You are asking me if it’s possible for a woman to psychologically sabotage her own pregnancy? Well, sabotage makes it sound deliberate, Georgiana replied. I suppose I’m asking if a woman could be doing it involuntarily? Why would it be involuntary? I don’t know, she said. The poets make it seem that feelings are these insuppressible forces storming through the body. That is how it feels to me sometimes. And so much of what I’m feeling recently seems so—poisonous. I can taste it, this acridness. Georgiana dropped her eyes. How can that be good for a baby? To be feeding on that? Maybe that’s been the problem all along.
Do these poisonous thoughts ever concern Mr. Waller?
Horace is a good man, she said. A good husband. He just— She shook her head.
He just doesn’t understand.
Georgiana glanced up, warily, to see if he was mocking her. No, I suppose he doesn’t.
Have you told him you are pregnant?
I have. She gave a strange little laugh. It was a slight fiasco. Would you tell me about it? If you like. It was about a week ago, just before I saw you. Mother was holding a benefit for some psychical society. She hadn’t picked a good time. Horace had been away in Belgium for almost two weeks and had just returned that morning, and now all these guests were arriving and he had to dress up and play host. I’d planned to wait to tell him. But there he was, buttoning up his waistcoat before the mirror. And I just blurted it out. Immediately I regretted it. He looked so hopeful, so innocently happy. It’s exactly how a woman would want her husband to look, isn’t it? But it seemed so foolish, so naïve. Every time, he looks at me as if it’s the first time, as if everything that’s happened hasn’t actually happened. Sometimes I think he’s managed to forget, in a way, all the disappointments. I’m not supposed to talk about it. He doesn’t even like me to think about it. Like if we pretend together, it will all just disappear.
Anyhow, after dinner, Mother comes up behind me and takes my arm and leads me off. I can tell at once that Horace has told her. She’s gripping my arm. Why hadn’t I told her? Why did she have to hear the news from my husband? With this frantic smile on her face, clutching my arm. She leads me into the sitting room, where this man is waiting. I’ve met him before, one of Mother’s psychics. She tells me she’s asked the man to examine my aura, to make sure it is healthy. He says, Please, showing me where he wants me to stand. I walked out of the room. I was shaking, I was so angry. I made it back to my bedroom and Mother blows in right behind me, and—it’s hard to describe. She changes, her face changes. She grabs my arm and sinks in her nails, and she’s all white and splotchy in the face, saying things—you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’m a whore, I can’t have a baby because I’m a whore and I’ve been damaged inside. At some point I realise we’ve been shrieking at each other because Horace is there trying to pry Mother’s hand off my arm. She backs off and stands there. In this daze, as if she didn’t know where she was. But I could see through it. I could see her in there, behind the confusion, looking out at me, this cunning thing. And I thought, I have her blood. She made me. So what am I?
She held Jekyll’s gaze, waiting for an answer. You are not she. That’s what you tell yourself.
And do you tell yourself the same, Henry?
Yes. I do.
Georgiana smiled, faint and soft. Who are you, then? Who is this secretive Dr. Jekyll? Her tone was playful, but her eyes were not. What makes you think I have a secret? Everyone has a secret. At least one. How many do you have? She thought for a moment. Four, she said, and laughed. Then she looked down. Sometimes, I feel like I am the secret. Like I am inside myself. Inside the self everyone thinks is actually me. But the true me is . . .
She didn’t continue. It was very quiet. Icy flecks of snow tapped the pane.
I want to show you something, Jekyll said. He rose from his chair and went around the long table to the shelves above the glazed press. The second level held the glass vat with the human intestine coiled fat and pale inside, and Jekyll reached up for the smaller jar alongside it. It made a clinking noise as he took it down and carried it back to Georgiana. He set it on the little table under the windows. She bent to peer into the jar. Are those—are those teeth? She furrowed her brow and picked up the jar in both hands.
The old man’s teeth hung vertical in the clear liquid, just touching the bottom. When she turned the jar around, they shifted to one side with a click.
Are these yours? she asked. They’ve become mine. I took them. As a souvenir. She wrinkled her nose. A souvenir of what? Jekyll reached out his hand and accepted the jar. A tiny bubble slipped loose from a tooth and rose to the top. An unexpected incident. I surprised myself. It’s good to surprise yourself now and then. You should try it. Do something unexpected. Something the true you wants to do. And take a souvenir. We are all secrets, Georgiana. All hiding inside, self within self within self. When we pretend this isn’t so, that is what poisons us. Do you understand?
She was gazing at the jar in Jekyll’s hand. I think so, she said.
Jekyll opened the steel surgery-block door, and a blast of icy air made them stop. It was dark as late afternoon. May I ask you something? Of course, she said. Earlier, you said that you had seen someone else. You had considered contacting me, but then you’d seen someone else so as not to impose. Was it someone I might know? Oh, she said, well, perhaps. A pause. May I ask his name? She gave her nervous laugh. I’m slightly embarrassed to tell you, Henry. He’s not a doctor. He’s a hypnotist. A very good one, I had heard. Cornelius Luce?
Cornelius Luce. We knew the name. We had been to his hypnotism show on Poland Street. I’ve heard of him, Jekyll said neutrally. Where, if I may ask, did you go see him? Well, at his house, off St. James’s. That’s where he sees his clients. Where did you hear of him? He came to the house this summer. For one of Mother’s affairs. We spoke; he left me his card. I kept it. Do I feel the need to apologise right now? No. I’m merely curious. So he lives off St. James’s. Where, exactly?
Georgiana looked up as Jekyll stared ahead. Why? she said carefully. It’s professional curiosity, Georgiana. I’m not going to do anything, I merely like to know where everyone operates. Is it such a secret, where he lives? She sighed. Dury Street, Dury and King, I believe, off the square. He has a plaque out front. Thank you, Jekyll said.
I had never been to St. James’s before. Yet an hour later I strode from Castle Street as if I knew the way, as if it were my own impulse I was following. Soon I came upon the open expanse of the square, stately houses boxing it in. Dury Street I found by chance, a smaller side lane off the far end of the square. I stood at the brick gatepost to a giant house and read the brass plaque:
Cornelius C. Luce, Hypnotist and Spiritual Consultant
By Appointment Only
The house was brick with black shutters and a huge black door, rather like Big House, except bigger. It soared against a silver rent in the sky. A purposeful rage gripped me as I stood in its shadow. I remembered this Luce. His show on Poland Street, the rowdy crowd, laughing and shouting. Luce onstage with four volunteers whom he’d put in a trance. He made one of the men believe himself afflicted with horrible flatulence and the other three believe they could smell it; they wrinkled their noses and looked suspiciously around as the crowd roared with laughter. Luce stood to the side, watching the antics with an indulgent smile. Jekyll and I had been dubiously amused. But now I stood below his house grinding my teeth, twisting the bit of my stick into the pavement. The man was a showman, an entertainer, probably a fraud. The idea of this man feeling around inside Georgiana’s mind—rifling through her thoughts with his filthy fingers—filled me with exultant fury as Jekyll expanded inside my skin.
A girl opened the door. A lovely thing, in a black maid’s dress with a white apron and bonnet, white stockings and shiny black shoes. Good day, she said. Good day. I’d like to see Mr. Luce. Do you have an appointment? She knew I didn’t. I don’t. But the name is Hyde. Inspector Hyde. Scotland Yard, ma’am.
> I said it as easily as if I’d planned it. But it surprised me; I almost winced. The girl studied me a moment. Green eyes in a heart-shaped face, fringe of dark red under the brim of the bonnet. I could imagine her in one of Jekyll’s parlour pictures, a riverside café in full bloom. She would remember me, months later. She would witness everything. She studied me with her canny eyes, then made up her mind and let me in.
Front hall like a ballroom, black-and-white-checkered floor. Giant ferns flanked the grand stairs. A tapestry at the landing. The girl led me across the hall and into a burgundy waiting room. She said she would let Mr. Luce know I was here and, with a last cagy glance, left me alone.
I strolled to one of the photographs on the wall. A grim old woman sat in a chair gazing out with blind-seeming eyes. Behind her, in the murky blackness, a white transparency, tall like a man, reached out for her. A fake, of course. Yet it unnerved me. I turned away and caught sight of myself in a gold-veined mirror on the opposite wall, a hunched, nocturnal thing, pale as a vampire. I approached my reflection, lifting my hand. Our fingers drew close enough to touch. I glanced at the door and found the girl was back, watching me. Inspector, she said, Mr. Luce has ten minutes before his next appointment. If you’ll come with me. I followed her upstairs to the first floor, to a pair of white double doors. She knocked and opened them inward.
The spacious moss-green room ran down to huge latticed windows; the white ceiling arched and segmented. Cornelius Luce stood waiting with hands clasped behind him, a small dapper man in a pale grey suit, hair slicked back, immaculate black moustache. Thank you, my dear, he said in his leisurely voice. Behind me, the girl murmured, Sir, and closed the doors. Luce was looking at me with his eyebrows lifted pleasantly. Inspector Hyde, is it? My throat was dry. Beyond Luce, a fireplace, two chairs, a low brown leather piece of furniture, like a bed. Just Mr. Hyde, for tonight. An unofficial chat, is all. He gestured at the chairs and the fire. We sat. My eye fell again on the low leather bed, with its arm like a sofa’s at one end and a red velvet pillow. I jerked my chin at it. Do your clients lie there? If they choose, he replied. His eyes were calm and almond brown. Mr. Luce, I said. A woman came to see you, several weeks ago. Mrs. Georgiana Waller.
He seemed to be watching my lips as I spoke. I waited. Forgive me, was that a question? I’m sorry, Mr. Hyde, but I’m afraid I cannot divulge the identity of my patients. The identity of your patients? Indeed, Luce said. This is a discreet process, and my patients generally rely upon that discretion. You’re a doctor, then? Of a kind. Well, Mrs. Waller did visit you. He lifted his shapely eyebrows again. So you say. We regarded each other. Then I looked away at the fire, the glassy smelting coals. I could hear the trickling, pinging sound they made as they burned. Mr. Luce, what if I told you Georgiana Waller was dead.
I felt a giddiness saying the words, a pleasurable loosening. I looked back at Luce, who sat lightly struck, eyes widened, lips pursed. Oh dear, he said quietly. Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. She did come to see you, then. Evidently you know that she did, Luce said. Evidently. I settled back in my chair with a smug little smile. I put my elbows on the arms and touched my fingertips together, as Jekyll might have. So, what did she say to you when she was here? Luce shook his head. That is confidential, I’m sorry. Was it incriminating? Are you concerned for the lady’s reputation? Frankly, I’m concerned for my own. How do you imagine my other patients might feel about my revealing their private business to the police? They might feel worried. Quite worried, I imagine. They must tell you all sorts of things, your patients. Luce looked at me steadily for a moment. You did say, Mr. Hyde, this was an unofficial chat, did you not? I did. It’s a courtesy. We can make it official if you like.
I had a crazy urge to cackle. Instead, I pushed up from the chair and strolled to the fireplace mantel. I had never known such articulate control. On the mantel something had caught my eye, a tomb-shaped wooden box with an upright silver pendulum. A metronome. Father had kept one like it in his study. I reached out a finger and tapped the pendulum into motion. I expected the quick tocking to start, but this one made no sound; the silver disk slipped silent back and forth. Mrs. Waller, I mused, without turning round. She didn’t just die. She did herself. Very nasty. Want to know how? She cut out her own stomach with a carving knife. Like the Japanese do. Before she did that, she carved a word into her arm. Whore. Carved it right into the skin. I turned and looked at Luce, staring aghast back at me. Dear God, he said. Yes, dear old God. Now, here’s what I’m wondering. How’s a lady take it into her head to do a thing like that? You’d have to be a stark raving lunatic. Luce just stared at me. Tell me, Mr. Luce, what’s it you do exactly? What is a spiritual consultant, anyhow?
I’m a guide, he said, after a moment. I guide lost spirits to people. And lost people to realisation. I cocked my head. Realisation of what? Whatever it is they are looking for, Luce said. So what was Mrs. Waller looking for? Luce sighed, moved his eyes across the long room. He sat with his legs crossed and one grey leather shoe dangling, his smooth-shaven chin angled as if defiance. An answer, he said at last. An answer to what? To a question, he said, she did not know she was asking. Is that a riddle? You might call it a riddle. We are all asking questions, Mr. Hyde, are we not? You’re the expert, you tell me. What do you think she was asking? Luce sighed again. I think she was asking how to be happy.
The answer startled me; the cords of my throat tightened. Was she unhappy?
She seemed cheerful, Luce said, but sad. Like many people I see. Mrs. Waller had a difficult family situation, from what I could understand. Her mother lived in her house, and she seemed to be a difficult mother, overprotective, self-absorbed, unpredictable, possibly unstable. Mrs. Waller felt responsible for her. And the husband? What about him? Luce lightly shrugged. She didn’t really discuss her husband. We met only once, for an hour. But overall, it seemed to me the woman felt—constrained by her circumstances. Marriage? Living with her mother? That, Luce said, and her circumstances more generally. What circumstances? He moved his eyes back to me. The lids were hooded, the gaze cool with disdain. Perhaps you fail to appreciate what a complicated time it can be for women in our modern age. They are beginning to grasp that they are entitled to more. Yet they do not know what precisely more is, or how to attain it. I see. You’re telling me Mrs. Waller was suffering from the modern age. Is that it? Isn’t that enough? Luce replied. I shrugged. Did she tell you she was pregnant?
He held my eyes, a calculating inspection. Then shook his head. I looked back at the metronome. Still the disk slipped back and forth without a sound and with no sign of slowing down. I reached out a finger and stopped it. Well, she was. Does that spoil your theory? Not at all, Luce said, it supports it, in fact. I laughed, a short bark. Oh, it would, wouldn’t it. That’s your scientific method: find a theory, then find evidence to support it. But I’ve a theory of my own. Would you like to hear it? We have a perfectly healthy woman, carrying a child, pays you a visit, looking for an answer. A realisation. You hypnotise her. Put her under your spell. And a few weeks later the lady carves whore into her arm and slices open her uterus. That’s some realisation, I’d say. Luce made a sound. He was regarding me incredulously, his mouth partly open. That is an outrageous imputation. And a gross misunderstanding of how hypnosis works. Oh, I’ve a fair notion how it works. Wealthy ladies lie here on your leather bed, asleep, and you rifle through them. Learning their secrets. Leading them to realisation. I’ve been to Poland Street, Mr. Luce, I’ve seen what sort of realisations you lead your patients to.
Luce uncrossed his legs and slowly rose from his chair. I watched him, vibrating with triumph. Inspector Hyde, may I see your identification? No, I said. My voice quavered. You may not, Mis-ter Luce. He nodded briskly. In that case, I am going to ask you to leave. Immediately, please. The fire snapped and festered at my feet. There was a knock on the door, and then it opened. The girl stood there with her hand on the knob. Penelope, Luce announced, Mr. Hyde was just leaving us. I grinned
. She’s a proper darling, isn’t she. But she’s no maid. Why’ve you got her dressed like one, then? Penelope, Luce said again, go get Oswald, please. No need, I said hurriedly, no need. I was just leaving, as you say.
They followed me halfway down the grand stairs, then stood on the landing watching me. My stick was propped against a bench by the front door, my hat sitting beside it. I turned around to face the tremendous entrance hall with my stick in one hand, hat in the other. They beheld me from above, my audience, and an operatic thrill swelled in my gorge. You haven’t seen the last of me! I cried, and dipped a giddy bow.
I wanted to see Jeannie, wanted to celebrate. I tried the Toad, then the Gullet. But she was not there. Outside I stood in the trampled mud, a twist of panic in my heart. What if I couldn’t find her again? The thought wrung the wind out of me. I retreated to the Pig and Gibbet to sedate myself and wait. And there she was. I stopped in the door, not believing it, the sight of her perched on a high wobbly stool at the bar, chattering at Vic. I had told her I drank here, I’d said if not the Toad or Gullet then try the Pig and Gibbet—and yet still I didn’t believe it, didn’t trust it. Her chattering was the only sound in the place, not loud but constant, and some of the regulars down the bar were eying her almost appreciatively. Even surly Vic wore a puzzled half smile as he watched her from under his lumpish brow. She didn’t notice me until I’d leant up right next to her, at which point she turned and gave a little yip. The blue fractured eyes studied me, as if she were trying to remember who I was. Her shawl had slipped down from one shoulder, revealing the freckle on her neckline, her skin milk white against the crimson hair. I wanted to plunge my face into her throat; the delicate cup of her clavicle pulled me like gravity. I peeled my eyes away to Vic, who was giving me a dull, sullen stare, realising she was mine. I nodded at him. He gruffly poured me a gin. I knocked it back and told him I wanted a bottle of champagne. He shook his head. No champagne. Have to send the lad off. I waited, brows lifted, and he glared at me out of his pocky, sacklike face before trudging off. I reached down and took Jeannie’s hand off her knee, and pressed her palm to my face, inhaling its grubby spice. She wore a confused, crumpled smile, and she drew her hand away when I slid the fingertips down to my lips. Touching her neck, she looked off, and I gleamed down the length of the bar at the regulars. All the haunted eyes were fastened upon me like the eyes of animals, each in its cage, yearning at something wild and free. Look at all these friends you’ve made, I said quietly.
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