Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  OTHER BOOKS BY LYDIA KANG

  The Impossible Girl

  Quackery: A Brief History of the Worst Ways to Cure Everything

  Toxic

  The November Girl

  A Beautiful Poison

  Catalyst

  Control

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Lydia Kang

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542017794

  ISBN-10: 1542017793

  Cover design and illustration by Edward Bettison

  For Ama and Agon

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  “Vampire” Victim Lucille...

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  July 2, 1899

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  July 11, 1899

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  December 1, 1899

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I want you to believe . . .

  To believe in things that you cannot.

  —Van Helsing

  Bram Stoker

  Dracula

  CHAPTER 1

  I am all in a sea of wonders.

  I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.

  —Jonathan Harker

  June 8, 1899

  Dear Miss Nellie Bly,

  I’m not sure how best to address you. Miss Bly, by your pen name? Mrs. Seaman? Mrs. Elizabeth Cochrane Seaman? Mrs. Bly?

  Well, I shan’t bother you endlessly about your name.

  I am writing to let you know how much I enjoy your newspaper articles, though lately I have not seen very many. I especially enjoyed the one you wrote about elephants. I imagine they were rather malodorous.

  Please write back and let me know how badly they smelled. You left that out of the article, and I should like to know. I cannot find the information at the Lenox Library.

  A devoted reader,

  Miss Tillie Pembroke

  It is better to be a coward than a corpse.

  The phrase was a cacophonous jingle in Tillie Pembroke’s mind. She huffed uncomfortably and swiped at the veil irritating the edge of her cheek. Everything was conspiring against her today.

  Coward, corpse. Coward, corpse.

  “Tillie! Hurry, we’re leaving soon!” Dorothy Harriman called from outside the stable. She was already on her mount, hat and veil perfectly in place, a swirl of chestnut hair at the nape of her neck. Her ebony mare was a glossy beauty in the sunlight. Dorothy always did everything perfectly, even nagged her friend with precision.

  The clean scent of soil and moist greenery beckoned to Tillie. Here on Long Island, the sky was unmarred by buildings and church spires. The humidity of the June day was rising in a mist. Grand oak and maple trees arched around the riders gathering for the hunt.

  Of course, Tillie would be the last rider to mount. And her riding habit didn’t fit quite right, because she had torn hers yesterday and now wore her mother’s old one. This heavy melton fabric smothered her. Her favorite antelope gloves had been misplaced by her maid, and the gold pin on her muslin cravat was slightly bent from the last time she’d fallen off her horse.

  Only a few feet away, a barn cat tended a litter of new kittens. Upon seeing Tillie’s lingering gaze, she immediately picked up one kitten in her jaws and carried it elsewhere for some quiet nursing. How was it that the cat didn’t harm her babies with those teeth? How was it that the milk came only when the kittens needed it, instead of constantly pouring forth from her belly like a full watering can?

  Tillie batted away the questions. She was eighteen now. She no longer had the luxury of her permissive childhood to pore over books and endlessly question the gardener, the cook, her sister, and all the maids in order to loosen the stewing questions that constantly simmered in her head. She wondered if Nellie Bly, the famous journalist, would write her back. The elephant-odor question was still fixed in her mind. Perhaps they smelled like horses.

  “Miss Mathilda. Please pay more attention to your mount than the barn cat.”

  “Yes, Roderick,” Tillie replied with a sigh.

  Her groom was the age her father would have been, if he still lived. Roderick’s teeth were brown from tobacco stains, and he smelled perpetually of old hay and horse sweat. A comforting scent.

  She readied to mount Queenie, a somewhat vicious Thoroughbred that belonged to her sister. Tillie would have never dreamt of taking her, but her mother no longer rode and suffered to pay for only two horses here on Long Island. Tillie’s horse was resting in her stall, nursing a bruised hoof that may or may not have been Tillie’s fault.

  “You ought to stop riding, Miss Mathilda,” Roderick continued. “You’ve fallen once already this season, and you hardly come here to practice.”

  “That’s because Lucy is always taking my best cane and has the best horse and the best teacher,” Tillie said under her breath.

  Roderick heard her well enough. “But I’ve taught you both!” he protested.

  She blushed. “Yes, and yet she’s so much better.”

  “She listens to me, Miss Mathilda. Instead of watching the anthills for an hour.”

  He didn’t need to say more. Tillie was already nervous to ride, and she hadn’t even climbed on the mare. But today, she must. Because Dorothy was here, and Tillie had heard a rumor. Dorothy had been overheard to say, “A rock could ride a horse better than Tillie Pembroke.”

  Oh, but she wished Lucy were here. Older by three years, Lucy looked like she belonged in a pinque coat like the other riders; Tillie was merely the mirage of one.

  It was Lucy who would buffer Tillie from their family’s disappointment when she made occasional gaffes in public, like asking the Courtlands’ butler how their new toilet imported from France worked. Three months ago, she had vomited in front of Mrs. Astor at Lucy’s engagement party, because she’d wondered if consuming an enormous quantity of cake would absorb the champagne like a sponge. Lucy told everyone that it was the pastry chef’s fault—a bad recipe with too many wine-soaked cherries. Everyone was soothed (except the pastry chef, for whom Lucy found another position without a mention of the incident). At her coming-out party the year before, Tillie disappeared to the library to research the origins of the word fuliginous after her great-uncle had used it, then became distracted by a picture of a collared fruit bat before losing herself completely in the Fs. It wasn’t the first time she had been utterly consumed by the pages of Webster’s International Dictionary. Lucy had lessened
the embarrassment by explaining that her sister was quite modest and needed time to recover from all the attention.

  Lucy, with her large brown eyes, her perfect pale-gold hair piled in loose curls upon her head, her swan’s neck, was the very image of a Gibson Girl. And she had a perfect fiancé too. James Cutter, whose bloodline extended to the Dutch in the 1600s, like the Pembrokes’. In a city where the new-moneyed Rockefellers and Vanderbilts put up vulgar, showy mansions, drawing their wealth from disgraceful sources like the railroad, the marriage between Lucy Pembroke and James Cutter would be one for the ages—perhaps one of the last. It would be, as everyone murmured, the greatest New York wedding of the new millennium.

  James himself was here for the hunt, but he’d hardly ever paid more than passing attention to his future sister-in-law. Lucy couldn’t ride because she’d only recently recovered from a bout of typhus. She had of late been visiting the orphans at the Foundling Hospital, a few avenues away from their mansion in Manhattan. Sweet Lucy was always looking to help those less fortunate than her.

  Tillie would tell her later all about the ride and how brilliantly it had gone. She would tell her how she had not gotten distracted by anything today.

  Roderick helped hoist her into the saddle. She hooked her right knee around the pommel, nestled her other knee under the leaping head, and fit her left foot into the single stirrup. The groom tightened the girths and balance strap, the latter to keep the saddle from sagging on the more burdened left side, and offered her the cane for her right hand.

  “Your sandwich box is filled, and there’s a flask of tea in there as well.”

  Tillie unbuckled the leather box, pulled out the linen-wrapped sliced-cheese-and-lettuce sandwich, and gobbled half of it.

  “But that is for during the hunt, Miss!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m hungry when I’m nervous,” Tillie said, delicately wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. She returned the rest of the sandwich to the box.

  The food helped, but her heart was quivering like a cold chicken jelly. There were several jumps today that demanded confidence. Roderick advised her as he led Queenie out of the stable.

  “Be careful of the rabbit holes in the north paddock. Remember, a lady must keep a clear head when the fox breaks cover. Keep within sight of the hounds. And for God’s sake, if you aren’t perfectly certain you can make a jump . . . do. Not. Jump. It’s better to be a coward than a corpse.”

  Coward, corpse.

  Tillie inhaled as deeply as her corset would allow, a mere cupful of air. “I’m ready.”

  No sooner had she said the words than Queenie rapidly entered a trot, wishing to catch up to the group of twelve riders ahead. Warm, wet air rose from the turf after the deep rainfall the day before, and it felt thick in Tillie’s chest as she breathed. The oak and maple trees surrounding the barn seemed to curl, clawlike, toward their party. Dorothy, who’d been riding alongside a gentleman, slowed her horse, and together they brought up the rear of the company. The other riders in their scarlet riding coats shone like poppies against the greenery. Tillie’s underarms were already swampy, and her drawers stuck to her thighs like wet paper.

  “They’re going to the field just north of here,” Dorothy said.

  “Yes.” The less Tillie said, the less likely she would say something inappropriate.

  “We are greatly looking forward to your sister’s wedding. Only one more month! Have you seen her wedding gown yet? Did she order it from Paris, like Eleanor Van der Wiel did?” Dorothy was dangerously close to reaching old maid status. At the mention of weddings, her eyes widened with hunger. Despite Dorothy’s having a shoddyite father who gathered his money from shipping, Tillie liked her. Dorothy was equally friendly with Tillie and Lucy, whereas most people simply ignored Tillie.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Tillie tried to move the skirt so it didn’t bunch on her lap. “It’s silk. And lace.” She knew all about the extinction of Steller’s sea cow in 1768. Nothing about lace.

  “Of course, but what kind of silk? And lace?”

  “Er . . . we’re falling behind,” Tillie said. She kicked her left boot against Queenie’s side and pressed her cane into the animal’s right flank. Queenie ignited at the suggestion and reared into a gallop.

  “No! Whoa. Whoa! Queenie, slow down!” yelped Tillie as she swiftly surpassed two, then three, then five riders. They were already slowing in a line to jump a short stone fence into the next field. Tillie pulled harder on the reins, then gathered them again when her gloves loosened in the fingertips. The cane fell from her right hand. Feeling pressure only from the left side of her saddle now, Queenie abruptly turned in the opposite direction and cut in front of the stone fence, past the entire company of riders.

  “Stop!” Tillie yelled. Behind her, James called to Tillie to slow, and she heard sounds of dismay from other riders. But Queenie went ever faster.

  An old, unkempt stone fence stood before them. There wasn’t time to turn. The horse leaped up, but Tillie had forgotten to give Queenie her head and held the reins tightly. Confused, Queenie jumped too low. Her front hooves went into a dip in the ground unseen beneath a cluster of raspberry brambles. And Tillie went flying.

  It was an exquisite, unnatural sensation. She recognized that parting between herself and her horse, the feeling that the earth had momentarily released her from its eternally wanting clutches.

  Tillie soared—and was terrified.

  Her left shoulder hit the ground first. There was an audible snap and a white-hot pain that took her vision completely away. Then her jaw clanked painfully closed as her temple thudded against a large fallen branch.

  She waited for the world to stop whirling in pinwheels of color and pain, but it didn’t. Her long asymmetrical skirt was caught in Queenie’s saddle, and the horse dragged her rag doll body a good fifteen feet. She heard sharp yells—“Goodness gracious!” “Miss Mathilda!” “Grab the reins, James!”—until finally the skirt came free. In a blur of horse legs Queenie galloped away, probably indignant, and probably back to her groom and stall. The world had blessedly stopped moving and pummeling Tillie like a pugilist.

  Her ears were ringing, not like bells but more like the hissing of old street gaslights. Pain spiked through every part of her body—her head, her wrists, her back. But the pain in her collarbone marvelously outshone the others. Tillie had never known until then that bones could scream in her head.

  Vaguely, she heard boots crunching the leaves nearby while the horses snorted and whooshed their commentary.

  “Tillie! Dear Tillie! Can you speak?” It was Dorothy. Her voice sounded shaken.

  Tillie felt a gloved hand on her cheek. She opened one eye, seeing Dorothy’s wall of skirt, a hand, and a group of faces anxiously peering at her. James was gently lifting her, assisted by Alistair Sutton and his less attractive brother, the one with the face that reminded her of a turkey.

  “Can you move your arms and legs?” James asked. He sounded rather irked.

  The pain, after its initial blossom, had reintroduced itself as excruciating. Tillie tested herself and cried out.

  “I can’t move my left arm,” she said, gasping.

  There was a masculine huff of irritation. “Easy. We’ll get you home,” James said. Sweat glistened across his deeply cut cheekbones, which meant that her situation must be direr than she’d realized. The Cutters did not, by convention, perspire while in society. “Your sister will be furious with me for not looking after you, Mathilda.”

  Tillie, she wanted to say. Call me Tillie. Even in normal circumstances, she hardly had the bravery to enforce her preferred name.

  A hand touched her injured shoulder, and the broken shards of collarbone scraped against each other. She cried out in pain.

  “Fetch some laudanum,” Dorothy urged a groom. While the gentlemen riders carried her, the ladies rode ahead. If only they would loosen her corset, then she could take a breath. She fainted repeatedly, only rousing when someone jostled her s
houlder enough that the pain awoke her to fresh misery.

  She was propped up in her carriage. Dorothy and her eternally present lady’s companion, Hazel Dreyer, were at her side. Someone brought a wineglass to Tillie’s lips.

  “Laudanum,” Roderick said in reply to Dorothy’s glance. “An opium tincture. Enough to make the trip back tolerable.” Tillie drank it down, suddenly thirsty. It was bitter and made her cough. But they had driven only a quarter of a mile when she felt the pain at her shoulder dull a little, and a soporific cloud settled over her mind. Dorothy and Hazel fussed over her until she fell into a jagged slumber muddied with moments of queasiness.

  At some point in her dreams—or was she awake?—she heard Dorothy exhale irritably and whisper, “She is an utter disaster. Surely this will take her out of the events for the next month.”

  Tillie muttered, “Disaster.” What was the origin of that word? she wondered. Did it have anything to do with the Astors? Maybe there was such a thing as a disvanderbilt. “Dis . . . disrockefeller,” she murmured.

  “More laudanum,” Dorothy replied and dosed her again with a flask of medicine-laced wine. Tillie remembered Lucy telling her she ought to speak her mind. It was nearly the turn of the century. A lady could speak for herself sometimes. There were lady doctors, lady journalists. Even in their society, women had enormous amounts of power at their disposal. Look at Mrs. Astor.

  “I have sssssomething to say,” Tillie said, blinking sleepily and trying to sit up. She winced at the pain of moving her body. “I have something to anna . . . annoo . . . announce.”

  “What is it, Tillie, dear?” Dorothy leaned in closer, probably hoping for a bit of indiscreet gossip, or complaints about her all-too-perfect sister, who seemed destined for the perfect marriage, for sainthood, for all of the best salons for the next decades to come.

  “I ought . . . to have chosen cowardice,” Tillie said in a groan, before vomiting her half sandwich all over Dorothy’s lap and winking out of consciousness.

  It was the pain that awoke Tillie.

  Her left arm was bound against her chest. The fluffy blankets confined her movements and made her insufferably hot. Her mouth was drier than a crust of toast and tasted something terrible—like a rancid sewer on Canal Street. She heard a low feminine voice murmuring nearby. Always, Lucy was there at her side. Through the measles and chicken pox, through fevers and the grippe—Lucy had been there. She would read to Tillie from the dictionary to keep her quiet. Her mother and maid didn’t even bother answering her ring when she called from her sickbed. It was always her sister she wanted.