by Karen Odden
“I don’t agree,” I protested. “Your reticence was perfectly understandable. You didn’t want to cause me pain, and I’m sure some of the—the specifics aren’t pleasant.”
“Nor did I want to frighten you unnecessarily.” He spread his hands in a gesture of openness, or perhaps defeat. “But perhaps the other reason I held back is that with respect to your mother’s case”—a long pause, and a deep breath—“I failed utterly. And frankly, I didn’t want to see the blame in your pretty blue eyes.” His own eyes were sad. “They’re a good deal like hers, you know.”
“Doctor—”
He put up a hand to stop me again, but this time I ignored him, my words coming out in a rush: “Whatever you did for her, and for me, please believe that I know it was done with the best of intentions, and with all the medical knowledge available. I could never blame you for trying to help her—and for helping my father afterward,” I said earnestly. “I have a great deal to thank you for.”
A thin smile. “That is kind of you, Nell. And I do believe you mean it. But if you want to show your gratitude, you will listen to me now. Because I could not bear it if your mother’s disease came upon you, when a few words from me—however unpleasant and unwelcome—might prevent it.” He hesitated, his expression irresolute. “Mind you, there are things I didn’t even tell your father . . . didn’t even put into my case notes, because I never wanted him to know.”
The room was silent, except for the clock at my elbow, which was ticking more steadily than my heart. Finally, I said, “I understand.”
He went to the decanter at the sideboard and raised it to pour himself two fingers of whiskey. After a swallow, he rested both the glass and his right forearm on the mantel and turned to me, his manner reminding me that he was not only a doctor but also a lecturer at University College.
“Before I undertake a course of treatment, I speak with people who knew the patient before the disease manifested itself,” he began. “In your mother’s case, there were several family members to whom I could appeal—your father, of course, but also Frances’s own aunt Louise, who had known her since birth and was thus most valuable. By her account, Frances had always been a lively and talented child, with a tendency to exaggerate her own emotions, but no more so than is usual for imaginative children. Your mother showed a remarkable talent for the piano early on, and her parents fostered it with lessons, and bought her that”—his eyes flicked to the piano—“for her sixth birthday. There was little in her young adulthood to suggest what would happen later.” He turned the glass thoughtfully on the mantel. “As you know, she met and married your father when she was nineteen.”
I knew what he left unsaid: the age you are now.
“He left for the sea, and shortly afterward, she realized she was with child,” he continued.
“Matthew,” I interjected.
He nodded. “When your father returned six months later, he noticed a significant change in her. She seemed depressed in her spirits, so he called upon me. I prescribed some tonics, advised a daily hour of exercise out of doors, and administered a few other therapies—all benign, but none effective in her case. Her depression only deepened. I believe we all hoped that it was merely an effect of her condition. That when the baby came, she would naturally improve.”
“And did that happen?”
He hesitated. “Not exactly. Oh, she became more animated after Matthew arrived. He seemed to be the distraction she needed. But what I saw as elevated spirits was really the onset of the mania—although I had no way of knowing that.” He rubbed at his brow unhappily. “Oh, perhaps I should have suspected, but I think I was so relieved—for her and for your father—that I blithely believed that she had been cured due to my wise and benevolent care.” His tone was derisive.
It pained me to see him raking himself needlessly over the coals. “I’m sure you did everything possible—”
“No, I didn’t,” he said sharply. “I certainly didn’t observe her symptoms as closely as I might have.” A pause, and then he recovered his poise. “I beg your pardon, Nell. I know you mean well. But I’ve had years to reflect upon this. Hindsight truly does provide a remarkable clarity.”
I remained silent, and after a moment he drained his glass and set it down soundlessly. When he spoke, it was with the air of someone determined to confess the worst.
“For nearly two years, her symptoms seemed milder, or perhaps we began to accept her fragility as normal. She seemed reasonably happy and our concerns—still quite nominal, mind you—abated. Peggy had been working as a housekeeper here since their marriage, but her husband, Joe, had died; and when your father was scheduled for another tour of duty at sea, he asked her to come stay here with Emma, so that she could help more with Matthew.”
“And to keep an eye on Mother, no doubt.”
He nodded. “Particularly because it soon became apparent that Frances was again with child—with you. And the trouble began anew. During the six months your father was away, the cycles of melancholy and mania increased in frequency. At times she could barely rouse herself to come to the breakfast table, and worst of all, she showed no interest in Matthew. Other times, she laughed too heartily and talked in a hurried, erratic fashion, becoming impatient with us when we didn’t understand. She had trouble sleeping, and it became clear to me that there were two initiating symptoms that were easy to observe.” He ticked them on his fingers. “If she began to stay in bed longer than ten hours at a time, it signaled an oncoming phase of melancholy. If she began to play the piano for more hours than she was sleeping, that signaled oncoming mania.” His expression was grave. “To me it seemed that the instrument fed her illness.”
“Fed it?” I echoed.
“Even when she was at her most stable, it exacerbated your mother’s moods, multiplied their severity, so she went from sad to miserable, or from happy to ecstatic. When the mania struck, she stayed up until two or three in the morning, playing feverishly and composing new music—only to tear up everything she’d written. Peggy would find shreds of paper all over the carpet.”
His words felt like knives carving into some soft part of me. But I couldn’t parry them. How could I? I had never known the woman he was describing.
“As you can imagine, I was reading everything I could on the disease. I consulted with other physicians and tried various treatments.” His expression was bleak. “But nothing helped. So finally, we sent for your father.”
I could only imagine my father’s feelings, being far away and receiving a telegram telling him Mother was ill again and asking him to come home.
“He returned by the next ship, of course.” He grimaced. “I was here to meet him. You and Matthew had been removed to your aunt Margaret’s house. Your mother had spent two days in bed, refusing to get up even to relieve herself, soiling the bedclothes and lying inert when Peggy tried to help her.”
My mouth went dry, imagining my mother in such a state and my father returning home to find her so.
“We went into her room together, expecting to find her in bed. But by then she had begun to come out of her melancholy. She’d stripped the soiled linens, and she ordered your father out of the room. Then she behaved lasciviously, removing her clothes, and insisting that she had long desired me.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were averted. “It was a secondary symptom of the disease, of course. She had no more desire for me than a cat for a dog.”
Sign of the disease or not, I felt the blood hot in my cheeks and a tightness in my throat. No wonder Dr. Everett had taken such pains to try to prevent this disease in me.
“I managed to sedate her,” he continued, “but when the medication wore off, she lay in her bed, curled up like a child, saying she no longer wanted to live.” He spun his empty glass slowly. “You were born shortly after, and we all hoped that what had happened with Matthew would happen with you. But instead, she became still worse.”
He saw something in my expression that made him pause. It se
emed to me that he thought better of what he was about to say. After a moment, he resumed. “You were only a few months old when she entered a manic phase that seemed more fierce than usual. I begged your father to have her admitted to my hospital, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her being away from her children. She began to proclaim that England was the wrong place for her genius—that she belonged in Vienna, Paris, or Munich.” He bit his lip. “And then one evening, when your father was gone for an hour, she packed her clothes and her music. Peggy was upstairs in the nursery with you, and when she heard your mother’s footsteps in the hall, she came out, carrying you. She saw your mother heading down the stairs, dressed warmly and holding a portmanteau. Peggy called to her, and then she heard Matthew ask Frances where she was going.”
He stared into midair, as if he were picturing all of it, as I was. “As Peggy came to the top of the stairs, she saw Matthew on the landing, trying to keep your mother from leaving. But Frances pushed him aside, and he fell to the bottom, breaking his arm in the process.”
With those words, I felt as if I’d been struck myself. I’d grown up seeing the scars below his left elbow. I knew that he had broken his arm. But I hadn’t known all this.
“She didn’t even look at him. She just strode out the door.” He turned the glass several more times. “Naturally, Peggy stayed with you and Matthew. Your father arrived home shortly afterward, at which time he contacted the police. Detectives managed to trace her to a steamer, where she had booked passage to Calais under an assumed name. Your father went after her, but to no avail.”
His tone signaled that this was the end of his narrative; and I let go of the breath I’d been holding.
He looked at me sorrowfully. “Now do you understand why your father and I devised the special education for you, and why I have cautioned you against excessive feeling of any kind? And why, when I hear you play as you just did on that thing”—he gestured toward the piano, the snap of his wrist suggesting that he would shove it out of the room if he could—“can you blame me for being frightened for you?”
His words had created a cold fear in me, one that began at my spine and ran along my every nerve. “I understand,” I said. “Of course I do.”
A look of relief came over his face. “Thank God.”
“Have you ever told Matthew any of this?” I asked quietly. “Is he in danger?”
He shook his head. “I believe he remembers enough of your mother’s behavior to need no warning. Besides, his brain isn’t like yours. He’s much more like your father, as you know. Eminently practical—at times even phlegmatic—not to mention tone-deaf. And he is past the dangerous age.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Not only is the disease inherited,” he explained patiently, “but there is evidence that the age of onset is passed from parent to child as well. So if your mother’s symptoms began to emerge at nineteen and became full-fledged at twenty-three, it is virtually guaranteed that the disease will appear in her children at that time, if it appears at all. Matthew, being twenty-five, is past danger. But you are not.” He straightened up, leveling his gaze on me. “Nell, I want you to give up the piano. Not forever. Just for the next few years.”
Something like an iron band tightened, hard, around my heart. I sat stunned and silent.
“Nell? I want you to promise me.”
I spoke through the lump in my throat. “I . . . can’t.”
His eyes widened, and he removed his spectacles, pinching the bridge of his nose between this thumb and forefinger. “You cannot tell me that playing piano is worth your sanity.”
“Of course not, but . . .”
He flung his arms out in a gesture of frustration. “But what? You said you understood!”
“I do understand,” I said earnestly, “and I promise to be careful. If I see any of the symptoms you saw in Mother, I’ll stop immediately.”
He glared at me. “So you don’t understand. The very disease precludes you from being able to stop yourself. Don’t you see?”
I felt tears rise to my eyes.
“Oh, good God.” He gave an exasperated sigh and turned away to rest both hands and his forehead on the mantel.
We were silent for several long minutes.
Finally, he turned back with a resigned expression. “Well, you have been raised to reason for yourself; I suppose I am to blame for that, too.” His voice was bitter with disappointment, and I could hardly breathe for unhappiness.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I have no wish to cause you worry. I’ll come to you the minute I see any symptoms of sleeplessness, or—or lying abed for hours. Truly, I will.”
He pursed his lips. “If you must practice, will you at least promise me that you will try to do so with patience and moderation—and some restraint?”
“Yes.” I felt so relieved, I would have promised anything.
“Very well.” He studied me for a moment. “We will talk about this again in a month.”
I nodded.
A sigh rose from deep inside his chest, and he shook his head. “This wasn’t even why I came here. To lecture you, I mean. I came because the girl asked for you.”
Marceline’s name almost escaped my lips, but I caught myself in time. “She did?”
“Well, not in so many words. She asked for the girl who plays piano.” His head tipped and he looked at me searchingly. “How did she know that?”
“Oh—well, I told her,” I said. “Only because I was trying to speak of something that wouldn’t upset her. It’s rather difficult to hold a conversation with someone who can’t reply.” I managed a smile.
He frowned. “It’s an odd thing. She doesn’t seem to remember anything from the night she was injured, or much of the last few days. But she remembered that single fact.” He peered at me, and I nearly squirmed under his scrutiny. Then he shrugged. “Unfortunately, she seems quite wary of the nurses and me, and downright terrified at the idea of the police. So I’m glad she feels at ease with you.”
“I’ll come see her, of course.”
“Not today, as I have some treatments planned. Tomorrow would be best.”
I nodded.
He started for the door, and I followed. I removed his coat from the rack, and I helped him into it, one arm at a time, then handed him his hat. He took me by the shoulders and kissed my forehead, an unusual mark of care. I saw the worry in his eyes—and I understood it wasn’t only for me; he was fearful that he hadn’t said enough, or the right sorts of things.
It made me want desperately to reassure him. “I’m glad you told me, for you’ve put me on my guard in a different way, truly, and I—I understand so much more now.”
He gave a small smile. “Well, the good thing is that you can’t play any more today; there is a blessing in a broken string.”
I returned his smile, relieved that he had recovered enough to make a joke.
After he left, I stood with my hand on the door. I’d been playing the Chopin for months, with seemingly no ill effects. I’d even had a few experiences lately—such as finding Marceline injured—that had severely frightened me, yet I slept deeply and ate well and felt no desire to stay up all night or withdraw to my bed. I hadn’t noticed anyone struggling to understand my speech; nor did I feel impatient conversing with people.
But perhaps it would be wise to change to practicing the more measured, delicate Mozart for a while, just to be sure.
I sent a note to Mr. Kinsey about the repair. He might not come for a day or two. But if I couldn’t practice anymore at home, I could at least practice later at the Octavian.
Thanks to Jack, I had a piano that was reasonably in tune.
THAT NIGHT, I went to the Octavian early. The door was still closed, so I knocked, and after a moment, Sid Lowry opened the door and stepped aside. “Violinist was here ’afore, but ’e left again.”
“It’s all right, Sid. I’m just early.”
I reached the alcove, turned up th
e lights, and removed my overcoat.
It wasn’t until I sat down on the bench that I saw the single long-stemmed white rose on the fallboard. This rose was nothing like the ones we sold here. It was a large bud, pale as sugar, with a thread of red on the petals. The green stem was very dark—almost black—thick and freshly cut. I picked it up and inhaled. Its perfume was luxurious and exotic, about as far from the stink of cheap cigar smoke and spilled gin as one could get. I touched the leaves, feeling their silken coolness, and remembered Stephen’s bit of flattery, about me looking like an English rose. Sid had said Stephen was here earlier. Could he have left the rose, perhaps out of gratitude for my help?
I set it beside me on the bench and opened my portfolio. The hall was completely empty; the doors wouldn’t open for at least another hour. I laid out the pages of the first movement of the Mozart sonata, the Allegro moderato, and played it through once, more slowly than usual, finding my way to the section that was giving me some trouble. When I found it, I paused, took a breath, and reminded myself of the promises I’d made to the doctor: patience and moderation, I thought. And restraint. Besides, frustration such as I had felt that afternoon with the Chopin would do me no good.
Over and over, I played the twenty-two measures. I wanted the melody to come trippingly and lightly, without sounding hurried, and finally my fingers caught all the notes exactly as I wanted them, including a troublesome D that my fourth finger didn’t always find as fully as I wished. I breathed a sigh of satisfaction and then, to set the measures back into place, I played the first movement in its entirety before I stopped, content with it and pleased with myself. It was only a short session of practice, but I felt that, had Dr. Everett been there watching, he might have been reassured.
“That isn’t in the show,” came a man’s voice.
I looked up from the keys. Jack was standing at the curtain, a pair of wrenches held in one hand and an absorbed expression on his face that sent a peculiar flutter through me.
