Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

Doctor Kershaw clears his throat, nods, but purses his lips before he speaks.

  ‘You may go now, Anne.’ Tom squeezes her shoulder, and she runs away. ‘You see what we have been living with, Doctor? What is wrong with my wife?’

  With Anne gone, Kershaw begins.

  ‘Firstly, I think she may be suffering from gastric fever. You must keep away from her to stop the spread. Then I suggest we get her moved as soon as possible. Her mind ...’ Kershaw shakes his head. ‘She is not only a risk to herself but to you, your sister, the staff, and, most importantly, your son. As the girl just said, she wants him dead. She was just talking about how I should go and kill him now!’ The doctor’s eyes bulge. ‘She thought me an angel sent from God. She believes your son is the devil.’

  Tom slides against the wall. ‘How could I have let it get so bad?’

  ‘Here, now, man, there’s no need for that. You must not blame yourself.’

  ‘Why do you think ...?’

  ‘I understand there is a history?’

  ‘Her grandfather. I don’t know the whole story,’ Tom says, ‘but, it was thought that he took his own life by jumping from the cliffs. He had been the melancholy sort.’

  ‘Yes. It can run in the blood, you see, and the tragedy of Mary's mother can’t have helped. Your wife has a weak disposition, Mr Oliver. The birth of your son has brought back unpleasant memories, feelings of guilt and shame that can take hold of a child when a parent dies.’

  ‘I just can’t understand Jameson. Her aunt told me he had once suggested she take rest in a suitable establishment, back when her father was alive. It was George who forbade it. Now, when she is most in need of that kind of help, Jameson has refused.’

  ‘I shall call him out on it, Mr Oliver, don’t you worry. Any doctor can see she should not be at home.’

  Tom wipes his hand over his face, sighs. ‘Thank you, Doctor Kershaw. Sometimes I felt like I was the one going mad.’

  ‘Don’t think such things. I will sort everything with Mary, and if Jameson denies what is clear to everyone with a brain, I shall send for a colleague of mine. We will have her taken care of in no time, and once the fever passes, we can address her habit as well.’

  ‘Her habit?’

  ‘The laudanum.’ Kershaw rests his belly on the banister. He removes his glasses and cleans them with the same handkerchief that he used to wipe his face. ‘That is a cruelty in itself. Many women must take the stuff, but then, you see, they cannot do without it. That can cause troubles like nothing else.’

  ‘Should we stop her taking it?’

  ‘Not yet. It would be too traumatic for her, and for you, sir. Many meek creatures turn into beasts if deprived of their habit, and Mrs Oliver is already ... strong-willed. Continue with it until we find her a place where she can recover properly.’

  ‘And when do you think that will be?’

  ‘I shall produce the certificate today. I should think she could be out in a day or so. It is an extreme case.’

  Tom smiles his thanks, weariness painted across his features.

  ‘My sister is not well, either. Her stomach.’

  Kershaw nods and makes his way towards Liz’s room. He emerges only minutes later. ‘Rest. She must rest. Keep her warm and give her plenty to drink. Again, you must keep your distance for your own sake.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’

  Doctor Kershaw sighs. ‘She has the fever, Mr Oliver. We must pray for her and for your wife’s recovery.’

  Tom tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers and manages to instruct Kershaw to go to the library where Chipman shall pour him a drink. The doctor accepts and hobbles down the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be with you shortly.’

  Jameson has still not left Mary’s room, and Tom is growing suspicious of him. The door is ajar, and Tom creeps towards it, his ear to the crack.

  ‘Who? Who was it?’ Jameson whispers.

  ‘Red. Red ... Red.’ Mary’s throat is thick with tears and anger and confusion. ‘They will kill me ... He will kill me.’

  ‘Who was it you saw, Mary? Tell me. I am an angel, remember?’

  Tom throws the door open to find the doctor leaning over Mary like a gargoyle on a church roof. ‘Doctor. I think that is enough.’

  Mary’s face is contorted. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her skin is grey and wet. The room produces a stench something like sweat and blood and dried herbs.

  ‘You shall come away now!’

  Jameson marches from the room, then reels on Tom. ‘How did she get that bad?’

  ‘She has been worsening for days.’

  ‘You should have called for me sooner.’

  ‘And what? Have you insult me again? Have you tell me she will improve? Each time I have called you, you have done nothing!’ Tom edges closer, his voice low. ‘You should have taken her away months ago.’

  ‘You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Tom shakes his head. ‘You have put my whole family in jeopardy because you cannot stand the fact that someone like me pays your wages.’

  ‘It is you alone I cannot stand. You may have fooled everyone else, but I have seen what you have been doing from the start. You have never loved her. Why would you? You love only yourself. You brought me here, thinking I’d sign the papers and make your life easy. You knew I had advised on her incarceration before, and you thought you could make me do it again so that you could spend her money. Her father will be turning in his grave.’

  Tom releases the tension in his jaw. There is no point in denying it anymore. Jameson is no longer needed. ‘Will you provide your report or not?’

  ‘I will not see her lose her fortune to scum like you.’

  ‘Fine. Kershaw will help me instead.’

  Jameson swallows. His breath rasps sharply. ‘I will provide my report,’ he growls, ‘for I see I have no choice now. But I will visit her every week. I will ensure she has the best care possible, and I will do my damnedest to see that she comes home as soon as possible.’

  Tom smiles. ‘We both know, once she’s in there, it is me who must sign her out.’

  Jameson exhales, his face falls. He steps back. ‘You are a clever man, Mr Oliver.’

  Tom nods. ‘Those years in Rugby looked like they paid off, eh?’ He steps aside, gestures at the stairs. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  Chapter 13

  Her eyes open, take in the darkness, blink again. Eyelids as sharp as crushed glass over her eyeballs. Her tears swamp but do not soothe her. She feels the clumps of her own hair laced across the pillow as she rolls her head to one side, unable to lift it, unable to sit up, unable to stand, no matter how hard she might try.

  Her body clenches involuntarily. Her muscles bunch, spasm. Her stomach heaves again, her arse pushes, but she is dried out.

  The convulsion ends. She gasps, but the air does not come to her. And still, the sickness remains. Liquid swims in her mouth. Stale. Foul. The stench of her. God! She would shudder at the sight of herself if her mind were clear, but it is not. It is as if someone has taken hold of her brain and is squeezing it, crushing it into confusion, blinding her with agony.

  Slow. She is slowing down. Every movement is hard.

  She tries to breathe, but she has not the energy. Breathe … breathe … but what is the use? It will be better this way.

  At the foot of the bed, a woman shines in pale pink skirts. She smiles, her chestnut eyes glow, she holds out her hand. Her flesh is warm and soft in Mary’s palm and tightens in a reassuring grip.

  ‘Mama.’

  She closes her eyes. She is slipping away … the pain and the fear are all slipping away.

  Chapter 14

  A red poker sears her insides. Vomit rushes up her raw throat, and as she spits it into the bowl, she sees spots of blood lying amidst the cloudy contents. Her head pounds with each pulse, but she must rise, she must make her feet move, for it is too quiet in the ho
use and she must find out why.

  She drags her naked toes across the rug. She stumbles but manages to steady herself by grabbing hold of her dressing table. The glass perfume bottles and pomade jars jingle, as she tries to straighten her spine.

  It seems to take hours before she reaches the door handle. It is shockingly cold in her sweating palm. Squeezing with all her strength, she manages to turn it.

  The air from the landing slams against her skin. The lamps dazzle and triple in her vision. In the distance, if she squints, she can make out a figure. She focuses on that as she walks, but the landing is so long! The forms are receding. Darkness is coming. Another heave wracks her body, and her legs collapse.

  The figure swirls around her head, creating wafts of air. Soft fabric catches against her cheek, and she imagines she is being stroked by birds, black, shiny birds, who have come to carry her away.

  ‘Liz?’

  The sound is sweet in her ear. She smiles. It is so long since she has heard that voice – what has kept him away?

  A plump little face with cherub red lips and long dark lashes appears in her mind.

  I’ll always look after you, he whispers to her, his eyes startlingly green in the shadows, his podgy hand soft and outstretched for her. Do you trust me?

  ‘Yes.’

  Cries of anguish. She understands the tone but not the meaning.

  Her tongue flicks across her lips, but they are as dry as stone. Then her head is lifted, cold is pressed against her, and water seeps into her mouth, catching on her tonsils and making her choke, making her eyes pop open in panic.

  Tom kneels beside her. His hand is on the back of her thighs, the other underneath her armpit, strong and steady, as he has always been.

  ‘We must get her back to bed.’

  The pressure grows harder as he lifts her. Her feet dangle in mid-air, and her head flops back. She notices Anne then, the unusual blackness of her dress, too harsh against her white skin.

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Nothing, Liz. Don’t worry about anything.’ His words are gentle. It would be easy to follow his commands.

  ‘Tell me.’ But they carry her across the landing and into her bedroom without another word. ‘Tom, tell me what has happened.’

  He lays her on the bed. She tries to rise but his hand presses on her shoulder, too heavy to fight against.

  ‘Stoke the fire, Anne, and help me wrap her up.’

  ‘No!’ Liz drags her body upright. ‘You will tell me what has happened.’

  Tom and Anne are silent. Liz does not like their joint conspiracy. Her stare never wavers; it breaks him.

  He sits beside her and takes her hand. His eyes are dry, but there is something there that she has not seen often before. Fear.

  ‘Mary is dead.’

  She looks at his mouth, at his red lips, seeing a peel of dry skin that strikes her as odd and wondering if she has heard him correctly. Shaking her head, the room swirls. Sickness crawls up her throat. With effort, she forces it down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mary died. Sometime in the early hours, we think. It must have been. Anne put her to bed last night before she saw to you.’

  Somewhere in the background, Anne sniffs, affecting tears.

  ‘How?’

  The Adam’s apple in Tom’s throat bobs up and down. His fingers wrap tightly around her own. ‘She was sick. I think you should lie down, Liz. The doctor is on his way.’

  ‘Mary is dead.’ The words form stiffly on her tongue.

  ‘Yes, Liz. She is gone. Are you all right?’

  Does he mean about Mary? Does he mean about her illness?

  ‘I should like to lie down.’

  He lifts her ankles and places them under the sheets. She thought she was hot, but now she realises, as his heat touches her, that her skin is cold. On the other side of the bed, Anne raises the quilt to Liz’s chin.

  ‘Leave us.’ Liz thinks she is not heard, for Anne continues to pester.

  ‘Leave, Anne.’ Tom says.

  Liz catches Anne’s wounded look before the girl exits. Tom tucks the quilt around Liz. She watches him fussing, feels his weight beside her, smells his freshness as it wafts from his clothes. It is a delight to have him all to herself again.

  ‘When did you last visit me? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Last night, love.’ He strokes her forehead. ‘I thought you were better, but …’

  ‘What did we do?’

  ‘I read to you.’ He gestures at the volume of Browning’s poetry on her bedside table.

  ‘My favourite.’

  ‘I know.’ He leans closer, his forehead creased. ‘Oh, Liz! You look so … I thought you were recovering yesterday. I thought you were getting better. If I hadn’t brought you here ... Oh God! If anything happens to you –’

  ‘I will be well, Tom.’

  He gasps as he teeters on the brink of tears.

  ‘Do you remember that day?’ she whispers. ‘I have been dreaming about it. The sky was so big! The gallery, the ices we ate, that secret little spot beside the Serpentine we found.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Just you and me. It was so perfect.’

  He nods. ‘But then –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what happened afterwards. It was a perfect day.’

  ‘It was.’

  She feels the sun on her now, warming her back, her pure, beautiful back. She smells the water, clean and mineral. She tastes sugar on her tongue, parts her sticky lips, remembers his kisses.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ she whispers.

  He laughs softly. ‘Always.’

  His palm soothes her forehead, brushes her hair away.

  ‘You should sleep now, love. You must get better. Then we can go to Venice.’

  His warm, dry lips press against her cheek, next to her mouth. She closes her eyes. She can rest now that Tom is beside her.

  Chapter 15

  The house is in a state of panic. Liz is still bed-bound, still saying queer things, still sweating as if she is melting, fast. Chipman is useless. Mrs Beacham acts like nothing at all is wrong. Will has not spoken to her since she turned him down, and the twins do nothing but cry.

  Only an hour ago, Anne was taken into Mr Chipman’s parlour and sat amongst the silverware in the dim half-light. She was soon joined by Police Inspector Edwards. He is a large man, with an upturned, pointed nose and a thick, broad chin. It was clear he had not shaved that morning, and the stubble made him look grubby. Anne imagined wiping his face with a damp cloth, like her mother does with Eddie and Paul after they have eaten, as he sat opposite her, clasped his hands in front of himself, and began his questioning.

  She answered him as thoroughly as she could. Yes, Mr Oliver is – was – a doting husband. Yes, Mr Oliver was always kind to his wife. No, I never heard Mr Oliver speak harshly towards his wife. No, I was never suspicious of Mr Oliver with regards to his wife.

  Now, the ground squelches underneath her feet, and each step makes the mud splat over her clothes, but she must hurry, for she does not know what else to do, or who else to turn to.

  ‘Witch!’ Anne shouts as she reaches the fringes of the woodland. ‘Witch, where are you?’

  She stumbles through the trees, passing the beech and the old oak and dipping them a curtsey as she goes. It is a habit formed in childhood – to forget would bring bad luck.

  ‘Witch!’ Her words ring about her, bouncing off bark. She continues her quest. She will cover every inch of this woodland if she must.

  Suddenly, something has a hold of her ankle and yanks her hard. She falls, crashing roughly onto her hands and knees. Something in her wrist snaps and she cries with the pain.

  ‘Be quiet!’ The witch crawls on top of her and pins her to the ground.

  The witch’s palm crushes Anne’s mouth. Anne cannot breathe. She wriggles and writhes, but the witch holds firm, taking no notice as she glances around the woodland.

  ‘What is wrong with y
ou?’ The witch slaps Anne’s face. ‘Anyone could have heard you! Have you been followed?’

  Anne sucks the air into her starved lungs and shakes her head as tears stream down her cheeks. ‘Tom’s been arrested.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Mary died.’

  The witch heaves the girl up into a seated position and rests her against the tree trunk. Anne tries to compose herself.

  It is the first time Anne has seen the witch in daylight. Her scars are not quite as gruesome without the silver sheen of the moonlight, and her eyes, which before had appeared black, are actually a rich dark brown, the whites of them clear and bright.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Gastric fever. Although, Doctor Kershaw was on about her mind and the laudanum. She’d been ill for weeks. She wasn’t eating. There was nothing left of her.’

  ‘But they must think that Tom has something to do with it. Why else take him away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It is common for men to kill their wives.’

  ‘Tom would never kill her!’

  ‘I know that.’ She looks to the heavens. ‘Perhaps they suspect poison. The effects of poisoning have been mistaken for gastric fever before.’

  ‘He would not poison Mary!’ Anne’s chin begins to wobble. ‘Oh God, what will they do to him?’

  ‘Shut up, girl. You are making a fool of yourself.’

  Anne snorts back her tears. Then, she thinks she has it. ‘It is the doctor.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard them only a few days ago. They’d fallen out. Doctor Jameson’s never liked Tom. Who else would blame Tom for Mary’s death?’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It must be. No one else could ever think such a thing. There’s no way Tom would ever hurt a hair on that ungrateful woman’s head. He only wanted to help her.’ If she tells herself that often enough, she will believe it.

  The witch nods. ‘He is too soft.’ The witch looks into the distance.

  Anne wipes her face with her handkerchief. The brown cotton comes away mottled black with tears. ‘How do you know Tom, anyway? You’ve never told me.’