Woman 99

by Greer Macallister

  Mr. Sidwell set down his fork on his plate so gently, there was no sound as the silver touched china. He said coldly, “I’m afraid we must take our leave, friends. It was gracious of you to invite us for dinner. With this. . .unexpected turn of events, I think it’s best that our family go home to discuss what’s happened.”

  I lifted my eyes toward Henry, and my gaze met his with near-physical force. All those days in Goldengrove, I had longed for him, thought of him, prayed for him, and here he was at last, but he looked away from me as if he couldn’t quite remember whether we had met and was embarrassed to admit it. I was still standing next to Phoebe, and I was surprised when she spoke next.

  “Celia stays with us,” she said, her voice strong and plain, without hesitation.

  “She is George’s wife!” exclaimed Mrs. Sidwell, her hand still on Celia’s shoulder. “She belongs in our house, and as my husband said, we’ll be leaving.”

  “She isn’t safe with him,” Phoebe said, thrusting her chin toward George. “He had her killed once already. What’s to say he won’t do it again?”

  The loudest sound in the room then was my mother’s gasp. Everyone else was silent in shock. The room grew warmer around me, the air heavier. I could smell rich cream sauce from the plates still on the table, the slightly acrid scent of wine in wide-mouthed goblets, and from the kitchen, dessert almost ready to serve: the butter and sweet almond aroma of just-baked financiers, Mrs. Shepherd’s most prized specialty. My stomach gave a slow flip, some combination of anxiety, hunger, and rejection.

  Mr. Sidwell, not surprisingly, was the first to recover from my sister’s bald, harsh assertion. His shoulders were as rigid as iron.

  “It’s splendid to see you looking so well, young lady, knowing that you’ve been under the care of the doctors at our asylum so recently,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s no question of leaving her here. We really must insist.”

  “She stays,” answered Phoebe hotly.

  He said, “And it’s your word we’ll take?”

  “She stays,” my father interrupted, his voice booming in the hush. He looked at me and at Phoebe, and whatever he read on our faces seemed to strengthen his resolve. He leveled his gaze at the taller man and waited.

  “Phineas,” growled Mr. Sidwell. “Your daughter has made a grave allegation against my son. Would you let such an insult stand were it your child?”

  “It’s not my choice whether it will stand,” my father responded. “Shall we put it in the sunlight? Ask George whether he wants the world to know his wife still walks among us, after he told the world she did not.”

  It was plain to everyone in the room that George, still wordless, could not even put on a gloss of innocence. For an ambitious politician, he showed a shocking inability to think on his feet. I almost pitied him in that moment, until I remembered how we’d all arrived here, through his craven machinations. His ambition would’ve killed an innocent woman if he’d had his way. The sentence I’d escaped was nothing compared to such a crime. I shivered.

  “Take your boys home,” my father went on. “We’ll speak again soon. It seems we have a great deal to talk about, on many fronts. A future, several futures, to rearrange. But nothing more tonight.”

  Mr. Sidwell locked eyes with my father at length. He was not used to being challenged, we all knew, especially by a physical and financial inferior. I saw his fingers ball into a fist on one side. Then he lifted his hand to beckon. “George. Henry.”

  I tried to meet Henry’s eyes again, but he didn’t look my way as he followed the rest of the family toward the front door. From the foyer came a series of rustles and clicks, a low murmur from George—“But she was. . .”—cut off by his father’s whispered “Not here.” I stayed where I was, unmoving, until I heard Matilda shut the heavy front door behind them and lock it.

  I wanted to throw my arms around my father and thank him, but before I could, my mother spoke for the first time since we’d walked in the door.

  “I suppose, Charlotte,” my mother said frostily, “this means you have not been at Newport, as you led us to believe.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her why I’d done what I’d done, but she continued, “Don’t. This is disgraceful. There is nothing you can say that will make any of this less humiliating for me.”

  “For you?” I began, but she had turned her back on us and walked out of the room before I could say more. I heard her feet mounting the stairs, and then I heard her call for Mrs. Gibson before she slammed the door of her bedroom, the thump echoing down the long hallway to reach the rest of us, who remained still as stones. Perhaps she wanted me to chase after her, to beg her forgiveness. I would not.

  “Father,” Phoebe said, her voice sounding very young. “I’m sorry to cause trouble. We only wanted to come home.”

  He wrapped his arms around her then, cradling her head to his chest so he could rest his chin atop it, holding her close.

  I did not know what to say. I could not move to join them, though I felt like I was eavesdropping to be so near. He whispered in her ear, but I could not hear what he said. Whatever it was, it brought tears to her eyes and then, a bit later, a smile to her lips.

  After several slow moments, my father lifted his head and looked around the room, as if he had just noticed it still existed over the shoulder of the daughter he had discarded but then found again.

  “Ma’am,” he addressed Celia, “I am afraid I don’t entirely understand how you’ve come to be here or what happened to you, but rest assured, you have a place with us as long as you need one.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said formally, her shoulders squared back.

  To me, he began, “And you. . .”

  I waited to hear what he would say. In those few moments, my imagination filled in the rest of the sentence in all sorts of ways. I believed his words would be grateful ones, but my stubborn mind insisted he could just as easily roar What the hell were you thinking or You’ve ruined everything or even, awfully, Get out.

  In the end, his words were, “Thank you for bringing her home.”

  Then we nodded at each other in a way I never would have foreseen a month ago—like peers, or at least like two adults who understood each other. And perhaps, I let myself believe in that sweet moment, that was what we finally were.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next day when I opened my eyes to the morning, I thought I was still dreaming. The lacy canopy above my bed was alight with the sun, its brightness nearly blinding. The bed was so soft under my body, I felt I was sinking into it. After the hard, dark nights of Goldengrove, the comfort of my own room was almost too extraordinary to grasp.

  It was my own room at last, not a crowded ward, but I wasn’t alone in it. None of the maids had been told to make up a room for Celia, so she’d slept in my bed, and at some point during the night, my sister had also made her way to us. I looked at her sleeping face, smooth with a temporary peace. I wanted her to have that peace all the time. I didn’t see any way we could manage it. Mother’s refusal to speak to me—and her failure to have a room made up, when any proper hostess would have done so—spoke volumes. Our welcome was frostier than I’d hoped. But the image of my father’s face sprang to mind, and then I could relax back into the heap of pillows that awaited me. He had seen us for who we were and loved us. Somehow, we would have to find a way for us all to live in the new world we’d arranged.

  Lying on my back among the feather pillows, sunlight streaming over my head to touch my sleeping sister’s golden head and Celia’s darker one, I let my imagination run free. I imagined my way into a plan. I considered all the permutations of negotiations and voyages, trades and debts, actions and reactions. I thought I saw a way out, though it was a narrow and perilous one. Sometimes, the only way out was through.

  * * *

  I found my father in his office as I had expected, knowing it was his favorite room in the house in the early morning. Even in the hall, I could smell the dark,
strong Ethiopian coffee he preferred, a smell that made me homesick even though I was already here. It reminded me of what I had missed during the six weeks I was gone. I rapped gently on the door with my knuckles and waited for his signal before opening it and crossing the threshold.

  He sat behind a desk made from the same timber as his fastest tall ships, a bit of poetic indulgence, and one that reminded me he was not always a rigorous businessman. He did have a sentimental streak. At the same time, he was logical, organized, precise. The papers and ledgers atop the desk were organized into neat piles, each squared perfectly with the edges of the desk and each other, all straight lines. His cup and saucer sat at his left hand, his inkwell and pen at the right. It was all so normal, so ordinary, I wanted to cry.

  “Good morning,” he said, sounding genuinely happy but with only a ghost of a smile. “I did not expect you so early. You must be exhausted from your ordeal.”

  “Yes,” I admitted, drawing near to his desk, choosing my words carefully. “I am. But I fear my ordeal may not yet be over.”

  He gestured for me to sit, as if I had come to him to do business. In fact, I had. I took a seat in the heavy mahogany chair, folding my hands in my lap. Now that I sat here, I wished I had changed out of my dressing gown, but I had not wanted to miss the chance to see him alone. My plan rested squarely on my shoulders and his. Anyone else’s involvement would be only a distraction.

  “I would like to hear your explanation,” he said.

  “Of what I did or what I want?”

  “I can make certain assumptions about what you did. Am I right in thinking you have spent these weeks at Goldengrove and not at your aunt Helen’s Newport house as you led us to believe?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And I imagine your purpose was to bring Phoebe home, since that is what you have done.”

  “Yes.”

  “But how?”

  I told him in as few words as I could, trying my best not to embellish. I gave him, as I thought he would want, an account from a returned voyager. I relayed my plan to leave, my success at getting sent to Goldengrove, the conditions I encountered once I was there. At several points in the narrative, a look of horror crossed his face, but I did not slow down or stop. It was all I could do to get it out on the first try. If I paused to think about what I was saying, I might never finish.

  At the end, he was shaking his head, over and over, as if he couldn’t clear it.

  “Your mother will never understand,” he said. I expected he was right, but the thought still brought tears to my eyes. She was still my mother and the woman who gave me life, even though she seemed to value me only as trade goods, but we would never understand each other, never agree, and I felt the loss keenly.

  He went on, “For you to run off with no protection, no defense. Anything could have happened. She won’t understand it, and she can’t forgive it.”

  “But you do?”

  “After a fashion,” he said. “I understand you were desperate. I understand you thought there was no other way.”

  “Was there?” I asked.

  “We’ll never know,” he said baldly, and I knew he was right. My imagination was only that; there was one reality, the one we were in. “There’s no sense guessing at how things would or could have unfolded differently. The past is the past. You ran off to save your sister, and she is saved. You brought her back to us, and I’m grateful. In light of that, I can forgive much. But your mother, there are limits to what she can forgive.”

  “But I only wanted to—”

  “Charlotte, let me finish. For now, she can think only on the loss of the match. The deal she wanted made. Yesterday, she believed that our whole family’s future was on solid ground, that everything was settled for the better. Today, she knows that isn’t the case. She will need some time to mourn that.”

  “She can’t expect that I would marry that monster, knowing what we know now. He tried to murder his wife because she was inconvenient. What if he tried to do the same to me?”

  My father said, his voice husky with anger, “I’d rip his throat out with my teeth. You will get no argument from me on that front, Charlotte. There will be no match.”

  “Even—your debt, Father.”

  He gestured at the ledgers in front of him and said, “Believe me, I am keenly aware of my debt.”

  I had come to him to speak of facts, not feelings, and now it was time to tell him so. I said, “The deal my mother made is lost and gone. But we might make another deal.”

  “You said it yourself. You cannot marry a monster.”

  “We have other assets,” I said.

  “Go on.”

  I faced my father squarely across his desk and lay my hands in my lap. With neither unneeded embellishments nor undue coyness, I told him what I wanted. I spoke until I was done, uninterrupted, and then I took a deep breath and asked him what he thought.

  He seemed pensive. But he did not deny me outright. He asked several pointed questions, prompting me to factor in more complexities: What assurances could we provide? Would Celia agree to her part? Which of our demands were firm, and which were up for further negotiation?

  Then my father tapped the top of his desk and said, “I’ll think on it. Go upstairs and dress for breakfast, please. We’ll be expected in the dining room shortly.”

  Upstairs in my bedroom, I found Phoebe already dressed and Celia seated at the small desk near the window, a pen dancing in her hand.

  “Hush, don’t bother her,” said Phoebe.

  “What’s she writing?”

  “She wants privacy,” Phoebe said. “Let her have that.”

  I said, “We’ll have breakfast sent up to you,” and Celia muttered something that might have been a thank-you, but I chose not to press her to repeat herself. She was leaning forward, every muscle in her body intent. Whatever she was doing, it was important to her.

  I dressed in a muted, high-necked gray silk with a modest bustle and a faint pattern of branches over the bodice but no other decorative trim. If my father took my words to heart, there was a chance I would need to speak for myself today, and in that case, it would behoove me to look like the proper girl I’d once been. Phoebe laced me into my corset. Even on the tightest lacing, it no longer fit properly, but it would have to do. I would not ask my mother to lend me a smaller one. If I had my way, she would never again place an order with Madame Mora on my behalf. I offered to lace Phoebe’s in return, but she said she wouldn’t be wearing one.

  “A rebel, as always,” I said.

  “You’re one to talk,” she said, bumping her hip against mine. “Shall we?”

  As what remained of our family breakfasted together for the first time in two months, silence lay on us like a fog. The room had never been so quiet. I had no intention of speaking up to break the silence, to force a conversation. This morning, after speaking with my father, I was empty of words.

  As I sat in silence, I remembered with painful clarity the breakfast in this very room that had driven me to seek Phoebe out—my mother’s interest in my wedding gown, the lack of acknowledgment that Phoebe had ever existed, the odd off-kilter feel of every word. Her chair wasn’t empty this time, but the off-kilter feeling remained. Each person was too far away from all the rest to connect, to communicate. Everything would be left unsaid.

  Food was piled on the sideboard, far more than four people could reasonably eat, or even five, if Celia had joined us. No one asked why she hadn’t. I regarded the feast with an odd mix of admiration and trepidation. Mrs. Shepherd had outdone herself, though I didn’t know if she had done so of her own volition or on orders, and if on orders, for what purpose. To show us what we’d been missing? There was little doubt we would fail to note the difference. Here, there was a rich egg bread braided with almond paste and studded with currants, which I did not even put on my plate. A small heap of precious dried dates wrinkled from their long trip across the ocean. Thick pink ham steaks as broad and flat as a ma
n’s palm. I wondered if our servants gorged themselves afterward on what we left behind. I couldn’t even imagine what the women of Terpsichore Ward would have done in the face of such bounty. My stomach, already unsteady, lurched and sank. I chose two dates from their bowl and a piece of dry toast from the rack, lay them on my plate, and took my seat next to my sister.

  From time to time, Phoebe and I reached under the table and squeezed hands. Neither of us ate much. Like the feel of silk against our skin, real food would take a while to resolve into comfort. Even though my corset was loose, I could feel every spot where its rigid boning met my rib cage, a feeling I had forgotten. I longed to throw it off and breathe again.

  I took cup after cup of strong, bitter tea and savored its harsh blackness on my tongue. Nothing in the asylum had tasted of anything but metal, and I reveled in each sip. The silence around us was heavy, and I tried to forget it. I would not speak. I was beginning to lose myself in a reverie, wanting to escape this place I had longed so much to return to, when a voice at last cut through the silence, as sharp as the tea.

  My father said, “Charlotte, I will need you to accompany me on a visit today.”

  “Where?” I blurted without thinking.

  He looked almost like he regretted speaking—we were all staring at him—and responded slowly, “To discuss matters with our neighbors.”

  I knew what he meant or thought I did. My father was going to take me with him to address the Sidwells. It was unbelievable, and I was glad of it. I was ready.

  “Of course,” I said, pretending nonchalance.

  I snuck a look at my mother, and she was glaring across the table at him. He ignored the glare. He was looking at Phoebe, who gingerly rearranged the fare on her plate, though I doubted she had taken a single bite. She was composing a landscape of toast with a sky of egg yolk. Now I wished I had taken a slice of the currant-studded bread so I could hand it to her. She might have made a long-winged bird with it, to soar against the saturated sky.