by Megan Chance
“Come, now, Lucy,” he said tenderly. “I want to help you to be free.”
When I returned home, Harris informed me that William was at the building site and would be home late, so I had the hours to myself. I went to my bedroom and stood at the window looking out, thinking over what Seth had said, and my body yearned. I allowed myself to think of how I’d felt in his office, and I could not deny that I wanted it again—but this time with William. It had been the overriding sense in my dreams, what I’d searched for in every painting I’d bought, every sculpture. I wanted to feel passion with my husband that was real and welcomed.
I changed into my dressing gown and stood again at the window, watching the sun go down and gild the sky above Washington Square. I watched the carriages and the fading light and knew exactly how the air felt; the days were reluctant to give up their growing warmth to the night.
I asked Moira to send William to me when he arrived home. I told her that I would take supper in my room, but when she brought the plate, I let it lie there. I took the glass of wine and drank that—for courage as much as any other reason, though the truth was that I did not feel nervous or afraid about what I was to do. It seemed I’d been waiting on such an occasion for some time; it was my doctor who had brought it to the fore.
I saw him come home. He stepped out of the cab and came up the stoop with rushing steps, as if he could not wait to be here. I wondered if he did that every day, or if there was simply some good news to tell—good enough to make him want my inconvenient company.
The door opened and closed; there were voices in the hall, Harris’s soft whisper, William’s boom. He did not come up right away. He would go to his study, of course, and pour himself a drink. I knew his habits better than my own. When, moments later, I heard his step on the stair and the soft knock on my door, I turned with the words already on my lips.
“Come in.”
He stepped inside, closing my door behind him. He held a glass of bourbon in his hand. On his face was a look I had seen many times before. It was wary.
I smiled at him. “Which Lucy will you find today?” I teased. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking? Will I be hysterical or sad or disobedient?”
“I would prefer,” he said slowly, “that you be the wife welcoming her husband home.”
“I am that,” I told him. “Welcome home.”
He frowned at me. “What ails you, Lucy?”
“Nothing at all. I feel fine, in fact.”
“Did you see Victor today?”
“Yes. I’ve missed you,” I said.
“Well, I’ve been quite busy. You know that. I’ve taken on two more clients at the ’Change, and what with the house and the clubs—”
“I don’t mean today,” I said. I put down my wineglass and moved toward him. “I mean that I miss the man you were; the man I married.”
He looked confused. “What’s this about?”
“Do you remember that day at the beach, William? The day you proposed to me?”
“Of course I remember it,” he said, though he squirmed a little, and I was not sure he told the truth.
“Do you remember kissing me?”
He went still. His hand gripped his glass. “Yes.”
“You never kiss me. I don’t think you’ve kissed me since the night we wed.”
“I’ve kissed you,” he said.
“On the cheek. Chaste pecks to wish me good morning and good night. I miss the way you kissed me then.”
He looked a bit displeased. “You do?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Carefully, he said, “I would think, with your delicate sensibilities—”
“I wish you’d offend them,” I told him. I came closer, though we were still so far apart. We had long since grown accustomed to space between us. To be close . . . it felt awkward to me, and there was no doubt he felt the same.
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe once or twice I’d like you to . . . kiss me.”
He set down his glass so hard bourbon spilled on my dressing table. “What’s this about, Lucy?” he demanded. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing,” I said. I took a deep breath and went right up to him, inches away. I touched his arm, letting my hand linger there. “I love you, William. I should think we could . . . celebrate . . . our feelings for each other.”
I let my hand slip to his chest, to the buttons of his vest. I slipped one loose and pushed inside to feel the warmth of his chest through his shirt.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Touching you,” I said.
“Good God, Lucy.”
“Ssshhh.” I stretched on tiptoes to brush my lips against his. He backed away so quickly his head banged on the wall, and I smiled. “Come, William,” I said. “I’m your own wife. How can this be wrong?”
He grabbed my wrist, keeping me from the fastenings on his shirt. “You are a lady,” he said.
“I don’t want to be a lady tonight.” I twisted loose of his hold and kept on undoing buttons, pressing my hand past fabric to touch his skin. I kissed him again, whispering against his mouth, “Take me to bed, William. Please.”
“Damn it, Lucy,” he murmured. He held my hands again, stilling them. “Have you been drinking?”
“Not a drop,” I lied.
He took my arm and pulled me to the bed. “You should lie down. It’s clear you’re not yourself.”
I sat upon the mattress and grabbed him before he could back away. I looped my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me. “Please, William, don’t leave me. I—I want you to stay. Please, stay.”
He hesitated, and I took the opportunity to kiss him, opening my mouth against his lips, touching them with my tongue. He stiffened in obvious surprise, and I pushed my way into his mouth until I felt him relax, until I felt him surrender. When his hands slipped past the ties of my gown, I moved to allow him greater access. He pushed impatiently at the chemise I wore, jerking it up over my hips, unfastening his trousers. I had wanted to feel his skin on mine, something I had never truly felt. I wanted his hands on my breasts. I wanted the things I had only imagined. But though I had pushed William past endurance, nothing else would change. He did not touch me except to thrust inside me, but I was desperate enough to take even that. I raked my hands through his hair and held him tight to me so he could not put distance between us, so he could not run when I twisted my hips against his. But William spent himself quickly, and after that he did not linger. He rose as if the touch of my skin was unbearable. He fastened his trousers and looked at me as I lay with my legs spread, yearning, my chemise rucked above my hips.
“For God’s sake, cover yourself, Lucy,” he said. “You look like a common whore.”
Then he left me.
I pushed down my chemise and tied my dressing gown about me, and I sat on the edge of my bed, burning and unsatisfied. I tried to think of that day on Bailey’s Beach, to remember a long-ago kiss that had promised something more than this, but it was hazy, like a dream I couldn’t quite remember. What was clear was the memory of this afternoon, of a mouth that opened to mine as William’s never had.
Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth
Re: Eve C.
April 14, 1885
We have acted out the first time Eve C. apparently felt and recognized sexual desire, with mixed results. Though Eve was obviously aroused and enlightened, her husband was concerned about his later encounter with his wife, which he explained to me in deepest confidence when we met today at SIAC. He expects Eve to be a well-bred lady, and thereby passionless, and he is concerned that I mean to turn his wife into a whore. I restrained myself enough to explain that this is all part of Eve’s treatment, and that it is only with the full exploration of all aspects of her unconscious that we can help her.
I reminded him of the masquerade ball, when she showed no evidence of depression or hysteria (at least to his knowledge; I didn’t inform him that I had
staved off a possible fit). This was a mistake—he mentioned his worry that people are gossiping about her behavior—but it did remind me of the greatest threat to my treatment of Eve: that her husband will realize what I am attempting to do and remove Eve from my care. I reassured him this time, but I must be more careful in the future. I cannot risk him discovering my intentions toward his wife—at least not until it is too late for his actions to affect them.
My colleagues will be astounded when I present my findings at the Neurology Association meeting this year. When I think of how the scientific community will respond to my discovery, I am reassured that what I’m doing is the right thing, the best thing. Such an achievement is the pinnacle of all I have reached for, studied for, worked for. To have it hinge on one woman seems remarkable. It is not surprising that I think of her constantly, that my mind persists in working out the puzzle of her, that deep into the night, I debate the best way to proceed. I am consumed by her.
Chapter 14
The next morning William left early for the ’Change. When he returned that evening, we sat at dinner—ever the civilized couple—and did not refer to the night before. If we did not talk about it, it would be as if it never happened. The night was put away, folded into a drawer that was already full of things we never talked about.
I felt guilty and ashamed. I had become someone I didn’t know. The urges that came more often, more intensely, the desire that plagued my sleep—these things did not belong to me, yet they seemed increasingly to be mine. I began to understand, as I had not before, the things I wanted: to spread my wings, to fly. But these were not what I’d been taught to want, and they seemed infinitely dangerous. Who would I be without the life I’d been trained to live?
The next days I lived in this hinterland, feeling the memory of desire curling like a wretched traitor inside me. I spent more time than ever in the garden, which was bursting to life in the spring days. The cherry had bloomed and was lush with glossy green leaves. Crocuses and snowdrops had given way to tulips and then to lilacs. Birds began to frolic in the marble bath I filled for their pleasure. I sketched the changes every day, as if by measuring the garden’s growth, I could decide my own.
I fought my longing for Dr. Seth; instead I tried to engage a husband who looked upon my efforts with tolerant wariness. We had grown used to our progression away from each other, and I sensed that William was happier ensconced in the parlor, smoking a cigar and reading, than he was talking with me. I wanted to cry out to him, to warn him that I felt myself sliding away, that he would lose me, and that I did not want to be lost.
Then came the day that Goupil’s delivered the crates. I had Harris pry open the wooden boxes, and as the pieces I’d bought emerged, I realized with a shock that each thing I’d chosen—every one—was an example of how tortured my thoughts were. It was no wonder Jean-Claude and Jean-Baptiste had been distressed; I must have seemed nearly unbalanced.
I knew I should send everything back before William came home. But I could not. I kept opening the boxes, each painting, every sculpture, the Turner and the bronze of the couple entangled in a kiss, until I reached what I’d been searching for: the Gérôme.
Gingerly, I took the canvas from its crate. I set it on a chair in the hall and stood back to stare at it. There was a part of me that hoped it would no longer arouse the same emotions.
But it did. Its effect was even greater than I’d remembered. The picture made me think of Dr. Seth, and that was so plea-surable and shameful that I grew flustered. I left the painting and went into the garden, forgetting about William.
He called me almost the moment he arrived home. When I came to him, he motioned to the art littering the hallway. He pointed to the painting—set as it was on a chair, separate from the others. He looked not angry but disturbed. “What is this, Lucy?”
“That’s a Gérôme. Pygmalion and Galatea.”
“Well, yes, I see that,” he said. “What’s it doing here? What is all this doing here?”
“They’re the things I’ve chosen for the new house,” I said, clasping my hands tightly before me. “They’ve just arrived from Goupil’s. The Gérôme was quite difficult to procure. It was meant for Robert Carr.”
“No doubt it would look better on his walls than on ours. I thought we agreed on landscapes.”
I felt something twist and give inside of me, some last remnant of desire, the frustration of longing. “I liked it,” I whispered.
He shook his head with a smile and came to the stairs where I stood. He put his hand over mine on the banister. He smiled indulgently. “My dear, you know Jean-Baptiste won’t hesitate to foist a rejected import onto someone else. You really shouldn’t let him push you into something you don’t want. I’ll have to go with you to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
I wanted to fight him. But that was wrong, that wasn’t me. I was the woman who surrendered to her husband, who wanted to be his queen, who wanted his house to be his castle.
“Yes,” I said weakly.
He patted my hand. “Send it back to Carr, Lucy. If Jean-Baptiste bought it for him, then he must be the one to take it. Send it all back.”
“Very well,” I whispered.
“What has Cook prepared for supper this evening? I hope it isn’t mutton again.”
He left me, laughing to himself, shaking his head at my folly as he went into his study. When he was gone, I stared at the painting of the woman emerging from stone, and I understood how it all must look to him, how insane I must seem. The whisper came to me: like your mother, and abruptly I remembered how she had stepped into the Hudson that summer, how purposeful she’d been.
“He’s sending it all back, of course,” I said dully. “I am not to be allowed to choose anything more for the house.” I laughed a little. “Except angels for the bathrooms.”
“Angels?”
“William has a taste for them,” I told him. “He has been quite specific. They must be Romantic. Fat little cherubs with wings too small to carry them.”
“Like Cupids, then.”
“Yes.”
I stood near the window, leaning against the bookcases. The sunlight was streaming in, heating the little room unbearably, raising the musty scent of dust.
Dr. Seth was sitting indolently but he watched me with careful attentiveness. I felt a shiver at it—a shiver of anticipation—and in distress, I shook it away.
“Will there be anything of you in the house?” he asked.
“Why, Doctor, it will all be me,” I said lightly. “Don’t you realize that my husband’s taste is mine? Ella Baldwin did her entire home in leaves and stuffed birds simply because her husband has naturalist leanings.”
“While William leans toward angels.”
“Cupids.”
“Cupids, yes, as you said.”
A man worships angels, he does not screw one. I could not look at him any longer. I sighed. “Papa only encourages it. I think William’s tastes might really be more subdued, given where he comes from.”
“Where is that?”
“His father was a lawyer. His mother a seamstress, I believe.”
“The working class?” Seth sounded surprised.
“Oh, a bit above that. They were highly respected, I gather.”
“You gather. Don’t you know?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never met them.”
“Are they dead, then?”
“William’s never said.”
“And you don’t find that strange?”
“William is quite ambitious. It bothers him enough that people know he’s not quite of our class. He would hate for them to know the details.”
“Yes, but you’re not ‘people.’ You’re his wife.”
“Yes. That doesn’t necessarily mean we’re confidants.”
“No?”
“No. It’s hardly unusual. Most of my friends—”
“You said your friends know William is not of your class. Does this offend them?”<
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I shrugged. “If it did, they’d never say. At least not to my face.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he was my choice. And as you said once—because of who I am.” He sat with his elbows balanced on the armrest, his hands clasped before him, listening. “In the end they’d accept anyone my father and I brought before them. They knew almost nothing about William. But I loved him, and my father approved. That was all they needed.”
“And what about you?” he asked. “Did you need more? Did it distress you to know so little of William?”
“I know nothing of you either, and you hold my deepest secrets.”
“I’m your doctor,” he pointed out, “not your husband. There’s no need for you to know anything of me.”
“What if I want to know?” I asked him, though I had not meant to; I had not even wondered about him before this moment. I had taken what I knew about him—his castaway Jewishness, the degrees on the walls of his office, his books—and those things had formed my opinions of him. He had sprung to me fully formed: Where he came from, who he was, had not mattered. But now I wished to know more. “What if I insist you tell me something of yourself?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “It’s unnecessary. It could even be harmful.”
“How could it be harmful?”
“Should a child know its parents’ secrets?”
“I’m not a child.”
“I should be a mystery to you, Lucy.”
I felt oddly as if I wanted to cry. “I don’t want you to be a mystery.”
“This is not unusual, what you’re feeling.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked bitterly. I could not help myself; I went to stand before him. “Is this what all your patients insist on, then?”
He looked at me calmly. “Most of them,” he said. “At one time or another.”
I felt an irrational surge of jealousy. “Have you made such strides with all of them? Do you understand all of them the way you understand me?”