughts

  but it wouldn’t be any different than how you and i are, mother. we exist together and we need no one else.

  how would you live without a man to attend to everything to bring money and food and comforts and shelter who would buy your dresses and your roof and your spoons

  * * *

  Once Iseult was soaped and rinsed and soaped and rinsed again, Mrs. Pennington left her alone to dry herself with a towel. Iseult preferred being wet in her dressing gown to being intimately alone with her towel. So she and her soaking hair and damp body were soon back in her room, not meeting Mrs. Pennington’s eye while kneeling damply on her bed, giving access to the hair that was now going to be combed within an inch of its life.

  Iseult could tell that Mrs. Pennington was thinking about the evening ahead, silently yanking the comb through her hair. She didn’t talk much when she was worrying about details, and Iseult was not talented at jollying her out of that worry. Still, she could try.

  “It smells as if dinner is going to be good,” Iseult ventured, voice going up an octave on “good” as Mrs. Pennington gave the comb a mighty tug, and Iseult had to grab wildly for the bedpost to avoid toppling onto the floor. There was a noncommittal sound from Mrs. Pennington, signifying that although Iseult’s comment was acknowledged, nothing further was going to be said on the matter. Or any other. Iseult’s nerves jumped. Something was wrong. A secret of some sort perched next to Iseult on the bed, as real as Beatrice perched beneath her skin. Iseult regretted not drying herself, as the temperature of the dampened fabric ha
d dropped several degrees, and more chilled droplets were being flung from the ends of her hair with each new snap of the comb. She tried again. Maybe something lighthearted?

  “Won’t Elspeth be surprised to see me in pink?” Iseult was pleased that she was able to make the shiver in her voice come out like a laugh. But Mrs. Pennington made the same noise as before and Iseult’s hands turned even clammier as they fumbled for the bedpost. Beatrice began to hum a tuneless something, and Iseult felt half mad. She would have put her clammy hands over her ears, but they would have gotten combed with vigor.

  Her mind raced trying to think what could be wrong, but it was going too fast to alight upon anything, a hummingbird with nowhere to land. Something was looming, something worse than the obvious. Iseult felt the need to shudder, but it wouldn’t come, it was stuck somewhere between her shoulder blades, and she tried to wriggle them subtly to get it out of her.

  Mrs. Pennington was having none of that. “Straighten up, girl, and stop fidgeting. We need you ready quickly so I can get back to the kitchen. Sarah is getting in everyone’s way.”