Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  When it came down to it, she had no idea what to say to him. In the shadows, he spoke first.

  “Mathilda Pembroke. What do you think you’re doing?”

  And that was when she realized it wasn’t John O’Toole.

  It was James Cutter.

  CHAPTER 18

  I have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane.

  —Van Helsing

  “James!” Tillie put a protective hand to her bosom and the papers. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “The more important question is, What are you doing here, Mathilda?” James walked to her. She’d expected him to look angry, but his face was all worry. “You could have gotten hurt.” He nodded to a carriage nearby, the only carriage on the street. The driver stepped down and opened the door. James offered his hand. “Please.”

  “I can take the elevated,” she said.

  The worry on his face transformed to confusion. “You took the train down here?”

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “It’s not your concern, James.” She didn’t say this meanly, just plainly. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, now that I’m here, I insist on taking you back safely.” He held his arm out toward the carriage. Still, Tillie didn’t move.

  “I don’t need a governess to watch over me,” Tillie said quietly.

  “No, you need an escort.”

  Still, Tillie didn’t move.

  James took a small brown bottle from his pocket. “I suspect you’ll be needing this soon. The carriage will be faster. You’ll be home well before your family learns that you were gone.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “John O’Toole followed you, and he contacted me. I recently started paying him to keep an extra eye on you, for my sake. I didn’t realize I’d be alerted so soon.”

  Now all her secrets were no longer hers.

  “Come now. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt, like your sister.”

  Tillie looked at the bottle. Her hands curled into fists. James had come closer and gently put his hand on the small of her back. She walked forward, afraid the pressure of his hand might crackle the paperwork in her bodice. Even so, the lure worked well. Tillie had her own medicine bottle in her pocket, but procuring more was always an issue. The port and opium she’d taken before seemed to have evaporated clean away.

  “Very well.” Tillie took James’s hand and allowed herself to be helped into the carriage. The velvet cushions were plush and sleek, compared to the elevated train seats. Then again, she’d grown accustomed to the jarring rides on the train. She liked them.

  “Here,” James said once the carriage pulled forward.

  She felt ashamed at her need, but she couldn’t resist the shiny new bottle. She unscrewed the top and dropped a comfortable dose under her tongue. She screwed the top back on and put it into her pocket.

  “Thank you.” The opium dissolved right into her mouth and throat. Ian seemed to always be judging her for her need, but James never did.

  “So Mat—Tillie.” He smiled. “Habit. I do like the name Mathilda, you know.”

  Tillie leaned her head against the cushioned back. “Mathilda is my great-grandmother’s name, on my mother’s side. My middle name is Cora, after my father’s mother. I’d rather be called Cora, but Mama doesn’t like it.”

  “Why? Cora is a perfectly nice name.”

  “Oh, they weren’t terribly wealthy. Papa’s parents lived in Philadelphia. When they died, he had very little money, but he was clever and learned. As was Cora.” She shook her head, a hazy fog trying to pull her into thoughtlessness. She smiled sadly. “That’s all I really know about them. Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met?”

  James looked at her fondly. “I’ve never considered the notion. You ask the most penetrating questions, Tillie.”

  “Oh! I quite forgot. You and I are very distant cousins, James. Did you know? Apparently my great-grandmother on his side was a Cutter.”

  “I had no idea!” James said. The carriage hit a divot in the street, and James put his arm around her to steady her. It felt nice to let her head rest against his shoulder. She yawned and closed her eyes.

  “I need to sleep.”

  “I can imagine. When you get home, you must promise me one thing. You mustn’t go out at night again like this. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m in no danger of being killed by a vampire,” Tillie said, yawning again. “I’m too healthy. There’s always a pattern. I have to be sick first from some sort of infection and then recover. I wonder if . . .” But she let the thought trickle away. Her eyes closed involuntarily.

  She dreamt about rooftops that went on for miles, each with their own miniature lakes and forests. She heard children laughing, jumping at loaves of bread growing off trees. They passed around newspapers that Tillie bit into, and the newsprint dissolved like sugar wafers on her tongue. And then the carriage stopped, and James was gently waking her.

  “You’re home. Go in quickly.”

  “Thank you, James.” She turned to the open carriage door, but James grabbed her hand.

  “Tillie. Promise me you’ll stop seeing that street boy. That newsie. He’s below you. You cannot trust him. He has already publicly taken advantage of your family for his own benefit.”

  Tillie opened her mouth to protest, but James was fumbling with her hand. Something warm and smooth slid up her finger.

  “Just promise me you won’t, and you can keep this. Forever.”

  Tillie took her hand away. On her finger was a gold ring with a rosette of diamonds around a pink center stone. It was beautiful. It was . . . it was . . .

  “Is this an engagement ring?” Tillie asked shrilly.

  “Shhh! Be quiet!” He leaned closer and looked at her seriously. “Keep it. Think of me. And if you accept it, well then, perhaps you and I can be going on secret trips at night, instead of you risking your life.”

  “Oh, James. I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Just think about it.” He shook his head. “Listen to me. I was matched with your sister because she was the eldest, and I am the eldest, and it seemed right. But there was no true affection there. Surely, you saw that too. I had always had my eye on you.”

  “You never even looked my way,” Tillie said, unbelieving.

  “Because I couldn’t. I had no choice. Being with Lucy, it was your family’s and my parents’ wish. I had to obey. But now Providence says I have another chance. Your mother and grandmother approve. They’ve told me as much.”

  “But Lucy,” Tillie said. Had Lucy been in love with James before things had soured between them? She no longer had Lucy’s diary in order to know. Still, it seemed wrong. So wrong. They were just barely out of the mourning period. Her sister’s attacker was still out there.

  Tillie touched the ring. Even in the low light, the stones glittered, as if gathering all the ambient light around them and shining it outward like tiny, glistening beacons.

  She curled her bejeweled hand into a fist and held it to her breast. “James, I need time. To think.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I want . . .” She wrung her hands together; the ring kept catching her other palm.

  “Yes? Anything, dearest. I’ll give it to you.”

  “I would like to visit the pathologic cabinet at the medical school downtown.” She raised a finger in the air, remembering. “And a typewriter.”

  When Tillie awoke, she felt puffy from all the port she had imbibed the night before. The need to take medicine filled her waking moments, before she noticed something uncomfortable squeezing her finger. She lifted her hand before her face.

  The ring.

  “Oh no, no, no.” She covered her face, her mind a
film reel that wound backward through the evening before.

  James loved her. More than he’d loved Lucy. How could this be? He had hit her, according to Lucy’s words. Was it possible to hurt someone you’d planned your whole life with?

  Now that she thought of it, yes. It would be possible.

  But then there were the memories of her time on Ian’s roof, with Piper, Pops, Sweetie, and Ian. The small feast they’d had in the light of that lone oil lamp and the comfort of feeling like she was exactly where she belonged.

  And there’d been a kiss.

  Or had there? Had she dreamt that she’d kissed Ian? She wasn’t quite sure. Even so, it was a delicious dream, but one that would be nothing short of a disaster from the perspective of her family. Speaking of which, there was a bustle of voices and movement outside her door. Ada entered, looking flustered.

  “You must get ready, Miss. Your mother is in a state. Come, she’s been waiting an extra hour for luncheon, and the beef is already cold.”

  “The beef is cold? And that’s why she’s in a state?”

  Ada flapped her hands in the air. Her freckles looked brighter than usual. “Oh. Just get ready. I’m not to say anything!”

  She helped dress Tillie quickly, and as usual Tillie banished Ada from her room to give herself a dose of morphine. She had hidden the extra supply in an empty perfume flask. Last night, she had taken some thumbtacks and pushed them into the wood frame beneath her bed, strung some darning yarn between them to make a sling, and stored her papers and notebook there. She checked to make sure all was secure.

  Just before stepping outside, she remembered the ring. But her flesh had swelled overnight from all the drinking; when she tried to pull it off, it wouldn’t budge. Not a mite. Finally, desperate, she twisted the ring so the gems were hidden on the palm side of her hand.

  Decked in a new day dress of cerulean (too bright—one of Dorothy’s purchases for her), she joined her mother, the cook, Ada, and three other servants gathered around the dining room table.

  “I guess the roast beef must be very cold, indeed,” Tillie said cheerfully as she entered the room.

  “Mathilda!” Her mother spun around, and the others scattered. “What is the meaning of this? It arrived just after breakfast.”

  Tillie stepped forward. On the table was a brand-new Remington 7 typewriter, still in its carrying case. Her mouth opened to a perfect oval of wonder. She touched the handle on the top and undid the latches at its base. Her mother was saying something to her, but she couldn’t hear a word. She lifted the case to reveal the glossy black typewriter with its gleaming round keys staggered and rising like a group of choirboys at church, waiting to be told which hymn to sing. A single piece of paper was in the carriage, trapped under the paper bail.

  Dearest Tillie,

  Please accept this gift as one of many to come in our future together.

  Write to me.

  Yours,

  James

  Tillie could not prevent her mother from leaning over and reading the note. Her face went from slightly greenish to peony pink in a matter of seconds.

  “This is a gift? From James Cutter?” Mama’s hand went to her breast. And then her eyes dropped, scanning Tillie’s hands where they skimmed the shiny keyboard. The tiny circlet of gold shone on her finger, and her mother quickly grabbed her hand and flipped it over. The diamonds were even brighter in the daylight.

  Mama nearly hollered and clapped her hands together. “You’re engaged?”

  “No! Not yet. I mean, no! I don’t know! I said I would think about it!”

  “We had hoped, Grandmama and I, but . . . goodness! We spoke to his parents only days ago . . . when did he give this ring to you?”

  Tillie said nothing. She could not tell her it had been last night. It would lead to all sorts of questions that she refused to answer.

  “Oh, a few days ago. I haven’t given him an answer,” Tillie said, still flustered. “It’s too soon after Lucy. I don’t know how I feel right now. I would have taken the ring off, but it’s stuck.”

  “A little butter will take care of that,” the cook said.

  “Yes. True. It would be untoward to announce such a thing, only a month after Lucy has departed us. But another engagement! And with James Cutter. Such a match! Such a—” Her mother halted, seeing Tillie’s frown. “Are you not happy, my dear?”

  Her mother’s incandescent joy had been fettered quickly by Tillie’s tepid response. She did not love James, but it was impossible not to love the idea of him. A name to be proud of, approving glances from everyone when they walked into a ball together, a future with money and houses, and to be her own mistress instead of being locked away and skittering about at night. Perhaps they could put off a honeymoon so she could attend college. She might teach! She might become an expert in something—birds of paradise or gems of South America—go on tours of Europe to research anything and everything, meet people and see places and spend her days endlessly answering the questions that always filled her mind.

  Grandmama entered the room then. Her imperious eyes, keen as a hawk’s, saw her daughter’s astonishment, the new typewriter, and Tillie’s bejeweled hand in her mother’s. She snatched the girl’s wrist and held her hand aloft. The gems glittered against Tillie’s palm.

  “James Cutter” was all her mother said, and Grandmama nodded in satisfaction.

  “Finally, you’ll do something right in this family,” she said. “Unlike your disaster of a sister.”

  “What did you say?” Tillie asked her.

  Her grandmother pointedly ignored her. She barked at Ada, who was watching wide eyed from the corner. “Tea!”

  Tillie opened her mouth to argue, but the richly toned doorbell rang, and their heads turned in unison. There was a murmur of male voices in the hallway. One of the older maids stepped into the dining room.

  “Mr. James Cutter here to see you, Miss Pembroke.”

  Tillie’s mother gripped the back of the chair, as if about to swoon. Her grandmother’s expression was one of utter contentment, as if the world were back to obeying her every wish. Tillie wondered exactly who was being courted.

  “Tell him I’ll be there shortly. I have to eat something,” she said. The truth was she wanted to play with her typewriter first. But most of all, she wasn’t ready to speak to James so soon after last night. What had she said, exactly? Had there been an assent or an implied yes? She wasn’t sure.

  “Invite him in for luncheon,” Mrs. Pembroke said. Tillie started to protest but stopped when she saw how ecstatic her mother was. She hadn’t seen her like this since before Lucy had died. “I’ll let you two have the dining room.” She clapped her hands and told the servants to ready two place settings.

  While the servants set the sideboard with dishes of roast beef (not cold, after all), creamed potatoes, and sugared peas, James took Tillie aside. He looked slightly tired. No surprise, as he had been awake at four in the morning and had somehow procured a typewriter and had it delivered, all by breakfast time.

  “I’ve spoken to a friend already this morning. I have a surprise for you this afternoon.”

  Tillie clapped her hands. “The pathologic cabinet?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “The Wood Museum, at Bellevue. Dr. Hermann Biggs, a pathologist, is a friend of Father’s. I’ve never known a woman to be so happy to see an anatomical museum.” They sat, and James bit into a piece of toast, sleek with butter. How he managed not to get a single crumb or smear anywhere was magic. “They don’t let ladies visit Kahn’s museum downtown, even with a male escort.”

  The doorbell rang again. Who could that be? A few moments later, Dorothy and Hazel walked into the dining room.

  “Well! I did not expect to see that the festivities had begun without us.” Dorothy laughed and sat down. “Tea, please. No sugar. I’m watching my figure.”

  James looked up briefly. Hazel seemed to catch his glance, then look away abruptly. What was that about? Tillie wondered
.

  “What brings you here?” Tillie asked. Under the cover of the table, she yanked at the ring again, twisting and turning it, but it still would not budge.

  “Your dresses! This one looks delicious on you. Don’t you think, James?” Dorothy wasn’t smiling—it was almost like she was daring him to respond positively.

  “I’m not one to notice things like laces and trims and whatnot.” He was drinking strong coffee now, and he took a deep pull from his china cup. “But I do notice, Tillie, you’re not eating much. You ought to have more beef. You need more strength.”

  Dorothy looked at Tillie, who blushed and cut some more roast beef just to get James to stop talking about such things. And then Dorothy looked at James, who was glancing over at Tillie with an unabashed degree of public fondness that had not been noted on any Cutter face in the history of the Cutters. Even when they were speaking of the banking industry.

  “Well. Hazel wished to know how you were feeling. Didn’t you, Hazel?”

  “Yes. I was worried about you too. You must take better care of yourself, Tillie. James isn’t the only person to note that your bloom is not what it was since poor Lucy died.”

  At the mention of Lucy’s name, James straightened in his chair and leaned slightly away from Tillie.

  “What’s that monstrosity doing here?” Dorothy pointed her chin at the typewriter, which was still living happily on the end of the oblong dining table.

  “It’s my new typewriter. So I can write notes instead of using a pen.” Tillie added, “I suppose it’s easier on my arm.”

  “How very modern of you! Do write me a letter so I can see. It’ll be like reading a book. Let’s see you try.”

  Tillie flushed pink. She didn’t want everyone’s eyes on her hands and that ring. Not now. She remembered what the cook had said about butter.

  “Oh, perhaps later.” She reached over to her toast, buttered it lavishly, and made sure to get a glob on her finger. Under the table, she buttered her finger and the band of the ring, and twisted. The butter worked too well; the ring slipped over her knuckle and flew out of her oily fingers. There was an audible clink as it hit the table leg and bounced on the floor.