An Inconvenient Wife

by Megan Chance

  “My people?” I asked, hurt. “You sound so contemptuous of us. Of me.”

  “Come, now, Lucy,” he said. “When you first heard of me, what did you think?”

  I remembered Daisy Hadden’s words—They say he’s a Jew—and my own repulsion that a Jew might touch me.

  “You see?” he asked, taking my silence for assent.

  We walked on without speaking. Gaslights were here and there on the streets—dim gas here, while elsewhere in the city, arc lights shone brilliantly. We passed men huddled in the corners; on Hester Street the market stalls were empty and the streets were muddy and strewn with whatever garbage was too useless for even the rag-and-bone men. There was sound everywhere: talking and coughing, girls calling out, music.

  But we went quickly and soon left it all behind. We were again on Lower Broadway, where the warehouses were shut tight and shops were dark and nothing but the ghosts of the day were left to haunt the streets.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a carriage,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but that wasn’t the truth. My feet still hurt within my now torn boots, and I was tired and sweating, but these were the least of my discomforts. When we had been near his home, I had not felt like myself. There was no one there to recognize me; I was so profoundly out of place that it seemed I had lost Lucy Carelton. But now we were in places I knew, and I felt myself coming back slowly, bit by bit. I began to watch for bright windows, people staring out, those who would know me. I began to think of the row house where William would no doubt be waiting. I began to wonder what excuse I would make, what I would say to him, where I would tell him I’d been. The lies came easily to me now, when only a short while ago I had thought to end my unhappiness, to tell him the truth.

  The truth was so far away already. I’d left it in that little closet of a room, on a cot that shrieked beneath our weight, and the memory was already fading—I could not quite believe it had happened. The man walking beside me now was so distant; had we been intimate? Had I truly felt the pleasure I’d thought I had? Had that been Lucy Carelton or someone else entirely? It seemed impossible to know.

  When we were a block from the house, I stopped. “You should leave me here,” I said.

  He looked down at me and then at the long row of houses that stretched before us, all the same, all guarded by the black iron fences, the fancy stoops, the restrained elegance. This was where I lived. This was who I was.

  I had hoped he would argue with me. No, Lucy, I’ll walk you to your door. To hell with William. To hell with all of them. But I was also relieved he did not.

  “I’ll watch from here until you’re safely inside,” he said. “What will you tell William?”

  “That I went to Millicent’s house,” I said. “She’ll lie for me if he asks her.”

  “Very well,” he said. He released my arm. “I want you to come to my office tomorrow. Around two o’clock.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “You can cancel whatever social obligations you have,” he said impatiently. “This is important, Lucy.”

  “No, I— That’s not what I mean,” I said. “William has . . . Before I left, he burned my sketches, and he accused you. He said it was all your fault. My drawing again. My behavior.”

  “You didn’t tell me any of this.”

  “No,” I said miserably. “He’s forbidden me to see you. No doubt he’ll come see you himself tomorrow.”

  “I see,” he whispered.

  I stood there uncomfortably until I thought he would say nothing else, and then I turned to go. “Well, then. Good-bye.”

  “Wait.” He grabbed my arm, hard enough that I stumbled into him, and he held me tight against his body and put his hand to my cheek and kissed me, and it all rushed back as if it had just happened. The little room, the feel of him, my pleasure, and my desire for him rose up to overwhelm me, so that I cried out in desperation against his lips, “Don’t make me go back. Don’t make me go.”

  “Let me talk to him,” he said, tangling his fingers in my hair. “I can change his mind.”

  “There’s no need. I can stay with you. There’s no need to talk to him at all.”

  “Ssshhh, Lucy, we’ve discussed this already. You must go back for now. But you can’t stop coming to me, do you understand? Whatever happens, we must find a way to meet.”

  “Yes,” I said, my joy rising at his words. “Yes. Whenever you say. You have only to send word.”

  “Let me talk to William tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll send word to you then. Watch for my note, Lucy. If I can’t make him see reason, you’ll need to make sure he doesn’t see it. Can you do that? Can you lie to him?”

  “I will,” I told him. “Yes. I’ll keep it from him.”

  His hand fell from my face. He gave me a final kiss. “Go on, then,” he whispered. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow,” I answered him, and then I hurried away, warm and reassured until he was only a shadow blurred by fog and darkness. I was ready to face my husband.

  But once I reached the gate, I began to tremble, and I stumbled going up the stoop. I had no key. I hadn’t thought of this, of knocking, of waking someone, of facing them all so soon. Before I could ready myself, the door opened, and I tripped over the threshold into light and warmth. Harris caught my arm, steadying me, but before I could say thanks, I saw a shadow looming beyond him. William stood in the hallway, wearing his dressing gown over a pair of trousers, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Lucy,” he said. “Thank God you’re home.”

  He was furious. He stood stiffly, his expression hard, his gaze focused on Harris, who closed the door behind me and held out his hand to receive my cloak and hat. I gave them to him, saying softly, “Make sure Moira cleans them.”

  William’s gaze moved over me with such suppressed anger it seemed to burn. “What happened to your boots?” he asked.

  I glanced down. The seams were torn; they were spattered with mud. “I—I stepped in a puddle.”

  “Take them off,” he ordered, and then, to Harris, “Throw them out.”

  “I need a buttonhook,” I said. “I’ll send them down later.”

  “They’re filthy.”

  “Yes. It’s a long walk to Millie’s. I didn’t take the carriage.”

  “Millie’s?” William’s tone sharpened. “Is that where you were?”

  I felt a surge of relief, but I could not look at him as I spoke the lie. “Yes. Yes. I had supper there.”

  “I see,” he said. I saw his skepticism, and my relief fled. “Come upstairs with me, Lucy,” he said. “We have some things to discuss.”

  “Of course. Yes, of course. Perhaps I could change—”

  “Later,” he said. He took my elbow, and his fingers were hard and unyielding, where only moments before Victor had held me gently.

  “Will you be wanting anything, sir?” Harris called up. “Some tea?”

  “No,” William said curtly. We went up the stairs to the door of my bedroom. He released me, allowing me to go in before him. I had no sooner gone inside than he shut the door firmly behind us. The sound made me wince.

  I went across the room to the window, as far from him as I could. Numbly, I pushed aside the curtains, searching the street for a shadow—his shadow—but the street was empty except for a passing carriage.

  “You weren’t at Millie’s,” William said. “When you disappeared, I sent Jimson there first. She hadn’t seen you or heard from you.”

  I should have thought of that, I should have known. I clutched the curtain. I could not think of what to say.

  “Why the lie, Lucy? Where did you really go? Did you go to meet Seth despite what I told you?”

  I had rarely heard him so angry. Despite myself, I glanced toward the fireplace, where there was nothing but a pile of ash. My drawings. The sight gave me strength. Slowly I turned from the window to face him.

  “He’s my doctor, William,�
�� I said. How calmly I said it, how strong I sounded. “I have been seeing him nearly every day for four months. Of course I went to him. I was distressed.”

  “You mean he was your doctor,” William said.

  “I went to his office,” I went on. “But it was late. He wasn’t there. And I didn’t know what to do. I was so upset. So I stayed there.”

  “You stayed there?” William was incredulous. “In his office?”

  “His office was locked,” I said. “I stayed in the hall. At first I had some thought that he might come back, but then I fell asleep.”

  “You fell asleep. In the hall.”

  “Yes.”

  “You expect me to believe this?”

  “What else was I to do?” I asked him. “Where was I to go? To Millie? To Papa? What should I have said? That I was afraid of my husband? That he had hurt me unbearably?”

  William had the grace to look shamed. “No. No, of course not.”

  “You see? I had nowhere else.”

  “You did not meet Seth.”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “You saw no one else?”

  “No one who knew me, William, if that concerns you.”

  “Lucy, what was I to think? You just left without a word. And you haven’t been yourself. You can’t know what I’ve been going through, how worried I’ve been.”

  “You needn’t have worried.”

  “But those sketches—”

  “The ones you burned.”

  “Your father said—”

  “I was a child then. Now I’m a grown woman.” I met his gaze. “A wife. The sketches were harmless, William.”

  “You’ve always been so fragile. You can imagine what I thought.” He came to me, putting his hands on my arms, stroking me hesitantly. “I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said. “I lost my head. It was a terrible day—an argument with a client, and then when I saw those drawings, when I thought . . . I love you, darling, and I was afraid. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I was not sure I could. My own anger was a tight knot, a terrible bruise, but I thought of what Victor had said, of how William could ruin us, and I contained it as best I could.

  “Certainly,” I whispered, looking at the terrible condition of my boots, remembering. “Of course.”

  He let out a breath. “Thank God.”

  I felt his kiss on the top of my head, and I pulled gently away.

  “There’s just one other thing,” he said.

  I went still. “Yes?”

  “I think . . . Well, I do think it would be better if you didn’t draw again. It seems to agitate you so.”

  I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, clasping my suddenly trembling hands together. I made myself remember Victor’s words. “But I love it.”

  William was behind me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing. “Yes, but you must admit you’ve grown too attached to it. It’s unhealthy, Lucy. Surely you must see that. After what happened to your mother.”

  I turned, startled. He had never mentioned my mother before, never even alluded to her. “My mother?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “You are very like her, I understand. Your father’s been worried on that score for years. Please, I don’t want to lose you that way. Remember what Dr. Little said.”

  I struggled to control my emotions. “And Dr. Seth?”

  “There are other doctors. Better doctors.”

  “You said he was our last hope.”

  He kissed my shoulder. The heat of his breath made me shiver and grow cold. “I don’t believe that any longer. We can try again for a child. All that electrotherapy—perhaps it made a difference, hmmm? Come, should we try again?”

  I could not bear his touch a second longer. I pressed from his arms, trying to smile—a weak attempt, I knew, when I saw how his eyes darkened, how his own smile faltered. “I . . . not tonight, William. I’m so tired. The walk was long, and I’m still not recovered.”

  He was not soothed. I ran my fingers over his arm and kissed his jaw. “Surely you understand. I was so upset, and now, I must admit, I’m still undone. I really must get something to eat, and some rest.”

  He relaxed, and nodded, and backed away from me, saying, “Yes, you should rest. I’ll have Cook send something up. A bowl of soup, perhaps.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  He went to the door. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt, but only smiled at him when he turned again to me with an uncertain expression.

  “You do forgive me, Lucy?” he asked. “You will do as I ask? Do we understand each other?”

  “We’re in complete harmony,” I reassured him, and I stood there smiling until he left.

  Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth

  Re: Eve C.

  April 23, 1885

  I fear I have made a grave mistake in treatment. Yesterday Eve came to me at my home, obviously distraught, and I was so concerned to see her there that I rushed into a crucial step in her treatment. I had meant to take things more slowly, to bring Eve into the world of physical passion more carefully, and now I am afraid I have undone all my painstaking work. She responded eagerly, of course—her reaction was exactly what I would have wished it to be in its right time and place. But now is too soon. Now she wants to reveal all to her husband, to leave him, and this would only cause a scandal, which would hopelessly cloud the acceptance of any scientific strides I have made. I should have planted the ground more carefully, more judiciously. I do not understand myself. I was never so careless before; in the past I have approached this level of treatment with the utmost care, as have all of the physicians I’ve known. Such treatment requires the most exacting dispassion. All I can think is that I have spent so much time thinking about her, agonizing over the correct path, caught up in the excitement of creating such a vibrant being—to mold her with my own hands!—that my judgment was momentarily impaired. Thus far I have been meticulous and deliberate. I cannot afford to be so careless now.

  I can only hope this does not have the consequences I fear it will, though I am not confident. She told me that her husband has forbidden her to see me again. If she were to tell him of this episode, I have no doubt she would be removed from my care—from my reach—completely. I cannot allow that to happen. Not when I have come so far. I must meet with him, take pains to reassure him, and then I must retread this ground carefully and not allow my success to lead me into false confidence. I must not allow her presence to muddy my own thinking. Once the experiment is done, she will be free to pursue her own path, whatever it may be, wherever she can climb from the rubble of her past life, and I will ascend to greater heights, to the accolades of my peers. This is my purpose. Scientific inquiry. Knowledge to change the world. I must remember this and not allow my own passions to gain sway.

  Slowly. I must go more slowly.

  Chapter 18

  Two days later, Moira came into the parlor bearing an envelope. “This just came for you, ma’am.”

  My fingers trembled as I tore it open.

  You must come today at two o’clock. —S.

  Relief made me giddy. I nearly broke into a smile before I remembered Moira, who stood waiting in the doorway, naked curiosity on her face.

  “I must go out,” I told her. “Ready my burgundy walking suit.”

  “Will you be needing the carriage, ma’am? Should I tell Jimson?”

  “Yes. Tell him to bring the brougham around.”

  I turned to the window and stared across at the park, allowing myself the smile I’d hidden from Moira.

  I knew that William had gone to see Victor yesterday, and that Victor had persuaded him that I still needed care. William had reluctantly allowed me to continue seeing the doctor “for now,” as he put it, but I had heard nothing from Victor and had worried. I’d thought so much about him that I assumed it must be obvious to everyone, and now my anticipation threatened to burst through my skin. He had sent word, as I’d wanted, but I had expected more. Words of love, per
haps, some sign that he felt as I did, anything. The note was so brief and so plain. What would he tell me when I went to his office? What did he mean to do? Would it be as it had been two nights ago, or had that simply been an aberration, something he would apologize for, a terrible mistake? I did not know whether I could bear it if he did that. I tried not to question myself or think about what my desire really meant or how I had betrayed my husband.

  When the outfit was laid out, I dressed as quickly as possible, cursing Moira inwardly for her fumbling slowness as she fastened the tapes of the bustle about my waist. My mouth was dry, and I felt I was shaking, though I saw in the mirror that I looked perfectly composed. When I left the house, not a hair was out of place; I looked like a woman going about her business, not what I felt I was: a woman rushing to an assignation with a lover.

  Jimson was waiting. When we reached Lower Broadway and he helped me down, I stood looking at the building before me. How things had changed since I’d last seen it. But now it was not evening, and the lights in the little shop were on, the sidewalks were full of men bustling about and street sweepers brushing madly away and men unloading crates and barrels onto the walk. I hurried through them, not wanting to waste a single moment. I could barely contain myself when I reached his door, when I pulled it open.

  The outer office was empty. Irene was nowhere to be seen. I did not wait to see if she would appear; I went to his door and rapped sharply upon it. I did not think I could bear those few seconds before he called, “Come in.”

  I turned the knob and stepped inside, unsure of what I would see, afraid that it would not be what I wanted.