by Molly Pohlig
“Oh, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with visiting the place now and then, but it was maudlin to go so often, to grieve so hard and so long for a woman you never even knew. Your father should have put a stop to it when you were a child, but I was instructed to let you go as often as ever you pleased. Maybe it made him feel you were doing the grieving for him, too; Lord knows he never troubled himself with a visit.”
The last words turned into a fierce grumble. Iseult was not surprised. She knew that there was no love lost between the housekeeper and her father, she just usually didn’t voice such outright criticism. Iseult looked down at her hands in her lap and waited to see what would happen next. Her hair was being tugged sharply, a sure sign that Mrs. Pennington was fired up about something.
“I’ll see if I can arrange a time for you to visit today. Mind, it’s not that I don’t understand the wanting to go, day before your wedding and all. It’s natural. But that’s how I want it to stay, natural. A young newlywed needn’t be mooning about the cemetery at all hours, no matter how it makes her father feel. His guilt is his and he ought to be the one doing penance for it. But no, he’s put it on you all these years. I have never approved of it and I never will.”
Iseult was alarmed, she could feel Beatrice gathering … something. Strength, a voice, something.
“Then you know … about the will?” she said, against her better judgment. It was opening a door that would be better kept closed, but maybe it didn’t make any difference after all.
“I do. I know about the will, and I know about a lot more besides.” Iseult could feel hairs being tugged out at the root with the force of Mrs. Pennington’s brushing. At least, that was part of it. Her scalp felt unnaturally tight, as if her mother was pulling in the opposite direction to make it all worse.
“I mean to speak with him about it,” Iseult said, for Beatrice’s benefit.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Mrs. Pennington was spitting out words now. Iseult could only placate one of them at a time. “Not only will it not change his mind, it will cause an almighty row, and you’ll likely be up all night weeping, with eyes red as cherries for your wedding, like your mother.”
Iseult would have sworn that she felt cold slender fingers wrap themselves delicately yet purposefully around her throat. She knew better than to ask for an explanation of that statement, no matter how badly she wanted one.
“No, my dear, the sooner you put your father and this house behind you, the better. I don’t want you to look back, not once. And that goes for your mother too. Go to the grave today, and then say goodbye to all that. She gave you life, but little else, poor thing. Let all that be part of your old life. Leave it here and don’t ever look at it again.”
Iseult was having trouble breathing. She put her hand on Mrs. Pennington’s, which had rested on her shoulder. They were both silent, but Iseult could hear Beatrice breathing. Mrs. Pennington leaned over and swiftly kissed Iseult’s hand, whispering into her ear, “I’ll make sure you have a moment today to get away to the churchyard and say your goodbyes to your mother. And after today, you never need go there again.”
There was a tremendous crash at the window. Iseult and Mrs. Pennington jumped, and the hairbrush fell to the floor. Iseult was afraid to look at the window, and wondered, just for a flash, if she might see Beatrice there, raging. Mrs. Pennington had more backbone and rushed right over, peering down into the yard below, and heaving a sigh of relief.
“It was a bird crashed right into the pane, poor thing! Look, there’s a feather and a bit of blood on the glass. Oh, how terrible.”
Iseult walked over to join her at the window. She was right, there was a dirty fluff of feather and a smear of rusty blood. Iseult put her hand against the glass, wondering how hard she’d have to run into the window to be excused from her wedding tomorrow. Mrs. Pennington looked at her sideways, reading her mind as she could sometimes.
“Don’t you even think of it as a bad omen, Missy. Your luck’s so bad that bad omens are good.”
Iseult smiled despite herself. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Mrs. Pennington stood back and looked Iseult over with a critical eye, then licked a thumb to wet down Iseult’s left eyebrow, which tended to stick up in a manner that made her look alarmed. “Look smart, and be downstairs in five minutes. We’ve to be at the dressmaker’s. And I’ll be sure to sneak you to the churchyard sometime after that.”
Iseult smiled until Mrs. Pennington bustled out of the room, then began to worry her left eyebrow with her fingertips, which was why it tended to stick up so often. When she leaned her forehead against the windowpane, she could see the bird on the ground below. She thought she saw it move, but there was nothing to be done for it now. She felt responsible somehow, living in the house as she did.
She took a breath and looked around for a mirror, but when she remembered that it would be staying when she left, she felt too betrayed to look into it. She fumbled at her eyebrow, then slapped her hand at her skirt to get it out of her system. As she went down the stairs, her hand floated back to her eyebrow.
* * *
The appointment with the dressmaker was predictably tedious, doubly so because of Iseult’s mounting anxiety over the visit to Beatrice’s grave.
The dressmaker, her assistant, Mrs. Pennington, and Aunt Catherine were fussing around her grimly; the atmosphere was very different from that at the previous appointment. Iseult had precious little knowledge of womanly things, but she rightly guessed that no one present thought that moving a wedding date up several months suggested propriety. She was being very much ignored, which provided her with more time to worry. How strange, she thought, to stand in her wedding gown, with the wedding one day hence, and to feel so very absent.
* * *
when are you going to speak to your father you promised so you must i know you will but when time runs short
when i can, mother, i can’t very well run down the street like this, can i?
if you’ve lied to placate me i’ll know it no one knows you as I do no one knows you if you lose me you’ve no one
* * *
“Stop fidgeting, if you please,” Mrs. Pennington said sharply into Iseult’s ear. She wasn’t aware that she’d been fidgeting.
“Sorry,” she murmured, holding her arms out at a gesture from the dressmaker.
* * *
don’t cross me my darling i’ve told you what to do and i expect to be obeyed you must speak to your father you must apologize make amends or else
and i hear you asking what you aren’t brave enough to ask little coward little shameful thing
and what’s that, mother? what’s the question? is it “what follows ‘or else’?” by all means continue your thought. i’m listening.
or else i’ll kill you
* * *
“I said stop fidgeting!” Mrs. Pennington huffed. “You’re getting married whether or not this dress is finished, which I’m sure we’d all prefer that it is.”
Iseult ducked her head meekly as the dressmaker stitched around her waist, making barely noticeable clucking sounds.
“I’m not a chicken!” Iseult suddenly said indignantly, and three startled faces turned toward her. She coughed. “Nerves. I’m nervous. Please forgive me.”
Aunt Catherine said something weakly humorous about brides, and the women went back to ignoring Iseult.
* * *
i said i’ll kill you
believe me i heard you
you heard me do you believe me
i don’t understand why. if you kill me, what happens to you? wouldn’t that defeat … whatever your purpose is?
my purpose is none of your concern
* * *
Iseult became aware that she was being stared at.
“Nice of you to return to us, dear; now, would you like to take a walk while some adjustments are made to the dress?” Mrs. Pennington raised her eyebrows and spoke in a voice that most people reserve for v
ery small children.
“Yes, please, if I may.” Iseult felt stupid and small. The three women eased her carefully out of the yards and yards of dress, and she was docile and malleable in their hands. She no longer knew whether she had any intention of speaking to her father. Her thoughts had all gotten confused inside her, all jumbled.
Iseult was perturbed to find she would not be allowed to take the dress off in solitude, the lace being considered far too delicate for her clumsy fingers. Once she was down to her petticoats, she was sure the dressmaker and Mrs. Pennington would leave her in peace, and she was already scanning the room for anything even vaguely sharp, peering down at the floor for a stray straight pin. She needed to assuage Beatrice’s anger, and any worry about Jacob seeing fresh wounds was swiftly receding. But when the dressmaker finally left, laden down with armfuls of ivory, Mrs. Pennington did not follow, but started shoving Iseult’s limbs back into her street dress.
“I can do it myself,” Iseult protested. Mrs. Pennington gave her a look she was very familiar with, lips pursed and eyebrows raised.
“Miss Iseult”—that was never a good sign—“if you think you’re being left unattended for one single solitary moment before the ceremony, you’ve another think coming.”
Iseult wilted. Even her poorly constructed, second-choice, last-minute plans fell through.
“I’m not going to hover by the grave, but I’m afraid I’m under instruction from your father not to let you out of my sight, and for once, I must say I agree with him. I will stand at a proper remove, but I will accompany you to the churchyard and back home.”
Iseult attempted a joke. “Do you not trust that I won’t run off?”
The eyebrows went down. “No, Iseult, I don’t trust that. I can see it in your eyes, love.”
Iseult looked down, as if that would help, although she did catch the glint of a needle caught in the nap of the carpet. Mrs. Pennington tipped Iseult’s chin back up. “I can’t say as I blame you. You’re in a terrible situation, as I see it. But I do believe that it will turn out that you are far happier in your new life with Mr. Vinke than you ever were with your father.”
Something like a shudder or a chill ran through Iseult from her head to her toes. She couldn’t tell whether it was caused by Beatrice or by Mrs. Pennington’s kind words. “And you’ll be with me. That’s all I really need,” Iseult said as Mrs. Pennington finished with the buttons at her gnarled neck.
“Well, now we are all ready to set off,” Mrs. Pennington said, far too cheerily to sound normal. But Iseult left well enough alone and followed her silently out of the room, with a twinge of regret for not being able to secrete the pin on the floor somewhere about her person.
29.
The walk to the churchyard was somber, Iseult silent and Mrs. Pennington only pointing out banalities; conversation fizzled when Iseult failed to respond. The weather battled itself, combining chill and humidity, and it was distinctly uncomfortable.
Mrs. Pennington, as promised, left Iseult at the churchyard entrance, settling herself on a stone bench in view of Beatrice’s grave. Iseult walked inside, feeling eyes on her.
She sat where she always sat on the ledgerstone, fingers tracing the old familiar letters. But nothing else felt the same. She sat stiffly, awkwardly. She didn’t feel the welcome she always had before. Perhaps it was because Beatrice had so recently threatened her life. Perhaps it was that. She didn’t know where to begin. It was as if she were sitting with a stranger who relied on her to speak first, but she wasn’t even sure what the stranger looked like. And Iseult felt entirely disinclined to begin. But stranger or not, Beatrice was her mother, and Iseult had no choice.
* * *
i … i do mean to speak to him, mother, i am waiting for the right moment.
how can i convince you that my intent is honest?
by doing it
and i shall. this evening, i hope.
i will believe it when you have done it until then pray do not humiliate yourself with your wheedling attempts to placate me
mother can you not see at all the predicament i am in? how this wedding terrifies me? how betrayed i feel that my father has thrown me to the wolves, and cannot wait to turn his back on me forever and for good?
of course i see it iseult i was in the same predicament myself
then how can you be so entirely devoid of sympathy for my plight?
because i was a good girl who did as my father instructed me
but you were so unhappy! do you truly wish the same for me? what if i don’t escape by dying in childbirth? what if i must stay with this man i do not know for years and years? what if he is worse than father? must i still continue to thank my father for the nightmare he has cursed me with?
yes
* * *
Beatrice’s voice dripped with ice and venom, a tone that brooked no discussion. Suddenly Mrs. Pennington was at Iseult’s side, brisk and comforting. Iseult rose and leaned into her arm, knowing it was the only place she felt close to safe, by the side of this woman whom she had always taken for granted. She’d no idea how to express her gratitude. Maybe she would think of something by tomorrow morning.
Mrs. Pennington started to go on about everything that had to be done in the now less than twenty-four hours before the grand event. Iseult clenched her fists with all her might, to prevent any more of her dignity from slipping through her fingers. There wasn’t much to begin with, and there was even less left now. She gripped Mrs. Pennington’s arm tighter. Mrs. Pennington squeezed Iseult’s arm in return, but kept talking. If Iseult had been paying attention, she would have heard a slight catch in her voice.
But Iseult was looking across the street at an elderly woman, who walked along slowly with an equally decrepit dog. She wondered whether Jacob might permit her to keep a dog, and the thought cheered her a little, but not very much.
30.
The rest of the day was filled with preparations, some worse than others. Some even verged on the pleasurable, and all that kept Iseult from succumbing to enjoyment were the intermittent pangs of … what? Fear, anxiety, outright terror. One moment she was sitting in Beatrice’s chair as four women, presumably friends of Mrs. Pennington, crouched round her rubbing fragrant oils and creams into her hands and feet, and then she was being thrust onto a precipice, some ledge on a mountain or a building too tall to consider as real. She looked down and her stomach dropped right out of her, but the next moment she was back in her chair and the women were chatting quietly to themselves, nonsensical as birdsong, and even though Beatrice still buzzed in her ear like a wasp—your father your father you must when will you there’s no time foolish child silly bitch can’t you see what’s at stake of course you can’t little fool little harlot—she felt her spine press against the back of the chair and she felt her hands and feet rubbed gently as if they were cared for and she felt the scarred stretches of her neck and her back and untold tiny nicks and ridges prick and twitch and tighten in unison as if they wanted something, but what was it that they wanted? To be softened and cosseted and smoothed by kind motherly hands or to receive yet more blows? Might the best thing not be to be covered coated enveloped in scar tissue so thick that no barb could penetrate? Would she need to leave the smallest space soft and free, or was that begging the world to bite her heel?
Never mind. Mrs. Pennington had spirited away her carefully curated collection of tools. Even her fingernails were being filed down. Her tongue traced her sharp teeth, and teeth were reliable, but she couldn’t reach her neck with her teeth, now could she.
The gaggle of women (of whom she was growing more fond by the minute) finished with her hands and feet and focused their efforts on her hair and her face. More oils and creams, and brushes much softer than any Mrs. Pennington had ever employed to remove her tangles. They brushed and coiled and braided and pinned and then wrapped her head in a netted cloth so the arrangement would keep until tomorrow. Her face they patted and smoothed and massaged until it felt t
ired and plump and new.
As it grew dark outside, the gaggle left one by one. They said nothing to her—no goodbye, no wish good luck—and by the time Sarah had left her dinner on a tray and only Iseult and Mrs. Pennington remained, there was no sign that the women had been there at all. Iseult balanced the tray on her knees, nibbling at this and that, and Mrs. Pennington uncapped the jar of salve, the smell of which had always signified rest, and with a scooping wet sound began to caress Iseult’s neck and shoulders. Iseult willed herself to block out thoughts of Jacob and Beatrice and her father and tomorrow and life and death, and to rest in the silent comfort of now.
Beatrice was grumbling—why are you eating in your room you should be eating with talking to your father little liar don’t presume that i will let this go let you go you won’t you can’t get away from me and i will see you reconciled to him see us reconciled—but Iseult firmly set her mind to, if not enjoying the last moments of this life, then at least to being in them, not losing them to Beatrice.
She continued resisting, and Mrs. Pennington continued with her own quiet task, and the two women sat in silence, doing something un-extraordinary that they had done a hundred times before, connected only by hands running over skin, as if the world were not about to end.
* * *
By daybreak, Mrs. Pennington was rushing from one room to the next, in the middle of at least six tasks at all times. Sarah brought a tray with silent swiftness, and Iseult calmly settled down to her breakfast in Beatrice’s chair. She thought she was feeling quite serene until she took a bite of a biscuit, at which point all her terror raced back into her body. And then all was panic within and without.