She had known me my whole life as an obedient girl, the perfect clay with which to mold her creation: an ideal wife for a man of great promise, my marriage lifting our whole family in society like a rising tide lifting ships in the Bay. She had thought she’d had that, and now she didn’t. Seeing her with these new eyes, I wondered too whether her long-ago decision to marry my father had any part of love in it or only calculation. Her marriage had certainly brought her higher in a way she could never have risen without it. As a woman, she had no other tools to rise further, no position or prospects beyond her daughters’ marriages. Now, Phoebe and I were both terrible disappointments, deeply unlikely to lift the family higher than we’d already risen.
Still, though I easily could have broken the silence with her, I said nothing. Time would heal our wounds, or it wouldn’t. That was beyond my control now.
* * *
On the third day, after another painful, silent breakfast and another languid, useless morning in the parlor, I settled into the library with a heavy book on Greek mythology. Phoebe joined me and took the chair nearest the window with her needlepoint. I’d become curious to read more stories of the Muses, and while those proved elusive, I’d stumbled into a tale I found riveting: that of Calliope’s son Orpheus, who journeyed into Hades to retrieve his beloved.
I don’t know what made me look up from my book, but when I did, there he was. Our father stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame, staring down at me with an inscrutable, searching look on his face.
I set the book down in an instant. “Is there some kind of news?”
Phoebe said, “Is it time?”
I thought she was speaking to me, but she wasn’t. I watched a look pass between the two of them. “Time?” I asked. “For what?”
“The day is fair,” said Father to both of us, a gravity to his manner that didn’t seem to fit with his words. “I believe the two of you should go walking.”
Phoebe set down her needlepoint and extended a hand to me, a smile on her face. “Yes. Let’s take the air.”
“Are you sure?” I asked our father first.
“Go,” he said. “I insist.”
If I thought it odd that our father shooed us out of the house, I chose not to tussle about it. There was too much conflict already, too much uncertainty.
Once we’d donned coats, gloves, and hats, there was the matter of our destination to settle. I felt a flicker of the same excitement I’d felt before going out to buy a dress for Matilda; at least we were choosing where to go, under our own power, our own control.
“Shall we walk to Union Square?” asked Phoebe.
“Why not all the way to the Bay?” I said. “Perhaps down Broadway?”
“That’s such a long walk.”
“Yes, and we have nothing but time,” I replied, both satisfied and sad that this was true.
“I’m too tired for that today,” she said. “I’d much prefer Union Square.”
I looked at her again. Before the asylum, I’d known her rhythms; I’d known the difference between a passing sadness and the beginning of a dark, awful day. Today, I couldn’t tell. She’d been enthusiastic about leaving the house but now seemed to be trying to backtrack. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something vaguely amiss, and that unsettled me. I still had no idea what she intended.
“All right, then.”
It was a short walk directly down Powell to Post, a steep downhill that would not be so pleasant on the return trip up. Phoebe didn’t seem to mind the incline. We matched our strides in comfortable silence, though the farther we walked, the less comfortable I became.
It was a Saturday, and the streets were well-populated with carriages and pedestrians, especially as we approached the park. I began to notice people staring at my sister. Women would look at her and then look away. No matter how cheerfully they chattered as we neared them, as they passed us, they fell silent. We were not spoken to or invited to join other parties. Of course, these women all knew where Phoebe had been. She could escape the asylum itself but not the taint of it, not the whispers. I gripped her hand tighter, and we forged on.
Once we arrived in the square, we quickly approached the garden. When I tried to turn left toward the husks of the summer roses, she steered me in the other direction. “Here,” she said. “Come.”
My suspicions grew. She had an agenda; I did not grasp it. “Why?”
“I want you to see. . .” But her sentence trailed off into nothingness, unconcluded.
My patience, at last, ran out. This, I had to ask. “What?”
“Not a what,” she said, and a grin crept across her face, until her teeth gleamed white. “A who.”
“Who?”
Her words were quick, breathless, almost merry. “It was Father’s idea for you to meet here instead of at the house. So you’ll have time and freedom to speak. And I rather think he would like to discuss something with you alone.”
I tried to repress the upwelling of hope, but it came unbidden, blossoming in my chest. “Phoebe, you don’t mean—”
“Thank you, dear Phoebe,” came a familiar voice. The sound alone was nearly enough to melt me.
“I’ll absent myself,” said my sister. I heard only the swish of her skirts as she did exactly that. Now that I had seen him, I could not, did not, look away.
Henry.
Chapter Thirty
His hat was in his hand, his handsome face unsmiling but not grave. He seemed taller than I remembered, more of a man, even, than the one I’d grown to love. The one I had despaired of ever seeing again, all that time within the walls of the asylum, from the benches to the hill to Darkness.
Yet he was also the same one who had looked at me with suspicion mere days before, the one who had accused me of deceiving him and setting my cap for his brother instead. Months before, I’d thought he understood me, and now, we were torn apart, neither of us understanding the other’s mind in the slightest. But I was here with him. He had wanted to see me. That had to mean something, and I had to be bold enough to find out what.
“Henry,” I said.
“Charlotte.” The sound of my name on his lips was music.
“How is your family?” I asked, though it was a terrible question. If there was to be awkwardness between us, I wanted it out of the way.
“Much changed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Changed for the better, largely,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “George has decided, with much urging, to oversee our family’s holdings in Mexico for a time. Father was in favor of a complete disinheritance, but Mother’s mercy stopped him short.”
“I suppose that’s for the best.”
“You don’t want to see him punished?”
“He won’t get the thing he most wants in the world,” I said, realizing it as I said it. “I should say that’s some punishment.”
“And how is Celia?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
I said, “I can’t tell you.”
“Of course. I’m sorry about what happened to her. No one could ever make it right.”
“She’s strong,” I said. “She had to be, to make it this far.”
“As are you.”
I looked up, surprised.
The brim of his hat seemed to interest him a great deal. Was I flattering myself, assuming I understood his discomfort? It would be nonsense for him to tell me that he was impressed by my strength but that strength was so unbecoming in a woman, he would never set foot in my presence again. He had asked Phoebe to bring me here. And my father knew. Henry must have more to say and not all of it bad. That was the thought that kept me in place, as nervous as I was.
He rushed to fill the silence between us. “As I think about it, that must have been so hard, to fling yourself into the abyss after your sister and bring her back. I’m a bit ashamed to say I never knew you had such reserves within you.”
I confessed, “I didn’t really
know it either.”
“You would have been welcome on the Compass.”
“I thought women were bad luck aboard ship?”
“Some say they are,” he admitted, “but a woman such as you, no luck but good could come.”
“You flatter me,” I said.
“Yes.” He smiled. “And I’m not done. You’re clever, you’re strong, you’re brave. I always knew you were lovely, but now I realize you’re a far greater treasure.”
My cheeks pinked. If I’d had a fan, I would have raised it, hidden my blushing face. “You sound like you want to carve me in marble and place me in the foyer of the Historical Society.”
“No, I want to marry you.”
I gasped, unsure I’d even heard him right. Was it just wishful on my part, that he could say what I wanted so desperately to hear? The air on my cheeks was cold, the city’s low morning fog not yet burned away by the day’s sunshine, but warmth shot through me at his words. I asked, to be sure, “You do?”
“Of course I do. It’s all I ever wanted.”
“Even during your other betrothal?” I was done treating him like a chick in a nest. I would leave nothing unsaid.
“Ever since I walked you home from church. You remember?”
I softened. “I remember.”
His smile was more tentative this time, but it seemed hopeful.
I said, “Your family—They couldn’t possibly—”
“Your father drives a hard bargain,” he said.
I realized that although I’d assumed I knew what deal my father had made, I only knew what deal I had told him to make. It seemed he had added an extra fillip to the negotiations. He hadn’t let me see the note from Charles Sidwell, I now remembered, before squaring it away in his safe.
Still, I needed to be sure I understood. If I were still a doll, an asset, it would never sit right with me. “I’m still a condition of the deal? Just a bride for a different groom?”
He must have caught the anger in my tone, and to his credit, he quickly soothed me.
“No, no. That wasn’t the condition. The condition is that it’s up to us”—he gestured from his own chest to mine—“what we do. Who we marry. They will not stand in our way, if we come to our own agreement.”
“My family’s silence, Celia’s safety, and an open door to matrimony? That’s it?”
“George stays out of the papers, and so does your Goldengrove adventure. For our part, our family forgives your father’s debt, wipes the books clean. Your father keeps Celia’s evidence under lock and key, but if he ever exposes it, the deal is null and void. You and I. . .” Again, he gestured between us. “We do what we choose.”
Something else nagged at me. It never would have without my time in Goldengrove, but now, it was one more question I couldn’t leave unasked. “And do you think we know each other well enough?”
His face was grave, but I saw him consider the question without judging me for asking it. “I’m not sure. But I doubt any person ever knows another completely before they make the decision to marry. Did my parents? Did yours?”
I shook my head. He might not know that my parents’ marriage was not one I hoped to emulate, but otherwise, his words rang true.
He went on, “It’s always a leap of faith. From what I know of you so far, I want to know more, to stand by your side, to plan our future together. If you feel the same way about me—which I very much hope you do—then I think that counts as ‘well enough,’ yes.”
“But won’t you want adventures? Patagonia?” My mind still spun, not believing that what I was hearing was really happening. Henry Sidwell was telling me he wanted to marry me. And that he could. And that I could.
Smiling, he said, “I’ve already been to Patagonia.”
“You know I meant it differently.”
“All right. Yes, we may want other adventures later.”
The way he said we gladdened my heart.
“But there will be time for our adventures,” he said. “If you accept my proposal. Which, I must point out, you have not yet done.”
“Oh! Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Did I say yes?”
“Yes,” he echoed, reaching for my hands and holding them within his own. We had touched that night after the opera, like this yet not like it at all. We were different people now. But the current that ran between us, like lightning, like music, felt the same.
I stared at that space on his neck where his beard gave way to his bare skin, the spot I had always wanted to kiss. I would kiss it. Not today, and not soon. But I would. And in that moment, I told myself, I would know true happiness.
The joy welled up within me, and I thought how thrilled I would be to tell Phoebe. I hoped she was still in the park, only steps away, so I could share the news with her immediately. Then everything froze for a moment as I realized what that would mean.
A long moment. Three heartbeats, four, five. I wanted almost nothing more in the world than to accept him. I could not accept him.
“Oh! But no,” I said, lowering my hands, beginning to withdraw them from his grasp.
He held tight. “No?”
“I can’t—” I began to fight tears, which swam into my eyes with shocking speed. I had never been so happy, but I immediately realized my happiness would be the ruin of another, and if that was so, I could not have my happiness after all. “What will happen to Phoebe?”
He said, “You know she is not well.”
“Much of the time she is.” I had to defend her. I would always defend her.
“Yes. Much of the time. But not all.”
“Not all.”
“Your parents are not prepared. If her condition gets worse.”
I pulled my hands free of his then. Reality had intruded on our dream so quickly. Now, I had to see it through. I stared at the empty bench across the path, watching a sparrow land, cock its head, and take off again. “Then I must stay unmarried and care for her. For the rest of our lives. I owe her that much.”
“She owes you a great deal too.”
“Do not tell me about my own sister,” I said, my voice harsher than I intended. “I have known her my whole life.”
“You love her. But I am not sure you know her.”
He reached out for my hands again, but I pulled them back. I saw sadness at the rejection cross his face. It hurt me to hurt him. I crossed my hands in front of me to keep myself from plunging them back into his.
“And you do?” I challenged him.
“The only one who truly knows Phoebe’s mind is Phoebe. She and I have exchanged some correspondence these past few days on the subject. And I know she has raised her concerns with you.”
She had, and I hadn’t wanted to hear them. I did not want to hear Henry tell me about them now. Another sparrow wheeled by, hunting for food among the last of the season’s zinnias, and when its search came up empty, it was gone.
Henry said, “She needs to be somewhere that she can be cared for. Somewhere safe, to protect herself from herself. That’s what she wants. With doctors and nurses.”
I saw Phoebe in the Tranquility Chair. Martha with her cheek split open. Toothless Magda Orvieto. Women who were hurt, drugged, neglected, starved. I spat, “Doctors and nurses are no guarantee of care. Believe me.”
He stayed toe to toe with me and did not look away. “The right doctors. The right nurses.”
“And where is that?”
“It could be Goldengrove.”
“No. No. It could never.” I would not stand on niceties, not with Henry, not if he expected to be my mate for life.
Earnestly, he said, “It wasn’t always like that. Not until George left it to rot. Imagine what could happen if it returned to its mission. Helping the curable insane. Healing those who can be healed. And for the others, at least, a safe, good life without fear and uncertainty.”
“It sounds lovely,” I said reluctantly. “But it’s a dream.”
“It could be a dream made real.” He reached out for my hands
again, and the look on his face was so honest and pure, I couldn’t help but let him wrap his hands around mine, and the current hummed in my blood. “If we put the right people in charge.”
“Who?”
“You and me,” he said, beaming, his face alight with possibility. “Us. With George gone to Mexico, someone needs to take over the interests he was managing for the family here. I told my father I wanted to start with fixing Goldengrove. And I want you to be the matron—if you’re willing—until we hire a new one, the right one, with new doctors if we need them. A whole new staff, if that’s what it takes. Whatever it takes to make sure the women there receive the care they need.”
“I have no education—”
“You can get some. You already know what’s most important. I can’t do it without you.”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” he said.
I believed him with my whole heart.
“Your brother,” I began and saw him tense, so I hastened to clarify, “your brother John. He wanted to help these women. That’s where it all really started. The Muses. . .”
“Muses?”
I had forgotten he really knew nothing of the asylum other than the literature, the mere outline of the institution, just like that was all I had known two months before. I would have a great deal to explain to him. But now, it seemed, we would have plenty of time.
“He wanted each woman to get the right type of treatment to address her ills. And not the quackery that other doctors are using now. Therapies based in music, art, books. Poetry. That was his dream.”
He didn’t ask me how I knew, but I saw the hunger on his face, the need to believe and understand.
I said, “Our dreams. His dream. We can pursue them together.”
“Together,” he said and squeezed my hands.
So we would, in our own way, embark on an adventure. It would be a hard one, and one I never could have predicted, but thinking about it, it felt like exactly the right place in the world for the three of us to be.
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