Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  “You’re right, it’s not her fault, Victoria. It’s your fault! She’s ill bred, and if you’d cleaned up your mistakes the way I said you should, there would be none of this. But no! You had to marry for love!”

  Tillie gasped. “Good God. Are you speaking about my father?” Her voice rose to a high pitch. “What mistake, Grandmama? Me? Am I the mistake?”

  Her grandmother opened her mouth but paused, realizing that even she had let her emotions run amok. She turned to her daughter. “Fix this.” And to Tillie, “You’ll not send any messages or letters out anymore.” She clapped her hands, and Pierre showed up faster than an electric light switched on. “The servants will bring all cards and letters to me first,” Mrs. Pembroke said with finality. “Coming and going. Or they will be fired immediately. No visitors, until I say.”

  Tillie’s fury rose above her reticence. Some other power seemed to push the words out of her body. “You are angry at me and Mama, but why aren’t you angry at James? He struck Lucy! They weren’t even married!”

  “Mathilda—” her mother began.

  “Lucy’s maid was stealing,” she continued. “She was afraid Lucy would tell the truth. James was trying to control Lucy, and she was miserable. And you care only to keep me quiet, trapped under lock and key. What about who killed Lucy? It has been almost three weeks. Three weeks! Do you care that the person who killed Lucy has sucked the marrow out of another child? You are helping that monster kill more people by pretending she never died!”

  Her mother threw her hands to her face and began bawling, and her grandmother went apoplectic. She was turning the same color as her dark-burgundy batiste gown.

  “And the bite marks!” Tillie went on. “Must I remind you that her blood was drained away? Gone! Like an empty milk bottle! How can you pretend that did not happen? How can you not act? Vampires must be considered. Stoker’s book says—”

  “Silence!” her grandmother nearly screamed. The chandelier above the stairs shook and tinkled like wineglasses clinking. “Send for the driver. We’re going to see Dr. Erikkson. This kind of outburst must be controlled. This hysteria, this behavior—utterly intolerable.”

  “I am not hysterical!” Tillie hollered. “I know what hysterical means! I have read about it in the medical encyclopedias. My womb is not running about inside, causing mischief!” She waved her arms in a zigzag and kicked her feet for extra emphasis.

  “Mathilda! How dare you speak of such things aloud!” her mother said, hissing. “The servants are listening!”

  “Let them hear me! Lucy is dead. And I am not Lucy! I will never be your perfect Lucy! I am a Flint, like my father, and you cannot extinguish that fact no matter how much you try. You cannot silence me into being sold and packaged off to a suitor to make this family presentable again! I’ll leave. I’ll go to college. I’ll work, if that is what it means to be able to speak!”

  Her grandmother rose to her full height, two inches taller than Tillie, and came forward with hand raised high. Tillie, still seated, shrank from the coming blow.

  For several seconds that twisted like yarn into a thin, everlasting thread, she waited. When she stopped cowering and opened an eye, her grandmother had reeled in her hand and backed away, face white.

  “Call for the driver. Victoria, go with her. See that she is treated for this outlandish outburst. I’ll go to meet with the Cutters and the sergeant mentioned in the article to quiet down this business.”

  Her grandmother walked past Tillie into the depths of the library, shutting the double doors with a slam.

  “Ada!” her mother barked. Ada peeped a head out from down the hallway, where she was hiding in the butler’s pantry. “Miss Pembroke requires a new gown. We’re going to see her doctor immediately.” Ada scurried closer and began to usher Tillie upstairs.

  “We are not done here!” Tillie said, throwing off Ada’s arm.

  But her mother had already fled. She could hear Pierre ordering the driver to fetch the carriage from the stables.

  Tillie could not be calmed. Ada begged her to change out of her sick-stained gown, but Tillie would not sit still. In the end, Ada wiped the worst of it off, and Tillie reeked of bitterness, sour and foul.

  All the way to Dr. Erikkson’s, her mother and Ada sat on either side of her. They seemed afraid even to look at her. Tillie’s hair was in disarray, and in the reflection of the carriage’s windowpanes, she saw how wide her eyes were, how encircled with purplish shadows. She was thinner too. She hadn’t eaten much in the last few weeks, now that she thought of it. The opium always constipated her so, and it made her belly feel too bloated to eat. As a result, her gowns were fitting loose, and her bosom had deflated to the point where her corset squashed what she had down to a plane of nothing.

  All she could think about was the vitriol she would spit at Ian when she met with him tonight. One thing was for sure: she could not let on that she had been escaping the house.

  At the doctor’s town house, Mrs. Erikkson opened the door. Her matronly cap was perfectly set on her head, her apron clean and white, and she smiled with those apple-ish cheeks, until she saw the sorry expressions on all three women.

  “Oh! Mrs. Pembroke, Miss Pembroke.” She curtsied briefly. “But you do all look a fright. Please come in. My husband is with Tom, but he can see you shortly.”

  She showed her mother into an office to speak with Dr. Erikkson in private, and then she shuttled Tillie and Ada into the examination room down the hall. Tillie paced like a wild thing, finding the room’s walls cloyingly close. She did not look at the books on the shelves or the brazier by the fire or the few medical curios on the shelves that would normally engross her.

  Dr. Erikkson entered. As always, he was tall and spare, with a severe face that lacked adequate real estate for a smile.

  “Miss Pembroke. I understand you are feeling unwell today after some distressing news.”

  “I am not unwell,” Tillie snapped. “My arm is much better.”

  “That’s not what we are here to discuss. I can see your arm is better. You move it quite well. Can you tell me, Why is your mother so upset with your behavior today?” He leaned against the edge of the mantel, his arms crossed. Ada just sat in the corner miserably, trying not to be noticed.

  Tillie paced the room. “There was a newspaper article written by someone I know. He stole something from Lucy. From me. I made a mistake trusting him. I made a mistake trusting James Cutter! And we still don’t know where that maid went—Betty Novak. Who knows if that’s her real name? She may have lied about that too! And John never told me where she was.”

  “And who is this John?”

  Tillie opened her mouth wide, before shutting it. She should not have mentioned John O’Toole. They might find out that they had an agreement. She shook her head.

  “Is it the man you’re corresponding with?”

  “Yes. No, it was someone different. A different man. Does it matter?” She waved her arms again. In her current state, her shoulder pain hardly bothered her.

  “And what did they steal?”

  “A diary. Lucy’s diary.”

  “Did the family know about this diary?”

  “No! I picked a lock on the drawer of her table—”

  “You . . . picked a lock?”

  “Yes, I learned . . . I mean, I read some books and . . . why are you asking me these questions? I have questions for you, Dr. Erikkson. What happened when Lucy was here last? Tom said she was distraught. You must have noticed too. What happened to my sister?”

  At this, Dr. Erikkson pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his bony nose. He was so pale, like he himself possessed not a drop of red blood in his veins. Like he bled milk.

  “That is not your concern. And in fact, it is not the concern of the police sergeant, either, whom I have already spoken to.”

  “If someone is biting people to death—” she began, but Dr. Erikkson walked right past her.

  “There are no such things as vam
pires or ghouls or ghosts.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a glass cabinet. He withdrew a square walnut case not much larger than a cigar box.

  “How do you know? There are bite marks. They have all their blood gone!” Tillie turned to Ada. “You know what I’m speaking of, don’t you? You heard the news, right, Ada?”

  Ada whimpered and shook her head, too terrified to speak. Dr. Erikkson had opened the walnut case and was drawing liquid up into a glass-and-metal syringe. The needle was far thicker than the embroidery needles she used.

  “Ada? Is that your name?” he asked the maid. “She’ll be needing some new medicine.”

  “What is that?” Tillie asked, and she took a step away.

  “It’ll calm you. Your emotions are in a frenzy. Hysteria is not something to be trifled with. Many women have been ruined, utterly ruined, from its effects. This is near to a case of delirium tremens, though without the intoxication.”

  “I do not have hysteria, Dr. Erikkson,” Tillie said. “Or delirium. I made a mistake, trusting that man who wrote the article. And my sister died, and no one has found the killer. And no one has convinced me that vampires are not responsible! And if they aren’t, then James Cutter and that maid—they must be questioned.”

  “Lie down!” Dr. Erikkson growled.

  Like he’s ordering a dog to obey, Tillie thought. He towered over her, and Ada gently pushed Tillie onto the examination chaise.

  “Please, Miss Tillie. Do as he says. You are in a state. Please, Miss.”

  Tillie exhaled loudly. “I am not hysterical.”

  “Of course,” Ada murmured soothingly, gently pushing until she was lying down. “Show how respectful you can be and how calm.” She started to loosen the ebony buttons that kept Tillie’s sleeve tight.

  “No. Turn her to the side,” the doctor ordered. He held the syringe high before him. A drop of liquid glistened at its tip, a quivering seed pearl of medicine.

  “What is that?” Tillie asked.

  “Morphine,” Dr. Erikkson said. “Look toward the wall, please.” Tillie was rolled onto her left side. She saw Ada nod to some wordless command from the doctor, and soon her skirts were gathered up, exposing her stockings, garters, and frilly bloomers.

  “What are you doing?” Tillie called shrilly.

  “Be silent!” Dr. Erikkson commanded. “Draw the curtains. The light is too bright in here.”

  Ada quickly drew them. Tillie turned her head to stare at the doctor, shock passing through her. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? “You never leave here during the day. You’re never out in daylight, are you? And it’s always so dark in here. Just like vampires. ‘I love the shade and the shadow.’ Why, Dr. Erikkson?”

  “I said silence!” Tillie felt his hand sliding up her stockinged leg. He pushed one lace hem of her bloomers upward to expose her thigh. The air hit her bare skin, and she tensed. “My work hours do not concern you. Now, be calm. Your lady’s maid is here as your chaperone. This is simply a medical treatment.” There was a pause, and he said, “You’ll feel a little pinch. Do not worry.”

  Tillie clenched her hands around Ada’s. At the sudden prick of the needle, she gasped. It felt as if it were making room under her skin where there hadn’t been any before. There was pressure, and then she felt the metal slip out from under her skin, leaving her with a lingering soreness.

  “There. We are finished for now.” Dr. Erikkson returned the syringe to the walnut case, which held several bottles of liquid.

  Ada covered her decently, and Tillie sat up.

  “Twenty minutes, she should be calm,” Dr. Erikkson said. “She’ll start regular injections, every three or four hours for the first day, only one-tenth of a grain. Keep up the schedule so she is regularly tranquil.” He handed the walnut case to Ada. “Miss Pembroke, rest here. I’ll speak to your mother and give further instructions to your maid. It is vitally important you take this to keep your nerves soothed.”

  Tillie felt nothing, aside from the residual soreness of the injection. While Dr. Erikkson went to speak with her mother in his office, Mrs. Erikkson opened the door. She smiled kindly, though a shadow of pity lingered about her eyebrows.

  “May I get anything for you, Miss? Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Tillie said. She already sounded more dulcet. Was the medicine working? “How is Tom?”

  “Not so well. He’s been sick all week. Terrible headache pain.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Please give him my best.” She added, “Let him know I’ll keep a space on my card for a dance someday, when he’s better.”

  Mrs. Erikkson’s eyes flashed with merriment. “Oh! I shall. He’ll warm to that, I can tell you. In these dark days, we must hold on for better ones.” She looked sadly at the walnut box sitting on Ada’s lap. “Oh. You’ve begun morphine injections, I see.”

  “Yes,” Tillie said. She suppressed a yawn.

  “Well. Use it if you must, but promise me—” She looked quickly behind her, as if suddenly afraid. “Promise me you’ll stop that as soon as you’re better. Morphine is a master like none other, if you take it for too long.”

  “Doesn’t Tom take morphine too?”

  “Alas, he does, and I regret the day he received his first dose. It helps the pain, but now he cannot live without it.”

  A floorboard creaked. Mrs. Erikkson jerked back and turned from the door.

  “Mona!” Dr. Erikkson could be heard down the hallway. Mrs. Erikkson sped away without a goodbye. Tillie craned her neck to hear a snatch of words between them.

  “What did I tell you about dispensing your advice to my patients? I am the doctor. Nursing Tom and answering the door, overseeing the servants, and paying the bill of groceries—these are your domain. Why can you not endeavor to remember your place?”

  More hurried whispers ensued, and a door shut somewhere. Several minutes went by. Tillie’s body suddenly felt softer everywhere. The tension around her head and neck melted, and a slow pleasant feeling crept up her arms and legs, as if she were descending into a bath of warmed pudding.

  “Oh,” she said to no one. So this was morphine. Her stiff shoulder was loosening marvelously. The knots in her stomach untwisted and swirled in a lovely dance of calmness. There was a new wave of nausea and a slight itchiness to her skin, but it was all so tolerable.

  Before long, Ada was helping her out of the room; her mother awaited them in the carriage. As they exited, she heard an exclamation. She turned, and down the hallway, Tom had popped his disheveled head out from his sickroom, wearing a blanket like a cloak. Seeing her blink at him sleepily, he grinned and winked. He motioned poking a finger into his thigh and pantomimed his eyes rolling back into his head.

  So. It looked like she and Tom were both under the spell of Dr. Erikkson’s morphine injections. At least she would not be alone, she thought vaguely.

  By the time she was in the carriage, the tide of morphine had washed ashore and drowned her in its treacly stupor, and Tillie did not mind whatsoever.

  Tillie remembered little from the rest of the day. In accordance with Dr. Erikkson’s instructions, she received a morphine injection every three hours. She barely remembered being woken to eat some soup and bread.

  “What time is it, Ada?” Tillie asked, her tongue thick and slow.

  “It’s nine o’clock in the evening, Miss. You’re to receive another injection now.”

  Her mind oozed as if it had been dipped in pitch. She glanced around. Her room looked the same. The syringe case was out, and Ada was drawing up the medicine.

  “Ada, can you show me how to do that? That way I can give myself the doses, and you can rest tonight.”

  “Oh, Miss, I don’t think so.”

  “You can check to see if I’ve taken it all in the morning. You’ve already done so much. I’m sure Dr. Erikkson is afraid I won’t take it, but I promise you I will. I swear it.”

  “Oh, Miss.”

  “Please, Ada. I can’t have you making mistakes an
d getting fired like Betty because you’re too tired to see straight. You can take over first thing in the morning.”

  Ada rubbed her exhausted eyes. “Very well. Only once in a while. I’ll do tomorrow night, after I’ve gotten some sleep. John will be missing me tonight, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure,” Tillie said, trying to hide a grin.

  Ada showed her how to draw up the liquid into the glass chamber. She watched Tillie lift her nightdress up and choose a place on her thigh.

  “Dr. Erikkson said to inject here”—Ada patted her own rump—“or here, or here.” She patted her stomach and upper thighs. “But he said the upper arm was also just fine once I was more confident.”

  Ada guided Tillie and helped steady her hand. Tillie took aim at her own thigh, a few inches from where the doctor had injected her. She hesitated before the needle tip touched the skin.

  Taking laudanum had been so different. No different, it seemed, than drinking tea or wine. But this . . . as Tillie pushed the needle into her flesh, her head grew light and airy, as if stuffed with spun sugar. Her hands went cold, and Ada had to steady the syringe where it trembled. Tillie pushed down on the plunger with her thumb and felt the tight, painful sensation of the morphine pushing into her tissues.

  And then, she pulled the needle out, and it was over. Ada took the syringe away and told Tillie how to clean it for its next use, but Tillie was not listening. She stared at the puncture in her thigh, a tiny red berry on snow. She was unwhole now. There was a schism, and Tillie had passed to another place altogether. It had been easy, she thought. Too easy.

  “You were very brave,” Ada said. “I myself dislike even a pinprick from an embroidery needle!”

  Tillie said nothing but laid herself down. As Ada turned the light switch off, Tillie smiled in the dark. She would not go back to sleep. She waited the requisite twenty minutes, feeling the morphine creep deliciously throughout her body. There was a peculiar lifting sensation in her head that felt absolutely delightful, a tranquility like none other. The dose was lower than at Dr. Erikkson’s office, so she did not quite feel as groggy.