An Inconvenient Wife

by Megan Chance

  He hesitated. Then he rose and took my arms, holding me loosely, rubbing his thumbs against my silk sleeves. “None of them are like you, Lucy,” he said, and there came into his eyes a look that made me both afraid and glad. I pulled away from him and stepped back, though there was a part of me that wanted to stay.

  “So in the end, you’re just like William,” I said. “You’re just like my father.”

  “I am nothing like them,” he said angrily. I’d never seen him be anything but in control, and though it made him more human, more of a man, I was distressed by it. I think he saw that. The anger left his face after a visible struggle for control, and then he was mine again, the doctor I knew, and I was reassured.

  “You said I was like your father,” he said. “How is that? Was he a mystery to you?”

  “It’s as you said,” I told him. “There are things a child should not know about a parent.”

  He took a deep breath and sat down again. “Which do you mean? Do you mean that you’re relieved he’s a mystery, or that there are things you wish you didn’t know about him?”

  “My father is a tyrant,” I said simply. “There was a time, when I was a small child, when he was a god to me. But then I saw his flaws, and if a god has flaws, how can he remain a god?”

  “Most gods have flaws,” Dr. Seth said. “Even your God. He punishes beyond rationality. He changes His mind. He demands sacrifices to His ego. Like any common man. Science has no ego. It’s rational and logical.”

  “Science has all the answers?”

  “Yes.”

  “So there can be no mystery?”

  Seth shook his head. “In the end, all things can be explained.”

  “Can they?” I smiled bitterly. “Can love be explained?”

  “A change in the brain,” he began, “purely physical reactions. Love is entirely somatic.”

  I thought of the way my body had yearned for my husband. Of the way I’d once felt about him, the racing of my pulse, the shortening of my breath, the excitement I’d felt when he came into a room. “Yes,” I murmured. “Perhaps so. And hate?”

  “Hate is learned,” he said with certainty.

  That I knew was true. “Yes,” I said. “I learned to hate my father. How easily love turns.”

  “In the face of unbearable flaws,” he said gently.

  “Is that how you lost God?” I asked.

  Dr. Seth smiled. “You’re searching for answers to me again, Lucy.”

  I nearly held my breath. “Yes. But it’s such a little thing, isn’t it?”

  When I thought he would refuse me, I felt desperate. I could not explain why I wanted to know this so badly, or why it should matter, only that it did.

  Then he said, “Unbearable flaws. Things I could not reconcile. Little injustices.”

  I felt a rush so dizzying it was as if he had filled my lungs with his words. “But we all experience that. We don’t all turn away from God.”

  “No,” he said, and then he pierced me with those too knowing eyes. “But we don’t all turn away from life either, do we?”

  I was struck by his words. I thought of myself, yielding to my father, to a husband I barely knew. Packing up the Gérôme, hiding my sketching, buttoning up my passion. Little injustices.

  I had allowed William to do this to me. Suddenly it was unbearable, to be so worshiped and untouched, to be denied as if I were nothing more important than a pretty doll. I wanted a husband who knew me and accepted me. I no longer wanted to hide. I wanted life.

  I said, “You think that I should show William who I really am. You think I should insist against . . . angels.”

  “Cupids, I believe you said it was.”

  “Angels,” I told him. “I meant angels.”

  I went home. Once there, I went to my room and took from beneath the bed my case of sketches. They were crumpled, the charcoal broken into little bits from how rapidly I’d put them away. Now I laid them upon my bed, smoothing them as best I could, then I took the pile of them downstairs into the parlor that had once served as my mother’s ballroom. I drew open the curtains to let the sunlight in, and then I laid out the sketches—some on the upholstered window seat, some on the table, over the settee. There were so many of them. But of the best there were twenty in all, and when I looked at them, I felt a sense of accomplishment, of pride, of pleasure.

  I stood in the middle of the room, so nervous I could not be still. I touched the sketches, smudging a little here, wishing I’d thought to bring the charcoal with me so I could fix a line, a shading. I wanted them to be perfect. Dr. Seth had seen me in them, who I was, what I wanted to be. I prayed William would see the same things. I did not allow myself to think of this as a desperate attempt to stave off the sense that I was leaving him behind, or the truth of my increasing awareness that I would never be happy with William.

  By the time the sun began to dip low in the sky, I was so ner-vous I could barely contain it. When I heard William arrive home, my heart beat irregularly. I went to the doorway so I could hear him ask Harris where I was. I heard the butler answer that I was in the upstairs parlor.

  He did not come up right away. First he went to pour a drink, and then I heard the heaviness of his step on the stairs. Then he was at the door of the parlor, looking in with a puzzled expression and saying, “Lucy? What’s going on?”

  I should have realized then. I should have hurried him from the room and swept up the sketches and kept them secret. I should have known by looking at him that the day had been hard, that he’d suffered disappointment, that he was weary. But I rushed to him, pulling him into the room, saying breathlessly, “William, I’ve something to show you.”

  I pulled him so impatiently to the drawings on the table that his drink splashed over the side of his glass, smearing the charcoal. It was a sketch of Washington Square, and in dismay, I grabbed my handkerchief and dabbed at it, trying to make it right again, and when it was not, I cried out, “Oh, but now it’s ruined!”

  William pulled it away from my ineffectual patting and said, “What’s this?”

  “It was Washington Square,” I said.

  “I can see that,” he said. Then it was as if he was just noticing the others. His gaze swept the room, alighting first on one, then another. I stood there while he took a slow turn about the room, looking and looking, so silently. I felt an overwhelming sense of pride that was so elating I could only stand there, waiting for him to see, to know.

  “Who did these?” He was bent over the ones at the window seat, staring at them intently.

  “I did.”

  “You did?” He straightened and stared at me so incredulously that I had to smile. I rushed over to him and grabbed his arm in my excitement.

  “Yes, yes. I did them. I’ve been working on them since the start of February—months now—you can’t imagine how much I’ve loved it. It’s starting to be quite colorful—I was hoping to get some paints, and then you would see—”

  He was still staring at me, but his incredulousness had faded. In its place was a distress that completely stole my words.

  “You drew these?” he asked slowly.

  “Y-yes.”

  “You?”

  “Well, yes, William.” I reached around him to pick up the nearest one, but he grabbed my wrist, keeping me from reaching it.

  His words were too careful. “I thought you were forbidden to paint again.”

  “I haven’t painted. It . . . it’s charcoal.”

  He shook my arm impatiently. “You were forbidden!”

  “By my father,” I said, “not by my husband.”

  He sighed and went to the window seat. He stood looking at the pictures, and I saw a deep sorrow in him before he swept up the drawings and crumpled them in his hands.

  I cried out and ran to him, reaching past him, trying to save them, but he wrenched away from me. Before my eyes, he tore the drawings into bits and scattered them over the carpet. I raced before him to save the others, but I
tripped over my skirts, falling against the settee, and could only watch helplessly while he destroyed those as well. He took each drawing and tore it until the floor was littered with bits of paper, and when he was done, he came to stand before me, his chest heaving as if he’d just come from the athletic club.

  “Where are the rest?”

  I buried my face in my arms. “There are no others.”

  He jerked my arms away. “Where are they?”

  “I tell you, there aren’t any.”

  He was gone before I could finish. I heard him on the stairs, and in horror I knew he was going to my bedroom, where he would see how many there were.

  I ran after him, barely seeing Moira, who stood trembling in the hallway. I lifted my skirts and rushed up to my bedroom. William was already inside. On my bed was my case, the box of charcoal, the pile of sketches. William took them up, and I launched myself at him, grabbing his arm.

  “Please, William. Please don’t . . . let me explain.”

  “Explain what?” he asked impatiently. “Explain how obsessed you’ve become again?”

  “No, no. You can’t take this away from me. Not now . . . Oh, please, William.” I pushed against him, trying to take his face between my hands, to keep him still, but he would have none of me. He pushed me away so roughly I fell, and then he threw the case into the fireplace. The fire caught and leaped, consuming the case, the papers; they curled into ash, the smoke filled the room.

  Then he turned to me and said, “It was Seth who told you to do this, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

  Teary and stunned, I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand enough. I told him how ill this made you before. You won’t be seeing him again.”

  “No,” I said, crawling to my feet. “No, William, please. You can’t do this.”

  “You are my wife, and I know what’s best for you. And this”—he motioned to the fire, to me—“this is clearly not it. Painting, again, for God’s sake. He must know what will happen.”

  “William, please.”

  He twisted away, and I slumped against the wall, blinded by tears.

  “I’ll send a messenger to him tonight telling him that I’m ending your treatment.” Then he gave me a terrible, pitying look and said, “This is for the best, Lucy. It’s all for the best.”

  He closed the door, leaving me in the smoky room with the ravenous, crackling fire, and for a moment I could not move. I could see nothing but that my life was over, that I was a prisoner forever.

  Without thinking, I grabbed my cloak and my hat and ran from the house.

  Chapter 15

  There was only one person I wanted to see.

  As I reached Broadway, I saw an oncoming stage. I hailed it and felt an overwhelming relief as it stopped and the driver said, “Climb aboard, ma’am.”

  It was awkward to make the step, and the stage started even before I was inside, so that I nearly fell into the lap of a businessman who was engrossed in his newspaper. I mumbled an apology and slipped into the seat beside him, clasping my naked hands together. I had forgotten my gloves.

  There were three other men aboard, all dressed like businessmen, and they spared me only a glance before politely sliding their attention elsewhere. We tried not to bounce into one another as the stage made its uncomfortable way down Broadway.

  A small gong sounded, startling me. The men were all moved to action, each reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a coin, then tossing it into a small basket lowered through a hole in the roof. The fare. I’d forgotten the fare.

  “How much is it?” I asked.

  “Ten cents,” said the man with the paper.

  I made a show of reaching into the pocket of my cloak, of pulling it aside to search for a purse, though I knew already there would be no money. Shopkeepers sent the bills directly to my husband.

  My movements became more frantic. I tried to stem my mounting embarrassment and horror—I could not pay, and it was too far to walk, and I must get there, I could not go back home.

  The man beside me touched my arm, and I froze.

  “Let me get this for you,” he said, reaching into his vest pocket, tossing up the coin. His face was kind. “My wife forgets her bag from time to time.”

  “Yes, that’s just what I did,” I said, my words stumbling over themselves. “It was so silly. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Some days are like that, eh?” He brought up his paper again, burying himself within it, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying in sheer gratitude.

  The ride seemed so long. I stared out the window, but I could see nothing but the fire licking at the paper of my sketches, Washington Square curling into ash. The sorrow and pity on William’s face fueled my anxiety, until I nearly jerked loose the string signaling my stop on White Street. I gave a smile to the man who’d paid for my trip, and he tipped his hat to me, and then I jumped from the stage into a puddle of mud that splashed into my boots and wet the hem of my gown. I hardly cared; I was too busy looking at the building before me. It was dim, the store beneath was dark. For a moment I thought I would have to break the glass to get in, but the door was unlocked.

  When I reached his office door, it was locked. I tried the handle again, sure I was mistaken. Of course he was there; where else would he be? I rattled it until I was sure it would come loose. Then I knocked on the glass window that bore his name in black and gilt letters. Harder and harder until finally a light came on. I nearly cried in relief. I saw a shadow behind the patterned glass, and I laid my hands flat upon it and burst into a smile. When it opened, I nearly fell into his arms.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here. You’ll never—”

  I stopped short of pitching myself into him, because it wasn’t Victor at all. It was Irene, looking annoyed.

  “Mrs. Carelton,” she said. “Whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I want to see him,” I said firmly, pushing my way past her to the office door. “Where is he? I demand to see him.”

  “He’s not here,” she said, rounding me, blocking my access. “Really, Mrs. Carelton, he’s not here. You should go home. I’ll be sure and tell him in the morning—”

  I pushed past her. The door was open, and I burst through.

  “Mrs. Carelton, please. He went home hours ago.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes, of course. Where else would he go now that his appointments are done?”

  “And where might home be?”

  She hesitated only a moment. Then she went to the desk and scrawled out the address on a scrap of paper. She handed it to me, and I turned on my heel without even a thank-you. The paper was precious; I wrapped my fist around it and headed to the door.

  “You might want to have your driver take a weapon, ma’am,” she said. “It can be dangerous in that part of town.”

  I went out the door and closed it behind me. When I was standing on Broadway, I opened my fist and looked at the paper. The address was unfamiliar; I did not even begin to know where to go, and the stage was already gone.

  A street sweeper was raising the scents of manure and garbage down the way. I hurried over to him and said, “Excuse me, but could you tell me where Essex Street is?”

  He gave me a queer look, one almost too familiar, that took in my lack of a bustle or gloves. “Essex Street? You sure you want to go there, lady?” he asked.

  I assured him I did.

  “Go up a block,” he said, “and then take Canal Street to the East River.”

  Canal Street. The East River. I felt faint. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I fear you must be wrong. It couldn’t be—”

  “Well, it is,” he said. “You want to know the direction or not?”

  “Yes, yes. Please.”

  “When you get to Allen Street, turn left. Essex crosses it. You’ll have to ask around there for who you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Allen Street,” I said.

  “You’d best take c
are, lady,” he said, and then he went back to his sweeping.

  I could not seem to move. The twilight was coming on strongly, the sky darkening. Soon the arc lights would come on, the rest of the world would be cast in darkness, and I was alone here on Lower Broadway.

  I should go home. I didn’t belong here. Not here, and certainly not on Canal Street, or Allen Street, or any of those little streets that gathered beneath Houston and stretched to the East River. I should not be here. I should be at home. With William. I should be living the life I was meant to lead.

  Before I knew it, I had started to walk up Broadway, past the street sweeper, ignoring the stares and curious glances of those who wondered what a lady alone was doing on Lower Broadway at twilight. I walked quickly, afraid I would change my mind, grow weak somehow in my own steps. I knew if I went home, if I went back to William now, I would never see Victor Seth again.

  The night began to come down around me, and still I walked. Canal Street began as retail shops and warehouses, and as it went on, the streets on either side became narrower and dingier, the smells grew stronger, less familiar—fish and sausage and garlic and garbage and manure—and the buildings changed from warehouses to small frame houses nearly falling apart.

  The streets were muddy and strewn with garbage. Pushcarts were being led slowly home, moved by men and women with weathered faces and gray clothes, holding what fish or rags or tin had not been sold. I pushed past a woman with cages of chickens that squawked loudly as I went by, and she screamed after me in some foreign guttural language.

  It was as though I had entered another world. I was afraid and more certain with every passing moment that I had made a mistake, that he could not possibly be here. Not here, not my Victor. He was a doctor, a brilliant neurologist. How could such a man live in a hell like this, its tiny little stores emblazoned with signs I could not read, and the terrible smells: urine and death and rot and blood from carcasses hanging in windows and bad fish and spoiled milk and sweat and greasy smoke. . . .

  I hugged myself close and walked faster, through a warren of old row houses that had been altered beyond recognition, windows boarded up and possessions piled in what had once been tiny yards and stoops. There were no signs now, at least none that I could read. I had to stop finally to catch my breath, to get my bearings, and when I did, some filthy little man came from the shadows and spoke to me in a language I couldn’t understand, though I knew what he wanted.