I was glad for my gray silk, my coiled hair, the corset that kept me upright and straight-backed. If I roiled on the inside, I could at least appear placid and proper. Whatever happened today, the sun would go down on a different scene, a different world, a different reality.
“Be ready at eleven o’clock,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Then silence reigned again, but at least for me, it was a warmer silence. There was possibility in it.
Phoebe returned to her own bedroom after breakfast, and I went to mine to check on Celia. I found her seated at the foot of my bed, fully dressed in Martha’s blue plaid with the tin buttons, several sheets of paper lying flat on her lap. She rose when I entered and held the papers out to me. “My story,” she said simply.
I took the bundle with unsteady hands.
“Are you going to see them?” she asked.
I knew instantly who she meant. “Yes. This morning.”
“Read,” she said quietly.
I did as she bid me, standing there in front of her without moving, beginning at the top of the first page and reading all the way through to the very last word. It was, as she’d said, her story. Her statement. How she’d met George and he’d wooed and married her; how he had turned on her when she was too outspoken; how he’d beaten and humiliated her, and when even that wasn’t enough, locked her in a house he knew would shortly be engulfed in flames. She believed he had not himself set the fire but bore full responsibility for causing it to be set, making it clear exactly what guilt she did and did not lay at his doorstep. She gave the name of the handyman who had found her fighting her way free, drugged her, and hidden her away in the asylum. She gave permission for the document to be published in the newspaper should its custodian believe it necessary. She beseeched the reader to seek justice. She swore it and signed it.
When I finished, I looked up.
Her voice was soft but clear. “Give it to your father. The nightdress too.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I can’t see him again,” she said, and again, I knew who she meant without her having to say the name. “It was by chance last night, and I made it through. But I can’t walk into his house to face him.”
“You don’t have to,” I told her.
I began to twist the papers in my hands, but they were too precious. I reached over and set them down on the desk instead, where the folded nightdress already lay. My eyes brimmed with tears.
In order to conduct the negotiation we’d agreed on, I knew my father desperately needed exactly what Celia had given us. I had planned to ask her for both things. But seeing her here in front of me, her familiar, burned cheek, her single open eye, I couldn’t think of her as a chit or a pawn or an asset. Most importantly and for always, she was my friend.
I reached out to embrace her, and she stepped into my arms. We held each other a while, letting the tears come.
Then I stepped back. “Tell me what you want,” I said. “Tell me what’s justice.”
She said, “I trust you.”
“But it’s your—”
Celia held up a hand. “On the benches, I decided. Don’t let him hurt me. Don’t let him hurt any woman. That’s all.”
“I swear.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Get some rest,” I said. “I’ll let you know when we’re back. I’ll tell you everything.”
I went downstairs and handed the precious bundle to my father, then watched as he crouched to place both the papers and the dress in his safe. Once that was done, he cast a meaningful glance at his desk. I left him to his work. Neither of us spoke a word.
Then there was nothing for me to do but wait. Too nervous to stay still, I climbed up and down the main staircase and then settled into a rhythm, pacing the front hall from the foyer to the dining room over and over again.
After I had lost track of the number of circuits I’d made, my body moving by rote, I nearly stumbled directly into my mother at the base of the stairs. I pulled up short to avoid colliding. She wore a smart coat with what looked like fox fur at the collar and cuffs, her brass buttons polished to a shine. She didn’t say where she was going, and I didn’t ask. As we passed each other, she spoke so quietly, I almost had to ask her to repeat herself, but I knew all too well what she was saying: Don’t go.
I stopped and answered her without looking her in the face. “I have to.”
“Your father,” she said, “thinks he’s being kind. He’s not. You won’t get what you want this way. None of us will. He doesn’t understand what it is to be a woman.”
I said quietly, “Do you?”
Her brow lowered in anger, but of course, she mastered it, her voice calm. “You seem not to understand the chance you threw away. I had the answer. One simple thing, that’s all you had to do. You would have saved this family. Instead, you’ve undone us.”
“You wanted to sell me off to a murderer.”
“We didn’t know that. We still don’t.”
I gaped at her.
“Perhaps the girl’s just a convincing liar. He’s a good man from a good family. Her story sounds like trumped-up nonsense to me. How can you believe her?”
“How can you not?”
“This won’t get you the one you want, you know. That wastrel boy. Whatever you do, you can’t have him. You’ve wrecked all our chances at everything, and you still can’t have him.”
“That’s no matter,” I said, though I knew it, and it crushed me. I would not let her see me crushed. I turned away.
She flung her parting shot at my retreating back. “Ungrateful child. I did so much for you.”
“Did you? Was it us you did it for?” Without waiting for an answer, I ascended the stairs, my hand gripping the polished bannister so she wouldn’t see how I trembled.
* * *
When my father ushered me into the front parlor of the Sidwell home, I was taken by surprise. I had expected the patriarch, but the whole family was present. Mr. Sidwell, looking stern. Mrs. Sidwell in a day dress far more ornamented and sumptuous than my own, her eyes darting around like a bird’s. George, arms folded, his face devoid of expression. And then my eyes fell upon the only member of the Sidwell family I had ever wanted to see again: Henry.
I wanted so badly to fling myself into his arms, to clutch him as I never had before. Goldengrove had taught me that a missed chance was a thing to be mourned. Some chances never came again. And perhaps he and I had missed our chance once and for all time. But right now, there was a larger question at stake. The truth had to be told.
“This is highly inappropriate,” said Mr. Sidwell, his voice as harsh and brusque as it had been at the end of last night’s visit. I could see that my father had surprised him, and the surprise was not a pleasant one. “Phineas, I respected your request to have the four of us here, but I must object to your daughter’s presence. If you are in possession of the facts, you can share them with us. The girl’s opinion isn’t needed.”
“I understand your objections, Charles,” said my father. I had never seen him as firm, as iron-spined. “But this is how it will be. My daughter has important information to share, and she will share it with your family firsthand.”
I glanced first at George Sidwell, who looked deeply uneasy. Not only were his crimes against Celia to be revealed, Goldengrove had been his charge, and its faults lay at his doorstep. I reminded myself I wasn’t destroying him on a whim or through a falsehood. I would only tell the truth. The destruction was not mine but his.
I only allowed myself one brief moment glimpsing toward Henry, not wanting to further inflame his father, but I needed to know how he looked. So I glanced. And there was a look of shock on his face, neither sadness nor joy, but I thought I saw a trace of respect in it. That would do. I squared my shoulders and readied myself to tell my tale.
I opened my mouth and told it all. Mr. Sidwell tried more than once to silence me, but my father broke in each time, patiently and firmly, insi
sting I finish. I suspected he had only brought me in person to show that I could be credible on a witness stand, not because the negotiation had been my idea, but that hardly mattered. I was here. We would force a reckoning. The Sidwells didn’t have to see me as an equal, not today, as long as they saw me.
After I told of the first day at Goldengrove, of my admission and poor welcome, Mr. Sidwell’s eyes flashed over to George once, twice, three times. After that, it was George who protested. No, that cannot be true, he said. No, there are no sane women at Goldengrove. I told of Nora and Dr. Concord. No, we would not allow such reprehensible behavior. Of Gus and Alfie and Salt. The men there only use necessary force, on rare occasions, to restrain women who are beyond verbal control. Of the drunken superintendent and the abusive matron. Stories like this are commonly told by women resisting authority—they must demonize someone to avoid taking responsibility for their behavior.
Finally, I raised my voice, saying, “If you let me tell my whole story, since I am the one who lived it, perhaps you could then register your objections at the end.”
George opened his mouth to protest, but his father cut him off with a resigned look. “Let the girl speak.”
So I told the rest of my story unopposed. The rest of the truth about the conditions in the asylum. The soap and the cold water. The beatings and the punishments. The intelligent, unfortunate, inconvenient women I’d known.
And then I told them what I knew about Celia.
George edged closer to the door. His father outflanked him. Mrs. Sidwell covered her mouth with her hand and left the room, and I heard a choked sound from her before she managed to get the door closed. Henry excused himself quietly and went after her, the door opening and closing again, quietly clicking shut. I forged ahead, knowing I would not get another chance to tell the whole story, making sure I gave Mr. Sidwell absolutely everything that he needed to know. After I recounted how Celia revealed who she was and who she had been married to, the men no longer looked at me at all, only each other.
When my story was done, Father said, “I am certain you would like to offer my daughter an apology.”
Again, I was struck by how much he chose to risk by speaking to Charles Sidwell in a way hardly anyone else would. But it was part of his strategy, I saw. A boxer of smaller size could knock a bigger one off his feet using his weight against him. The Sidwells had a great deal, which meant they had a great deal to lose.
Without looking at either of us, without removing his eyes from his son, Mr. Sidwell said, “All in due time, Phineas. For now, I believe you and I have a business deal to discuss. Is that not what comes next?”
“I believe it does.”
“Then I think”—Mr. Sidwell looked in my direction—“we should do so alone.”
“I can speak of such matters with Charlotte present.”
“I would prefer it be just us two.” He turned to George. “Go upstairs and wait for me there.”
George glared daggers at me and left; I hoped he would not flee the premises before his father and mine finished speaking. Then again, fleeing would mean he was gone from this city and our lives, which was much of what I wanted. I did not expect to see him face the law. That was not what I’d asked my father for. As firmly as I believed in his guilt, as real as Celia’s story was, I knew our evidence was insufficient to convince a court of law. George would never bear the true price of his guilt.
But the court of public opinion was another matter. It had not been so long in San Francisco since the so-called Committee of Vigilance had decided what constituted justice. Strong rumors had put plenty of necks in nooses, swinging from the second story of Fort Gunnybags. The mob might not hoist the ropes with their own hands anymore, but the mentality was the same. If the public believed someone was guilty, what the court said made no nevermind.
So silence was our asset now. That was what we’d sell. Our family’s silence and Celia’s. It was my father’s debt we sought to erase, whatever deal we struck; he was the one who had to finalize the trade. In this world, he could speak for me, but I could not speak for him. I accepted it, and we had chosen our way forward together for that very reason.
Once Mr. Sidwell drew his line in the sand, Father could have protested further but did not. He knew a victory when he saw it. We both did. He bobbed his head once, sharply. “Of course, Charles.”
So, as gracefully as I could, I left the room where I had told my truth. I waited instead in the great foyer, unable to remain still, its colorful, elegant tiles disappearing and reappearing under my pacing feet. I relished the feeling of walking in good shoes on level ground without being tied or strapped to anyone else in any way. I almost giggled at the freedom of it. It reminded me of how free I’d felt on the way down to the dock to throw myself into the Bay. What a fool I’d been then. Yet I’d been a fool before that, as my mother put all the pieces into place to sell me off as a pliant wife above all else. Was it better to be a knowing fool or a naive one, if those were the only options?
Footsteps approached and stopped behind me. I hoped and feared I knew who it was, and both my hopes and fears came true. It was Henry.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
“Is it?”
My words came out in a rush. I had been waiting a day to say them. The emotions underneath had swirled in my blood for a lot longer than that. “Henry, I had no choice. I couldn’t let what’s happening at Goldengrove stand.”
“That—” He swallowed and started again. “That, I agree with you. Those poor women. But that is not the issue, not at all.”
I said, “A month ago—You and I—That night at the opera—”
“That’s exactly it.”
I searched his face but saw no generosity there, no affection, no encouragement. He dragged his fingertips along the golden marble of the side table and looked only at them, not me. In the gilded mirror above the table, I saw the far side of his handsome face reflected. It was just as impassive as the side that faced me. He seemed adamant on not showing a crack in his facade, no matter how hard I searched for one.
“Imagine my surprise, the very next day,” he said, “to find you were promised to another. And one so close.”
“Oh no,” I replied. “Henry, you couldn’t have thought—”
“I was just a distraction, I suppose. An amusement.”
“No, you were never—”
“Did you prefer him?” His face was stone, his body tense as a spring.
I had thought I would thrill to any occasion to evaluate his body, but this one only filled me with anxiety, fear, regret.
“No!”
“Did you encourage him?”
“Not in the least!” I said. The truth was on my side, but I feared even that would come to nothing, as fierce and furious as Henry seemed in this moment. “I never even spoke to him! I don’t know whose idea it was, my mother’s, your mother’s, both, I don’t know. My heart was elsewhere. It still is.”
“I have given up guessing the disposition of your heart.”
“That last night, Henry, at the opera—I thought we might have an understanding, you and I.”
“I thought so too,” he said, but there was pain in his voice, not joy.
“I’m sorry,” I said, struggling to control myself. I wanted to scream and shout, to plead at the top of my lungs with my breath bursting from my chest, but our fathers were just on the other side of the door, still negotiating the specifics of a deal that might get everyone nearly everything they wanted. I had gone beyond the pale already and could go no further. I had asked my father to make a deal; I would not scotch it with hysterics. My tone was low and urgent. “Henry, they made it seem like the only way. And I had nothing to tell them of your intentions, no promise at all to point to. You didn’t speak.”
He looked straight at me when he said, “I would speak now, with all my heart, were there anything left to say.”
Then the parlor door was opening behind me, and my father exited,
his face lightly flushed. Henry and I both turned in an instant. We could see Henry’s father, who stood staring at the fireplace with nothing in his body language to suggest he had either been bested or victorious. He did not move an inch. As my father approached us, he said nothing, just inclined his head slightly to Henry, who nodded back in polite silence and then turned away.
On the inside, I wailed, feeling the loss of Henry, stunned by the depth of his anger. On the outside, just like Henry, I chose to be stone.
My father extended his arm to me. I took it. He was graceful when he chose to be, solid and righteous, and I felt a welling of pride in my chest. Whatever else I did or didn’t have in the moment, at least I had him. My head high, I folded my arm through his, and we descended the steps of the Sidwell mansion, together in perfect harmony, headed for home.
As we walked in tandem, each step matched, I hoped he would tell me that they had agreed on the spot. I hoped with every footfall. But when he hadn’t spoken by the time we stood on the stairs of our own home, I knew the easiest answer hadn’t come. I was hesitant to ask outright, but I had learned by now that I would never regret seeking justice, only failing to seek it. In that sense, we had not failed today.
I said, “So, when do you think we will hear from him?”
“He asked for a day to decide.”
“And what do you think the answer will be?”
“The only one who knows what Charles will say is Charles,” he said and bent to kiss me on the cheek. “I put it to him plainly. The decision is his now.”
And then he was gone, and I could only wait. I stood in the foyer for a long minute, feeling like I had after the first hike at Goldengrove, awaiting a nurse to untie me from the heavy, knotted rope. I could be as bold as I liked—and bold I had been—but in the end, the next step was out of my hands.
My father had done the best he could. Only time would tell whether his best and mine would be enough.
Woman 99 Page 31
