by Lydia Kang
She carefully descended the steps, found an empty crate, and flipped it over to set the typewriter down. A cask of wine was her chair. Soon, she had paper nearby, her dim light, her brooch watch to keep track of the time, a wedge of cheese and a hunk of bread to keep her hunger at bay, and finally—a trip back upstairs to her room for a dose of morphine to keep her going. She remembered the euphoria she’d felt on the rooftop with Ian and, wishing to feel unlocked, poured herself a generous glass of wine from the cask beneath her.
Tillie threaded a paper into the typewriter and began.
July 11, 1899
Dear Mrs. Seaman-Bly-Cochrane,
I know for sure that I am getting your name wrong now.
I am thinking I am no closer to finding my sister’s killer. What’s worse, I find that I am being watched by my family’s hired help, and worse, by the gentleman wooing me. On another note, I have done something rather brash and unthinkable.
I have written an article. In fact, I have just stayed up all night typing it.
I do not know if it will be published, but the process brought clarity to my understanding of the undead.
Clarity is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, obfuscation is too, but I digress.
I have written an article! I had to write that twice, because I had never written it before and I wanted to celebrate twice in one letter. We are more similar than I realized! Although I confess, I am very good at responding to letters.
I apologize for asking about the elephant before. It occurs to me that it is a very rude thing to ask, but I am always doing things wrong, and sometimes I don’t know any better.
I still don’t know what they smell like, though.
Kindly respond.
Yours,
Tillie
CHAPTER 20
I asked Dr. Seward to give me a little opiate of some kind . . . I hope I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes . . . Here comes sleep. Good-night.
—Mina Harker
Tillie woke up just after noon. As soon as her eyes opened, a thrill ran through her body.
She had done it.
The article was written. Perhaps it would be published, perhaps not, but either way—the accomplishment was like a firecracker in her belly. She squashed an urge to open the window of her chamber and shout out her glee.
Under her pillow, an envelope with four typewritten pages lay sealed, Ian’s name and the address of the World typed on the front. Stacked below it were the four copies of her letter to Nellie Bly. She would post them today herself, somehow. She did not trust Ada or anyone else in the household to handle it. It was far too precious.
Oh, but she wished Ian could read her draft now! She wished she could tell someone. Anyone. Who knew if Nellie Bly was receiving any of her letters?
Once she went downstairs, her mother prattled on about how Tillie really needed to get back to a normal schedule.
“You’ll have far too many things to do to sleep in so late. And you’re so much better, now that you don’t take that terrible medicine anymore.”
Tillie said nothing, only drank her soup as soundlessly and slurplessly as she ought. But her mind went back to what she’d seen in the museum—particularly the wax figurine of the lovely woman whose neck was flayed open. She had looked vaguely like Tillie, which made her think of her father.
“I miss Papa,” she murmured.
“Don’t speak of the past.”
“He was my father. He’s not something to be erased.” She put her spoon down. “Are you so ashamed that he was part of our family?”
“Ashamed? I married him, did I not?” She had lowered her voice and tilted her head, as if worried that her own mother might hear. It occurred to Tillie that she hadn’t exactly answered the question. “But goodness! His family, poor as paupers. I always promised that you would never have to suffer as they did. Or as your father did.”
“Was he not happy?”
“Happy, yes. Secure, no. Marrying for love is a dangerous proposition. Your grandmother did not remarry after she became a widow, to keep control of our estate. If not for that, you and I might be penniless.” She looked severely at Tillie. “Not every lady could be so lucky, and luck only lasts so long. I was lucky that your father would have me, in my condition.”
Condition? “Mama, what do you mean?”
As if realizing that she had spoken carelessly, Mama laughed. “Oh, I just meant I was a spoiled miss then.”
But the way Grandmama spoke of Tillie’s father, it certainly seemed like the union had been shameful. Why, the only reason a lady might feel lucky to be married to someone of such stature was if she were somehow a poor choice for Papa . . .
Tillie’s breath caught—was there a chance that her mother had been pregnant with Lucy before she married? Could it be? It would explain where Lucy’s flaxen hair came from, given that Tillie, her mother, and her father all sported dark chestnut hair. It would explain Grandmama’s comment the other day. Something about Lucy being a disaster.
“Mama? Is there something you want to tell me about Lucy? About her father?”
Mrs. Pembroke’s startled face said all Tillie needed to know. “No,” she said hastily. “Her father . . . your father . . . there’s nothing to tell.” She laughed again, the airy laugh that meant she was entirely uncomfortable.
“But—”
“But nothing. There is nothing more to say.” She smiled, this time tenderly. “I know Grandmama can be a bear sometimes. She was with me too. But it’s because she wants the best for you. I do too. You do as you’re told, and you’ll never suffer.”
Mama seemed to think that they had spoken enough and stood. Just then, the doorbell rang. Pierre ushered Hazel Dreyer into their midst. Mama looked at her benevolently, as a lioness might gaze upon a rat that wasn’t worth a swat.
“Good afternoon,” Hazel said. “I was passing by, and thought I could deliver a message directly. Dorothy wishes you to come with her to the New York Theatre on Saturday. There’s a marvelous show, The Man in the Moon, and her parents are unable to attend.”
“I’m sure Mathilda would love to go.”
“Of course!” Tillie said. Any excuse to leave the house was a good excuse. “Where is Dorothy?”
“Oh. Dorrie has a terrible headache today.” Hazel’s quiet nod meant Dorothy was likely in the midst of her monthlies, probably lying in bed with a hot water bottle on her stomach and taking aspirin for the pain.
“And what are you up to today? Do you need any company?” She’d spied her opportunity to get out of the house and mail the letters.
Hazel brightened. “I would love some company. Is that quite all right, Mrs. Pembroke? I have to buy some lavender salts and a few yards of muslin for a dress that needs mending. We’ll be close by.”
Tillie’s mother assented, and Tillie went upstairs. She folded the letters and placed them in her reticule alongside her bottle of opium, hugging it to her body as they stepped outside onto Madison Avenue.
It was cloudy out, a relief from the heat lately. As soon as they reached the first store, Hazel hooked Tillie’s arm. Tillie hummed and smiled, sniffing through different eaux de toilette in the scent shop.
“Tillie, you are really in a state. If a person could be a set of fireworks, that would be you. Why are you so happy today?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, humming.
A smile dawned on Hazel’s face. “It’s your engagement, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” Tillie’s smile disappeared. She had not worn the ring since she had buttered it off a second time and stowed it in her dresser drawer. “We’re not really engaged. And no, that’s not why I’m happy.”
“You won’t tell a friend?” Hazel looked crestfallen.
Tillie bit her lip. Come to think of it, she’d shared more intimate feelings with Hazel lately than with Dorothy. But no one ever asked Hazel how she felt. If she felt. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me one.
”
“All right,” Hazel said, brightening. It might be the widest smile that Tillie had ever seen on the girl. “Because I have a secret too. But you first!”
“Very well.” Tillie took a deep breath and looked to make sure no one was listening. “I am on the cusp of submitting an article to the World.”
Hazel nearly tripped. Her eyes went wide, her mouth, wider. “Oh! Tillie! That is absolutely wonderful! Why, you’ll be just like Nellie Bly! You’ll be famous!”
“I don’t know if it will be accepted. But I did write it and research it. I’m terrifically proud, Hazel. And no one knows but you and . . . my contact at the World.” She didn’t want to mention Ian’s name. Not yet. “And you? What’s your secret?”
“I . . . I’m going to get married,” she said grandly. “Dorothy is furious with me. She thinks she’ll lose me and never see me again. But my fiancé is traveling most days of the year, and his salary is meager. I can spend all the time in the world with Dorothy, as if nothing has changed.”
“But things have changed. You’re in love!” Tillie gently pinched Hazel on the arm, and she blushed. “Won’t you want your own home?”
“No. The expense would be too much. This is better. I enjoy Dorothy’s company, and the position suits me. And if Dorothy ever marries, it would be best for me to be married too. She couldn’t have an unmarried woman living with her husband under the same roof. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Of course.” She remembered James’s words from the other day. Without her mistress’s wealth, Hazel would be working somewhere, living a life that would not have the luxuries of the constant carriages, sweets and food at her fingertips, balls and gossip.
“Plus, Herbert is a dear. I’m lucky. We’re to be married at City Hall, with a small reception afterward.” Ah. No fancy Grace Church wedding, and likely only one clergyman, instead of two (the latter always made for easier society divorces—an arguing couple could annul a marriage with ease over the dual clergy present). “You’ll come, of course?”
“Of course!” As Tillie hugged Hazel, she remembered that moment in the carriage when Hazel had put her hand on her belly.
Without thinking, Tillie blurted, “Hazel, have you ever had your heart broken?”
Hazel smiled. “Every day.” She winked at Tillie and laughed. Tillie joined in. But she wasn’t sure that Hazel was joking at all.
Together, they went on to the post office. The street was filled with US mail wagons, some immense with six horses, and others with a single horse for intercity delivery. Inside, lines of customers snaked through the room. The incessant pounding of clerks rubber-stamping dates and origins reverberated against the walls. Tillie paid her two cents, and the clerk glued stamps onto her envelopes and thumped an ink print on the front. It was done—off to meet Ian downtown, hopefully within the day.
But soon after she mailed the article, her happiness over it vanished. All sorts of worry had replaced the good feeling. What if the writing was terrible? What if Ian or his editor laughed aloud at the contents? What if all her efforts were for nothing, and it wouldn’t be published? When they passed by only one block from Dr. Erikkson’s office on the way to their next destination, Tillie paused.
“Hazel, would you mind if I dropped by to say hello to the Erikksons?”
“Do you need more medicine?”
“Oh no, it’s not that. I just wish to say hello.” The truth was, her medicine was wearing off, and the telltale sinkhole of hopelessness and achy unhappiness was enlarging, threatening to eclipse every sense of well-being. Perhaps Tom would offer a dose, in private. It would be far more satisfying and potent than the tincture in her purse.
“Of course. I’ll head on to the dry goods store, then meet you back here in fifteen minutes. Only that! You can’t be out of my sight for longer. Would that do?”
“Perfect.”
Tillie relished escaping the steady gazes always upon her. She could buy an ice cream or sit in one of the little restaurants on Third Avenue and enjoy a lemonade. She could read the newspaper under the shade of a tree in Central Park. But she had too little time, so she walked quickly to the Erikksons’ town house. Her body felt jittery and eager.
Mrs. Erikkson answered the door as usual.
“Oh! Miss Pembroke! What brings you? Are you ill?”
“I just wanted to say hello. How is Tom?”
Mrs. Erikkson let her inside. “See for yourself. He is out of bed and reading, for a change. I think he is doing better this week. Your visit will do him even more good.”
They went down the hallway to the camphor-scented room. Tom was sitting in a chair before a small fire, making the room even warmer than usual. He looked up. The circles under his eyes weren’t as dark as usual.
“You do look well,” Tillie said, smiling. “Truly well.” She eyed the syringe kit near his bed and the bottle of clear liquid morphine next to it. She kept her hands folded atop each other, trying to stanch an impulse to grab the whole bottle.
“Father started a new treatment for me. I think it’s working. I feel stronger.” He glanced at her face, and then at his mother, and then at Tillie again. “Are you all right?”
“I’m well,” Tillie said. She couldn’t help but grin. “I’m very well. I may hear some good news soon.”
“An engagement!” Mrs. Erikkson clapped her hands together and looked exultant.
“Oh no. Not really that. Something else.” She cleared her throat. “An occupation.”
“Even better,” Mrs. Erikkson said. She glanced over her shoulder. “I should like to hear all about it, but Dr. Erikkson is due to visit Mrs. Stevenson, and he always requires my aid with her dressings.”
“Dr. Erikkson is actually going outside?”
“Well, yes.” She laughed. “Don’t tell your mother! She’ll be livid to know he makes the rare house call, Miss Pembroke.”
“Oh, please just call me Tillie.”
“Very well. Our maid, Beatrice, is in the kitchen. Call for her if you need anything.” Before she left, she wagged a finger at Tom. “And do behave, Tom. Tillie, you must be sure he doesn’t tease Beatrice.”
“I don’t tease the maid! I can’t help it if she keeps trying to break my leg every time we pass in the hallway.” Tom smiled at Tillie as his mother left. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve gathered at least ten bruises by just being in Beatrice’s vicinity. Sometimes I trip over her mop; sometimes she polishes the floor, and I’ve nearly crushed her beneath me.”
“Housework can be deadly,” Tillie said. She settled in a chair, still eyeing the morphine every few seconds.
“Apparently so. Now, will you tell me more about your new occupation?”
“I shouldn’t. I don’t know if anything will come of it.”
“Does your family know?” He reached for the syringe kit and began preparing a dose for himself.
Tillie licked her lips. “No.” She paused. “Do you need help with that?”
“Oh no, thank you. I’m quite used to doing it myself.”
“Doesn’t your mother scold you for using so much?”
“She does, but Father feels differently. He believes that just as some people need certain foods more than others to stay well, some people must lean on the effects of morphine to function well. There’s no shame in it.”
“I confess I’ve been using more and more lately. I feel so much better under its effect.”
Tom looked at her seriously. “Are you due for a dose?”
“I may be, perhaps.” Tillie’s hands were shaking.
Tom held up the filled syringe. “You can use this. I’ll do mine afterward.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is it the right amount?” Tillie had inched so far forward she risked falling off her chair.
“It’s probably a little more than you’re used to. Maybe half a grain. There are different doses I use for different reasons. Ones for pain.” He drew up extra liquid as he spoke. “One
s for when I’m well, ones just to feel normal, and . . .” He pulled harder on the syringe. There must be three times her usual amount. “And ones for celebrating.”
Tillie felt like celebrating, like forcing happiness to smother the pall that had descended after she’d sent the letter. Everything in her life was about to change. Even if this article didn’t get published, it wouldn’t prevent her from trying to write others. Perhaps for the smaller weeklies or the lesser-known papers. She would try again, and again, and again. Nothing would stop her, just as nothing would stop her from finding Lucy’s killer.
Tom handed her the syringe. “Cheers to you.”
Tillie took the syringe, and Tom turned away. She could use her arm, but unbuttoning the ten pearl buttons of her sleeve was too difficult with a single hand. Instead, she pulled her petticoats and silk skirt up her thigh, not caring that she was an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man. Against her pale skin, there were tiny bruises everywhere, like a field of ill-looking poppies.
Tillie found a new spot, slipped the needle beneath her skin, and pushed the medicine in.
She sighed and handed the syringe back to Tom, who drew up a dose for himself.
“Would you like something to drink while you wait? We have some wine. And other spirits,” he said. “That green smelly stuff that everyone likes.”
“What?” Tillie wasn’t listening. She was concentrating on the tiny soreness from the pinprick, knowing that when it disappeared, that meant the morphine was working. Tom kept her chatting for a while, but they spoke of nothing important, as if they both knew that the primary purpose of speaking was to pass the time until the opiate took effect.
And take effect it did. Tillie had never used such a high dose before, and it swept her into a euphoria so strong she laughed out loud when it heralded its arrival. She turned to Tom, her eyelids feeling like they were weighted down with pond stones. Vaguely, she remembered—shouldn’t she be meeting Hazel again? When was she expected, and where?