The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  I forced a smile. “Oh, very well. Michelle may be late herself since she is with Mrs. Wheelwright.”

  “Good. It is settled then. Wheelwright, gypsy curses, and my mysterious Moriarty and his web will be forgotten for the rest of the evening.”

  “You must tell me more about Moriarty.”

  “In due time I shall, but not tonight—tonight, British roast beef shall rule supreme, and only topics conducive to good digestion will be discussed.”

  Two

  As usual, by late Wednesday afternoon, I was weary in body and soul. In the morning Violet, her footman Collins, and I had walked about and visited the patients who were too ill to come to the clinic. I was fairly well known as the lady doctor, but Collins provided security in so rough a neighborhood. A big, tall, strapping fellow with a ready smile, he was known to be good with his fists.

  We trudged up many dark narrow flights of stairs which stunk of human waste and visited the cold, dimly lit rooms where entire families dwelt, squalor and misery their perpetual companions. The weather had recently changed, the golden warmth of early fall giving way to the foul yellow fog and drizzle which were harbingers of winter. I dreaded the change because I knew what would happen to so many of my patients. With the bell of my stethoscope pressed against their chests, I could hear the consumption devouring their lungs. Suggesting a change of climate, wintering over in Italy or Spain, would have been a cruel mockery to those who could afford neither adequate nutrition nor shelter. Many would not live to see another summer.

  At the clinic, in the afternoon, the parade of human suffering continued. I saw many children and infants with runny noses, coughs and fevers. If they were lucky, it was only a head cold or the first croup of the season. The weather had also aggravated the rheumatism of the elderly.

  One woman about my age (just past thirty) had the most beautiful chestnut hair. She also had a dreadful black eye and a split lip. “It hurts when I breathe,” she said. I had her disrobe to the waist so I could examine her. Her skin was very pale, truly almost white, her frame slender. The outline of the humerus showed through her skin, and the shape of each curving rib was clearly defined. Her fingers were long and thin, the bones prominent—an artist’s hands—but red and rough from toil. She was frail and beautiful; somehow she reminded me of a painting of Saint Sebastian stuck full of arrows. From her sagging breasts and slightly swayed back, I could tell that she had borne children, and the proof—a small pale girl with the same chestnut hair—waited beyond the screen.

  On her left side was a fist-sized bruise, its bluish-purple contrasting with her fair skin. I drew in my breath. Behind me Violet muttered, “Dear God.” The woman’s face grew even paler.

  I tried to probe gently, but soon tears streaked her cheeks. However, she made no sound. Half naked, she seemed so weak and vulnerable that it was hard to understand how any man could have hurt her so.

  “I’m afraid you have some broken ribs, my dear.” I taped them up carefully and told her to come back to see me in two weeks time.

  While she finished dressing, I turned to Violet. She had gone to the window, and now stood with her back to me, staring out at the street below. The pale nape of her neck showed under the long black hair that had been carefully wound about and pinned up.

  “How are you?”

  She said nothing.

  “Violet?” I put my hand on her arm and felt, briefly, her muscles trembling violently, but then she slipped away and turned to face me. Her brown eyes had an odd glint—fear or rage, I could not tell which. She held her head very stiffly, but high and proud. She had the longest, most slender neck of any woman I knew. Her nose was also long and thin—aquiline—the nose of an aristocrat.

  “I am perfectly well, Michelle.”

  “You do not appear perfectly well.”

  Her eyes shifted toward the woman with the chestnut hair who was just leaving. “I suppose you see many such cases.”

  “Far too many.”

  She drew in her breath and clenched her fists; I could see her will asserting itself and bringing her under its control. “I wish I could send Collins to visit the drunken brute.”

  “That would do little good. You would only provide me with yet another patient, and the waiting room is already overflowing. Besides, such women are often fiercely protective of their husbands. She may even love him.”

  “Love? You dare to speak of love, when...” She drew herself up even straighter and now the rage made her eyes shine. “Oh, if I were only...” She seized her lower lip between her teeth. “Forgive me, Michelle. You have work to do.”

  I smiled. “You have done quite well. This is, after all, your second full day out with me. Most of my friends cannot even last through a single morning.”

  That was at about three o’clock, and I saw the last patient around half past five. Unfortunately, it was the type of case which never fails to upset me. The woman was barely twenty, her baby just six months old. The infant seemed half dead, his eyes glazed over, his limbs long and spindly; he resembled some plant raised in darkness, the long stems a desperate attempt to grow its way out of the dark and into the light.

  “How many drops have you been giving this child?” My voice shook and I tried to regain my composure.

  The girl’s eyes regarded me warily. “Drops?”

  “Drops. What is it—laudanum?”

  “I wouldn’t give ’im no laud’num or whatever. It’s only cordial.”

  I sat back wearily on my desk. I did not believe in corsets, stays, bustles, and voluminous clothing, so it was fairly easy for me to do so. My head had begun to ache, and I kneaded my forehead briefly with my palm. “Godfrey’s Cordial, I suppose?”

  The girl still regarded me warily, and with reason—a sudden urge came over me to slap her. She nodded reluctantly.

  “I don’t suppose you know what an opiate is? No, of course not. Godfrey’s is only a weaker version of laudanum. If you keep doing this to your child... You might as well poison him outright and be done with it.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she put her fist over her mouth. “Poison ’im?”

  My anger drained away, leaving me both tired and sad. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but Godfrey’s is very bad for babies.”

  “I ’ave to get my sewin’ work finished, and ’e just won’t keep quiet otherwise.”

  I handed her a handkerchief. “Blow your nose, dear, and don’t cry. It will do no one any good.” She complied loudly. “Have you no relative or friend who could help care for the child during the day?”

  She shook her head. “No one, ma’am.”

  I sighed, then clenched my teeth. Violet seized my arm. “You look so weary.” She took her purse and turned sternly to the girl. “You must work, I suppose, so that you and your child can live?”

  The girl nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “If you did not have to work, would you promise not to give the baby Godfrey’s Cordial?”

  She thrust her jaw forward. “But I ’ave to work.”

  Violet took a gold sovereign from her purse. “Not necessarily. This should get you by for a while, and if the baby is better I will give you another, then another.” The girl stared in amazement at the coin. “Will you promise me?”

  The girl again put her fist over her mouth, then nodded.

  “Take it, then.”

  The girl clenched her fist about the coin, then clamped her hand over her chest. She stared at Violet in disbelief as if an angel had suddenly appeared before her.

  “Bring him here in a month, and if he is better, you will have another coin. The doctor will see to it.”

  The girl nodded wildly. “Yes, ma’am.” She put the coin in her tiny purse, then took the baby, who had hardly moved.

  “Wait,” I said. “You must stop the Godfrey’s only gradually.”

  I gave her instructions on how to taper off the dose and had her repeat them. She stammered them out, then curtsied first to me, then Violet. “T
hank you, ma’am. Bless you for savin’ me and my babe.”

  Violet would not seem to look at her. “Remember your promise.”

  “Oh, I will, ma’am—I swear.” She turned, slid aside the cloth curtain of the screen, and departed.

  I sat down on my desk once more. “I too thank you, Violet. I have often thought... If only I could hand out fistfuls of money, more of my patients would live. I don’t know what to do with such cases. They make me so... angry. Angry at everyone—the stupid girls, their wretched employers, our proud, self-righteous countrymen... Pardon me, I know it is late for the soapbox. Why do you not sit down for a moment? I think we are actually finished for the day.”

  Violet stared longingly at the chair. “Perhaps I shall, but only for a moment. My corset is so tightly laced I fear I cannot both breath and sit simultaneously.”

  “I warned you to wear your stays loose.”

  “But then I would need a new wardrobe because none of my dresses would fit. Alas, Dame Fashion is a stern mistress. We of the gentler sex must keep ourselves ever beautiful, must we not?”

  She said it so gravely, that I gave her an incredulous stare. She began to laugh in earnest. “The look you gave me! Oh, now I shall never be able to sit.”

  I also began to laugh. Our laughter had a certain frayed, lunatic edge to it. We had passed a very long day together.

  The curtain opened, and a hesitant face appeared. Blonde curls showed under the volunteer nurse’s cap, as well as rosy cheeks and blue eyes. The face radiated youth, health and eagerness, a combination all my poor patients lacked.

  “Dr. Doudet Vernier?”

  “Yes, Jenny?”

  “Is everything... well?”

  “Oh, yes. Violet and I were only... We are fine. Are we finished?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Good.” I stood up and set my stethoscope on the desk.

  Jenny was watching me carefully, the hint of a frown showing on her broad, smooth forehead. Her father was a well-to-do merchant who sold fine china and silverware, a proud man who had not forgotten his humble origins and who did not aspire to social snobbery. His wife was a bit insipid for my taste, but Jenny was both intelligent and good-hearted. I had met her at a party six months ago and casually discussed the clinic with her. Next week and every week since, she had come to the clinic on my day there. We had talked about women and the medical profession on several occasions. Jenny was very shy, but I had tried to encourage her to consider becoming a physician. She was to be married in a few months, and I hoped her husband would not be the type to lock his wife up in the castle tower. Obviously she wanted to ask me something.

  “What is it, Jenny?”

  She stared at me gravely, licked her lips, but said nothing.

  “Come, my dear, what is it? You can tell me.”

  “It is something... of a personal nature, Dr. Doudet Vernier.”

  “Yes?”

  She gazed past me at Violet who was taking off the white apron which all the nurses and volunteers wore. Violet raised only her right eyebrow—a feat I had always envied. “I shall tell Collins to have the carriage brought round.”

  “I shall not be long, I think.” I gave Jenny a questioning look.

  She shook her head. “No, Dr. Doudet Vernier.”

  Violet closed the curtain behind her, and I sat wearily on the wooden chair by the examining table. “Jenny, we have known each other long enough and our ages are near enough that you could call me Michelle. Dr. Doudet Vernier seems too formidable coming from you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

  “Whatever you are comfortable with. Now, what do you wish to talk about?”

  She licked her lips again, and then spoke so softly her voice was quiet as a whisper. “I am to be married soon I think you know.” She stopped speaking. Her naturally rosy complexion grew even redder, a slow flushing spreading from about her ears.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, I only... I wondered... I...” Her jaw seemed to lock, and she turned away abruptly. “I think I must leave.”

  Comprehension dawned—I had seen these symptoms before; I knew both the cause and the cure. “Wait.” I smiled, stood, and seized her wrist. Her face was positively scarlet. “Has your mother told you nothing, then?”

  “Only...” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Not only insipid, but thoughtless. I drew in my breath. For better or worse, I was long past false modesty. “And you want to know what makes a man and woman, husband and wife?”

  “Yes.” Embarrassed she might be, but her sense of relief was palpable.

  “I shall tell you, and you certainly should know before you are married.”

  “Oh, I think so, too,”

  I hesitated for a moment. The biology was straightforward enough, but that was never all there was to it. “What is your young man’s name, Jenny?”

  “Henry.”

  I laughed. “What a dreadful name!” She immediately appeared stricken. “Oh, forgive me—that is my husband’s name. Teasing is a habit with me. And are you fond of him?” She nodded gravely. “Your father gave you some say in this matter?”

  “He did.”

  “And is Henry agreeable to look at?”

  She gave a quick nod.

  “More than agreeable?” Now she smiled, and her smile told me a great deal. “And do you think he cares for you?” Again she nodded. “And does he respect you?”

  “I believe he does.”

  “Then I think everything will go well.” I sighed, praying it would be so. So many things could go wrong. If the man were rough and insistent, the wedding night could be disastrous. I caught a glimpse of impatience in Jenny’s eyes, and I laughed. “Forgive me, Jenny. I shan’t be evasive. Let me explain.” And so I did, briefly and directly, as I watched Jenny closely. When I finished she stood staring at the window.

  “How very odd. My mother only said... Is it not... something of an ordeal?”

  I could not restrain a laugh. “Oh no, my dear. No, no. Perhaps at first it might be somewhat painful, but if you love one another and are patient with one another... It is most definitely not an ordeal—never let anyone persuade you of that, although many will try. A famous doctor has written that most women have no sexual desires whatsoever. That is utter nonsense. Some may have such feelings killed off by cruelty, indifference, or sickness, but when everything is right—when a man and woman truly love one another and consummate that love—it is the closest we ever come to heaven on this poor earth.”

  Jenny’s cheeks were flushed, and now my own face felt hot. “Pardon me for being so blunt, but...” Jenny seized my big hand in hers. “Oh, thank you, Michelle—thank you!” She smiled at me. I laughed, and put my arm about her.

  Someone brushed against the curtain, and it slid open. Violet had seized the cloth with both hands, her slender frame swaying. Her face was ashen, her mouth half open, her eyes wild.

  Suddenly her legs gave way, and down she went, pulling the curtain with her as she fell. Jenny cried out. I went to Violet’s side at once. Her face was absolutely white, her lips almost blue, and she felt icy to the touch. Perhaps it was a seizure, but there was no muscle tension or spasm. She gasped for air and groped for my hand.

  “I cannot... breathe.”

  “Is she all right?” Jenny murmured.

  “Get me some water,” I asked Jenny.

  “Oh God,” Violet sobbed.

  I rolled her over and started to unfasten her dress. I have large fingers, nothing dainty about them and, growing impatient with the endless row of hooks, I seized both sides of the dress and tore it open. When I saw the knot on her corset, I said a very vulgar word.

  “Will she die?” Jenny asked.

  “No. Not today. Hand me the scalpel from the table, would you? Careful now—it’s sharp.” I took the blade, cut through the knot, and then began to loosen the laces. “No wonder you can’t breathe. Oh, Violet, I thought you knew better.
” I sat her up and took the glass from Jenny. “Have a drink.”

  She took a big swallow, then drew in a deep breath. “Oh, thank you.” Her color had begun to return. She took her lip between her teeth, glanced at me, then away. “Oh, I feel such a fool, such a silly fool.”

  She started to get up, but I grasped her shoulders. “Do not try to stand, not quite yet. Take a few more deep breaths. Does anything hurt?”

  “I am fine, Michelle. You were quite right about loose clothing. My stays were far too tight. I could feel the whalebone and steel cutting into my flesh. Perhaps I shall throw out all my corsets.”

  “Whalebone is truly the bane of womankind,” I said. Violet smiled, and I heard Jenny suppress a laugh. “Let me help you up. Are you certain you...?”

  “I am well, Michelle. I only feel as if I were a very idiot.”

  Jenny helped me get Violet to her feet. “Sit on the table for a minute,” I said. “I want to check your heart and your lungs.”

  “Michelle—honestly, I am perfectly well.”

  “I insist.” My voice had assumed its resolute physician’s tone. “Slip out of the sleeves of your dress.” I warmed the bell of my stethoscope with my hand and put it on her sternum. “Take a deep breath.”

  I listened carefully, then took her wrist between my thumb and finger and checked her pulse.

  Violet held her head high, her lips pursed in a half-mocking smile. “Tell me the truth, Doctor—will I live? Be honest with me. How long do I have?”

  I closed my watch and put it away. “Everything appears normal. Provided you do not squash all your insides to mush with a corset, you should live to a ripe old age.”

  Violet smiled and slipped her long white arm back into the blue silk sleeve of her dress.