by Lynn Morris
Manon had already been addicted to laudanum—she had been drinking a pint a day for about six months now—when Marcus had discovered Devlin Buchanan’s prescriptive for presurgical patients. Dev and Cheney simply called it “absinthe,” but Marcus knew very well that it was not just the liqueur; it was an extremely dangerous drug. Marcus had learned how to make the preoperative sedative back when he was acting as apothecary.
As Manon had grown addicted to—and desensitized to—laudanum, Marcus had despaired of finding another stronger drug to treat Manon’s nervous condition until Dr. Buchanan had instructed him on his private absinthe-and-morphine prescriptive. Then Marcus had “prescribed” two ounces per day—one in the morning and one at night—for his wife, but at the same time he had brought home great bottles full of the drug. Manon sipped on it all the time now.
Before she even put the bottle down Manon could feel her heart begin to slow, her anxiety begin to diminish. She felt lightheaded and warm, and best of all she felt calm and free from care. She smiled down at Lisette and then at Solange, as her thin face came into Manon’s view. She was seated on the floor by Manon’s chaise, with her head resting on her folded arms. As Manon had taken the drink, Solange had awakened from an exhausted sleep, stirred, and looked up at Manon. As Solange’s face swam into view—to Manon it was blurry, dreamlike, floating across her vision—Manon smiled hazily.
“Hello, my darling. You had a nap, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Maman, but oh! I’m so cold now, sitting down here on the floor,” the little girl said, shivering.
“We are a pair, we two,” Manon said lightly. “I am much too hot, and you are cold! Here, Solange, take Lisette and put her in the cradle. She’s just making me feel hotter. Thank you, that’s much better. Now I want you to go upstairs into my dressing room and find a nice warm cloak to wrap around you. Yes, any one you choose, even the blue wool with the fox trim.”
The little girl ran lightly up the stairs, and Manon turned to stare blankly out the window. I suppose it is cold in here, she thought fuzzily. The fire must have gone out. I wonder if we have any more coal. I’m still much too warm…never cold….
In her laborious drug-addled way she considered turning around to look at the fireplace to see if the fire had died down low or had completely gone out. But that meant she would be obliged to go down to the coal cellar to see if there was any more coal, and the task just seemed like too much trouble. Especially since she was much too warm.
Solange came running back down the stairs and into the parlor, pirouetting prettily in front of her mother. “Look, Maman, I am beautiful, am I not? Not as beautiful as you, I know, but am I pretty?”
“Oh yes, ma petite, you’re lovely,” Manon answered warmly. “I believe that royal blue must be your color, Solange. It goes well with your blond hair and dark eyes and makes your cheeks look rosy.”
“It does?” she asked shyly.
Manon thought, No, my poor little plain thing. You look just like your father—wispy dirty-blond hair, pale, thin, bony…” Oh yes,” she answered. “We must buy you some frocks in royal blue.” She turned again to stare out the window and didn’t see Solange’s face fall. Solange may have been only six years old, but she knew very well that no one in this house would be buying any new frocks anytime soon.
Solange just hoped that someone would buy some food sometime soon.
Sighing deeply, Solange took off the mantle, folded it carefully, and put it on top of a pitiful little bundle on an armchair by the fireplace. The bundle was Solange’s clothes: one pink dress, one chemise, one pair of stockings, and one pinafore. She was wearing her other set of clothing: blue dress, chemise, gray wool stockings, pinafore. She changed and washed her dirty clothing once a week. Shivering, she wondered if she should have chosen her mother’s black woolen shawl instead. The mantle was floor length, which meant, of course, that it trailed a full two feet behind Solange. Also, she didn’t want to wear it at all while she was taking care of Lisette, because if it got soiled she would have no way to clean it. And now she was cold again as she stared at the very small pile of embers barely glowing on the grate.
“Maman,” she asked hesitantly, “do you think I might also borrow your black shawl? For everyday wear, maybe?”
“Hm? Oh, my black shawl…of course, darling, whatever you want,” Manon answered sleepily.
Solange ran upstairs before Manon could change her mind. Solange had thrown the shawl around her thin shoulders to go down to the coal cellar one freezing snowy night, and Manon had screamed at her for stealing her clothes. Solange didn’t understand what was wrong with her mother, but she had learned not to make any comments or ask any questions about Manon’s clothes.
Quickly she fetched the black shawl, threw it around her shoulders, tied it so that it wouldn’t slip off, and ran back down the stairs. As she came back into the parlor, Manon sat up and said, “I can’t believe it! It’s Marcus. Marcus in a hackney coach! How could he possibly spend the money to hire a hackney coach!”
There were no gas lamps on this dreary little street, but Manon had clearly seen her husband get out of the cab and head for the door, holding a large box. She tried to get up but fell heavily back on the recamier, her heart pounding and waves of heat rolling over her like a high tide. Breathlessly she said, “Solange, go open the door. He’s carrying an enormous box.”
She ran downstairs to open the door and a moment later Marcus came into the parlor, smiling broadly. “Hello, Manon. How is everyone this evening? How is my little angel Lisette?”
He set the box down on the trumeau by the door and went over to Lisette’s cradle and knelt by her. He gazed down at her, and for once his bland expression softened a bit. Manon said, “Oh, Marcus, don’t keep us in suspense! What’s in the box, my love?”
“What box?” he said, rising and looking about the room.
“Oh, don’t tease!” Manon begged. “Tell, tell!”
Solange was half hidden behind the back of Manon’s chair, her eyes downcast, but she kept glancing curiously at the box. Marcus came over and said, “Solange, suppose I set the box down on the floor so that you can look inside and see what we have? Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Very well, come with me.” She trailed him as he fetched the box, then brought it over to put it on the floor by the fireplace.
Solange said, “Thank you, sir,” as he rose, winking at her.
He went to the side table where the decanters were and fixed himself a double brandy. Solange timidly looked in the box, then blurted out, “Maman! Food! Mm, I thought I smelled something good. It’s soup! Isn’t it, Dr. Pettijohn?”
“Irish stew, my lassie,” he answered, swirling the brandy and taking a sip. “Still hot.”
“May I…may I eat some? Now?” she asked eagerly. “Before Lisette wakes up?”
“I suppose,” he said carelessly. “There’s some bread and cheese too. Eat as much as you want, Solange, but don’t leave a mess. There’s a good girl.” He came and, to Manon’s shock, sat down on the edge of her chaise. “I brought some wine,” he said. “Would you like a glass, Manon?”
“Why-why, yes, I would,” she answered, bewildered. She made as if to rise, but he shook his head. “Solange, bring me the bottle of wine, please.” She hurried to set the half-full bottle of wine on Manon’s side table, right by the whisky tumbler Manon used to take her laudanum, drink her brandy, and drink her absinthe. At the moment it was empty, and Marcus poured her a generous glass of the deep red wine and handed it to her. She took a small sip, savoring the dry bite. “It’s very good,” she sighed. “I do miss good wine.”
A shadow crossed Marcus’s face, but quickly his expression settled back into its customary lines of aloof politeness. “Listen, Manon. I got a new patient today. Her name is Mevrouw de Sille. Both her family and her husband’s family are prominent members of the old aristocracy here—they call them the Knickerbockers—”
&nb
sp; “Knocker-bockers?” Manon repeated, giggling. “This is what Americans call the bon ton?”
“Knickerbockers,” he corrected her with a shade of impatience, “and they are only the New York aristos. Anyway, Manon, she is very wealthy, along with moving in the very best circles. She is just the kind of patient I’ve been trying to get ever since we moved here! She can introduce me to all of the right people, and of course she will recommend me. At last I’m beginning to see some end to this horrible nightmare!”
“Oh, Marcus, how wonderful!” Manon breathed. “Did she pay you? Did she give you a great sum of money to retain you?”
He frowned. “No, Manon, she didn’t pay me. She just became my patient today. But I will be able to bill her a substantial amount in a few days. Perhaps on the fifteenth. That would make sense if I bill her on the fifteenth and the first.”
“But, Marcus, the hired coach? And the box?”
“What about them?” he asked in a hard voice, his back stiffening.
“I just thought maybe you had some extra money, because of the coach and the stew,” Manon said, taking a generous drink of the wine. “I hoped so, because that horrible old Grimes came again today and beat on the door and shouted.”
It was Wednesday, and the rent of $7.50 per week was due every Friday. Marcus was paid $38.50 every week, on Friday. Generally he left the rent money with Manon for payment of the rent the following week. But on the previous Friday he had been at the opera with Star and then had spent the night with her and then had gone to the hospital early on Saturday morning, for it had been his on-call weekend. He hadn’t come home until Monday night, and he hadn’t given Manon the rent money that week. This was the first time since they had moved into the house a year ago that Grimes, the landlord, had come to collect the rent, and Manon hadn’t had it. It had terrified her when he had come—Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday—and shouted when she wouldn’t answer the door. She and Solange had cowered together in the hallway, away from the windows, until long after he had left. Manon couldn’t understand a word he had said, but she knew he was making threats. Of what, she didn’t know, but she was frightened just the same.
But not frightened enough to question Marcus. The one time she had questioned him about staying out all night, he had told her coldly, “I work. I earn the money for you to sit here day after day staring out the window like some addled old woman. Don’t ever question me again, Manon.”
Now he was staring at her with that same cold expression that made her feel such waves of self-loathing wash over her that she actually felt nauseated. Closing her eyes, she downed the rest of her glass of wine and mumbled, “It’s time for my medicine, Marcus.”
“Ah, yes, the elixir of life,” he said mockingly. “Will it be the liquor, the drug, or the better drug, my dear?”
She swallowed and refused to meet his eyes as she held out her glass. “The laudanum, please. I…I have a pain—”
“No you don’t,” he snapped as he grabbed the big brown bottle and poured her glass full. It was enough to kill a grown man, but Manon’s system was so desensitized to the drug that it barely had any effect on her. Still, she drank it as thirstily as if it were the only water in a desert.
Marcus tossed back the last of his brandy, then rose and went to pour himself another. Solange sat on the floor, eating stew from a crockery mug and munching bread with a slab of cheese on it. She kept cutting her eyes around warily, and Marcus reflected that she looked like a starved dog, sitting there terrified that someone would take her last bone. The thought made him angry, though he didn’t know why. He had never cared for Solange, had never been able to warm to his stepdaughter.
Solange was finishing up her meal, carefully wrapping up her leftover bread and cheese in the cheesecloth. She gathered her mug and spoon to wash and went to Manon’s side. “Maman, can you eat? The stew is very good, and it’s still hot.”
“Maybe later,” Manon said vaguely. “You go ahead and eat, child, you’re much too thin.”
“Yes, Maman,” Solange said, sighing. She went toward the door, then turned and asked hesitantly, “Dr. Pettijohn? Would you like some supper? I’ll serve, if you want.”
“No, I’m not hungry,” he answered. “Go on and wash up, Solange, and come back and feed Lisette. You saw the formula?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, then added hesitantly, “Thank you, sir, for the Irish stew. And the bread and the cheese. It was delicious.”
“I didn’t cook it, Solange, I just brought it,” he rasped. “Hurry up. Lisette’s stirring.” He went to stand by Manon again, and this time he didn’t sit down companionably, but he tried to be as polite as he could, though he felt such resentment toward her that he could hardly control the tone of his voice. “I brought formula for the baby and also some diapers, a couple of new bottles and nipples, and some flannel that can be made into blankets for her.”
“That’s wonderful,” Manon murmured, smiling foggily. “For the baby…”
“Yes. And you need to put away the rest of the food, Manon. Besides the stew and bread and cheese, there’s a smoked ham and a couple of stewed chickens. It needs to be properly stored in the pantry,” he said slowly, with emphasis. “Do you understand?”
“Mm-hmm, I’ll take care of it.”
“Now, Manon!” he said harshly, and she jumped.
“Oh! Marcus, don’t shout at me,” she wailed, pressing her hand to her chest. “My heart is beating so fast. You startled me so!”
“I have to shout at you for you to hear me!” he snarled. “You’re in such a fog I sometimes wonder if you have a brain left! Get up, Manon, get up and do something!”
“I can’t,” she wailed. “I get so dizzy and confused, and my heart races so, I think it might burst, and I get so hot and nauseated and ill—”
Savagely he bent over her, his hand on the back of the chaise. The sudden movement frightened Manon, and she flinched and drew away. His face was so close to hers that his breath stirred her hair. “I came home tonight. I had good news. I wanted to try and make things better. But you only make things harder, Manon. Harder for me, harder for Solange, harder for Lisette. You’ve let yourself go until you look like the worst kind of sloven. You don’t take care of your home, you don’t take care of your children, and you certainly don’t take care of your husband.”
She shrank even farther away from him. “I know, Marcus, and I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, but I can’t. I’m ill. I’m truly ill!”
“You are not ill, you’re just—”
There was a thunderous banging on the door, and a coarse voice shouted, “Pettijohn! I know yer in there, boyo. I can see the light through the crack in the curtain. If yer don’t lemme in, I’m coming back wid a copper to haul you in!”
Marcus banged his glass down on the table and marched down to the door, throwing it open. “Be quiet, Grimes, there’s no need to shout loudly enough to wake the dead!”
The short, swarthy man peered through squinted dark eyes that looked like black holes in the man’s face. “I’ve come by here every day this week, Mr. Pettijohn, and I knows yer lady’s in there hiding. Now yer’ve been good tenants, but I have to have my rent every Friday or out yer go.”
“Here. Here’s your money,” Marcus snarled, shoving the bills and coins into his hand.
“Now looka here, yer being late and all this week, boyo, means I gotta have the penalty of one dollar,” he said craftily.
“Here, take your money and get off of my doorstep,” Marcus said, giving him another dollar and closing the door.
“It’s my doorstep, boyo,” he called. “And I’ll be back this Friday, so’s you’d best have it then, Miz Pettijohn!”
Marcus went upstairs without another word to Manon. She took another generous “dosage” of laudanum, then settled back to drift into her opium-laced half sleep. Solange came back in, stared at her for a moment, then began preparing Lisette’s bottle.
In a while Marcus came downstairs, holdi
ng a large bundle. “I’m going to take out the washing,” he told Manon, who didn’t open her eyes. “I’ll order coal too.” He waited.
Manon didn’t move.
“Th-thank you, sir,” Solange said helplessly.
Marcus didn’t look at her or answer.
After long moments of staring at Manon, he turned on his heel and left.
Solange picked up the baby and managed, with some difficulty, to get up into the armchair and settle Lisette on her lap. She gave the baby her bottle, and then both children fell asleep.
Sixteen
No Lying, Very Little Evasion, and Wee Leprechauns
“Doc, I can explain,” Shiloh said urgently.
“I’m sure you can,” Cheney said, still giggling a little as she petted the smaller dog, which was leaning against her legs as if she were fighting a strong headwind. “But could it wait until I sit down? And since the whole household seems to be up, do you suppose Sketes could make us some tea?”
“Sure, sure, Doc,” Shiloh said hastily as he hurried to the stairs. “I’ll just go and tell Sketes…”
Cheney looked down at the two dogs. The bigger male still had the top of his head butted against Cheney’s knees, and the female was still leaning against Cheney, gazing around behind her. “Well, friends, shall we sit?” Cheney said lightly. Shiloh had built a monstrous fire, so Cheney took a roomy upholstered armchair with big comfy rolled arms that was on one side of the hearth and propped her aching feet up on the matching hassock. The dogs watched her, looking comically surprised, but then their native common sense prevailed, and they took their previous stations on either end of Cheney’s sofa, resting their heads on their front paws. Cheney couldn’t help but laugh again. Their expressions were so solemn, but one of the male dog’s bright red stockings was falling and hung down like an odd long crimson beard below his chin. As Cheney laughed at him, he seemed to sigh with longsuffering.
