Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  Tillie’s mother smiled. “I’ll have the servants bring some refreshments.” She left with a rustle of silk.

  “Mathilda. It’s so good to see you. How is your arm?” James asked. He took her good elbow and led her to the chaise next to Dorothy, who smiled benevolently.

  “Better and better,” Tillie said. Actually, her whole shoulder ached. Two housemaids came to put down silver bowls of dates and silver-colored Jordan almonds.

  “And have you heard any further news of what happened to poor Lucy?” Dorothy inquired.

  “Goodness, Dorothy. Let’s talk about something less upsetting!” James said, somewhat bitingly. He gave Dorothy a severe look, before softening his gaze upon Tillie. He opened up a cigarette case and lit a gold-tipped cigarette, blowing the smoke in the air. Dorothy leaned her head toward him, and he offered and lit one for her.

  “I ask out of concern, James,” Dorothy said, smoke coiling under her nose.

  “You know your father dislikes it when you smoke, Dorothy,” Hazel said mildly.

  Dorothy waved her away.

  “Actually, I’m quite open to hearing news about what happened to my sister,” Tillie said. “Also, please stop calling me Mathilda. It’s my great-grandmother’s name, and I always feel like people are speaking to her instead of me. Call me Tillie.”

  “Of course, Tillie,” James said. He smiled gently. “I’ve always wished for the permission to do so.”

  “You have?” Tillie blurted artlessly. She felt her stomach rumble. It sounded like a minor earthquake in her belly.

  “Goodness, did you hear that? Tillie, is there a dog in the house?” Dorothy asked.

  “No. Not at all.” She shifted in her seat. Her insides were far noisier whenever the medicine had dissipated from her body, after the nausea subsided. She had a sudden desire to dash upstairs and suck down a dropperful right now.

  “So there is no news, then?” James asked, leaning closer to her. She could smell French milled soap and the scent of lavender-rinsed linen.

  “The way the paper wrote about it—a vampire? It makes no sense,” Dorothy said.

  “It’s a deranged killer, and he needs to be found and hanged,” James said, unusually vehemently. “Vampires are fiction. The police need to stop thinking of possibilities that aren’t real and track down this man.”

  “Why is it so impossible?” Tillie said, her cheeks warming.

  “If vampires were real, then people would have found such a creature. There would be evidence. There are no such things as the undead.”

  Tillie’s mind went to the teeth marks on Lucy’s neck. “Of course you’re right. It’s not like people have found vampires. Real ones.”

  “They’ve found them in New England,” Hazel said quietly. Tillie had almost forgotten she was there. Hazel had that habit of being forgotten, even though if one looked for more than a second, one would notice her striking green eyes and flaxen hair. Hazel looked like a Parisian doll come to life, with poreless bisque skin and a tiny rosebud mouth. But she dressed in browns and beiges, doing her best to keep in the shadows of her benefactress.

  “What do you mean?” Dorothy said. “Are you reading novels again, Hazel?”

  “No. It’s in the news. I read about some folks in New England, digging up corpses and finding that they hadn’t rotted. Their hair had lengthened. Their fingernails had grown after death.”

  Dorothy now shifted completely to the side to stare at her friend. “When are you reading these papers?”

  “I read them every evening after you go to sleep,” Hazel said with a smile. “There’s a pile of them in the foyer every day that your father purchases, and I’m allowed to read them after everyone in the house is done. I love to read the news.”

  Everyone stared at Hazel for a moment. James seemed to suppress a smile.

  “I never read them,” Dorothy said with a shudder, as if news were a disease she could catch. She turned back to James and Tillie. “I’d rather read the Delineator. Anyway, enough about all that nonsense. What matters is you, my dear,” she said. “Once your arm is out of that sling, we shall go out and get some air together. You’ve hidden behind dear Lucy all your life. It’s your time to shine.”

  What a horrid idea. “That’s not what I—”

  “She’s right, you know,” James said, standing. “I’ve been remiss in paying attention to Lucy’s dear sister, and it’s my intention to make sure you aren’t forgotten, Tillie. You’re a sole heiress now. A beautiful and injured little bird. We must keep the riffraff away from you.”

  Tillie balked at this description of herself. As if she needed to be kept under a glass cloche, cherished and untouched. But she was more disturbed by James’s proximity to her, the way he stood by, his hand on her good elbow. As if she belonged to him, the way Lucy had been his possession before.

  “It was lovely to see you. I must be on my way.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Dorothy said. Hazel stiffened. Dorothy acted sometimes as if she were the mistress of every house she stepped into. Tillie had always allowed it because she didn’t care to be in the spotlight, but something nudged her conscience. It was Lucy’s voice.

  You’re the rightful heir in the Pembroke family.

  Tillie hesitated. “I . . . I’ll show James out. Thanks, Dorrie.”

  If Dorothy was surprised, she concealed it. Tillie went to the door with James, who turned to her.

  “Don’t mind Dorothy. She thinks of you as a little sister.”

  “I should mind more, but . . . I don’t like to be in charge of things,” Tillie said, flustered. Her hand wrung the fabric of her dress. “I wish Lucy were here still.”

  “As do I. But you’re a lady of the Pembroke family too. And just as exquisite. You oughtn’t be forgotten in all this sadness.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. Tillie’s face went bright and hot. “Thank you” was all she could manage to say.

  “Perhaps it is time for someone else to take care of you so you don’t have to be in charge of things.” He met her eye for one long moment, then left. Tillie stood there, mouth agape.

  “He fancies you.” Dorothy had come up behind her.

  Tillie turned around. “No. He’s just being kind.” But even she didn’t believe her words.

  “Well. If you prefer to think that, then so be it. And if James is not to your taste, then you should tell him so.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I don’t think Lucy was all that happy with the idea of being Mrs. Cutter.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, a woman can tell, just from watching. She never had that fire in her heart for him, you know? But James certainly wants to marry a Pembroke. Why, your estate is enormous, Tillie. James’s family was one of Astor’s Four Hundred. They have the name, but their finances took a downturn after the Panic of 1893. Your money? His name? It’s perfect! There’s a dearth of heiresses on this island. All of our American-dollar princesses are finding royal titles and husbands abroad. Look at Consuelo Vanderbilt, marrying the Duke of Marlborough!”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “Look, Tillie. James had his heart set on the match with Lucy. His parents were so happy they would have burst if not for their waists and corsets. Lucy may be gone, but there is still a Pembroke heiress. The opportunity is far from gone.”

  James? So handsome that ladies’ rose-salved lips dropped open in astonishment when he passed? James Cutter fancied her? There was something alluring about the idea of a match between them, one that would make all the socialites who had ever giggled over her clumsy ways jealous . . .

  “Anyway, you’re more his fancy,” Dorothy continued. “He likes complacent women.”

  It took her a minute to really hear what Dorothy was saying. The skin on her arms rose in goose bumps, and she felt the full force of her stomach cramps.

  “Are you saying that Lucy was not complacent?”

  Dorothy’s brows rose. “Did you not hear thei
r arguments in the last few weeks? I thought you’d know more than me. They fought like cats and dogs lately.”

  Hazel had followed them into the foyer. “About what?” Tillie asked.

  Dorothy shrugged. “If you don’t know, then I don’t know who does. Did she not tell you?”

  Tillie’s face soured. She desperately wanted her reticule. “I don’t feel well, Dorothy. I think I must go upstairs.”

  “Of course,” Dorothy said, patting her arm. “I’ll come by next week. We should try to get out, take a walk. You look like you need some fresh air and exercise.”

  Hazel gave a dispassionate “I hope to see you again soon,” which was just as lukewarm as it should be, since Dorothy made all the decisions about whom to see and where to go.

  As soon as Pierre closed the door, Tillie’s shoulders relaxed. Speaking to James had felt like wearing an ill-fitting and itchy coat. She went upstairs. Ada had left her reticule sitting on her bed.

  She hastily unscrewed the bottle of medicine and measured out more than her usual dose. Ten brown, bitter drops, right under her tongue. Even as the medicine began to blur her senses, softening her pain and easing her riotous belly, she still felt unsettled.

  She withdrew the little notebook from her sleeve. Lucy and James had been fighting.

  Why?

  CHAPTER 6

  Our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength.

  —Van Helsing

  A voice flitted in and out of her dreams. An insistent voice that nudged and pressed her awake.

  “One penny! Whaddya say? Whaddya hear? One penny for the World!”

  Ian.

  “It’s been a week!” Tillie said, waking and sitting up suddenly. She winced from the pain, and her back was stiff. She must have slept unmoving for most of the night.

  Ada was sitting in the corner, crocheting. “Good day, Miss. Yes, over a week since poor Miss Pembroke left us. And only a few more weeks in this sling of yours. You’re to visit Dr. Erikkson again soon.”

  Tom. The doctor’s son. How had she forgotten? He had mentioned something about Lucy being upset the day she disappeared.

  “Pape! Get your World!” a voice called from the street. For a moment, Tillie thought she was dreaming again, but she heard the sounds of horses clattering on the street, and the warm sun shone through the open curtains. The voice selling papers sounded younger than Ian’s. It couldn’t be him, but it reminded her. She owed him the book.

  “Has anyone left any messages for me? Any cards?”

  “Mm,” Ada said, eyes on her crocheting. “Yes, but your mother took them.”

  Oh no. Mama always looked over the calling cards and critiqued them minutely. If Ian had left a message, she had probably incinerated it. How would Tillie know when and where to meet Ian again? After Ada helped her dress, Tillie paused by the door.

  “Ada, let me be for a moment. I’ll be down soon.” With a nod, Ada picked up her crocheting and disappeared.

  Quickly, Tillie locked the door. At her vanity, she pulled the drawer open and fished out the brown bottle of laudanum from the back. There were only about two doses left. Once again, she squeezed several drops onto her tongue, her eyes squinting from the burn of alcohol. Five drops this time. Ten put her in a stupor. She needed to be awake today, to only feel normal. Just not in so much discomfort.

  She screwed the top back on and hid the bottle. She could smell the pharmaceutical tinge on her breath. Looking around, she found a tin of rose pastilles and chewed three. Mama would be angry if she knew about the medicine.

  She sought out the little notebook of hers from under her pillow. Inside, she scribbled:

  Tom knew Lucy was upset the day she died. Why was she upset?

  As she left her room, she saw Lucy’s room down the hallway from hers. The door had been closed ever since she’d gone missing. Opening that door was a reminder of what had been lost. Tillie walked toward it, recalling Dorothy’s words from yesterday.

  “Did you not hear their arguments in the last few weeks?”

  “They fought like cats and dogs lately.”

  Every time she’d seen James and Lucy together, they had been the duke and duchess at whatever gathering they were presiding over. James, full chested and confident. Lucy, like exquisite starlight that you couldn’t quite focus upon. Too perfect to be captured by a mere human eye.

  Tillie twisted the porcelain doorknob. Inside, the room smelled like faded roses. And indeed, a vase of wilted roses stood on the bedside table; James had sent them from Henderson’s flower shop just before Lucy had died. The room was chillingly unchanged—Lucy’s coverlet was perfectly smoothed, the collection of Baccarat paperweights on her vanity grouped together like flowered jewels trapped in dewdrops.

  Tillie opened the vanity drawer, finding hairpins and ribbons, nothing of significance. In the bureau, only layers and layers of French chemises and sateen underthings, silk stockings and garters. On top of Lucy’s vanity, however, were an inkwell and a pen. A rectangle of dark silk hid the blotter. Lucy wrote here. Tillie hadn’t realized that—everyone else in the house used the large escritoire downstairs.

  She studied the blotter. It had splotches of ink. Looking in the drawer again, she saw a knife, hidden at the back where she hadn’t noticed it. Minute pencil shavings littered the seams of the drawer.

  Any letter Lucy had written would have been written in ink. Not in pencil. So where were the other writings? Tillie looked under the pillow, under the mattress. Nothing.

  She bit her lip. The bedroom window looked to the back of the house, with its conservatory and small garden. The clouds were a perfect white on turquoise. How rude of the sky to be so blue and pretty when Lucy couldn’t admire it. Such a thoughtless sky.

  Tillie was turning to leave when she noticed the bedside table. She tried to open the little drawer, but it was locked. No key in sight. Strange. Maybe it had been in Lucy’s missing reticule. She wondered if a hairpin would work.

  Ada was calling her for luncheon. She would have to consider the locked drawer later. Mama was visiting Mrs. Cutter; she and James’s mother were likely consoling each other over fried artichokes and mandarin cake.

  Today, Grandmama’s red-masked parakeet, Elenora, was perched on a T-shaped bar next to her chair. Usually Elenora lived in the conservatory, where her squawks didn’t bother anyone and her droppings wouldn’t ruin the carpet, but the conservatory was being cleaned.

  “You look tired, after all that sleep,” her grandmother scolded as Tillie took her seat. Elenora flapped her wings, and her grandmother murmured, “What a good girl!” before she focused again on her granddaughter.

  Tillie knew this stare. It was the daily appraisal. Every day, those beady eyes would settle on Lucy, nod in satisfaction, then move on to Tillie. Eyebrows would rise, followed by a shake of the head. Now that there was no Lucy to dote over, Tillie feared Grandmama would spend twice as much time throwing her critical gaze at Tillie.

  “Your dress needs to be taken in. You need a cream rinse in your hair; it looks dry. Sit up straighter. Why do you insist on looking so sleepy?”

  “This broken bone still hurts. It’s hard to sleep well,” Tillie said, mincingly eating the small egg pastry on her plate. The salad of frilly lettuce, summer tomatoes, and nasturtium blossoms was dressed with an acid sauce that she disliked. Her stomach contained acid. It made her think her food was being digested before it touched her lips, and she shivered. “Were there any letters or cards left for me?”

  “Why, yes. James inquired after you. He was worried that you seemed out of sorts yesterday. It’s rather considerate of him. We will have him over to supper soon.”

  Tillie flushed. “Anything else?”

  Grandmama waved a hand. “Some troublesome stranger who keeps sending you messages as if he knows you. I’ve told Pierre to refuse any more.”


  Oh no. Ian. How would she get in touch with him now? Tillie was concentrating on stabbing a bit of buttery pastry crust when Elenora flew off her perch and landed on the chairback. The bird began to play with her hair.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” her grandmother cooed. “Don’t bother Mathilda now. Come, Elenora.” She motioned to a maid, who coaxed Elenora onto an arm, then back onto her perch. Grandmama turned to Tillie. With the thick black crape ruffles around her neck, she looked like a fearsome lizard, or at least a very imperious Queen Victoria.

  “I do know him,” Tillie said. “After I saw Dr. Erikkson last week, I felt ill, and he helped fetch our carriage. I believe it’s just neighborly concern.”

  “He’s no neighbor of ours. I saw him on the sidewalk. He looks like a common pushcart vendor, selling all manner of ghastly things. Suspenders and chickens and such.”

  “Oh, Grandmama. He’s no pushcart vendor. He sells papers.”

  “Not much better,” her grandmother said, sniffing.

  “Let me write him back,” Tillie said. “That will satisfy his curiosity, and I’ll ask that he stop writing.”

  “I absolutely forbid it.”

  “Otherwise he’ll keep visiting, Grandmama! We wouldn’t want him bringing more attention to us. Will that do?”

  Her grandmother’s ruffles seemed to wilt at the idea of a ruffian pacing in front of their doorstep. She raised one gnarled finger in the air, its tip stained slightly yellow from her habit of poking down strands of tobacco into her tiny ivory pipe.

  “One letter. Only one. And another thing. We’ve hired a man to guard the house. John O’Toole. He worked in the Twenty-First Ward for over fifteen years. He’s guarded banks, other homes. He’s to walk the grounds of the house at night.”

  “Every night?” Tillie asked.

  “Of course. From sundown to sunup. It’s when most thievery in this area occurs. And you’re not allowed out of the house unless it is a sanctioned social activity. Not even for a brief walk outside. No more excursions to the Lenox Library.”