Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘We met at the wedding,’ Emily says, with a look that pins Liz to the spot.

  Emily twists round to face the fire and holds her hands towards the flames. Tom smirks at Liz, and for one dreadful moment, Liz thinks he might laugh, but then he slaps his hands together, cracking the silence.

  ‘Right then, Mary, where is this tea? I’m parched.’

  It was a long night last night. Mrs Beacham had prepared a mountain of food, all rich and creamy, sweet and sugar-laden. The conversation was stilted, the atmosphere thick with unsaid words and incorrect manners. And after all that hard work with Emily, Tom had to bring Mary to his bed-chamber as well.

  He was full of food and drowsy with wine, but he did it. He unfastened Mary's clothes, laid her naked, panting body upon the bed and watched as she opened her legs for him. It had been a struggle to get going, but he had closed his eyes as he had fallen upon her, his face in the space above her collarbone, her hair tickling his forehead, and he had imagined that she was someone else. When she had moaned, he had placed a hand over her mouth, his excuse being that Emily would hear them.

  It had done the job. Mary is as happy as a lamb again this morning and has taken breakfast with an air of glee that her aunt has not failed to notice. Liz, meanwhile, sits quietly, picking at the shell of her boiled egg until Emily chides her for it.

  ‘Why don’t you play the piano for us, sister?’ Mary says.

  Liz’s eyes widen in panic. ‘I don’t feel too well this morning.’ Tom can see her scrambling for an excuse. ‘The food was a little too much for me last night. I think I may go to my room if you would not think me rude?’

  Whether Aunt Emily thinks her rude or not, Mary accepts the plea and lets Liz go, saying Liz must play tonight after dinner instead, for Aunt Emily loves to hear a jolly tune. It takes all of Tom’s strength not to scoff at that.

  The snow is finally melting. Only patches of it lie about, like icebergs in the ocean. There is a thin layer of cloud which will have burned out by lunchtime. Perhaps Mary could take her aunt out in the carriage this afternoon, show her around the village, give her the opportunity to throw stones at poor children, a pastime Tom believes would suit them both well.

  There is a knock at the door.

  ‘Aunt.’ Tom welcomes Emily into the study and gestures for her to take a seat opposite him.

  ‘I see you have made yourself comfortable,’ she says as she sits.

  She smells old, like the first signs of decay have already set in. The scent reminds him of the reverend’s house back in the city, but he pushes the memory away quickly; he must be on his guard around Emily.

  ‘My father loved this room.’ She gazes about herself, unfazed. ‘He would never have believed someone like you would be sitting in his chair.’

  Tom does not rise to the bait. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Why did you marry Mary?’

  He swallows, smiles. Women like Emily can smell fear. ‘She loves me. And I love her.’

  ‘Why?’ She is like a hawk, hovering before she dives in for the kill. ‘I can’t understand.’

  ‘There was something about her ...’ His collar is too tight, his neck too hot. ‘A look. Sad, I thought. I saw her coming towards me, I noticed her above all the others. She looked so dreadfully sad until she saw me, and then she smiled. I thought I could help her.’

  ‘She was perfectly happy.’

  ‘Was she really?’ Even Emily cannot think her niece was happy in London, with her. His brutal honesty makes Emily’s grey cheeks flush ever so slightly. The woman sniffs, not one to be defeated.

  ‘Is she what you were hoping for?’

  He stutters, trying to read her. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I warned you of her madness.’

  ‘She seems content to me.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. Today Mary is happy. But she will have days when she is not, when a blackness shadows her. It is a living nightmare when she is like that. I wonder what you shall do then?’

  Tom clenches his jaw.

  Aunt Emily smiles, coldly. ‘You have seen that side of her already.’

  ‘She has high passions,’ Tom admits. ‘Sometimes, I think she is a little too wild for me.’

  ‘She is unwomanly. But perhaps that is what attracted you? The fact that you must put her in her place, tame her, like men do.’

  ‘I ... She is ...’

  ‘Yes, she is your better,’ Emily takes his words. ‘Lord knows why she chose you of all people, but she was always too stubborn to be reasoned with. And you must live with that. You are a man who knows his station in life and cannot believe his luck. Well, neither can I. But, I believe, for some reason that I cannot fathom, you do think a lot of her. So, you must do your duty by her. Be a man. Make her a woman.’

  ‘I do not wish to control my wife.’

  ‘Mary must set an example. You must set an example. I warned you of this before, do not say I did not warn you! Her father was too weak to deal with her, too soft at heart. A man is no good to anyone like that.’ She rolls her eyes.

  ‘If she continues her mood swings, call Doctor Jameson. You remember I told you about him at the wedding? He knows what medicine suits her. But you must make sure she takes it. She is strong-willed, but she must be controlled.’

  ‘I will take care of her, Emily, I will do all I can.’

  Emily rises, wincing at some pain that she will not admit to.

  ‘I do not like you, Mr Oliver,’ she says between pursed lips. ‘But you know that already. I shall not be returning to visit. Though I do not like my niece, I do care for her. She is my brother’s daughter; she carries my blood in her veins.’

  Emily staggers to the door and takes one final look at the study. She sighs, shakes her head. ‘I shall be leaving in the morning, you shall be pleased to hear.’

  As they sip their wine, the clock ticking ever forward in the silence, Liz begins to think she may not have to play. Perhaps Mary has forgotten or just cannot bear the idea of entering the music room. Perhaps Liz can just stay until she has finished her drink, feign exhaustion, then retire early.

  Liz yawns. ‘I think I shall go to bed.’

  ‘But you can’t.’ Mary rouses herself from her sleepiness, sits straighter in her chair. ‘You must play for us.’

  ‘I think everyone is quite tired.’

  Tom crouches over a book on the table and props his head up with his arm. Emily reclines on the sofa, her small sherry glass teetering in her hand, her breath too loud and slow to be fully conscious.

  ‘Aunt Emily.’ Mary prods her aunt until the woman grunts awake. The sherry spills onto her dark bodice, but she does not notice. ‘You would like to hear Elizabeth play the piano, wouldn’t you? She says she is for bed otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Emily drags herself upright. ‘Play. The music soothes me for sleep. If you’re any good, that is. If you are like Mary, I should prefer silence.’ Her eyes, which had been drowsy moments before, are now beady once again.

  ‘Not much good, are you, sister?’ Tom says, rallying himself to his feet. ‘I’m sure it would not settle your nerves at all, Aunt. Much better to retire, I should think.’

  ‘Tom, what a thing to say about your sister!’ Liz is sure there is the sound of a smile in Mary’s words. ‘You said you played, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes but ...’ Liz clears her throat, sips her sherry. ‘Not very well, Tom is right.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are too modest.’

  ‘You have long fingers,’ Emily says. ‘Good pianists always have long fingers. I was excellent in my youth, but then, I have a sharp brain also.’

  Liz lets the insult pass. She would rather be known as a dunce if it meant she did not have to play.

  ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’ Tom walks towards Liz. ‘Never managed to get the hang of it, have you, sister?’ He tweaks her under the chin. She smiles up at him, playing along.

  ‘You shall play,’ Mary says, her jealousy so rigid in the air that Liz thinks sh
e could touch it.

  There is no way out now.

  Like a woman to the scaffold, Liz leads the way to the music room. It is spotless and aired, not like the last time she was in here. The lid is already raised on the piano.

  They take to their chairs. Emily sits like a tutor waiting to hear her protégé perform. Tom’s gaze is buried in the rug on the floor. Mary sits between Emily and Tom, smirking, her eyes shrewd, her brows raised in expectation.

  Liz sits at the stool. She glances at the keys, like a set of black and white bones laid ceremoniously before her. Touching one with her finger, she finds it just as she remembers – cool and hard, like a whip. She struggles for breath; her lacing is too tight, and her corset crushes her ribs.

  Tobacco, brandy, and sweat pollute the air. Laughter rumbles, low and growling, high and breathy. Glasses tinkle, skirts rustle. She tastes the sourness of a foreign object in her mouth, the dryness of cheap wine. She feels a clawing hand at her shoulder squeezing harder and harder until Liz's fingers find the keys, and she begins.

  She does not know what she plays. She has forgotten the title of it, for the act of playing it a thousand times and more has rendered it nameless. Sweat trickles between her small breasts and seeps onto her stomach, her stomach which throbs constantly. She sees her fingers work like milling machines, too fast to understand.

  She plays for as long as it takes. She cannot stop even though she wants to. The notes must flow, the memories must unfold, the sickness must come.

  And finally, her fingers slow, dying as they press the final key.

  Now she waits.

  She waits for the uproar. She waits for the demand for more. She waits for the spectators to place their bids. She waits to be taken, like a circus lion to the ring, to do what she is forced to do.

  But the uproar does not come.

  She lifts her gaze and finds two female faces staring back at her, mouths hanging open, smirks lost to shock. In the green oasis of Tom’s eyes, there are tears.

  Liz stands. She would bow, but she reminds herself that there is no need to do so anymore.

  ‘I said she had good fingers.’ Emily’s voice echoes in the silence.

  ‘Yes.’ Mary swallows. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about. You are a good pianist.’

  ‘Exceptional,’ Emily says.

  Mary stands. ‘I am ready for bed now. Come, Tom.’

  Mary stalks out of the room, followed by her aunt. Tom rises, quickly wipes his eyes, and touches Liz on the back.

  ‘It’s all right now,’ he whispers to her, then leaves.

  Alone, Liz looks about her and waits for the ghosts of her memories to show themselves again, to swirl out from behind the curtains and pull her back to the past. But they do not. She is free, she tells herself. And with that, she slams the piano lid shut.

  Chapter 5

  April 1869

  Since Aunt Emily’s visit, Tom has been to Mary’s bedroom only three times. It is usual, Mary tries to reason with herself, that husbands should only avail themselves once a week. She has read booklets about it. Yes, Tom is quite the gentleman. It is almost like he has read the pamphlets himself. But Mary is not satisfied. She dreams of him when she is awake. She dreams of his solid, young body as if carved by Michelangelo himself. Once a week is not enough.

  The day is stretching. The cold and snow have turned to mild wetness. The landscape is drab and dreary, and Mary has nothing with which to occupy herself.

  At times like this, she likes to think of her days in London to remind herself how lucky she is to be at Floreat. She thinks of the calls she had to make with her aunt, of how the old ladies looked at her with pity for she was an orphan and spinster. She hated the way those old ladies’ daughters smirked at her, revelling in their superior marital status. She hated how her aunt would remind her that she must marry or else she would be burdened with city-life forever and would never see her beloved Floreat again. Her childhood home would go to some French landowning relative whom she had never met in her life.

  She thinks of those horrid afternoons, those hideous faces, and she smiles. How those faces fell when news came of her marriage to Tom, of all people!

  She replays their meeting. It is one of her favourite pastimes to remember the steam on her face, the bustling crowd, the way the fog had seemed to lift and the people to vanish as she saw Tom standing before her in a halo of light.

  Or, at least, that is how she remembers it. The details are becoming hazy now. Who was the first to speak? How did she come to find such a fresh-faced young man beside her, asking if he could help her in any way?

  It is a struggle to find a connection with Tom these days. He is distant, not quite so adept at listening as he once was, not quite so keen to spend his spare time with her. Perhaps it is because of her moods. She is terrible when in a rage, but she cannot help herself. If he would only spend more time with her, then she would not get in such moods in the first place.

  There is a gentle tap at her door. She calls for the person to enter.

  Tom creeps inside, smiling. How she loves that smile! She can never resist the urge to return it with one of her own.

  ‘You look well, my dear. I am glad to see you feeling better now.’

  ‘I was well this morning.’ Why must he ruin things? She turns away from him petulantly. ‘Anne has obviously been telling lies about me again.’

  ‘She did not say anything.’ Tom strokes the top of her arm and comes before her. ‘I saw the bruise on the girl’s cheekbone. Anne did not like to mention it, but I made her.’

  ‘Well.’ Mary sips her cold tea. ‘I have told her to be gentler with the brush. That girl does not learn.’

  She would continue, but Tom has stopped listening to her; she can tell by the vacancy in his eyes, even though he nods as if he cares.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You have a visitor,’ he says.

  She is not expecting anyone. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Doctor Jameson.’

  The name makes ice form in the pit of her stomach. ‘I have no need to see him.’

  ‘He is to examine you, darling. I called him. It won’t take long.’

  Before she has time to object, Tom kisses her quickly and exits, leaving the door open and revealing Doctor Jameson who has been standing there all along.

  It is a pleasant afternoon spent in the company of Anne, embroidering. Liz has never had much time for the art of embroidery before – she thought it inconsequential, useless, leading to nothing but a pretty square of material. Now, it fills the spare hours.

  Anne is excellent with a needle. Her short, podgy fingers work quickly and elegantly, and she is already on her second pattern before Liz has finished her first.

  ‘You have talent.’ Liz gestures at Anne’s stitching of a butterfly.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  ‘Why a butterfly?’

  Anne shrugs, waits a moment, then decides. ‘Spring is coming. And they’re pretty.’

  ‘Have you ever seen one leave its cocoon?’

  ‘No, miss. What’s it like?’

  Liz recalls the butterflies she saw in the zoo, with wings soft and flat, and bodies which looked as if they had been squashed underfoot. ‘Grotesque to begin with. It takes time for them to emerge. It looks painful at the start, but then, with time, they dry out. Their wings harden, they take their shape, and then it is hard to believe they were ever ugly.’

  ‘Da tells me they come from caterpillars.’ Anne’s stitching has slowed. She manages to thread without looking at her hands.

  ‘That’s right. Lowly little caterpillars, and then they transform themselves.’

  ‘God’s miracle.’

  Liz bites her tongue. Of course, the girl is devout and why shouldn’t she be? She has not yet had reason to question His existence like Liz has.

  ‘Yes.’ Liz takes to her embroidery again. Her lines are not so neat, but she will persist.

  ‘Miss, if you don’t mi
nd me asking, what were it that you did, before? Only I heard you ...’

  Liz stops stitching.

  ‘Begging your pardon, miss. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘I was a seamstress.’ She pokes the needle through the material, and the point only narrowly avoids her skin. Really, she should have said a different job at the start of all of this, she should have considered her lie more carefully. It is evident that she has no skill, but Anne is too careful now to question further. ‘I took in piece work, to pass the time. Once my brother was settled, I went to live with him and cared for the house.’

  Silence returns.

  Liz pushes the needle, trying to get the right angle for the curve of the dogwood flower. This time, she jabs too fast, and the tip stabs under her nail. She gasps as drops of blood drip onto the material, seeping into the delicate petals.

  Anne rushes for some spare cotton, drops to her knees before Liz, and bandages the finger. With each turn of the material, Liz can feel her pulse throbbing, the flesh warm, itchy, and sore.

  ‘I was only good with dresses.’

  Anne ties a small, neat knot into the makeshift bandage. ‘No matter, miss. I think your dogwood were going well.’

  Liz smiles her thanks. ‘Is it hard for the rest of them? The staff, I mean. Knowing that Tom and I are ... Well, we are not like Mary.’

  ‘No, miss.’ Anne shakes her head, her stray curls springing about her neck. ‘Well, maybe some found it a little odd, at first. Bet certainly didn’t like it. I never had any problems though, you know that!’

  ‘What do they say now?’

  ‘Everyone thinks you’re both wonderful, miss. Not a bad word to say about either of you.’

  ‘And about Mary? What do they say about her?’

  ‘Everyone is very happy here.’

  ‘Are you happy with Mary?’

  Anne flushes, licks her lips as if her mouth is suddenly dry. ‘Yes, of course–’

  ‘I know, Anne.’ Liz squeezes her arm. ‘I am only teasing you. I understand Mary is not the easiest.’