An Inconvenient Wife

by Megan Chance

  He looked flushed, as if he had come some distance, and quickly. He still wore his coat and his hat, which he took off with an apology when he saw me.

  “You’re late, Doctor,” I said.

  “Forgive me. I was unavoidably delayed.” While he unbuttoned his coat, I opened the book in my hand, letting the pages turn without intervention, watching the words go by. Then he was behind me. He took the book from my hand and snapped it shut. Startled, I stepped away.

  “You move too quietly,” I said.

  “The Temples of Aesculapius,” he read. “Are you interested in the ancient Romans?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “Asklepios was the son of Apollo. The cult named after him flourished for many years, well into the Christian era. They built temples for healing. Particularly for hysteria.”

  “Did they use hypnosis as well?”

  “A form of it. They worked often through dreams.” He put the book back on the shelf. “Now, Lucy, suppose you tell me how the Morris ball went last night.”

  “William was worried that I might do something foolish.”

  “Did you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I moved away from him, running my gloved fingers along the edge of his desk, picking up a fine film of dust. “I had the strangest thought while we were dancing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I took off my gloves,” I said. “I couldn’t bear the feel of them another moment. It was so odd.”

  “How did taking them off make you feel?”

  “As if I could breathe again,” I said. “It was such a relief—at first. And then I was appalled. I haven’t done anything like that since I was a girl.”

  “Before your father threw your paints away.”

  “Yes.” I glanced at him, and then I remembered. “But I was always too rebellious then. Thankfully, I’ve learned my place.”

  “You were rebellious,” Dr. Seth repeated. He leaned against the bookcase lazily, but his eyes were alert, intense. “How so?”

  “With my painting, of course.” I moved to the window. “But even before that. There was the poetry, and before that, the church.”

  “The church? I fail to see how those things are rebellious. It sounds like the usual course of events for a young girl.”

  I laughed a little nervously. “Yes, perhaps. But not the way I went about it. I was in the grip of religious fervor. I went nearly every day until Papa put an end to it, and then I fought him. I cried and cried. I told him I would run away and join a convent.”

  “What happened?”

  “It passed. That was when I found Byron.” I touched the window; the cold of the day seeped through the glass and my gloves into my fingertips. “He thought I would run off to the Continent and learn terrible French ways and be irredeemable. It would not do. I am his only child.”

  “Would you have done that, given the chance?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and the knowledge made me sad, though I was not sure why. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  In the glass, I saw the vague image of him behind me, but only as the fading color of his reflection, only the slight movement of his fingers as they moved upon his face. Then he said, “The window. Once again, Lucy, you seem drawn to the window.”

  I jerked back my hand.

  “How old were you when your mother died?”

  I turned, confused by his question. “Ten.”

  “When did you turn to religion?”

  “I suppose it was not long after that. I was eleven, perhaps, or twelve.”

  “How did she die?”

  I did not like to talk of it. “She drowned.”

  “Were you with her when it happened?”

  “No, I wasn’t. That is, I was at the summer house, but I wasn’t at the beach with her.”

  “Was this in Newport?”

  “No, no, it was long before we took a cottage there. It was upriver—on the Hudson.” I remembered it well, though I had been there so long ago. “It was a beautiful place. It had been my great-grandfather’s summer house.”

  “Do you go there still?”

  “My father sold it after Mama died. I heard it was torn down.”

  Seth stroked his small beard. “What was your mother like?”

  “Papa says I look like her, but I don’t remember her well any longer.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “She was my mother.”

  He smiled a little. “Did you love her?”

  I was growing used to these questions. “She was . . . very quiet. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Papa was a much bigger presence.”

  “Did you love her, Lucy?”

  “I don’t remember,” I admitted. “I don’t really think of her at all. I’m not sure I ever did, even when she was alive.”

  “Do you remember the day she died?”

  “Only as a great fog.”

  Again the thoughtful expression that made me nervous. Dr. Seth went slowly to the red chair, then motioned me to the other one, and I went as though under his spell, unquestioning.

  When I was seated, he leaned forward and took my hand, turning it in his so my palm was up, and then he said, “We’re going to remember that day, Lucy.”

  When I woke, it was to find my arms around his neck and my face pressed into his shirt, which was wet with my tears. He was holding me tightly, but as I came to myself, he let me go.

  “You’ll be at peace tonight, Lucy,” he said, but I only nodded, embarrassed at such intimacy, feeling awkward and nervous as I pulled away and went for my coat.

  I did not ask him what had happened. I did not want to know.

  From the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth

  Re: Mrs. C., whom I will now refer to as Eve C.

  February 3, 1885

  Things have transpired in this case that I could not have dared to imagine. I find myself unable to proceed as I have been directed. I cannot, after all, resist the temptation that has presented itself.

  But to start at the beginning: At our last meeting, I made a suggestion during hypnosis that Eve C. remove her gloves when she was dancing with her husband. I had hoped to gain some insight into whether Eve’s unconscious would respond to a suggestion that fed in to her innermost wishes, or whether her will would overpower it and the habit of reason would hold. Eve would have been brought up with the severe etiquette of dancing with gloves on. The upper class do not touch; bare skin is anathema to them. The suggestion went against everything Eve has known, learned, or understood about her life. I had to know: Would she do it? And if she did, what would she feel about it?

  She told me during our appointment that ultimately she had taken off the gloves and, in doing so, was struck by an intense sense of pleasure and freedom.

  My theory had proved correct. When presented with the opportunity, her unconscious mind can overpower her will .This is a stunning discovery, and it made me wonder what power her unconscious could have if it were given free rein. Could I lead it, through hypnosis, to completely overtake her reason? Could I change her will?

  To be given what I so ardently wish for—to have in my hands a subject who can help me win the respect of my colleagues, one who can help me prove the power of the unconscious mind, and yet to be told to ignore this knowledge, to proceed as she and her husband wish, to rid her of her unconscious passion—

  To remake her in the way I wish is to destroy the life she claims to want so desperately; I know this, and yet what shall I do? Make her into another useless parasite? Shall I let scientific knowledge pass because of the wishes of one woman who cannot hope to understand the secrets she possesses? I would be less a scientist—truly worthy of the contempt of my colleagues—if I conceded to her wishes. She is only a woman.

  I do not walk blindly into this experimentation. In an attempt to gain more insight into the genesis of her behavior, I took her, in a trance state, to the time of her mother’s death. As she did when describing the trauma of havi
ng her father throw her paints away, Eve went easily back through time and described the incident to me as if it were currently happening. This is most important, because consciously she claims to remember nothing about that day.

  Apparently her mother committed suicide while the family summered at their country home. Eve had been playing in her bedroom, which overlooked the Hudson River. She went to the window and watched as her mother walked purposefully into the water and kept walking until she foundered and was gone. “I called and called, but it seemed like hours until anyone came, and then it was too late. When they found her, she looked only as if she were sleeping.”

  Though Eve speaks of sorrow and disbelief and grief, I detected envy in her tone as well. Before I could question her further, she broke into such copious, heart-wrenching sobs that I was obliged to comfort her.

  I had no opportunity to make another suggestion; my main goal was to determine the effect of a mother’s suicide on such a young, passionate girl. It is clear that Eve suffers from both a desire to have a full life and the fear that such a longing can only ruin her, as it did her mother. I must work to overcome that fear—it is a strong barrier to the desires of her unconscious mind. I must work to erode her reason, to make her inner life seem the more attractive one. The strictures of society are not easily overcome, and it is true that Eve could correct my suggestions according to her own flawed judgment if she were left alone long enough. I cannot allow that to happen. The more time I spend with Eve, the more I can bolster the suggestions I make in her trance state.

  To that end, I suggested Eve meet me at Delmonico’s for luncheon. I explained that I wanted to observe her in a social situation, and though this seemed to trouble her, she agreed. The truth is that not only do I want every hour possible to work with her, I must also strengthen any bond she feels between us. I must make my influence stronger than any of the other influences in her life, including those of her husband and social ostracism. Only then can I achieve what I mean to.

  February 4, 1885

  Today I met Eve at Delmonico’s, as we had agreed. It was a very cold day, with a chill wind that seemed to cut through my coat, and I was a few moments late. Though I did not expect to find her waiting outside on such a freezing day, she was by the front stoop, half sitting on flower boxes covered with snow. When I asked her why she did not wait inside, she replied that she would not be welcome as a woman alone, and gave me such a glance that I was reminded of the class difference between us.

  To cover my embarrassment, I ushered her inside. They knew her—it seems everyone does, and she took charge of the situation as if she had been born to it, which of course she had. I was left feeling a bit useless. She asked for a quiet table, and we were led there right away.

  I had not been inside Delmonico’s before. We were placed close to a window in the main dining room, which I appreciated for the view it afforded of Fifth Avenue and the frostbitten greenery of Madison Square. I could tell from her anxiety that although we were in the corner, she would have much preferred the safety of darkness. I told her she should like the chance to stare out a window, and she smiled in a jittery fashion and confessed that she was unused to being alone with a man who was not her husband—something that I am ashamed to admit I had not thought of. She made furtive glances throughout the room, and her movements were nervous: the folding and unfolding of the napkin in her lap, the clasping and unclasping of her gloved hands; and when the soup was brought and she took off her gloves, she often fiddled with her wedding band.

  The noise of the dining room left us ample opportunity to talk without being heard, so great was the clatter of dishes and silverware, the shouts of orders, waiters yelling back and forth to one another. The dining room was quite full.

  I asked her if she knew anyone here. She gave me a quick nod and then confessed there was no one she knew well, which seemed to relieve her somewhat. She ordered a glass of wine. I did not drink but watched her as she did. She is a fount of nervous habits, as if it is only by sheer dint of will that she keeps hysteria at bay. I found that curious and oddly sad (a surprising reaction, I must admit).

  She seemed possessed by some tension, and with every gulp of wine it seemed to grow within her until she spilled out with it. She spoke carefully, as if she did not wish me to know of her discomfort or her need for an answer.

  E: What did I say at our last appointment?

  S: You told me of your mother’s death.

  E: I was . . . crying when I woke up.

  S: Yes. You were quite distressed.

  E: I remember nothing of it.

  S: Not even in dreams?

  Here she closed her eyes, and her face twisted in distress.

  E: Oh. Yes. A few things. Nothing I understand.

  S: It’s no wonder your conscious mind has refused to remember it. It was a terrible thing to witness.

  E: You mean . . . I saw her drown?

  S: From the window of your bedroom.

  She gave the window a quick glance and swallowed.

  S: What you saw would be traumatic for anyone. Since your visit, I’ve gone back to my case studies. You should take comfort from the fact that it’s not unusual for hysterics to forget the incident that brought on the hysteria to begin with.

  E: I wasn’t hysterical when she died.

  S: But soon after, perhaps. Isn’t that when you turned to religion?

  She was quiet for a long moment. There is intelligence in her eyes that is sometimes quite astounding. I waited to see if she would admit the connection between her mother’s death and her search for fulfillment.

  E: Why . . . yes.

  S: As a substitute for your mother?

  E: I’ve told you I barely remember her.

  S: Your unconscious remembers her quite well. She was very kind to you, and quiet, as you’ve said before. She guarded you from your father’s outbursts, though you were always aware of them, and it was impossible not to feel the tension of his disapproval in the house. She came from old money, and she smelled of it in a way your father did not: She wore the same perfume her mother—your grandmother—had worn. Something imported from Holland. It smelled of tuberoses and ivy. When you smell it today, you feel faintly nauseated. She had soft hands, and she preferred colors in plums and roses, though your father did not, and she ultimately gave in to him.

  When I finished speaking, Eve reached for her wine so convulsively that her wrist caught the fork and sent it clanking hard on her plate. I could barely hear her when she spoke.

  E: I . . . I told you all that?

  S: How else would I know it? I did not know your mother.

  E: I don’t understand. How could I have forgotten so much?

  S: You haven’t forgotten. Your unconscious remembers it all.

  The waiter came, looking embarrassed as he brought the next course, partridge in some winey sauce. I put my hand over Eve’s to calm her. She gripped my fingers hard, as if she took strength from them.

  When the waiter left again, she gave me a thin smile.

  E: I’m sorry. I had not meant to—

  S: It’s quite all right.

  E: We’re in public, after all.

  S: It is nothing to be ashamed of, missing your mother.

  She looked thoughtful, and I asked her what she was thinking about.

  E: How much I have longed for her. Or perhaps not her but something .

  I explained that what she felt was sehnsucht, as the Germans call it. The longing for something that can’t be named. She agreed that her bouts with religion and poetry and painting all may have related to the loss of her mother, and with the sense she had that there was something more for her, something she couldn’t see and did not understand.

  This was my opportunity. How easily she presented it. I admit I did not feel a moment of guilt as I suggested she make an attempt to somehow regain the satisfaction she had felt from her religious frenzy and her poetry and painting, before her father took those things away.


  E: I could not. William would never allow it. Papa would—

  S: Don’t tell them.

  The notion shocked her.

  I did not want to frighten her into retreat, so I suggested that she start slowly, perhaps by sketching in pencil in her garden at times when neither William nor her father are at home.

  She seemed to come alive at my words. Though she was still wary, I detected a certain glow in her eyes: The idea appealed. I told her I thought it would help to ease her feeling of emptiness, that elusive sehnsucht, and when she agreed to try, her fingers linked through mine. I was aware that I had not released my hold on her hand, nor had she on mine, and I felt the sheer exuberance that power can bring.

  Chapter 11

  He had given me permission to be free. When I left him, I asked Jimson to stop at some little shop on Lower Broadway. Careful that no one saw me, I ran inside and purchased a small sketch pad and pencils, along with a little cloisonné box that was quaintly pretty. I hid the sketch pad and pencils beneath my cloak and gave a vapid smile to Jimson as I came out into the freezing air, muttering some nonsense of how I’d seen the box earlier and it was the prettiest little thing. All of which puzzled him, I’m sure, because I’d never made a habit of talking with him before, and it was none of his concern where I might have him stop or why.