by Molly Pohlig
Goodness, there were so many plaits to be done. That was a good way to gauge how important an evening event was. By Iseult’s count, there were already eight throbbing spots pulled taut, and Mrs. Pennington was still busily and tightly plaiting away. Iseult turned her mind reluctantly to the number of social pitfalls she was going to have to avoid all at once this evening. It was better than worrying about whatever might be worrying Mrs. Pennington.
23.
It took a lot of time, a lot of Mrs. Pennington wrestling with Iseult’s hair, and a lot of Sarah wrestling with Iseult’s corset, but ten minutes before the expected arrival of the dinner guests, Iseult was considered presentable enough to descend the stairs. She had caught only glimpses of herself in the mirror as the two women fussed over the placement of every hair and the drape of every inch of fabric, but she did not feel displeased with the results.
She had tried not to sigh with pleasure as the cool fabric slid over her skin. She thought the dress had made the shushing sound, but it was hard to be sure. Her hand nervously went to her throat at the thought, to make sure that her neck was covered appropriately, and Mrs. Pennington gently batted it down.
“Try not to worry,” Mrs. Pennington said as soon as Sarah had left the room. “Everything looks as it should. Your hair will stay in place, your dress doesn’t show a thing, and you look quite the proper lady.”
Iseult felt more grateful than she had words for. Without meeting Mrs. Pennington’s eye, she slipped in low and hugged her, quickly and awkwardly, ignoring the firm pinch at her neck. Mrs. Pennington didn’t have time to hug her back, and Iseult hurried into her chair so she wouldn’t have a chance. After an expectant pause, Mrs. Pennington said, “I’ll leave you until it’s time then, shall I.”
Iseult had always loved the way that many of Mrs. Pennington’s questions weren’t questions at all, but assurances that everything was going to be all right.
Alone with Beatrice, Iseult knew that something must be said, but what?
* * *
mother i need to ask you a favor please do you think you can do me a favor?
of course of course child i am here at your beck and your call if i lived it would be to please you to serve you whatever you ask just go ahead and i won’t expect the smallest shred of gratitude because you never give it do you
* * *
Iseult swallowed hard and tasted bile, which she assumed must be the taste of her pride.
* * *
please mother can you be on my side tonight?
nonsense child there are no sides here we are one how could i be anything other to you
i mean … i mean … please don’t try to confuse me. you shake my thoughts about in my brain until i can’t remember what my own are anymore.
but that’s because my darling that’s because you have no thoughts that are your own nothing that you have is truly your own everything is mine too mine and me and ours all one-sided if you have a thought it is as much yours as it is mine mine mine you can rely on your mother’s thoughts to guide you
* * *
Iseult curled her hand into a fist, felt her nails nibbling at the skin of her palm. There was no point in arguing, but she didn’t know if she could emerge from this evening unscathed unless her mother agreed to be more cooperative than usual.
* * *
if you could please if you could if you please could try not to confuse me not to twist me up inside until i don’t know who i am anymore and what i am supposed to do or say
if you think my girl that i am deliberately confusing you then you are both sillier and more vicious than i thought and although it doesn’t surprise me well perhaps it does
see? see? just there. you say a thing and its very reverse in the same sentence how am i ever to know your true thoughts and then extricate them from my own?
* * *
Iseult didn’t realize how angrily she thought that last sentiment, and wasn’t prepared for the response, which felt as if something was being ripped inside of her head. And Beatrice’s voice, which she felt in roughly the same place, was icy and slow.
* * *
extricate yourself you think you can extricate yourself do you know how many times i have wished to be free of you rid of you i kick and i scream and i scratch and i bite but i cannot get out from inside oh why weren’t you the one to die instead of me
* * *
“Oh, Iseult, what have you done now?” Iseult was jolted out of argument with Beatrice to find Mrs. Pennington at her side, peering at Iseult’s hand in alarm and disgust. She plucked the hand up from where it lay in Iseult’s lap. “What have you done now? There’s blood on your dress you wicked girl!”
Confused, Iseult looked from her hand to the two round spots of blood on her dress. She didn’t like how much Mrs. Pennington’s words sounded like Beatrice’s, and although she saw the tear in an old wound in her palm that seemed the clear source of the blood, she couldn’t remember having reopened it herself. And it didn’t hurt— Wait. Like a child who does not weep until his mother expresses alarm at his grazed knee, Iseult screwed up her mouth in pain.
Mrs. Pennington’s alarm had drained out of her, leaving only the disgust. “We must hurry, and don’t you dare say a word. If you so much as mention your mother, I think I will lose my mind. I’ll not have you sabotage every chance you have to escape your father. If I don’t get you out of this house, one of you will kill the other, and if you don’t, then I’ll kill you both myself to put everyone out of their misery because that’s what this house has been since the day your mother died nothing but misery and gloom and hatred and the only way you’ll escape marrying Mr. Vinke is if I kill you first.”
Cold horror rushed through Iseult and she felt herself sway. Those were Mrs. Pennington’s brown button eyes and warm comfortable body, but that was Beatrice’s bile spilling from Mrs. Pennington’s familiar mouth. Yet she could still feel Beatrice inside her, where she always was. How was she doing it? Iseult felt like a ventriloquist’s doll whose owner had bought a new one without telling her.
“Well, at least that’s come out,” Mrs. Pennington said, blotting the damp layer of fabric with a towel. “Now, let’s take a look at that hand, and you must promise to keep your hands apart from each other this evening, because that’s how it starts—you begin to fidget and then those naughty fingers get their naughty ideas. Sometimes I think they have a mind of their own.”
The horror whooshed back out of Iseult, but left a taste of burnt hair in her mouth. “I shall be careful, I promise,” she said, or rather, someone said. She didn’t think it was her. “You are right. I must keep a closer hold on myself, I will behave this evening.”
Mrs. Pennington looked at her curiously, but with relief. “It’s dry enough. And the bleeding has stopped, but you keep an eye on it during dinner. If it happens to start up again you must signal me somehow. Drop your fork, maybe.”
Iseult nodded mutely and let herself be led toward the door of her bedroom. The doorbell rang below and Iseult’s stomach lurched, but she kept walking. Mrs. Pennington was crooning comforting things as they walked down the stairs arm in arm, things like “That’s the girl, that’s the sweet girl, that’s the good girl I know.” There was no trace of the fury that had filled her voice moments previously. Iseult could scan her body quickly and know that Beatrice hadn’t gone anywhere, but the foul burnt taste was still at the back of her throat. Iseult vowed that she would keep an eye on that hand, but she privately vowed to keep an eye on Mrs. Pennington as well.
24.
For better or for worse, all the guests arrived at once: her aunt and uncle, Elspeth and her husband, Jacob and his parents. Mrs. Pennington disappeared with coats and accoutrements, and Mr. Wince appeared in her place. Iseult politely greeted her future husband and in-laws, and suffered kisses from her aunt and uncle, and one of Elspeth’s smothering perfumed embraces. Iseult and Elspeth’s husband had long since tacitly agreed that they need never speak; they merely nodded a
t each other. Every once in a while, Iseult thought what a sensible man Elspeth’s husband must be, and wished for a spouse as silent. Those prayers, like all her others, seemed to go not just unanswered but patently contradicted. Jacob took her arm as they entered the dining room, and he said in a low voice, “You look lovely in that color, but you seem not yourself. Is everything all right?”
What could possibly be all right in the current situation? Her saliva suddenly tasted burnt and she was tempted to spit. She shoved the urge down and, peering sideways at pretty rosy blond Elspeth, smiling away for no reason, did instead what her cousin would do. She turned her face up to Jacob’s, trying to imitate a flower turning toward the sun, and said, “Just nervous, my dear. It is the first time we are with our families as an engaged couple, and I am anxious that all should go well.”
She was laying it on a little thick, but better thick than thin, she supposed. Jacob’s hand brushed across her sleeve as he sat next to her, and she felt a frisson of … something. She was surprised to find that it was not unpleasant, whatever it was.
* * *
Dinner proceeded with an almost unsettling smoothness, which should have served as a warning to everyone present, who were all aware that whatever qualities a dinner at the Wince household might have, smoothness was not one of them. The aperitifs and the soup course passed without incident. Iseult made no strange proclamations about her mother, and not only did Mr. Wince not once insult his daughter, he even told her that he was pleased to see her looking so well and out of her mourning, for they were at least ushering in an era of great joy for their family, brought about by the upcoming union with the Vinkes. To their great credit, if anyone else was surprised by this outpouring of positivity from Mr. Wince, they had the good grace not to show it. Iseult knew that she had a smile of sorts plastered across her face, though its provenance was suspect. The burnt taste was largely gone, but that could be due to the aperitif, which Iseult had followed with several large gulps of red wine, a thing which Mr. Wince would usually comment on, but he was deep in an animated conversation with Jacob’s father about the construction of trestle bridges. Jacob was talking to Elspeth’s husband about some novel, and three of the ladies (not Iseult, of course) were discussing wedding veil styles as if they were a matter of national importance.
Iseult surveyed the scene around her, marveling at its normality; it was like a dinner party in a book. And whenever she caught someone’s eye, they smiled generously. That was very unlike the pitying smiles she usually got. She daintily took another enormous swallow of wine, and was pleased to note that the last of the scorched taste went down with it, dissolving into warmth. Sarah came around to take the soup dishes and nothing was even spilled. Iseult risked a sidelong glance at her fiancé; it could have been the wine (it almost certainly was), but she could tell he was handsome if one could accustom oneself to the silver, and if she were always to see him by candlelight, she thought she could certainly accustom herself to it. He sat back slightly to allow Sarah to refill his glass, and gave Iseult a look that felt more like a touch. She felt flushed and itchy and as if she had done something secretive and shameful, but she also felt happy, with the sort of heart-pounding pleasure she had after traipsing up a high hill to survey how tiny things at the bottom looked from the top.
And then she felt something else. An unmistakable something else. At that moment, it was worse than any vile thing that Beatrice could have whispered to shake her confidence. It was the thing. And it was too late, far too late, she could tell. Too late to excuse herself upstairs briefly, too late to pretend she felt faint and be escorted from the room. A shudder ran through her, and her hand knocked into her water glass but no one took notice. As long as no one was paying attention, Iseult tried to wriggle unobtrusively in her seat to discover whether she was completely past hope. She edged herself slowly into the corner of her chair, and, if anyone had been watching, they would have seen her obviously pick up her fork and drop it on the floor. But no one saw.
Iseult swooped her head under the table to retrieve the fork, lifting aside a small handful of the fabric of her skirt as she did so. It was dark in the dining room, even darker underneath the table, but Iseult could see well enough to know that she was in the midst of a disaster. There was already blood on the striped ticking of the seat. Iseult cursed Beatrice, who had chosen the daintily colored fabric of cream and pale blue. There was no response. Even Beatrice had nothing to say to this.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Wince?” Iseult was surprised by Jacob’s voice so near her ear and she banged her head loudly on the underside of the table. She hastily pulled herself upright, rearranging her skirts. She found all eyes on her upon her return.
“Ha ha!” She knew full well that the laugh sounded as if she had read it from a script. “I dropped my fork, and when I found it under the table, I realized that it was soiled, so I decided to leave it and come back up here for a new one.”
Iseult was grateful for the polite, well-intended chuckles from Jacob and several others, although she didn’t care for the tinge of unkindness in her cousin’s tinkly laugh. Iseult looked at Jacob, wondering if he cared for it. But Jacob was busy with the lamb chop that had just arrived. Iseult looked at her own lamb chop, thinking that she wasn’t very hungry, and wouldn’t it be so much nicer if she could have a tray in her room.
* * *
iseult iseult there is no time this is no time for your mind to wander you must get yourself out of this room.
* * *
Iseult felt mildly startled that she had forgotten even momentarily that she was in the throes of an emergency. She felt as if she was moving within a cloud or a fog; that was not unusual while she endured this time of the month, but she seemed to be under the spell of some added stupidity. And that was when it occurred to her that she was drunk. She took another tremendous swallow of wine and looked at her lamb chop. Her eyes felt big. She kept them turned down so no one could see. A vicious twist of a muscle near her shoulder blade snapped her back to attention.
* * *
if you do not find yourself a way out of this room so help me god i will drag you out by the roots of your hair
how do you expect me to do that, mother? i am as stuck here as if the blood had already dried. and even if i do manage to get out of the room … it’s all over, isn’t it? jacob and his parents will break off the engagement, and father will either shut me up in my room forever or kill me at last. there is no way i can escape without their seeing. it’s on the chair, mother, it’s already on the chair.
* * *
“What’s on the chair?”
Iseult whipped her head toward Jacob and discovered one of the less pleasant effects of drunkenness when her brain swiveled an instant after the rest of her head. She wasn’t sure how much of her conversation with Beatrice she had hissed aloud, but she shook her head sharply to try and get the thought out of her head and concentrate on the task at hand. She then learned how a drunkard’s head and stomach are intimately connected, as the movement made her feel distinctly seasick.
“Nothing,” she said, attempting to sound light and cheery. “Sometimes I chatter to myself. Nothing important, in fact when I’m asked to describe it a moment later I find it has run right out of my head!”
Jacob looked convinced, although Iseult made a note that her judgment of his expression might also be clouded. Everything seemed to be taking too long. They had been at dinner for hours; why were they all still here? Couldn’t this all just end?
At that moment, salvation arrived, in the blessed form of Mrs. Pennington. Perhaps she had heard the kerfuffle about the fork, perhaps she had noticed that Iseult looked peaked, perhaps—it didn’t matter. It was like seeing an angel arrive on gilt wings from heaven, and Iseult wanted to stand up and clap. Fortunately, the moment she shifted her weight she remembered why she couldn’t. She waited patiently while Mrs. Pennington inquired whether anyone needed anything and one by one they all said no, thank you. Iseult
stared at the housekeeper with a bright smile so she would know instantly that something was amiss. Mrs. Pennington had the wisdom to position herself at the space next to Iseult that was not next to Jacob.
“Do you need something?” Mrs. Pennington said quietly. Iseult glanced around the table to be sure that no one was paying attention. She thanked whatever God there might be that her father was deep in some business conversation with his brother-in-law.
“My fork,” she said softly. “I dropped it.”
Mrs. Pennington opened her mouth and then shut it again. With a little hesitation and creaking of her hips, she lowered herself next to Iseult’s chair and stuck out a hand to try and find the fork. Iseult looked pointedly at her seat and tugged a little of her skirt aside. She couldn’t look at the chair: the nausea was beginning to come in waves.
Iseult had never seen this particular look on Mrs. Pennington’s face before. She was accustomed to seeing disgust, and disappointment, and horror, and trepidation, but always in flashes, as Mrs. Pennington was a master at composing herself quickly. But now a look came across that face, and then it stayed there. There was compassion, and worry, and kindness, but most of all there was fear.
The nausea swelled, and Iseult wondered whether she was going to have another problem on top of the first one.
And then a third problem! Mr. Wince had paused in his conversation at the other end of the table and had turned his attention to the panicky tableau on Iseult’s side. Jacob, bless him, was pointedly not interfering, but continued to speak with Elspeth’s husband. Iseult felt somehow bolstered and reassured by this. She gave what she hoped was a similarly comforting smile to the still crouched Mrs. Pennington. Through clenched teeth she whispered, “Drop my napkin on the seat when I stand.”