by Molly Pohlig
It wasn’t that Iseult had expected better of her father, because she did not. But just because an event isn’t surprising doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Iseult didn’t give a fig about the money. She felt her humiliation crystallize into something hard and opaque. He was selling her for a bargain. Had he paid Jacob’s parents outright to take her off his hands? Or had they taken her for nothing? She couldn’t imagine that to be the case.
“Now stop this sulking and sign those papers and I will bother you no longer.” He shook his head and returned his attention to his meal.
Iseult had lost any appetite she might have had. It wasn’t that she had expected better; it was merely that this would be a very public slap in the face—if not now, then whenever her father passed away. There would be scandal and whispering, which he hated, so his motive here was puzzling. Would he risk the news coming out while he was still alive? Surely to disown his one and only child and his heir would ruin his carefully crafted reputation. Between the sounds of the lawyer noisily masticating and Beatrice rattling around in her head, Iseult was finding it hard to concentrate. Was there any point in confronting her father? Mostly likely he would end up humiliating her further, calling her greedy. After all, her new husband’s family was quite wealthy, whyever should she need more money? She knew that Beatrice would keep rumbling until she spoke to him about it, but that might be preferable to any confrontation.
She poked at her beef with a fork, and the skin of gravy that had congealed across the top swayed slightly, small shiny ovals of grease sliding back and forth in the light. She didn’t know if any action (or indeed, inaction) of hers had even the remotest effect on the outcome of anything. She supposed that if she really felt like it she could crawl under the dining table and lie there until she starved to death. What could her father do? He couldn’t drag her bodily to the wedding. Not that he would hesitate out of deference to her, but he wouldn’t subject himself to the disgrace.
Her stomach felt curdled, the fish swimming slow in the stagnant mess. Had she actually believed up until this point that there was still a means of escape? She liked to think she was more realistic than that, but she felt a finality in this moment that she had not felt before. Her father had pushed her and Beatrice out into the cold, slamming and locking the door behind them. There was no point in continuing to struggle. There was to be no respite. She was nothing more than a pawn in whatever game this was. She knew that she should stop fighting, but resisting her father had been her natural instinct for as long as she could remember; she had no idea how to stop. She might as well have tried to change her eyes to blue, or regrow her lost toe.
First things first. She needed to sign her way through this stack of papers before they were soaked in the gravy still flying from the lawyer’s fork and mouth.
She signed and signed and signed, paper after paper, while the lawyer ate and spat and dozed off in his potatoes. She signed until her hand was cramped and her fingers stained with black. Her father wasn’t in the house; she wondered whether she would even see him before the wedding. She wondered whether she should read over any of the documents she was signing, but that proved to be an exercise in futility. Although she could understand the individual words perfectly, each document was written in a legal vocabulary that was designed to obfuscate. The pen was increasingly loath to cooperate, and the ink either dripped all the way from the inkwell to the page, or clotted up and refused to flow onto the paper. Ink puddles were beginning to form and distort the words.
Worst of all, she had begun to cry. She hardly ever did, and although she had cried more than usual in these stressful days, she didn’t know why this behavior of her father’s was making her cry. She hastily brushed away tears with the backs of her hands, hoping that the lawyer wouldn’t notice, knowing it was unlikely that he would, unsure of whom she was trying to hide them from. Beatrice was talking in a sickly sweet, crooning voice, which only made the tears leak faster, only made her throat burn with a sob she kept swallowing. The blurring words were becoming even blurrier, and she felt ashamed of herself.
Somehow she made it through the mountain of papers without completely dissolving. She didn’t trust her voice to let her politely excuse herself and instead prepared a weak smile, but it didn’t matter, because the lawyer was snoring. She laid the pen, dripping with ink, on the table next to the papers. Her father would consider this an unforgivable sin, and Iseult hoped the ink would stain the table. He could sever all ties with his only child, but the ink stain would be a permanent reminder that she had existed.
She left the table and the sleeping lawyer and plodded up to her room, feeling immensely weary. Mrs. Pennington and Sarah were chattering in the kitchen, and she supposed she should go and alert them to the situation in the dining room, but the tears were still running down her cheeks and showed no signs of stopping.
27.
Iseult went to bed in her clothes, having locked Mrs. Pennington out, and refused any further interaction. The tears continued as she lay on her side, racing down to puddle in her ear before her hair was flooded with them. There seemed no reason to stop them; she didn’t know how much time alone she would have as a new bride, so it was likely best to drain her body of salt water while she had the chance. Sometimes that worked.
As evening fell, she thought of the hiding places around her room for her sharpest tools and implements, and made a mental note to think about what to do with them tomorrow. Beatrice was still sniffling, and Iseult was too tired to reason out the logistics of transport to her new home at this hour. She wished that she could use her tools now, but propriety stopped her. She couldn’t risk bleeding on the wedding dress. Her insides gnawed at her again, and she willed herself to breathe, willed her heart to slow. It paid no attention. She chewed the inside of her mouth until blood added a metallic tang to the salt of her tears, but that made her cry harder, and it was harder to breathe, and mid-sob she choked on phlegm and sputtered and coughed and rubbed at her face, trying to calm down. It didn’t work, so she heaved her dampened self off her bed, tripping over her skirts.
Which was when she caught sight of herself in the mirror and began to laugh through her tears, because what else was there to do? Her hair was half up and half down, bedraggled strands clinging wetly to her neck. Her entire face was mottled with smears of black ink, and a red streak of blood shot from the corner of her mouth up across her cheek. She looked utterly mad, especially now that she was laughing as well. Beatrice was not laughing along. Beatrice was silent.
“Mother?” Iseult said aloud. A hair was stuck to her face; she dragged it out of the way, leaving a pale patch on her cheek. She could have sworn that her voice echoed, but surely that was her imagination. “Mother, are you there?”
She was embarrassed at having spoken aloud. She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to. She shook her head sharply, trying to get ahold of herself. She marched herself to the washstand and scrubbed at her face until it burned, but the ink and the blood were gone. Well, the ink rimmed her fingernails now, but that was preferable. Certainly she would get an almighty cleansing from Mrs. Pennington before the wedding. Iseult ignored the shudder that ran through her whenever she so much as thought that word. Thinking it, she felt, was akin to Pandora’s opening of her mythical box. Iseult had always felt sorry for Pandora. After all, she was only curious: that was her great sin.
Iseult went back to bed, this time under the covers, but still in her clothes. She let her troubled thoughts dart here and there until her eyelids and limbs grew heavy, and her breathing was slow and quiet and she was at last in the wonderful moment when you are still aware of all of your problems, but it simply doesn’t matter because you simply don’t care.
* * *
darling darling are you there don’t fall asleep
no. i am not here. not anymore. i am asleep. leave me alone. why must you always wait until the worst moment? can’t you wait until morning?
it’s important darling i’m important wha
t i have to say i must say now it can’t wait and you aren’t sleeping you’re lying again you lie so much more than you did haven’t you learned yet that you can’t can’t lie to me not me
mother. i must get married in two … much less than two days. i sleep here only two more nights, can you not let me rest in peace these nights, these last nights?
no no there’s no time you must go and speak to your father, beg his forgiveness beg him not to cast us out
* * *
Iseult sat up quickly, slamming her hands down on the bed, hair flying every which way, delicious heavy sleepy feeling entirely gone. She knew what she must tell her mother, and she wished that she didn’t have to, but she had to. It most likely meant she wasn’t going to get any sleep, but she wouldn’t get any sleep if she kept silent, either. She might as well stand up for herself.
* * *
i am not going to speak to him, mother. not tonight, not tomorrow, possibly not ever again. you can’t force me. i know you shall try, but it’s pointless. i am not going to speak to him, and i am certainly not going to beg, for forgiveness or anything else.
* * *
Iseult breathed shallowly, hands clenching in the sheets, preparing for Beatrice’s inevitable backlash. She felt first a small sharp pinch in her shoulder, and the pressure slowly grew. And when Beatrice began to speak, her voice was menacing and sickly sweet.
* * *
i don’t think you are hearing me listening to me understanding me my dear it is not a subject that is up for discussion you see you must see you will see you do not get to win.… do you understand? do you see you may as well be blind i am ashamed you are so stupid iseult.… you do not get to win.… you get to live.… you do not get to do both
* * *
Beatrice continued talking, but the words became meaningless to Iseult as the pain in her shoulder increased, soon engulfing her neck, her back, eventually swallowing her from head to toe. She communicated her feelings to her mother through gritted teeth.
* * *
i said no, mother. i am not going to apologize to him. not only would it do neither of us any good, you or me, if i did, i am not sorry for anything that i have done to him. the only reason that he even notices my existence is that it irks him so. he either ignores me or uses me as a pawn. i am removing myself, i am removing us from the game. you can pinch me and poke me and scrape your teeth and nails down the inside of my neck but it’s no good it’s no use no good.
* * *
The pain radiating through Iseult was bad, but it was bearable. But Beatrice was screaming now, and it was the same thing over and over, Iseult couldn’t decipher the words, but each string of sounds seemed identical to the last. It was a chaotic sound that she would not be able to sleep through. She wasn’t sure she could listen to it another five minutes. No matter the brave stand she had just taken, no matter her true intentions, she needed to mollify her mother and she needed to do it fast.
* * *
mother! mother! you’re right, you’re right. i’m sorry. i’ll speak with him.
* * *
Beatrice’s screaming ceased in a whoosh, like a candle being blown out. Iseult’s heart was pounding, and she thought she could feel Beatrice’s pounding in tandem. She waited for it to subside before proceeding with caution.
* * *
mother it’s going to be all right, you and me. i’ll speak with him.
when when will you when
tomorrow. i’ll speak with him tomorrow.
why not tonight get it over and done and tied up and settled i’m afraid you’re lying and you’re not going to talk to him and i’ll have to do something
you mustn’t do anything, mother. i’m not lying. you would know if i was lying, wouldn’t you? you always know. i’ll speak with him tomorrow, i promise. it’s too late tonight. i’m tired and so are you. tomorrow is going to be a long day and the day after even longer so i need my sleep don’t you think?
you promise you’ll do it tomorrow you’ll apologize truly for your disobedience and your your your disgraceful attitude as a daughter for every wrong thing you’ve done to him for holding him responsible for your sadness for all of it?
* * *
Iseult knew she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of following through on her reaction. She clenched her fists until her fingernails bit at the skin of her palms, and she imagined herself sweeping her true thoughts away where Beatrice couldn’t access them.
* * *
for everything. i’ll be sorry for everything. but tomorrow. tonight you must promise to let me sleep. no waking me up to remind me, no running through my dreams, please mother. i just want to sleep these last two nights like i have died. then i can be prepared for what is ahead of us.
don’t wish for a sleep like that you don’t know what you’re wishing
* * *
Iseult released her fists and curled up on her twisted and sweaty sheets. Beatrice almost never talked about what it was like for her. Iseult did not want to know. To know could be worse than to hear that sound again.
Beatrice was mostly quiet, making little murmurs now and then. Iseult breathed shallowly for a while, not wanting to disturb the calm. Eventually she felt certain that it would hold. She closed her eyes and slept.
28.
Beatrice was as good as her word, for once. Iseult fell instantly into a sleep of which she remembered nothing eight hours later when Mrs. Pennington drew back the curtains. Iseult sat blinking in the weak sunshine, trying to remind herself that the room should look exactly as empty as it did. It wasn’t that there was dust around spaces that had long been occupied—Mrs. Pennington would never have allowed that—but there were places on the wallpaper that were a slightly different color: places shaped like the bureau and desk and shelves and vanity, which had all been removed. The only things remaining were her bed, and a mirror against the wall, and her mother’s chair.
“Aren’t these last things going as well?” Iseult said. Mrs. Pennington jumped as she turned, not having realized that Iseult was awake yet.
“Yes, well, some of them.” Mrs. Pennington patted at her frazzled hair, to no avail, and came over to bustle Iseult out of bed. “The chair will come with you, of course, but I thought you’d like to have it here right up to the day. The mirror, well, that’s an old thing, isn’t it? And apparently the new house already has enough mirrors. And there’s no need to keep the bed, is there?”
“Isn’t there?” Iseult asked, hunting for her robe and not finding it. “Where am I to sleep?”
Mrs. Pennington stopped to plump a pillow, her face splotching red. “They’ll have a bed for you, Iseult, there’s no need to take another.”
Iseult didn’t have time to be anxious, because Mrs. Pennington was divesting her hurriedly of her nightgown and shoving her into her clothes.
“Why are we hurrying so?”
Mrs. Pennington stopped dead and stared at Iseult.
“My dear, I know you can be scattered, but surely you haven’t forgotten that there is to be a wedding tomorrow. And it is to be your wedding.”
Iseult tried to match her withering look for withering look, holding her arms above her head so Mrs. Pennington could yank a chemise over her head. Her first response was muffled and she was obliged to repeat herself.
“I said, of course I know. But that’s tomorrow. What could I possibly be needed for today?” In one look, Iseult was completely out-withered. Mrs. Pennington’s hands went to her hips.
“First on the list is the dressmaker’s, where we very may well be all day.” Mrs. Pennington pushed Iseult’s hands into her blouse, and yanked the neck more sharply than was strictly necessary. “Then we must make sure that you’ve got proper shoes, and jewelry, and then it’s right back here to give you a bath, and there’s your hair to be done. You’ll not be out of my sight for a moment today, so don’t you go getting any ideas in your head.”
“But I must—”
* * *
spea
k to your father iseult tell her you must speak to your father you promised you know what will happen to us if you don’t
“—visit my mother’s grave one last time.”
Thinking fast was not one of Iseult’s talents, but she thought fast enough to try to buy herself a little time alone.
“Why are you blushing?” Mrs. Pennington peered at her suspiciously.
“I’m not,” Iseult protested weakly, and looked about for a distraction, finding it blessedly quickly. “Can you do something about this thread?”
Mrs. Pennington pursed her lips at the offending thread trailing from the waist of Iseult’s skirt, looking as if she didn’t entirely believe in its existence. She reached into a pocket hidden behind her apron and pulled out scissors, batting Iseult’s hands away out of habit. Seeing the scissors, Iseult wasn’t sure whether they made her feel nothing, or whether all she wanted in the world was to wrap her hand around them and plunge the points into her temple once and for all. In any case, she refrained, and Mrs. Pennington dispatched the thread with a single snip. The scissors disappeared and Iseult raised her eyes to the anticipated skepticism in Mrs. Pennington’s.
“You’ve not been to your mother’s grave in ages,” she said, circling round Iseult, pinching and tucking and pulling at bits of fabric, whisking away bits of the fuzz and strands of hair that forever clung to Iseult’s clothing. “I’ve been hoping those visits were a thing of the past.”
Iseult made a noncommittal sound, not sure where this line of conversation was heading, hoping that Beatrice wasn’t jumping to any conclusions. Mrs. Pennington pushed Iseult down to sit on her bed and began work on her hair.