by Lydia Kang
“Not nearly so vegetal,” he said, laughing softly. “I would prefer something with more excitement, but alas. Father has me studying to be a physician when my aching head allows it.”
“Maybe this is why your head is aching so.” Tillie slid the book back in place. She pulled out another. “Here you go. Vesicants and Blistering: A Primer. Ah.” She tapped the book. “This must include medicines with Lytta vesicatoria. I read all about it last summer.”
Tom looked at her blankly.
“Spanish fly?” Tillie said helpfully.
He blinked and frowned.
“The blistering beetle?”
“Good God, that’s what Father puts on my back?” Tom said. His face went a shade of yellow.
“Probably,” Tillie said. She liked Tom. He didn’t seem to judge her, as most others did, nor did he look at her the way other young men did, measuring her marital and societal utility, wondering about her fecundity as one might a prize sow’s. She couldn’t speak to Dorothy like this. Only Lucy. And Lucy was missing.
She was suddenly, achingly lonely—and worried about her sister all over again. Maybe when she returned home, Mama and Grandmama would have news. “I’m Mathilda Pembroke. Mathilda Cora Flint Pembroke, if I were to be more formal. But I prefer Tillie.”
“Thomas, but as I said before, I like Tom. Oh, you’re a Pembroke? Have you found your sister yet?”
Tillie dropped her mouth open in surprise. “How do you . . . ?”
“The police came to question Father and me and Mother.” He shook his head. “It’s a sad state of affairs.”
Tillie looked at him sharply. “It’s not sad yet.”
“Of course! I just meant . . . you must be so frightened.” He flushed deeply. “I’m out of practice when it comes to conversation. I apologize. You know, I saw her the day she went missing.”
“You did? What was she like? Did she seem flustered?” she asked.
“She wasn’t acting normal, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t they tell you?”
Tillie had started to ask what he meant when the front door opened, and Ada and Mrs. Erikkson bustled into the room, all exclamations and wide eyes.
“Tom! Why are you not in your chamber?” Mrs. Erikkson demanded. “I’m so very sorry, Miss Mathilda. He ought not to be around other people—he has such a frail constitution.”
“Oh, Mother. I can walk a few steps to get a book.” Tom winked at Tillie. “My mother will feed me gruel when I’m ninety, if I allowed it. You ought to rest yourself, Mother, looking after the two men in your life all the time.”
Mrs. Erikkson affectionately shooed him through the doorway. “Get on with you. I’ve left your tea by the side table. Extra sugar.”
Tillie opened her mouth again to ask what he’d meant about Lucy but remained silent. Had Lucy been upset during her visit? With Ada and Mrs. Erikkson present, her meekness had ricocheted back with a vengeance.
“Come along, Miss.” Ada wrapped a shawl around her and directed her to the entranceway. The carriage was now waiting with the driver just outside. “Do you know,” Ada asked quietly, “how angry your mother will be if I don’t bring you back home immediately? After what happened to your sister?”
“I know. Of course, Ada. I wish I could ask the doctor one more question. About Lucy.”
“By golly, there’s nothing to ask that your grandmother hasn’t asked already. You know how she is.”
True. Grandmama Josephine would question a fly if a crumb were missing from the table. Ada began to help her into the carriage. A few feet away, a tall boy not much older than Tillie waved a newspaper at passersby.
“Pape! Get your World for one penny! Papes for sale! Brooklyn Trolley strike, day two! Fires set on Twenty-Second Street line! Man held as a slave in the Amazon! Papes, one penny! Vampire strikes Manhattan, kills lady near the museum!”
Tillie’s arms erupted in gooseflesh. She halted her entrance into the carriage. Her mouth had gone dry.
Lucy had been headed for the museum.
“Ada. Fetch me a paper from that newsie.”
“No, Miss! All that bad news—terrible for your nerves. We ought to be going home now.”
Seeing their interest, the boy’s face lit up, and he waved a paper more vigorously in their direction. “Only one cent to hear about the man held captive in the Amazon!”
“No, no, not that,” Tillie said. “What did you say about the girl? Near the museum?”
“I’ll say what I want, but you’ll have to buy the paper to hear the truth,” he said with a grin. He had a remarkably good set of teeth, for a street rat. “For you, a half penny and a kiss.”
Ada stiffened with disgust and tried to step in front of her charge. Tillie ought to have hung back and let Ada perform the exchange, but she stepped forward.
“Never mind that. I don’t need a kiss. I need a paper. Here.” She prodded Ada, who procured a penny from her silk reticule. The boy’s eyes were large and brown, with thick eyelashes that put Tillie’s to shame. Wavy brown hair peeked out from under his hat, reminding her of dark chocolate icing on a cake. He handed over the paper as he pocketed the penny.
Tillie snatched it, scanning the front page. “Where is it? Where?”
The boy shuffled closer. “Here.” He took the paper from her, carefully turned the page, and folded it. His hands appeared too large for his frame, as if the rest of him had forgotten to catch up and grow a few inches. But his clothes were neat, not as shabby as most of the newsies’. He looked as if he slept on a bed rather than the street. “Don’t want the ink to soil your pretty dress, now.” He handed the paper back to her and pointed to an item on the second page.
Tillie read the tiny headline greedily.
Woman Found Dead in Shadow of Metropolitan Museum of Art
Vampire-like Punctures Found on Neck
Empty Absinthe Bottle Found with Body
Identity of Victim Unknown
June 10, 1899—Yesterday, police recovered the body of a young woman near Fifth Avenue and Eighty-First Street, near the south wall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Puncture wounds were found on the victim’s neck, and the cause of death appears to be exsanguination, though no blood was found at the scene. She appeared to have been deceased for twelve hours before being found.
The victim’s identity is yet unknown, but police are seeking information on missing females in their early twenties, blonde, of slim physique, approximately five foot, five inches tall, and last seen wearing a lilac silk dress. An empty absinthe bottle was found next to the body.
Tillie dropped the paper and staggered back, her free hand clutching at the carriage for support.
“Miss Tillie! What is it?” Ada exclaimed. “Call the doctor! Call Dr. Erikkson!” Her voice sounded distant, as if shouted over miles and miles through a snowstorm.
Lucy. Lucy was five foot, five inches tall. Lucy had worn her lilac dress the day Tillie had gone to Long Island to ride in the hunt. The day she had disappeared.
“Lucy!” It was the last thing Tillie said. The newsie rushed forward, dropping his papers in a spreading whoosh, catching Tillie as her knees buckled and the world went sideways.
CHAPTER 3
Despair has its own calms.
—Jonathan Harker
It was a strange thing to be awake within a nightmare.
“Are you all right, Miss? Will you need help getting home?” The newsie leaned against the carriage door after laying Tillie out on the seat cushions.
“No, no,” Ada said as she covered Tillie’s ankles decently with a blanket. “She’s had a shock.”
“Say, does she know that dead lady?” he asked.
At this, Ada, too, went pale, and there was a brief danger of two swooning women. But Ada composed herself, and the carriage door was shut. The newsie’s question went unanswered, and Tillie thought she saw him briefly speak to the driver—the newsie’s hand slipping a coin into the driver’s palm—before the horse leaped to a start.
>
The next hours were a blur. Tillie could hardly breathe, hardly stutter a word. The moment they arrived home, Ada fairly flew through the house to send word about the newspaper article. Tillie’s head pounded as if driven full of iron nails, and her shoulder felt newly broken after her swoon. When one of the other maids prepared her medicine, Tillie drank it down and waved her hand.
“More. Another dose. I cannot abide being awake. I cannot . . .” She inhaled sharply, hyperventilating at the mere thought of finishing her sentence.
I cannot live without my Lucy.
The maid, shocked at her state, complied. Tillie groaned, feeling the bitter tincture warm her throat. Within minutes, a strange levity entered her body. She felt loose as goose down, and the pain in her body unscrewed itself to a tolerable level. Now she could close her eyes and think of Lucy, see her blonde curls drooping over her forehead, watch her hand pour another cup of tea. She could imagine Lucy’s laugh, like the bells of Trinity Church were signaling for all to sing of that immutable grace that transcended despair. It was a grace Tillie could not touch. Numbness would do instead.
Tillie heard the front door open and close, and the exclamations of her grandmother, a sound that was sandpaper and vinegar. Silence followed. The house shook with the repeated opening and closing of the front door. Hallway chatter from the parlormaids bled into the room from time to time.
“They say it’s just like in that book. Dracula.”
“I heard it’s trash, but my sister loves such novelties. She only just bought it at Baker and Taylor, downtown.”
And:
“A vampire! Here! Can you believe it?”
“What a sad affair. I liked Miss Lucy. She was a good lady.”
“Aye. But she can’t fix this heap of laundry, and I’d like some of that rarebit for luncheon, so let’s get back to work, eh?”
Tillie squeezed her eyes shut. Vampires were just stories made up to frighten children. Tillie wasn’t much of a novel reader; she preferred factual texts. But at the moment, she did not wish for her beloved dictionary or her father’s library. She didn’t want to move or think. All she wanted was gone, and the only explanation came from the smudged pages of a penny paper.
How blessedly convenient, this broken bone. She could stay in bed all day, frozen in her grief, instead of facing a funeral and mourners. She needed none of the extra smothering reminders that she was sisterless.
Oh, Lucy. Did he hurt you so very much? Her mind filled with fractured images—a large hand forcing Lucy’s face to the side, pinning her to the ground, her silk-slippered feet kicking, blood spattering the ground. Tillie turned to howl into her pillow, but the movement sent pain bolting through her shoulder. All of this was utterly intolerable. She could, however, reach for her bell. Ada promptly opened her door, dressed in her crisp livery. Her eyes were lined with red.
“Good morning, Miss.” Oh. It must be morning again. Ada’s voice was scratchy. “Goodness, you’re a sight. Your face has no color! Let’s get you into the bath. I’ll have the cook make a soft-boiled egg and tea. The dressmaker will be by shortly for measurements. You have a black bombazine gown that will do for now, but you’ll need a parramatta silk to wear for your mourning period.”
“No,” Tillie said. “I don’t want to be fitted.”
“Now there. First, medicine. I woke you up last night for your dose. Do you remember?”
Tillie shook her head. She was glad not to recall. Being awake for any reason meant being despondent.
“Dr. Erikkson said you should take it regularly,” Ada said. She went to the table at the foot of the bed. Tillie drank the medicine willingly. But her pain seemed so much worse than yesterday.
“Ada,” Tillie said, handing the glass back. “Give me a few more drops. I can’t bear today with this broken bone, on top of everything else.”
“Well . . .” The maid hesitated.
“It’s safe enough. They give it to little children all the time.”
Ada’s expression softened. Tillie saw her own puffy, forlorn face in the mirror over her maid’s shoulder. Quite pathetic. Ada placed two more drops into the small crystal goblet and added water from a glass decanter.
The opium took effect quickly, and the next hours were a blur. Tillie was fitted for a proper mourning gown of matte silk and lace trim, with stiff crape ruffles along the skirt and sleeves. Someone handed her a locket of gold and jet with a curl of Lucy’s beautiful flaxen hair inside. Which meant that someone must have snipped it off her corpse at the morgue. The very thought sent her into a fit of hyperventilation that required more laudanum and a six-hour nap. She ate something, possibly an egg or toast, and there was more sleep. There could never be enough sleep.
The wake tomorrow was to be a very short affair, given how long Lucy had already been deceased. Tillie suffered through dinner, seated across from her mother while her grandmother occupied the head of the table.
Josephine Pembroke was a stout sixty years old, silver of hair and with a face lined so deeply that she appeared to have bloodless knife gashes on either side of her patrician mouth. Like her daughter’s, her eyes were dark blue, and they sparkled with intelligence. Dotage had not yet touched her. In fact, Grandmama had likely sent it sniffling away in abject fear.
Her imperious nature had allowed certain rules to be bent. After her son-in-law, Charles Flint, had died when Tillie was eight years old, she’d reverted the names of her daughter and granddaughters back to Pembroke so that the money could stay in the family. Luckily, the entailment had no specifications on sex, only legal names and bloodlines. Their previous surname was swept away.
Tillie and her father had always clung to the earth, wanting to trawl its meanings and explore its factual revelations. She still remembered his gift to her at age eight, a mere month before he’d died. A dictionary. They’d read through it together, learning odd words like whorl and escamotage and numismatic. She ached from his loss acutely now, as if mourning Lucy had created more space for heartbreak.
Grandmama tasted the soup—a creamed asparagus. Nausea gripped Tillie again. It never seemed to go away, probably from the medicine. Creamed asparagus soup should be made extinct, Tillie thought, staring at the bowl before her.
“I am glad to hear that you are resting well, Mathilda,” her grandmother said in her scratchy voice. It had grown pricklier as every year passed, likely from her habit of secretly smoking a pipe in her chamber. She had a way of nodding genteelly at Tillie until Tillie did something untoward—loudly ponder the similarity between asparagus and hunting spears, for example—at which point she would incline her head toward Tillie’s mother and say, “Victoria.”
That was all that ever needed to be said. Victoria meant “if only you’d borne a child with a better figure.” Victoria meant “if only you had chosen a husband who had not fathered such an awkward, graceless child.” Victoria was never intoned in discussions of Lucy, however. As though they weren’t sisters who shared the same father.
With this intonation of Victoria, her mother dabbed her mouth with her napkin and launched into a lesson on etiquette that Tillie already knew. It was not dinner unless Tillie was lectured in some way, and she usually bore it with quiet compliance. But not today. Tillie dropped her spoon into the bowl and began to moan.
“Lucy,” she said softly, wiping away the pale-green cream that had splashed her nose. “Lucy would never drop her spoon. I miss her. I miss her not dropping her spoons.”
Her mother waved a servant over.
“Miss Mathilda is unwell. Please call Ada. She needs to rest for tomorrow.”
“It’s that opium. It needs to be thrown out,” Grandmama said. She and Tillie’s mother were both charitable trustees of the Temperance Society of Union Square. They perceived physical discomfort to be a personal failing rather than true sickness.
“But Dr. Erikkson said until the bone is healed—”
“Bones healed before opium was ever discovered,” Grandmama declared. �
��Get rid of it by the end of the week.”
“Are you not upset? What about Lucy?” blurted Tillie as she stood and swayed. Her voluminous skirt caught the edge of the spoon, which flipped out of her bowl and landed with a double thud on the Persian carpet. Soup slopped onto her skirt. “May I not even speak her name anymore?”
“Enough, Mathilda.” Grandmama stood, eyes narrowed. “We are Pembrokes. Don’t be a Flint.”
Tillie could barely keep her face from contorting.
Her grandmother sighed. “You’ll learn how to survive this, Mathilda. No woman lives a life unscathed. It’s what makes us strong. We are broken and mended, remade every time. We must, or it destroys us.”
Tillie gazed in wonder at her. Grandmama had never said anything so forthcoming, so personal—even as vague as her words were. How many heartaches had she endured? What love had she lost that had turned her into pure adamant? Perhaps those deep wrinkles in her face had been carved by more than just time.
The eldest Mrs. Pembroke glanced at Tillie’s clothes and reverted back to practicalities. “That waist needs to be brought in, and her hair is atrocious. Be sure it looks suitable tomorrow, Victoria.” She barked toward the servant at the door: “Clear the table.”
The servant looked confused. “But we’ve only just brought the soup—”
“Supper is finished. We’re to have a wake here tomorrow. Why are the floors not polished? Why is the cook not preparing dishes for tomorrow?” Grandmama exited the room, orders flying from her mouth like a bellows fueling a fire.
Ada appeared at Tillie’s side and whisked her upstairs. Within a few minutes, Tillie’s gown had been unbuttoned, her stays and underthings removed, and a nightgown swooshed over her head. Sleep came after yet another dose of medicine. Tillie heard Ada speaking to her mother—or her mother speaking to Ada; she was not entirely sure.
Perhaps she should not attend the wake or the funeral.
Perhaps only one or two more days of the opium.
Perhaps she should see Dr. Erikkson again.
Perhaps Tillie ought to be dead, instead of Lucy.