“Perhaps you could help me with my Christmas shopping before we go,” I suggested. I was not ready to be shut up in the house again today. Tomorrow might be different; I had to take advantage of my improved mood.
So, we again took an omnibus into Knightsbridge to shop at Harrods. We browsed the entire seven floors. In the mens’ furnishings department, Gilbert especially admired a walking stick with a faceted blue glass knob for a handle.
“That’s a gentleman’s stick for certain,” he said. “It’s very handsome.” He examined the price tag and put the stick back in the display.
“Let’s see what we can find for the family,” he said.
“What are you planning to buy for Honor?” I asked.
“I don’t really know, Claire. She is a hard one to read. She doesn’t appear to care for frills and things; she’s said more than once that she’s a simple girl and not ‘one o’ them toffs’ she could name. I think she may be something of a snob.”
“I think she may just be sounding you out, Gilbert. She’s a good girl and you could do much worse for yourself.”
“I suppose you are right,” Gilbert smiled. “She is a very appropriate match for someone like me.”
“She is quite pretty, too,” I smiled.
“She is that. I am a rather lucky fellow.” His smile broadened, and I could not help grinning back at him in delight.
I was grateful for Gilbert’s help with the packages at the end of the trip, for there were gifts for the Stubbins family and Erik to manage. We hailed a hansom cab to take us home with our bounty. I would shop for Gilbert on another occasion, that I might surprise him with that walking stick. I owed so much to him, and he would be pleased.
From the pages of Erik’s journal:
I have been so worried about Claire these past months that I have neglected my journals. Fortunately, I listened to myself instead of the doctor: obviously what Claire wanted was not an infant but another horse. The physical change in her has been remarkable. She has more of an appetite than before, but sometimes I think she is eating only so that she can work with Angel and not because she tastes the food. She is not the happy woman I married; I attribute that to the damp, dark weather here more than anything else. She has welcomed me in her bed each night, although her ardor is not what it has been in the past. Again, I believe this is part of her melancholia. I am confident that she still loves me. Still, these months have not been easy.
I must write about the Christmas program we attended with the Harringtons. Claire was attired in the beautiful blue gown and jewels I gave her in Paris and fit in with the society matrons as though she were to the manor born. For my part, keeping company in large crowds still wore on me, and I had no idea then what was in store on that evening.
We sat through several vignettes and arias, until there was only one piece left before the intermission. It was at that point that Olympia Harrington turned to me with a sly smile.
“Monsieur LeMaitre, I wonder whether this singer might be known to you. The Vicomtesse de Chagny -- Christine -- says she sang at the Opera Garnier during the same time that you were there.”
I felt the color drain from my face, and when I turned to Claire I saw a mixture of emotions in her eyes that I could not even describe. One of them was certainly fear, but of what I could not say.
“I ... do not believe I knew a Vicomtesse de Chagny,” I muttered, hoping the half-truth would suffice. I cursed myself for not looking at the programs we had been handed, for then I would have known and could have planned some kind of stratagem to depart before there was a chance that Christine and I would run into each other.
“I’ve taken the liberty of inviting Madame de Chagny to join us here during the intermission,” Olympia was saying. “I thought it might be amusing if the two of you had an opportunity to reminisce about a place where you both sang, whether or not you knew one another.”
Claire blanched: we were well and truly trapped.
How we both sat through Christine’s breathtakingly beautiful performance of Delibes’ “Flower Song” from Lakme was a puzzle. I am ashamed to admit that I could not take my eyes from Christine’s face; it was more rounded than when I had last seen her, and it took me a moment to understand why. She was, as we said in France, enceinte -- with child. For a brief moment, I hated Raoul de Chagny, the father-to-be, with all of my heart.
After the piece ended and Christine had taken her curtsies, I prayed for Claire to have a clever reason for us to leave. However, her keen wits failed us both, and before we knew it Christine was entering the box. Fortunately, my back was to her so that she did not immediately recognize me.
“Madame de Chagny,” Olympia was saying, “here is the gentleman I told you about who was at our musical evening and sang so beautifully. He has sung in the Opera Garnier; that is where he met his wife, who is also here. Monsieur and Madame LeMaitre, I should like to introduce Madame Christine de Chagny.”
At that point, I had little choice but to stand and bow over Christine’s hand. She started visibly when she recognized me, and Olympia’s quick eyes could not help but notice.
“You know one another, then?” she asked.
“Erik, that is Monsieur LeMaitre, and I are slightly acquainted through professional circumstances. I have not, however, had the honor of meeting Madame LeMaitre,” Christine managed. What a cool liar she was, a side of her I had never seen until now. Professional circumstances, indeed.
Claire curtsied and made her greeting to Christine.
“Madame la Vicomtesse, I am honored to meet you. Erik has remarked on what a gifted singer you were.”
My wife placed a slight emphasis on the last word and I saw, not for the first time, that the cat I married had claws. It was then that I identified what I’d seen on her face: not just fear, but desperate jealousy borne of the idea that I might still love the double-timing minx who stood there in front of me as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Up until that very moment, I had thought the same thing. Both of us were wrong.
As I would learn later, I was the only one who realized that I no longer loved Christine.
Claire continued to make polite conversation for a few minutes and then excused herself from the box. I could vaguely hear her speaking to the box attendant, reverting to her native French.
“J’ai besoin de cracher,” she said to the woman ... I need to vomit. She then remembered herself. “I am unwell. Could you send an usher to find a doctor for me?”
While all of this was going on, I sought to extricate myself from the less-than-desirable company of Madame de Chagny and the Harrington family. When I finally found a break in the conversation that would allow me to exit, I too sought the attendant.
“Sir,” she said, “the lady looked awfully pale and was ill. I found a doctor, sir, Doctor Treves. He’s seeing to the lady in the lounge.”
“Take me to her. I need to be there with her.” I raked my hand through my hair, for a change heedless of my appearance. “I’ll call for my carriage.”
The usher took me to the lounge, where Claire lay on a chaise longue. I introduced myself to the physician, a Doctor Sir Frederick Treves.
“She’s resting, sir. She’s been ill at her stomach. I’m a surgeon, but I don’t think she needs operating. I think she needs observation. I can arrange to admit her to the hospital, or to see her at home.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know yet, my friend.”
“I don’t want to be apart from her when she’s unwell. She ...” I sat down in a chair and dropped my face into my hands. “She loves me regardless, and I need to be with her. I’ll take her home.”
“What on earth do you mean by that, sir? ‘She loves me regardless’ is a strong statement.”
With that, I reached behind my head and undid the mask, revealing my face to the doctor. His eyes widened with interest as I tied the mask back in place.
“She loves me in spite of thi
s hideous face. I would die for her, and every pain that she feels is my own.”
“I’ll call on her tomorrow at your home if you’ll give me an address. For now, she really must be kept quiet.”
I called for my carriage and delivered Claire to our home. Then, reverting to a pattern I had long thought behind me, I had Michael take me to the Chinatown at Limehouse, where I sought out the arms of Morpheus in an opium den.
CHAPTER 40
I awoke slightly disoriented, but in my own bed. I remembered falling ill at the opera gala and that Erik had brought me home. I had never felt physically ill from emotion before, but there it was. I was sick at my stomach with jealousy over how Erik still felt about Madame Christine de Chagny. There was no way to mistake what I saw in his eyes.
I got out of bed and paced the floor, my mood dark and brooding. I was tired of feeling useless; the dignified and proper life of a society matron with servants and a fine townhouse was not what I craved. I wanted to work with poor Angel, nursing her back to health and riding her through the streets. I wanted to sing at the top of my voice if I so chose, something that would have gone completely unnoticed back at the opera house.
Most of all, I wished I had never laid eyes on Madame de Chagny. Then, I could have gone on naively believing that I was first in my husband’s heart instead of my certain knowledge that I was only second best to him.
A tap on my door, and my reply, admitted Maggie to my room. She brought me a tray with tea and toast and asked how I was doing. I shook my head saddly and nibbled at the food with little appetite. Gilbert followed close on her heels and closed the door behind Maggie so that we were alone.
I bared my soul to Gilbert, just as I had done so many times in France. I knew he would understand. However, when I reached the part in my frustrated narrative about being second best, he stopped me.
“Is that truly what you think? That Erik thinks you are second-best, and that you are useless?”
I nodded my assent. I could not imagine going through a life fussing over dinner menus and whether or not the lappets on my lace breakfast cap had the right amount of starch.
“You matter to more people than you will ever know, Claire.” He took my hand in his and gently brushed the knuckles with his lips. “I’ll leave you to your rest. And I will also try to find where Erik has gone.”
It had not even occurred to me that Erik was not home. I sighed with frustration.
Maggie knocked on the door again and admitted Doctor Treves.
“How are you doing, madame? Recovered somewhat?” He looked somewhat askance at Gilbert, whom I then introduced as our majordomo and explained that he was looking after me in my husband’s absence.
“Your husband is an interesting case, Madame LeMaitre,” Dr. Treves replied. “I think I know what your problem is. You need useful activity, and I have just the answer. Dress yourself and meet me downstairs; I will wait for you.”
Gilbert and the doctor took their leave. With Maggie’s help, I dressed in a starched shirtwaist and woolen skirt, threw a shawl over the lot and pinned on my serviceable brown bonnet. I met the doctor downstairs, prepared for whatever he had in store for me.
From the pages of Erik’s journal:
After returning from my night of debauchery, I went out to the stable. I wanted to be with Angel, and it took me a few moments to understand why. Both of us were broken creatures whom Claire loved despite our deformities and our past.
It was there that Gilbert found me. He tried to convey to me what Claire was feeling: that the life I so desperately wanted to give her was not what she wanted. I truly believed that if I could bless her with material wealth, she would know how much she meant to me, and yet it appeared that I was wrong. I was at a loss as to what might be the appropriate thing to do. I said as much to Gilbert, who just clucked his tongue and left me alone after telling me that Claire had accompanied Dr. Treves to the hospital.
I took off my jacket and mask, then my waistcoat and tie, and rolled up my sleeves. I picked up a soft grooming brush and stroked it across Angel’s red coat. Her eyes rolled, and I spoke quietly to calm her. Even with the work that Claire had done thusfar, the poor horse was still frightened of humans and did not yet trust that she would be touched kindly. My own mount, Hotspur, nibbled at hay in a desultory fashion as I curried Claire’s mare.
“We are not so different, you and I,” I said to the horse. “Not so different at all.”
When I had finished brushing the mare, I turned to go back into the house, carrying the clothes I had put aside. I didn’t even realize I’d left the mask off until I went inside and Maggie saw me. Her sharp intake of breath alerted me to my error, and I sat dejectedly on the hallway settle, clothes dropped next to me and my face in my palms.
“I am so sorry,” I whispered. “I never wanted you to see.”
“Mister LeMaitre,” she replied, “I won’t think another thing of it. You’re that worried about the mistress, aren’t you, if you didn’t remember?”
Gilbert and Honor came downstairs then, and my valet seemed surprised to see me barefaced as well. It was my great shame that tears began to flow at that point; I could not recall ever feeling so completely bereft. Even Christine’s betrayal had not hurt like this.
Honor brushed past Gilbert and put her arms around me.
“There, there, sir. The mistress will be fine. Just you wait and see.”
It was the most the girl had ever said to me, and somehow that increased the pain. What other woman would give as much to me as Claire had done?
* * * * *
At London Hospital, in Whitechapel, Dr. Treves deposited me at what I presumed was his surgery office door.
“I’m wanted in the operating theatre, Madame LeMaitre. Please make yourself at home,” he said. He bowed to me and left me alone.
I let myself into the suite, but saw no one. From a back room came a muffled “I shall be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, I shall,” I responded.
“Oh, my goodness. A lady caller? I wish I had known. I would have rung for tea.” From out of the back room came the man to whom the muffled voice belonged. The reason for his tone was immediately obvious: his mouth and head were grossly malformed, as was one side of his body. However, the hand he extended to me was as beautiful and graceful as a woman’s.
“Madame, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Joseph Merrick. Sir Frederick isn’t here just now. May I have the sisters bring you tea?”
I wracked my brain, for Merrick’s name was familiar to me. I finally remembered reading an article in the London Times about him: the press called him “the Elephant Man.”
I took the hand extended to me and sketched a brief curtsey.
“Thank you, Monsieur Merrick. Tea would be lovely. I am Madame Claire LeMaitre.”
I took the proffered chair and continued. “Monsieur Merrick, Doctor Treves asked me to wait for him here. I believe that he wanted me to visit a patient.”
“Perhaps it was I whom he wished you to see? Sir Frederick had said he would try to arrange callers for me. I am rather lonely here. And please, could you call me Joseph?”
“But of course. And I am Claire. So, you are Doctor Treves’ patient?”
“Yes, and his friend. Sir Frederick rescued me from a traveling circus and I have lived here at London Hospital since then; he is trying to learn about my disease.”
I understood then how the doctor thought I could help. Erik’s face was not even a patch on what poor Joseph’s case, to be sure. I was unafraid of what many people found freakish and frightening. How many women would take tea with Joseph Merrick?
“I see. Well, in a way I do anyway. I am not a nurse, Joseph. How am I to help you?”
“Claire, your presence is a help. I long to be able to take tea, or to discuss a book I have read. These simple pleasures happen but rarely.”
I sighed. How well I knew that refrain; it had not been that long since Erik hims
elf had been in the same position.
The young sister who brought the tea service was evidently nervous about the proposition. I took the tray from her and sent her on her way with an assurance that all was well.
“Shall I pour out, Joseph?”
“That would be very kind of you.”
I took the opportunity to study Merrick further while I arranged the tea things. His suit was of good quality, though it fit poorly; I assumed from this that his body was as malformed as his unfortunate head. Unlike Erik, Joseph could do nothing to hide his deformity and so it was there for the world to see and jeer at. The cruelty of humanity never ceased to amaze me.
Merrick arranged a napkin in his shirt collar. I wondered at this breech of etiquette in the otherwise gently mannered soul until he took his first swallow of tea; his misshapen mouth was unable to contain the beverage and it thus spilled everywhere. I had a brief memory of Philippe; after the fire, he had been much the same and very ashamed of it. Merrick seemed either not to care or to have accepted the mess as a natural course of events. I opted to do the same.
“So, Joseph, how is it that you came to be in Doctor Treves’ care?”
“He found me caged in the circus,” Joseph began.
My eyes widened and my hands shook so that I could no longer hold my saucer. I sat down my tea things. The image of Erik, captured and caged by my cousin, was still very fresh in my mind.
“Claire, are you all right?” Joseph inquired. “Is the tea too strong for you?”
“No, Joseph. I assure you. I am fine.” My hands, twisting the corner of my napkin, belied my words, but I asked him to continue his story.
It paralleled Erik’s in so many ways that it brought tears to my eyes. The assumption that his malformity had rendered him impervious to insult: the beatings, the humiliation. Finally, Treves had purchased Merrick from the showman and brought him to London, where he now lived in apartments behind the surgery on Bedstead Square.
THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Page 14
