by Eden Myles
Jeremiah Hampton would be quite proud of you, my dear. He might even have kept you as one of his women.
Yours most saturnally,
Mister Emmett Van Tassel
***
“What is the meaning of all this?” I asked the next morning on entering Mr. Van Tassel’s business establishment. I had breezed right past the clerk manning the front desk, though he clung stubbornly to the train of my cloak as I charged into the vast, plush office suite.
Mr. Van Tassel sat at his desk, offering dictation to his comely young secretary, who sat in his lap. That didn’t necessarily surprise me. What did surprise me was that sitting across the desk from him was Stuart Brinkerhoff, taking his morning tea. That stopped me dead in my tracks, and the clerk who had tried to stop me from entering plowed into me, making me stumble a few feet before I caught myself on the edge of Mr. Van Tassel’s substantial oaken desk.
Van Tassel stood up immediately. His tiny, reptilian eyes rolled over me with delight. “Ned, release Miss Van der Meer immediately and remove yourself from my presence.”
Ned, visibly shaken by his employer’s wrath, stuttered some words out, turned tail, and raced from the room, but I hardly noticed the boy’s retreat. I was too busy staring at Stuart. “What are you doing here?” I asked, and Stuart, who had risen to his feet like Mr. Van Tassel, somehow looked both guilty and annoyed at the same time, as if I had caught him doing something vastly indecent.
“Don’t take your anger out on Stuart. I asked him here, the same as you. And besides, he often comes to visit me,” Mr. Van Tassel said, making a show of shooing his secretary from the room and coming around the desk to take my cloak. I immediately pulled away from my competitor. The man had taken advantage of my father’s bad gambling habit and had destroyed him. He had nearly destroyed me. Just the idea of him touching me was enough to make me shirk in distaste.
“I don’t understand,” I said, again glaring at the man who had publicly proposed marriage to me only a few days ago. “Does Stuart work for you as your solicitor?” Naturally, I had thought that Mr. Van Tassel utilized one of the older firms in the city, not some little country partnership like Bleeker & Brinkerhoff, but perhaps I was wrong.
Mr. Van Tassel straightened his cravat at the affront and eyed me with his dark, glinting eyes. “After a fashion, my dear. You see, Stuart is my half brother.”
I gaped at Mr. Van Tassel. Then I gaped at Stuart. “And when, exactly, were you planning on telling me this, Stuart? After we were married?”
Stuart flushed red and looked about to say something when Mr. Van Tassel interrupted by holding up his hand. “Why don’t we sit and take tea, Miss Van der Meer? I can see you have a lot of questions.” He indicated a seating arrangement on the other side of the room, a collection of needlepoint chairs and a tea service on a sideboard. “I have a lovely Earl Grey…”
“I don’t want tea!” I barked, stepping all over my hem and struggling to find my balance and my dignity. “I want explanations, Mr. Van Tassel!”
Mr. Van Tassel seemed to consider that, then he settled on the edge of his desk and just pinned me with those small, untrustworthy eyes of his. “Very well. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” He smirked nastily, a small, ugly man with a small, ugly smile. “You have a most unconventional lifestyle, my dear. You have that annoying business and a quite unique relationship with Mr. Sloan. I believe the proper term is a courtesan? Well then, within the mores of our little community, neither of these things will do...”
I thought about remonstrating him for addressing me as a courtesan, but then I decided to play his tactics against him and feinted naiveté. “How dare you accuse me…?”
He offered me a humorless smile and cut me off once more. “Come now, Lucky. Are you claiming ignorance of the Society?”
“What Society would that be?” I asked, though my voice was less sure.
Mr. Van Tassel sighed tiresomely. “I believe they sometimes refer to themselves as The Dollhouse Society?”
I decided then that it was more important I learn how much he knew, rather than try and protect my flailing innocence. I smirked a little too. “Is this about membership in the Society?” I laughed at the expression on his face. “They won’t let you in, will they? But then, they do have standards. Jealousy does not befit you, Mr. Van Tassel.”
I watched the man school his face into the cool blankness he usually wore when he did business. “Regardless of my feelings for the Society, the fact of the matter is, you are a part of it, Miss Van der Meer. And though my knowledge of the Society might be forgivable, your case is entirely different.” He smiled smugly at that. He did have a point. A man like Mr. Van Tassel could all but sex a woman in a public place and it would be considered his right to do so, but I knew the women in my community were expected to uphold a standard of purity that was ridiculous. His lips curled like that of a snake. “It would be a terrible shame were that secret to get out, no? It would destroy your business. It would destroy you.”
“It’s a terrible shame she never told me!” Stuart said, finally piping up. He looked thoroughly switched, as if this secret of mine had taken the punch from him, and the double standard of my society simply enraged me. Stuart was expected to have sexual experience long before he committed to a wife, but a woman like myself was expected to remain pure and naïve until her wedding night. “If I had known she was a professional whore, I never would have proposed marriage…!”
I exploded them. I charged forward and snatched at Stuart’s cravat, surprising him. “I am hardly a whore, professional or otherwise! And you had no right to announce a marriage you never proposed to me in private in the first place!”
“Careful, Stuart,” Mr. Van Tassel warned. “The lady has a temper.”
“The lady is a disaster! And she certainly doesn’t know her place!” Stuart shouted and I took a quick step back.
My bad luck reared its ugly head and I crashed into the tea server sitting on the sidebar. The tray, cups, and the covered teapot all crashed to the floor. I tried to scramble away from the upset but the heel of my boot slid in the lukewarm tea, and before I even knew it, I crashed down, pulling the serving cloth along with me. Within seconds, I found myself sitting in a muddy puddle of sweet tea, the cloth in my lap, staring up at the two men standing over me, my dignity in ribbons.
Mr. Van Tassel took that opportunity to stalk forward, reach for his handkerchief, and throw it at me. “Listen very carefully to me, Miss Van der Meer, because this is non-negotiable,” he said, bending over me. His breath smelled like something had died rather recently in his mouth. “My half brother proposed marriage, and you will accept his proposal. And exactly one week from today you will be happily married to Stuart Brinkerhoff in the town church…”
“I’ll do no such thing!” I protested, but Mr. Van Tassel just went on.
“…and you’ll be a pleasant, blushing bride, or I’ll make certain your sordid little affair with Mr. Sloan becomes a matter of public note. In fact, I shall reveal the whole nature of the Society to the good, God-fearing people of Smithtown. Then I shall allow them to do what they see fit to the whole lot of you. It will not be a pleasant situation, my dear. In fact, it will make the trials of Salem look like a tea party. Do I make myself very clear?”
I glared up at him, trembling with rage. “They won’t believe such a preposterous story,” I said, not knowing if they would or not.
Mr. Van Tassel leered down at me. “Are you willing to take that chance? Because if you are wrong, they will likely round up the members of the Society, including that poor bastard you call a lover, and hang the whole lot of you as consorts of Satan.”
I threw Mr. Van Tassel’s handkerchief aside and struggled to my feet. Stuart started forward as if to help me up, but Mr. Van Tassel held him back.
Stuart started to protest but his half brother interrupted him. “Go sit down, Stuart, and drink your tea.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Emmett,” he s
narled.
“I’ve set this up for you, and you’ll do exactly as I tell you to do, little brother, do you understand me?”
I looked at Stuart, with his blond good looks, his large, innocent, cornflower blue eyes. I plucked at my wet skirts and said, “You know we won’t live past our honeymoon, don’t you? I’m sure your half brother is claiming a grand gesture of Christian charity on his part—getting his younger brother a bride. What a win for you! But we won’t live past a few weeks, Stuart. Your half brother destroyed my father, and now he’ll destroy me.” I offered him a bitter smile as I moved toward the door. “We’ll both experience an unfortunately accident, probably in our carriage ride away from the church. And then, as the sole heir of your estate, Mr. Van Tassel will demolish my father’s business and set himself up as the sole textile power in this region. Think about that over the next week while I prepare our…wedding.”
I took myself from the room with as much dignity as I could muster.
***
Tiberius was waiting for me when I returned to the house. He made a show of going out to the mill, but I knew he’d been waiting for my return. The night before, after receiving the letter, I had retired to bed without visiting him, and this morning, at breakfast, I had barely passed two words with him. He knew me well enough to know something was wrong.
The moment I stepped into the foyer he said, “I received a note from the foreman that one of the cotton gins has jammed up. I was just on my way to see if the mill needed a new repair part.” He looked at me. “Did you want to join me?”
I stood looking down at the muff on my hands a long moment. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. Then I looked up at him. “You needn’t bother with the gin,” I told him.
He gave me steady eyes as he waited for me to continue.
I had thought about how to approach this on my way back to the house, and I knew now what I had to do. This wasn’t about me anymore, or my father’s mill. None of this was about what I wanted. This was about my lover, and what I had to do to ensure his safety, and the safety of the other members of the Society, the women and the men. Their fate was in my hands now.
Mr. Van Tassel was right, of course. The good, God-fearing people of Smithtown believed the words of Jonathan Edwards and his “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Should they learn about the Dollhouse Society, they would arrange a hanging party—or, barring that, they would destroy the businesses of the members of the Society, which would be just as bad. But either way, they would dispose of the Society, burn down Jeremiah Hampton’s house, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was a woman, after all, a woman who owned part of a mill, not a proper woman, a woman of good standing in my community. I wasn’t a wife and mother. I was a woman who did business. My word, my claims, meant nothing to the people of my community.
I swallowed. My needs meant very little now. I had to think of the members of the Society. And Tiberius. I had to put their needs above those of my own. It was the only way I could truly call myself a Van der Meer.
“I’ve decided to sell my part of the mill to Mr. Van Tassel,” I told him. A lie, but a necessary one. I knew Tiberius had no love for the man who had destroyed my father, his best friend and business partner. “If you wish to maintain your partnership, you’re welcomed to meet with Mr. Van Tassel tomorrow to arrange a new contract.” I knew he wouldn’t, though. “I promise my part of the mill will more than cover all your investments.”
Tiberius was silent a long moment, clutching his walking stick. Then he said, “What brought this on?”
I forced myself to raise my eyes and meet his even gaze. “I’ve decided to accept Stuart’s proposal of marriage. I no longer wish to run the mill. I would be much happier as his wife.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, I would,” I said as firmly as possible. “I have an opportunity to be a proper wife and an accepted member of this community, Tiberius. You have no idea what that means to me, and I simply cannot pass up the opportunity.”
He pressed his lips together. “And our marriage?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you.” I held his eyes as I said the most difficult words in my life. “You were right about being a murderer. I cannot live with that, or with you. Every time you touch me, I think about the men you’ve killed on the Peninsula, and about Hastings. You’ve earned those scars, Tiberius, you really are a monster, and I simply cannot accept that.”
He was silent a long moment. “I had no idea you were so concerned about this,” he said. “Do you love Stuart?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I told him, staring at his feet, because that was the one thing I couldn’t do. I couldn’t look him in the eye and tell him I didn’t love him. He would see the lie in every facet of my face. “Love doesn’t matter. You frighten me,” I told him. I had to make him not love me. It was the only way he would ever be safe. “You always have. I don’t want some scarred husband, damaged goods. I don’t want a murderer. I want you out of this house by the end of the week. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do,” he said emotionlessly. Then he turned on his heels and left the room.
***
Over the next week, Charlotte visited me multiple times in an attempt to dissuade me from marrying Stuart, and Rupert was, of course, upset about Gavin leaving our household. Multiple times I thought about telling them my reasons behind what I was doing, but I couldn’t be certain they wouldn’t blurt the truth to Tiberius, so I kept my own council. To her credit, Nanny Nellie didn’t reprimand me for my decision, despite her seemingly endless infatuation with Tiberius. I wanted to believe that she knew in some small way that what I was doing was for the best. She even did her best to help me with my preparations for my wedding that upcoming Sunday.
It was going to be a small, dismal affair. Only my immediate household would be there, some council members, and Charlotte, grudgingly. The vicar would marry us at seven o’ clock in the morning, and then we would take a carriage ride down to the city for our honeymoon. I did not expect to reach the city, but I had made provisions for that. I had a small, one-round, Revolutionary war pistol that had belonged to my grandfather, and a holster I had resewn to fit my garter. I didn’t think it would be enough to save me if our carriage was overturned or we were set upon by Mr. Van Tassel’s Chinese slaves, but I hoped it would give me a chance. All I wanted was a chance.
Because of the sudden nature of the wedding, I had no chance to order a gown from the dressmaker’s, so I spent an afternoon in the attic of my father’s house, searching through trunks for my mother’s wedding dress. It was dreadfully out of fashion, and a bit squalid, but I felt it matched my mood perfectly. I slipped it on and looked in an old, dusty, full-length mirror we had stored away amidst some old furniture.
I looked terrible. My hair looked lifeless and drab, and there were dark rings under my eyes from too many sleepless nights. I was the ugliest bride in the world. As I searched for a tiara for my mothy veil, I found a large, heavy oaken chest in a dark corner of the attic. It had little dust on it, which I found odd.
I knelt over the open chest and started rifling through the contents. It quickly became apparent to me that the trunk belonged to Tiberius. He must have stored it up here when he first moved into my father’s house all those months ago, and since he was still making arrangements to return to the Peninsula, he hadn’t yet had a chance to move it.
I found the most curious things inside, most of them mine. There was an old dress I’d worn when I was in my late teens, soiled kid gloves I thought I had discarded (still smelling of my perfume) the fan I had used during the Sinterklaas celebration (which I thought I had misplaced), and a wooden jewelry box at the very bottom. When I opened it, it revealed my mother’s locket, which I had sold months ago to try and repay my father’s debt. I lifted the locket out and check inside just to make certain it was indeed mine. I found my mother and father’s little cameo paintings, and I knew then that my eyes were not, in fact,
deceiving me. Tiberius had found and bought back my locket from the town jewelers, and then he had kept it, the way he had kept all these other discards of mine. I also found stacks and stacks of aging, yellowed letters bound together lovingly with ribbon.
Now ravenously curious, I untied the first stack of letters and started reading them. All of them were letters that my father had sent to Tiberius while he fought the French on the Peninsula. Most of them contained detailed accounts of my antics. My father, it turned out, loved to write about his miscreant of a daughter to his former partner. He detailed all my accidents and pratfalls, the trees climbed, the dresses shorn, all the ridiculous and forward things I had said as a young woman.
It was obvious the letters had been read almost to pieces. There were passages about me circled in ink or underlined, as if Tiberius had marked them so he could find them more readily. I spent most of the day going through the letters he had kept, then the stacks of poetry he had written. It was quickly obvious that he was not a very skilled poet, but his emotion was honest and raw, and his dedication to the art form humbling. He did not seem like the type of man to dedicate himself to such a petty effort—not Tiberius Sloan, with his aloof nature and ramrod straight military posture. Outwardly, he seemed obsessed with only business and money.
But then I remembered him at the Dollhouse that last time, his almost frenzied need to be inside me, licking and kissing every part of me. I read all his awful, heartfelt poems, dedicated them to memory, then put his chest of personal treasures back together exactly as I had found it. Afterward, I sat down on the floor in my dusty wedding dress, put my head in my hands, and for the first and last time, I wept.
***
The day of the wedding dawned appallingly bright and cheery. It was full of puffy snowflakes of the kind that would normally have encouraged me to ride out into the woods in the early morning just to taste them and feel them melt on my face. It was still cold, this being January, but not bone-chillingly so. Snow in the night had made everything as pristine white as a fairy tale as the carriage carried me to the small church in our town center. I sat beside Nellie in the jostling carriage and took her gnarled old hand in mine.