An Inconvenient Wife

by Megan Chance

  I made myself smile. “I am not as fragile as the furniture, William,” I told him, and he smiled back, but tentatively.

  “Good. That’s good. I should hate to think that you aren’t ready. It distressed me so to send you there, Lucy. I’m not sure I could bear having to send you back.”

  My smile felt frozen. I heard the threat in his voice, his tacit behave. “You won’t have to do that,” I promised him, and he nodded and left. All I could think was how I could not bear to be in his company a moment longer. How much I yearned to be away.

  After breakfast in the huge dining room with me seated at one end of a table meant to seat at least twenty while William watched me anxiously from the other, he begged me not to lift a finger. Every detail had been already attended to. I should rest in my room and prepare for two hundred of our closest friends to descend upon us this evening. He hoped I would wear the burgundy silk with roses. And the diamonds.

  I spent the afternoon watching the servants scurry around, polishing, dusting, arranging. The dining room table was extended to its full length, which seated sixty-four, and other tables were brought to make up the rest. Candles were set everywhere. There were roses bunched in vases on every table, in every corner, in colors ranging from pink to yellow to red. The house was full of their scent, along with that of turtle soup and roasting beef, and I felt a growing agitation that made me glad to do as William had suggested and retire to my room. I took a short nap. When I woke, it was time to prepare.

  “I’ll wear the jet tonight, Bridget,” I said as I stood before the mirror, clad in the burgundy silk appliquéd with roses and trimmed in black lace.

  The girl frowned. “The jet, ma’am? Not the diamonds?”

  “I prefer the black,” I said. She looked at me strangely but reached obediently into the case I’d opened. She took out the jet, a web of beads and stones, and put it around my neck, where it fell against my skin like shadows. I fastened on the matching earrings, jet drops that dangled against my jaw. It was a look that matched my mood this evening.

  I said to Bridget, who hovered behind me, “You may leave me now.”

  She nodded and curtsied. When she opened the door, the sound of music drifted in—the orchestra, which had arrived an hour or so ago. I heard William’s voice shouting orders: There were only moments before the first guests arrived, why were the candles not lit?

  The door closed again, leaving me with the muffled sounds, the constant rush of footsteps. I adjusted the lace of my sleeve, the décolletage. I patted my hair. I was perspiring, though my hands were like ice.

  From below I heard the opening of a door. Voices. I went to the window, pushing aside the drapes to see the view. My room looked out over Fifth Avenue. It was a wet night, and foggy. The rain had stripped leaves from the trees to gather on the street, where they had been crushed into mulch by carriage wheels. Central Park was gloomy, its trees shrouded in fog, ghostly in the arc lights. The edges of carriages were blurred. Drivers hurried from their damp perches to open doors, people huddled into their coats and capes, a man paused to adjust his beaver hat before he rushed his partner beneath the canopy William had erected over a burgundy-colored carpet leading up the steps.

  I should go down, I thought. I should greet our guests. But I knew how they would look at me, the things they would wonder. They would remember William’s words. He’d made advances . . . she repulsed them . . . I can no longer call him a friend. They would wonder what of that was true, and they would secretly believe that I had had an affair with Victor. They would talk about it: Wasn’t it scandalous, how she kept him? As a guest in her own house? We suspected it, of course, who wouldn’t? I heard she’d gone to the continent. Ultimately I would be forgiven; I was a Van Berckel, after all, but it would always be a stain.

  I let the curtains fall and backed away from the window. I imagined myself moving down those stairs—an interminable length, a promenade. Everything in me was measuring, measuring. Every beat, every moment. I heard them arrive, more and more. Twenty and then thirty. There was a knock on the door.

  “Mrs. Carelton?” Bridget called timidly. “Mr. Carelton’s asking for you, ma’am.”

  “Tell him I’ll be down shortly,” I said.

  The music was louder, no longer tuning up. I heard the rise of talk, appreciation, footsteps. My throat was dry. I imagined them gathering, the rustle of rich silks, jewels glinting in the electric light, the smoke of candles, the salty, fishy scent of oysters borne by a dozen servants.

  “Mrs. Carelton?”

  “In a moment.”

  “Do you need help, ma’am?”

  “No.”

  The clatter of hooves on the cobbled drive, the squeak of leather hinges, doors opening, the slip of heels on wet rock, laughter. My hands were cold and clammy within my gloves. It was growing late. They would expect me to be there. They would all be wondering. William would be wondering.

  It was time.

  It was as if a clock had chimed the precise hour within me. I straightened. I was ready to go down. But there was one last thing to do. I went to the armoire, plunging my hands through silks and satins and lawns to find the bag I’d brought from Beechwood Grove. My fingers stumbled across it. Soft, well-oiled leather, a hard buckle. I pulled it out, ignoring the clothes I pulled with it, scattering them on the floor. My fingers trembled on the buckle, but I pulled it open, stretching its jaws wide, thrusting my hands past a grayed chemise, stockings, an inappropriate ball gown, a dressing gown, brushes that had never seen the light of day at the asylum. Searching, searching . . .

  My fingers came upon it. Smooth, cold metal. I sighed in relief and took it into my hands, pulling it loose so it gleamed in the too bright light.

  I grabbed my evening bag from the chair and slipped the gun inside.

  It was not hard, then, to do the rest.

  I went out of my room and down the stairs. The lights glittered upon gold and wax, melted upon roses. The smell of the flowers was overpowering, along with a hundred different perfumes. My hand slid along the soft, polished wood of the banister; my friends were below. They smiled at me as I came down, their eyes measuring as I smiled back, as I went down and down and down, into their midst, past servants holding silver trays, past candles, through silks and satins. Hello, Lucy, how are you, Lucy? How well you look! How was the continent? I moved easily past them into the dining room. I saw Millie down the hall and waved to her with a bright little smile, and her own smile died; she lifted her hand as if to stop me.

  She came toward me at the same moment I saw William, holding a glass of bourbon. I willed her to stay away and finally had to focus on my husband, who caught sight of me and smiled. For a moment, I went numb. I thought, I can’t do this . . . after all this time . . . how ridiculous.

  And then suddenly I could.

  I opened my bag. I saw Millie coming, and I shook my head at her. William was moving toward me quickly now, looking worried. The bourbon was spilling over his hands, spotting his cuffs. I reached into the bag, almost expecting that the gun would not be there, but there it was, sliding into my palm. My fingers grasped the handle, cradled the trigger.

  I pulled it loose and dropped my bag, and from the corner of my eye I saw people turn to me; I felt their hesitation. I paid them no heed. I waited until I heard the startled scream, until William came to a shocked stop. Our eyes met, and I saw astonishment there, then concern. I waited for the fear, and when I saw it, I felt a surge of satisfaction. Then I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

  The blast nearly sent me rocking back; the crack echoed in the arched ceilings, too loud. The glass in William’s hand went flying, shattering on the floor, spilling bourbon. I heard the screams, and I saw the stunned horror in the eyes of those around me. I saw the blood spreading across the marble floor, the women stepping back as if concerned it might soil their hems and their pretty shoes. It was as if I watched from afar while the shock faded and men set upon me, their shouts like echoes against my
ears, their hands hard upon my arms, reaching for the gun, prying it from my fingers. They were shouting questions, I think, though I could not be sure because I couldn’t take my eyes from the red of the blood creeping across the floor. How dark it was, darker than I’d expected. I wondered whether it would still be warm if I touched it.

  That is all I remember about that night, except for one other thing. When the president of the Board of Police arrived, and my father gave the order for the men to take me to my room and lock me inside, I did not feel regret.

  All I felt was free.

  PART IV

  The Tombs

  October 1885

  Chapter 29

  I heard the noises downstairs, the chattering of the guests as they were sent away, the splashing of the rain against carriage wheels, and then the clatter of a police wagon arriving. I listened with some far-removed part of myself. I was too busy remembering the look of surprise and alarm on William’s face, the way his glass went flying, the way he jerked back and fell, arms wheeling as if to keep himself afloat.

  I had no idea how long I stood in my room. I was freezing, I was aware only of that. I had some vague thought that William must have installed central heating; why wasn’t the furnace stoked?

  Then there was a knock on my door, the sound of the key, and I turned to see the president of the Board of Police enter my room. He was flanked by two officers who would not look directly at me. But Stephen French was an old friend of my father’s, and he did not flinch. I thought of all the times I had seen him across my father’s table, laughing at some joke, his large white mustache twitching.

  “Lucy,” he said, hesitating before he stepped across the threshold. “Lucy, my dear, do you realize what has happened?”

  “Yes. That is . . . didn’t I shoot my husband?”

  “Don’t you know for certain?”

  I began to shiver; it was uncontrollable. “This house,” I murmured. “This terrible house . . .”

  One of the officers ventured to Stephen, “She don’t seem quite well, sir.”

  Stephen nodded. His expression seemed so sad. Gently, he said, “You understand, my dear, that I’ve no choice but to arrest you for murder. It’s out of my hands. There were witnesses, you understand. But one thing I can do for you—we won’t take you to the station house. I’ll vouch for you myself. You won’t be able to leave here, at least for now. I’ve posted officers at every entrance. Do you understand me, Lucy? You’re a prisoner here.”

  “It’s no different than it’s ever been, then,” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “Your father wants to speak to you,” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” I murmured, and the door shut behind them. I heard their voices in the hall, and then it was still again, and I was alone. The scene in the dining room reeled through my head like a drunken vision, each time bringing another detail into focus, something I’d missed. A scream, the calling of my name, the way someone had put an arm around me to hold me close. I heard a voice—my own—asking over and over again, “Is he dead?” and then, at a curt yes, the sound of harsh, jagged breathing—again my own.

  The key turned once more, and my father came inside, followed by another officer. There must be police all through the house.

  Papa looked haggard. He sighed heavily. “My God, Lucy. My God, do you know what you’ve done?”

  There was something about his expression—the dismay, the unspoken fury—that made an impossible laugh bubble from my chest into my throat. I couldn’t keep it down. I started to giggle—a high, tight sound that made my father recoil. Then I began to laugh in earnest, cackling like a witch, like a lunatic. I’d heard that laugh at Beechwood Grove upon occasion, lingering in the walls.

  “She’s mad,” Papa said. “Look at her—she’s mad!”

  “No sir,” the police officer said. He came over to me and put his arm gingerly around my shoulders, leading me to a chair while I laughed so that my ribs hurt. “There, now, Mrs. Carelton, you’ll be all right. You’ll be all right, you’ll see.” He clucked his tongue as if I were a child. My laugh turned rough. It hurt my throat, but I couldn’t stop it, and before I knew, it had turned to coarse, raucous sobbing that robbed me of voice and breath.

  The officer handed me a handkerchief. I held it to my face, blocking the sight of my father standing there, and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the smell of the policeman’s sweat on the handkerchief, but my sobs settled into my chest, deep first, then shallower and shallower, and I could breathe again. I had hold of myself.

  The man took his arm from around me and got to his feet. “You all right now, Mrs. Carelton?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, thank you. I—I’m fine.”

  “Good. Now, here’s your da to see you. I think it’s best if you listen to him.”

  “Yes, of course. I will.”

  The policeman nodded, then said, “I’ll wait outside.” He went out into the hallway, but I still felt his presence. I wiped at my eyes and crumpled the handkerchief in my hand.

  “Good God, girl, what’s wrong with you?” my father murmured.

  I looked down at the gold and white carpet. “Nothing.”

  “It seems that . . . that place did you no good at all. What were you thinking, Lucy? Why?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “I’m going to call Sullivan,” he said. “He’s a good lawyer.”

  “I don’t want him,” I said.

  Papa frowned. “What?”

  “I don’t want Robert Sullivan,” I said again. “I don’t want a society lawyer.”

  “They’re accusing you of murder, girl. You’d better have the best lawyer my money can buy.”

  “I want William Howe,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I want William Howe.”

  My father looked stunned. “William Howe? His reputation—”

  “—is for winning,” I finished. “He’s the one I want.”

  Papa’s face was thunderous. “Absolutely not. By God, I’ll call Sullivan and—”

  “I will refuse him,” I said. “I don’t want him. Papa, you go to William Howe. If you don’t, I’ll find someone who will. It would be best, don’t you think, if you were the one who hired him? You could control him that way. After all, who knows what he might say or what he might discover?”

  My father stiffened. I saw a dawning surprise in his eyes.

  “It’s quite late now, I think. Perhaps you should try to rouse him from his bed. I’m sure a visit from the esteemed DeLancey Van Berckel will be enough to do so.”

  He was studying me. His voice was quiet when he said, “What has happened to you, Lucy?”

  “It’s growing late, Papa. Unless you want to see the Van Berckel name further marred by the scandal of a daughter in Sing Sing, I suggest you contact Mr. Howe.”

  He said, “I don’t think you completely understand. He’s a showman. He’ll drag your name through the mud.”

  “As if it hasn’t been there already.”

  “This will be worse, Lucy.”

  “How many reporters are in Hummel and Howe’s pockets, Papa?”

  He looked startled. “My God, how do you know of this?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I lowered my voice. “What matters is that he understands this city as no one else does. That’s what I need, Papa, you know this as well as I.”

  He was quiet. Then he said, “How did you get to be so clever, girl?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Very well. I’ll see if Mr. Howe’s services can be engaged.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just tell me, Lucy, when you shot William—”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing,” I lied to him. “I can hardly remember doing it.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes indeed. I understand.”

  I let him believe he did.

  The rest of the night passed restlessly. I was aware of the constant motion downstairs. The police wagon did not move from the drive, bu
t in the early morning another carriage came. When I saw it was the morgue wagon, I drew my curtains. In place of my numbness was anxiety. I wondered if my father had engaged William Howe. I wondered when they would take me to court. I wondered even what they would do with William’s body, whether his parents might come to his funeral, whether I would meet them at last.

  There was only one person of whom I dared not think. I would not allow myself even to think his name.

  William Howe did not make an appearance. As the hours dragged on, I began to believe my father had failed, and desperation and fear joined my nervousness. I began to imagine terrible things, my future behind bars, crowded with other women, listening to their snores, breathing their breath, and I grew panicked—was I destined to spend the whole of my life in a cage?

  “No,” I whispered, calming myself, and then “No.” I thought of William Howe and prayed Papa had hired him.

  As if I had conjured him, I heard a knock on the door and an officer say, “Mrs. Carelton, you’ve a visitor.” He opened the bedroom door—it was the same officer who had held me last night. Now he was formal, almost stern. “You’ve a visitor in the parlor, ma’am.” When I stood there, unmoving, he frowned. “Ma’am?”

  “I don’t know where the parlor is,” I whispered.

  If he found it surprising, he showed no sign. He only nodded curtly and motioned for me to follow. I had no awareness of this house, of my house, as he took me down some stairs to a closed door. I found myself glancing down the hallway, involuntarily, wondering if they had cleaned the dining room, if I would ever have to see it again. Then the officer opened the parlor door, and I was face-to-face with William Howe.

  Howe was unmistakable; no one who had lived in New York for long could fail to know him. In the papers they called him “Big Bill,” and it was not just his size—he was a man who obviously enjoyed a good meal—that dictated his nickname. He was larger than life, flamboyant, a man who’d bought life from nearly certain death sentences with his rhetoric and his crocodile tears. Today he wore a bright green vest with sparkling buttons that vied for attention with the diamond stickpin in his lapel and a large, clustered diamond ring. Behind him was a small, thin man with sparse brown hair, wearing an ordinary brown suit, carrying a leather-bound journal and a pocketful of pencils.