by Megan Chance
“I expect not,” said Victor.
Jenny followed Dr. Little from the room. The door closed behind them with a thick, satisfying thud. Victor and I were alone.
He put aside the laudanum bottle and came to my bedside quickly, kneeling beside me, and the disinterest fell from his eyes; I saw what looked like despair. “Lucy,” he whispered. “Lucy, what have they done to you?”
He didn’t touch me, and he said nothing more. He simply sat on the chair, staring out the window, there when I fell asleep, still there when I woke. As the hours passed and the fog of morphia began to fade into feeling, I began to believe in the truth of him.
“You’re not . . . an—” I swallowed hard; my throat was dry. I struggled for the word. “Illusion.”
“No,” he said. “I’m quite real.”
“You would . . . say that even if you were an illusion,” I pointed out hoarsely. “I . . . want for you to be . . . real, you see. I want to believe it was all . . . real.”
I saw pain cross his face, and it made me glad. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he stared at me as if for the first time. He rose and came to me. He touched my hair; his fingers tangled in the unbrushed, unpinned mass of it, tugging slightly, a little pain that cut through what was left of my torpor—too sharp. My skin felt raw.
“What are you doing, Victor?” I whispered, anguished. “What game are you playing?”
“No game.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” He sounded as if he despised himself. “You’re my prize patient. You’ve won me the acclaim I hoped for.”
I felt a growing dread, a sense I’d had before, in Newport, that he was not who I wanted him to be, that he was a fallible god after all. With that feeling, my dream fell away. My mind cleared, and I realized with a sudden jolt that it had been an illusion, that my love for him had not been real, that I had been away from him too long. My mind was my own again. I did not love him any longer, but I was hungry for him still; the desire I’d felt for him was there, still real, still mine. But as for the rest, I felt strangely free.
“You left me,” I accused. “You had to know what William would do.”
He shook his head. “No. No. I didn’t know. I never thought he would go so far. William said you’d gone on an extended trip to the continent, and I believed him.”
“Yes, of course you did,” I said. “It had nothing to do with your wanting to believe him.”
“That was part of it,” he said quietly. “But then you were gone, and I . . . I couldn’t bear the loss of you, Lucy. You must believe that if nothing else. I came the moment I found where you were.”
“I don’t understand why. Why not just leave me?”
He sat on the bed. “Dr. Little came to me at the Neurology Association meeting. He’d heard my presentation, and he told me about you. Apparently William has given him until the end of September to cure you. He was quite desperate.”
“The end of September? Why?”
“Your house will be finished. Your ball is scheduled for October sixth.”
I felt ill. “He can’t mean . . . He can’t want me there. Not after—”
“Perhaps it’s a measure of his love for you,” Victor said carefully. “He wants you well. He wants to redeem you.”
“I don’t want to be redeemed,” I said.
“How can you not?” he asked me. “It’s the only life you’ve known.”
“It was destroying me.”
“But you said you wanted it. You begged me to give it to you. Make me like them, you said.”
“You sound as if you’re agreeing with William.”
“I only want you to be certain.”
“Certain of what?”
He took a strand of my hair between his fingers and rubbed it. It seemed I felt the pain of that touch in my skull.
“You haunt me, Lucy,” he whispered, “so I can’t sleep for thinking of you.”
Bitterly, I said, “What other fame can I provide for you?”
He leaned closer. I felt his warmth at my side, his breath against my jaw, and it roused my desire. “I love you, Lucy. Isn’t that what you want from me? If I told you that I could take you from this place, that we could be free forever—”
I did not want to trust him, but such a habit was hard to unlearn. My heart said no, but the memory of the feel of him stole over me. I wanted him, yes, my body yearned for the satisfaction of him, but I was frightened of him too, of the control he’d once had over me.
He kissed my collarbone. “We haven’t finished, you and I.”
“What do you mean?” My voice did not sound like my own. I struggled to keep hold of it.
“The culmination of everything,” he whispered, and there was desperation in his voice, such raw emotion—something I had never seen in him before, a lack of control, and my fear disappeared. I understood for the first time the power I had over him. My mind was my own again, and I realized that we were equally matched, that he had not lied to me. I did haunt him. I was his obsession, as he had once been mine.
It was exhilarating. It inflamed me, because I understood how to take what I wanted; I knew how to be free.
“Very well,” I said to him, and he smiled in satisfaction. He leaned to kiss me again, and when he was near my lips, I whispered, “But this time, Victor, I get what I want.”
To those at Beechwood Grove, it was a miracle.
When Dr. Little came back into my room, he found me awake and speaking again. “This is quite remarkable,” he said.
Victor nodded. “She’s a curious case, Dr. Little, but I find myself intrigued. And as you can see, my methods seem to have been very effective.”
“My God, yes. I must admit I’m surprised. I had not thought—”
“Yes, I know. You were ready to attempt surgery.”
“Will the effect last?”
“For a time. I would like to pursue this further, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“I would require that I be her only doctor. And that my instructions be followed to the letter.”
“Her husband—”
“Ah yes, that’s the other problem. It’s important that he not be told I’m treating his wife.”
There was a pause. “This is quite irregular.”
“I think if you examine it from his point of view, you won’t find it so unusual. You said yourself that most people are wary of hypnosis. It’s still very experimental. There’s no need to cause him undue worry. Nor hope. I cannot say with any exactitude how effective I can be.”
Dr. Little winced. “Yes, I see.”
“Good. Then we’re agreed. I’ll stay on here for a time and hope we can make some progress with Mrs. Carelton. I will need rooms of my own.”
“Of course.”
“I will need to return to my own practice, you realize, but I’ve found that hypnosis can achieve fairly quick results. I don’t expect my treatment to take long.”
“How soon?”
“My first goal will be to break her of the laudanum habit. That could take some time. After that it’s hard to know. My best estimate is that it will take a few weeks.”
“Thank God,” Little murmured. “I’m most appreciative. Mr. Carelton has been very distraught. If his wife can be cured . . .”
“I can’t promise a cure.”
“No, no, of course not.”
“But I do think she’ll be much improved.”
“We must hope so, Dr. Seth. For her sake, and her husband’s, we must hope so.”
“Yes,” Victor said slowly. “It’s her husband I’m thinking of.”
Chapter 28
Nearly three weeks had passed since Victor’s arrival when Dr. Little came to see me in my room, nearly trembling with satisfaction.
It was the start of October; I had been at Beechwood Grove over two months, and my behavior had so improved that everyone spoke of it as a miracle.
“I have already spoken to Dr. Seth of this,” Dr. Little began without preamble, “and he suggested I come to you with the news. I had written to your husband to tell him how improved you are, and I’ve had a letter from him today.”
“No doubt he’s delighted,” I said.
“Yes, he is. Quite delighted. As are we. In short, Mrs. Carelton, I’ve told your husband that you are ready to return to your former life. Dr. Seth is most agreeable to this. He did say he’d spoken to you. I imagine his own practice suffers from neglect, and it is time for him to return to it. I trust he has already informed you of this decision?”
I nodded, and he went on quickly, as if afraid I might collapse before he could get the words out and cause him misery again. “Good. Good. Your husband is sending a man to collect you and bring you home. Unfortunately, he himself is unable to come, but he hopes you will understand.”
I smiled. “And when will this be?”
“In two days. You have made a startling recovery, Mrs. Carelton. You should be quite proud of yourself.”
“Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to resuming my life.”
“As you should be,” he said.
Soon after he left, Victor knocked on my door. He came behind me at the window, hidden from view in the event that anyone walked by.
“Dr. Little’s been here?” he asked.
“Oh yes. William’s delighted, the doctor’s delighted, you’re delighted.”
He laughed softly in my ear. “Indeed. We’re all quite pleased with ourselves.”
“I’m leaving in two days,” I said.
He touched my shoulder. My skin was still so sensitive from all the morphia that I flinched and felt him draw slightly back. “Yes. Everything’s ready,” he said.
“When will I see you again?”
“I’ll come to you tonight,” he said. “After that, I’m not certain. It would be best, I think, if we waited a little while. There’s no point in arousing suspicion all over again. If you need me—”
“I won’t,” I said.
He laughed a little uncertainly. “How confident you are, Lucy. You must be careful.”
“Yes,” I told him. “I will be. Have no doubt of that.”
That night he came to me near midnight. The moon shone blue and bare, sending the silhouettes of my barred windows onto the walls, so it seemed we were animals in a dark and shadowed zoo. As he covered my body with his own and murmured in my ear, I heard the sound of waves crashing against the hull of a ship on a faraway shore, and I dreamed of the Rome of my girlhood, the Rome I did not know.
Two days later, I was brought into the great reception room, where Jimson waited uncomfortably.
Dr. Little made a speech about how gratified he was at this happy circumstance, and I was bundled into the carriage with my only bag. The horses were given a short slap with the reins, and Beechwood Grove was behind me.
It was late when we arrived in the city. I had lapsed into a fitful sleep, and when I woke, I saw the streetlights of Central Park. For a moment I expected to go past it and move on to the Row. It was disconcerting when the carriage stopped, when Jimson opened the door.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Carelton,” he said.
We were before a huge home built in the style of a row house, yet much larger, with double staircases curving around to a front door and electric lights glittering from the narrow windows. The grounds looked barren and ghostly, but as Jimson helped me from the carriage, I saw the shadows of shrubs and hedges, the rounded spine of a trellis.
Jimson followed me up the walk. The front door was opened for us immediately by Harris, who smiled and nodded at me and said, “How good it is to have you back, ma’am,” and took my bag from Jimson.
The floor was checkered in white and pink marble. The dome William had promised arched over the foyer, over the alabaster nudes Millie had chosen, over Jean-Claude’s bronze Pompeiian sculptures, over the elaborately carved stairway. Plaster cherubs decorated the border of the rose-colored glass, their plump little arms extended as if they held it aloft. The dome itself was dark. I had to admit it was beautiful.
Harris took my cloak. “How was the continent, ma’am? I trust your journey was comfortable.”
“Yes,” I said. “Where is my husband?”
Harris cleared his throat. “Mr. Carelton sent a message, ma’am. He’s been unavoidably detained. He’ll be home quite late. He was most distressed that he could not be here to welcome you home.”
“I see.”
Harris pushed a button hidden in the wall behind the door, and in moments a woman with hay-colored hair and pale skin came in.
“Bridget,” Harris said, “please show Mrs. Carelton to her room.”
“Bridget?” I asked in surprise. “Where is Moira?”
“I believe Mr. Carelton felt it best to dismiss her,” Harris said.
So almost nothing was to be the same. Wordlessly, I followed Bridget up the stairs to the third floor. The maid opened one of a row of doors that flanked a broad hallway. “Here, ma’am,” she said.
Inside, the lights were bright. I was assailed by gold—chairs upholstered in gold toile, fragile tables, gold draperies. It was a large room, with two sets of windows—the ones I had begged William for—but I didn’t go to them. I had no interest in seeing the view. It was not Washington Square; that was all that mattered. An archway, with folding doors pressed open, separated the sitting room from my bed, which was a monstrosity of white and gold, with angels decorating each of its posts, swarming on the headboard and footboard. The bed was laid with a heavy gold-fringed bedspread.
Bridget, no doubt well trained by Harris, was already going to the gilt-laid armoire, pulling out a nightgown I’d never seen before. Apparently William had decided new clothes were in order as well. I stood silently and allowed her to undress me, then dress me again in pale lawn and lace. I let her lead me to the vanity and comb out my hair. When she was done, I bade her good night.
I was finally alone, but I felt William’s presence everywhere I turned, in every detail, every golden latch, every bar. I forced myself to crawl into the bed that William had chosen for me, to wait for my husband.
It was late when I heard the faint knock on the door. It opened slowly and carefully to show William. I had not been asleep. I’d turned off the electric lights and lit a candle, and it was by that dim light that I saw him for the first time in almost three months. He looked tired and worried, but when he saw me awake, he came to sit on the edge of my bed.
“Lucy, darling,” he said, with outstretched hands. “Forgive me for not being here. How I’ve missed you. . . . Have you seen the house? What do you think of it?”
I let him take me into his arms. I pressed my face briefly against his chest, but my skin rebelled against him; I could not stand to touch him. It was all I could do to keep my expression impassive. “It’s lovely, William,” I said. “But you knew that.”
“Do you like your room?” He gestured about. “It was quite easy, actually, to find the look of it. Everything in it reminds me of you. It’s so delicate. So fragile.” He gave me an anxious look as if trying to find something in my face to reassure him. “Dr. Little says you’re quite recovered. Is it true?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I feel much better.”
“His letters over the last months were distressing.”
“Thank goodness you had the house to comfort you,” I said.
He frowned. “You can’t think it meant more to me than you. I was desperate, Lucy. You must believe me. I had no idea what to do. After what Seth—”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I said quickly.
William looked surprised, then comforted. He said carefully, “Should I take this to mean that you are . . . that you are quite . . . finished with him?”
“My mind is clear, William,” I said quietly. “I am certain of my course in a way I have never been.”
“Then your stay there was successful.” He let out hi
s breath in a rush. “You cannot know how anxious I was. To think I hadn’t done the right thing . . .”
“You should not have worried.”
Apprehension flashed in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, which was growing sparser, I noticed. He looked haggard, in fact, as if he had not been sleeping, and I felt a moment of pity. That I had worried him I didn’t doubt. But William’s love was something I couldn’t think about. It had almost killed me.
“What did you tell everyone?” I asked.
“That you had gone to the continent,” he said.
“I imagine they were relieved.”
He seemed relieved himself that I had mentioned it. “Yes. They weren’t sure what to make of the summer. I assured them that there had been nothing between you and Victor. I told them his only role as a doctor had been to prescribe a sleeping draft for you.”
“They believed that?”
“They said they did.” His expression hardened. “Especially when I told them that he had made advances toward you. I said you’d repulsed them but that I could not in good conscience continue to call him a friend.”
“You ruined him socially,” I said.
“He ruined himself, Lucy, when he seduced you,” he said angrily.
“Let’s talk of something else,” I said smoothly. “What did I miss while I was away?”
He turned eagerly to the topic. He told me of what had happened in the last months: how the new horse show had progressed, what dinners he had attended. Julia Breckenwood had taken an unexpected trip to her parents’ home in Boston after catching Steven with his latest mistress, and Steven had followed to beg her forgiveness. Caroline Astor had cut Daisy Hadden at the opera because Daisy had slighted her in some ridiculous way William could barely remember. Antoinette Baldwin was engaged to marry an earl she’d met during the early summer—much to her dismay, it seemed.
“I should leave you to sleep,” he said reluctantly. “Tomorrow will be a big day.” He went to the door, then paused, his hand on the knob. His face softened. “How are you really, Lucy? Are you truly well? Should I believe it?”