The Conjured Woman

by Anne Groß

  “That describes every chambermaid in London.”

  Thomas chuckled, then flinched and tried to slap her hands away as Elise started to clean the edges of his wound. “Stop mincing about and just sew me together.”

  “Drink,” Elise ordered.

  They glared at each other until Thomas raised the bottle to his lips. “Green eyed and wild looking,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “What?”

  “I asked people, ‘Have you seen a woman with big feet, a mannish stride, and golden-red hair like a lion’s mane?’”

  “You did not,” Elise said with a smile and finished bathing the dried blood from his skin. The water turned pink in the basin. Its warmth made Thomas’s eyes close. She pulled the candle on the nightstand closer to hold the sewing needle in the flame before threading it with silk.

  “I did. What’s more, I said, ‘she’d be the kind of woman that lifts her skirt to scratch an itch on her arse when she thinks no one is looking.’ A wee girl knew right away I was talking about you and pointed me in the right direction.” He gasped when Elise made her first poke with the needle.

  “A wee girl? One look from you and a wee girl would pee her pants and run away.”

  “You’re a wee girl and you haven’t run.”

  “I thought I had big feet and a mannish stride.”

  “You do.”

  After finishing her first knot, Elise cut the end of the thread with Thomas’s knife and heaved a sigh of relief. She’d watched doctors tie sutures many times before in the ER, but had never done it herself. It wasn’t rocket science, but not having a doctor to oversee her work made her nervous. She glanced up to see how her patient was coping. His eyes were now squeezed shut and he was taking long, steadying breaths. “I’ll go as fast as I can,” she said.

  “You do that.”

  They sat silently as Elise slowly pulled the edges of his oblique muscle back together. Too much tension and the stitches would tear through the skin or pucker the wound, not enough and it would gape and become vulnerable to infection. She tried to align the upper and lower sides to minimize the scarring. He already had enough scars, she thought as she glanced at a jagged line that parted the hair on his chest from his collarbone to his lower ribs. Another white scar bisected the curve of his shoulder. He was no stranger to knives, Elise thought ruefully.

  Thomas’s hand found Elise’s thigh and gripped it with a strength that bruised. The touch helped both of them stay focused as she worked along his five-inch wound. Periodically, she dabbed away blood to better see what she was doing. It took twenty stitches all separately tied in surgical knots. “Done,” she whispered, and the grip on her thigh loosened. Without antibiotics, her work was far from a sure thing, but she felt a sense of relief regardless. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay.” The word sounded strange coming from Thomas, as though he was trying it for the first time for her sake. It was such a simple word. Elise wondered how many times a day she said it at the hospital, at least fifty or a hundred times a shift. Okay. Ok. Finger and thumb together. Now each time she said it she was rewarded with puzzled looks and raised eyebrows. It had taken her days to figure out that the word hadn’t been invented yet and was completely meaningless. How could a word she used so thoughtlessly not exist? She dropped the rag back into the basin and pushed it away with her foot. “Cool,” she said with a nod.

  She realized her hands were trembling when she reached into her bag for a narrow roll of muslin to cover the wound and stretch around Thomas’s waist. Her fingertips stumbled over the curve of his muscles as she unrolled the bandage and brushed the hair under his navel. One end of the muslin drifted uselessly to the floor and Elise struggled to gather it back. “You’ve got to be careful for the next few days,” she mumbled. “Those stitches could tear pretty easy,” She laid her hand flat against his stomach to trap the bandage under her palm and was brought to a halt when she felt the rise and fall of his breathing. His stomach was like sun-warmed stones on a cold day.

  He peeled her hand back and took the bandage. “Let me do it,” he whispered as he gathered the muslin back into a roll. Elise couldn’t lift her eyes from his stomach, even as Thomas slid the soft muslin over her lips and along the edge of her jaw. She pushed his hand away and finally looked up in time to see him smile at her rejection. He dropped his hand to draw a deep, long line along her thigh from her hip to the end of her knee. His touch made her slide towards him as her body followed his hand.

  “You’ve lost too much blood. You’re not thinking straight,” she breathed.

  “You knew I was drunk the second I opened the door, and you still entered my bedroom. It’s you who’s not thinking straight.” Elise’s chair scraped loudly on the floor as he pulled her closer towards him and spread his legs to accommodate her into his space. The smell of his blood mingled with the musked spice of his sweat. Tobacco and brandy sweetened his breath. She drew his scent into her lungs and it invaded her like a virus. Her pounding heart moved him through her vessels, cell by cell, so that she felt the scent of him everywhere, flushed into her flesh. When his hands slid up her arms, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

  But the kiss, frozen a mere inch from her mouth, never arrived. “What’s the matter?” Elise’s eyes were now wide open.

  Thomas sat back and looked away. “You should go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t,” Thomas stuttered. “Just leave.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Elise said, waiting for more explanation with her mouth open in astonishment. When she realized Thomas was going to remain silent and look everywhere but at her, she stood and gathered up her medical kit as fast as she could while she fought back tears of disappointment.

  In the hallway, she felt such an urgency to run from her rejection that she missed the three steps that elevated Thomas’s bedroom. Profanity ricocheted off the walls as Elise’s body launched into the air, thudded to the floor, and slid to a stop outside her bedroom door. She scrambled back to her feet and headed downstairs, her only goal being Mrs. Postlethwaite’s kitchen stash of brandy.

  Elise’s entrance into the dining hall happened with much less dramatic flair. The dying fire cast a red glow across her features and reflected warmly off the polished walnut furnishings. In the empty room, she could hear embers falling from the glowing logs. Before she had started nursing, Elise thought a good bar was supposed to be dark and full of people moving to music so loud that she couldn’t hear the man next to her unless he got close enough to brush her ear with his lips. Then a few years later, when she started going to bars in the morning after her night shift, she thought a good bar had to have a shadowed corner to escape the morning sun. As she stood bathing in the warmth of the fireplace, Elise realized her expectations of the Quiet Woman were unreasonable. The pub fed her, clothed her, tucked her in at night, and kept her safe, but Elise would have to shake the Quiet Woman off like an overbearing mother if she ever wanted to return to her own time. “Find your way home,” Mrs. Southill had said. “You don’t belong here.” The old woman’s words felt heavy and hard.

  Feeling an itch she couldn’t scratch, Elise ran from the warmth of the pub into the heat of the kitchen and felt instantly irritated by thoughts of Thomas when she saw his empty stool on the hearth. She had no pathway to anything she wanted, she thought, thinking of their near kiss; it was all out of reach. “Where is it, where is it,” Elise whispered to herself as she twirled to scan the shelves. Even the brandy was hidden from her. Then she spied the larder and wrinkled her nose.

  After lighting a candle she opened the door and held it high to illuminate shelves packed with containers of sugar, platters of meat pasties, jars of applebutter, strawberry jam, pickled eggs, canned beans, and anything else imaginable. She was sliding aside a basket of onions to reach towards a glimmer of brown glass that promised liquor when she was suddenly pushed deeper towards the bowels of the larder. Elise
grunted when her face slammed against the wall near the top of the cellar stairs. Stars of pain flashed behind her eyes when the abrasions on her face opened from the impact. “Don’t worry,” hissed a familiar voice. Pinned against the wall, Elise felt her skirt being hitched up her thighs. “It’s me. I’ll be quick about it; it won’t hurt but for just a minute.”

  She turned as much as she was allowed in order to see her assailant. “It’s you,” she echoed, surprised, and just a little bit disappointed.

  Richard’s eyes were bleary and the smell of alcohol emanated from his pores to mix with the stench that swirled up from the septic tank below. Elise still didn’t have the brandy she wanted, but she quickly decided Richard was an adequate substitute for the time being. She grabbed onto his wrist and twirled under his arm to come around behind him. Standing on her tip-toes, she pulled his arm high between his shoulder blades to sprawl him against the cold bricks, just as she had been seconds earlier. “Damn your eyes,” he cried out in pain. “Release me.” Elise complied and allowed him to turn towards her.

  Even drunk, Richard seemed surprised when she began fumbling with the buttons on the placket of his trousers. They were both breathing hard when Elise managed to get Richard’s pants around his knees. She pulled at him until he sat on the ground. “Don’t move,” she instructed, and lifted her skirts. Delighted to be straddled, Richard spent himself quickly, but Elise bravely continued on, whimpering in the foul air as she worked the wilting stem. Then it was all over. The orgasm she’d pounded out for herself had been necessary, but left her strangely unsatisfied.

  “Well,” Elise said standing. “Thanks for that.” She straightened her apron over her skirt and finally grabbed the neck of the brandy bottle. It was on the shelf towards the front, so obviously placed that she’d overlooked it. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She pointed to his wet penis, curled against his thigh.

  Richard hid his crotch behind his hands and looked befuddled. “No, no, of course not. It’s just... Now we’ll have to marry, for the sake of your honor, and what’s yours will be mine.”

  “Yeah,” Elise sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. The cold coming from below was making it run. “Sure. Marriage.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long swig as she surveyed her employer. Then she turned to walk out of the larder with a half-hearted wave goodnight. She was beat; it had been a long day and now she was finally ready for bed.

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF IT ALL

  It was late when Elise woke. She had finally figured out how to distinguish the early morning weak light from the late morning weak light by ignoring the light altogether and listening to the sounds coming from the street. For instance, at that moment she could hear Johnny’s young voice calling to a vendor. If Johnny was present at the pub, and alert enough to be shouting in the lane, it was late. Elise rolled onto her side and curled her finger around the bed’s drapes to peer out into the room. A drab apron, attached to a grey skirt wrapped around a wide ass blocked her view. Elise raked open the curtain to reveal Mary standing over her holding an empty brandy bottle. “You’re so creepy. How long have you been standing there?” Elise asked.

  “I was just about to wake you. You must come down to the kitchen at once. Mr. Ferrington is asking for you.”

  Elise rubbed her eyes. “Richard? What’s wrong with Richard?”

  “I think he’s completely lost his mind. Mrs. Ferrington is crying her eyes out, and Mrs. P. is chopping a whole basket of turnips that don’t need chopping.”

  Elise sat straight up in her bed then slapped her hands to her pounding head as the bed started twirling. “You should have gotten me up earlier,” Elise moaned as she fought back her nausea. “Why don’t you ever wake me up when you get up? You sneak out of here like a bandit every morning and I end up missing everything. I bet you do it on purpose too, just to mess with me.”

  “If you would just go to sleep at a reasonable hour, you wouldn’t need me to wake you. And you should thank me for the favor of telling you: you fart in your sleep when you’re drunk. That’ll never do when you’re married. You’ve got to start thinking on how to keep your husband faithful and true.” Mary tossed the empty brandy bottle on the bed for emphasis and shook her head. “I’ve no idea how you did it. Did you use the hemp seeds like I showed you? You know, I don’t think Mr. Laroque slept here last night.” Her face clouded in frustration.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your engagement.”

  “My what?” Elise’s brain scrambled to put together the events of the previous night. She swallowed hard when she remembered, trying to calm the panic that began to rise with her returning nausea. “I never agreed to anything,” she said quietly. Then, feeling defeated, said, “I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.” Elise couldn’t imagine why Richard would go and tell everyone in the kitchen. The silly Mrs. Ferrington was bad enough, but the idea of facing Mrs. Postlethwaite was horrifying.

  “I laid out one of my dresses for you. It’ll hang on you like a dishrag, but no one wants to see you in that muddy thing you were wearing yesterday. Maybe if you tighten your apron strings real tight and keep your stays loose you can cut a neater figure.”

  Elise looked past Mary to see two dresses draped across the foot of the other bed, one large and crisp, the other dress small, wet, and stretched to dry flat. “You washed my dress,” Elise exclaimed delightedly.

  “Mrs. P. let me take the time to do it this morning—we both knew you’d make a mess of it if you washed it yourself. I have no idea what happened to you yesterday, but if the condition of your dress is any indication, your day was quite a trial. Your face already looks better,” Mary reassured. “I don’t think it will leave a scar.”

  Elise blinked back the pricks of tears from the corners of her eyes. “You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” she said with a sniff.

  “I did it for Mr. Tilsdale. I know he would have wanted someone to repay your kindness.”

  “Here she is,” Mrs. Ferrington said when Elise stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her mouth was pinched in a resolute line. “Give it to her now, Richard. Let’s see if she remembers.”

  “Not now, Mother. Later. After.” Richard’s eyes were clear and bright. Elise resented his energy, knowing he too had been less than sober the night before.

  A pile of carrots, turnips, and potatoes was rising in mountainous proportions in front of Mrs. Postlethwaite as her knife kept up its productive rhythm. The cook kept her eyes down at the table, and her mouth shut. Elise found it disconcerting. “Give me what?” Elise asked. She was still hoping for a pair of new shoes. Mrs. Postlethwaite glanced up long enough to shoot daggers at Elise with her eyes.

  “I’d like for you to take a turn with me outdoors,” Richard said pulling Mary’s coat off the peg by the courtyard door to hold out for Elise.

  “Oh my poor boy,” Mrs. Ferrington cried out. Tears resumed rolling down her cheeks as the rhythm of Mrs. Postlethwaite’s knife sped up. Richard draped the coat over Elise’s shoulders and offered his arm, which she took reluctantly. There didn’t seem to be another choice.

  They strolled for a long ways, in a different direction from the water pump, without either of them speaking. As they entered wide, tree-lined boulevards, Richard’s pace slowed and he tucked Elise’s hand tighter against his elbow. They seemed to be joining a parade of other men and women who were also strolling with very little purpose. The women’s dresses were gauzy under pashmina shawls wrapped about their shoulders. Their gentlemen escort’s cravats were tied in complicated flounced knots while their breeches squeaked under the strain of being too tight. “Where are we?” Elise asked.

  “Mayfair. Everyone who’s anyone lives here.” He sounded wistful as he launched into a steady stream of commentary for each person they passed, as though he was flipping through the pages of a celebrity gossip magazine. The detail with which he wove the relationships between each character rival
ed that of the winding melodies he played on his violin. “Think back, Elise,” he instructed. “Do any of these stories, any names I mention, ring a bell? Are any of these faces recognizable to you? Surely none of them would recognize you, dressed as you are, but perhaps you might see a glimmer of familiarity?”

  Elise took a moment to pretend to study a mother walking with her two teenaged daughters on the other side of the street. She sadly shook her head and heaved a sigh. “It’s useless. I don’t think I know any of these people.”

  Richard nodded, “It’ll yet come to you. I’ve a theory and I’m anxious to prove myself right.”

  He led her into a park with a long and narrow expanse of lawn. Encircling the park on one end was a low wall covered in a weathered vine of pink roses. Richard slid Elise’s hand from his arm and seated her on a garden bench just under the wall. A willow tree arched nearby. Its branches, covered in delicate pale green leaves, formed a protective curtain around them. “Elise,” Richard started, taking up her hand. He paused to smile at her nervously before starting on a lengthy rehearsed speech. Elise watched as his lips moved, but could barely take in the words. Her palm felt slimy in his. She pulled it out of his grasp and wiped it on her skirt, then realized he had stopped speaking and was looking a little worried. “My feelings for you can not be a surprise,” he said. “I have done nothing to hide them from you.”

  “Your feelings?” Elise shook her head, trying to clear it. “Richard, I had no idea. Is this because of last night? I mean it was fun and all…”

  “Don’t be coy with me, Elise. I have never doubted that you returned my affections. Last night only proved it.”

  “Wait. No. You got this all wrong. I’m okay, you’re okay, no one’s under any obligations here.”

  Richard looked surprised. “Wouldn’t you like to be my wife? I thought you’d be happy. I’ve felt the way you touch my arm; listened to the way you address me so casually. You gave me every reason to think you’d be happy as my wife.”