An Inconvenient Wife Read online

  Millicent went to the rose brocade drapes and pulled them aside. “It’s starting to snow again,” she said, and then, as if that thought led logically to the next, “There are weeks left in the season, Lucy. How will you bear it?”

  I could not help myself; I laughed. “It’s not I who must bear it, Millie, but you and William and everyone else. You tell me, can you bear to be around me? Or will you withdraw too, as the others have?”

  “They are all there for you, Lucy. All you have to do is call them back.”

  I laughed again. “Oh yes. No doubt that’s true. Especially after that little scene with Caroline Astor last spring.”

  Millicent looked uncomfortable. She let the curtain fall. “William explained that you were not yourself.”

  “Not myself.” Even the dim light was too bright, and the hiss of the gas made a ceaseless buzz in my head, the smell of roses nauseating. I wished for darkness and peace. “I am perpetually not myself.”

  “Perhaps . . .” Millicent paused. “Perhaps . . . another doctor could help. If there were a child—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. If only there were. Millie, there’s a bottle on my dressing table. A brown one. Will you bring it to me?”

  I heard the swish of her skirts as she moved over the carpet, then the clink of glass as she lifted the bottle from the perfumes and powders and lotions there. I heard the little pop of the cork, her sniff.

  “It calms my nerves,” I explained. To my tired, aching eyes, Millicent was a blur of burgundy and gold fringe, ghostly skin and hair that disappeared in the shadows around her. She did not look quite real. “Please, Millie, bring it to me.”

  “There must be a spoon—”

  I waved the words away and took the bottle. “I know how much,” I said, and I brought it to my mouth, taking a whiff of the medicinal, faintly spicy scent before I sipped it. It rolled over my tongue, cinnamony-sweet, leaving bitterness behind as it went down my throat. I corked the bottle and handed it back to her, and then I rose and went to my bed. “I must leave you now, Millie,” I told her. “I will be quite blurry soon.”

  She looked worried but said nothing, just sighed and set the laudanum back on my dressing table. By the time she reached the door, I was already languishing in anticipation of my shattered nerves dulling, my restlessness puddling into drowsiness.

  “I’ll tell William you’re better,” she said, and I could not keep from chuckling.

  “Yes, tell him I’m better,” I said. “Tell him to come kiss his princess good night.”

  I did not hear her answer.

  When I came to myself again, I was not sure how long it had been, only that the lights were put out and I was undressed and in bed, though I had no memory of how this had come about, and no real concern—it was not unusual. The sound of my door opening had awakened me. William came inside. He carried a candle for a soft light, and it haloed and shadowed his face so that he looked like a demon. He was still dressed, and the smell of cigar smoke came with him, filling the room. I turned away.

  “I’m tired,” I said.

  I heard him set the candleholder down, and then I felt the mattress giving way beneath his weight, his warmth as he sat beside me. “How much laudanum did you take?”

  I spoke into my pillow. “Enough.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, “What did I tell you about making a scene tonight? Thomas Sykes could be very important to me—to us. It took me an hour to reassure him.”

  “I find it hard to believe he’s never seen a woman scolding her servants before.”

  He took that overly patient tone again. “I doubt he’s ever seen it done quite that way.”

  “Tell him who my father is. That’s placated them well enough before.”

  “He knows who your father is.”

  Of course Thomas Sykes knew. That he was a newcomer to New York City meant he was probably more aware of it than the people who had watched me grow up in the shadow of my father’s wealth and position. But they too were all old families with Dutch names, as secure in their place as I was in mine. Thomas Sykes and people like him needed us: our influence, our money, our social position. It was, I suspected, at least half the reason William had married me.

  “I’m tired,” I said again. “Please leave me, William.”

  But he did not go. Then I felt his hand, large and warm, on my back, through my nightgown, his fingers curving against my spine, a soft caress that nonetheless had me stiffening.

  “No,” I whispered.

  He didn’t stop. ‘’Perhaps we should try again. To have some hope . . . I should think it would soothe you.” He leaned toward me, whispering, so I felt his warm, moist breath against my hair. “Think of it, Lucy. A child of your own.”

  I felt his hand as a steady pressure, moving me, pulling me toward him, a familiar and irresistible force. I closed my eyes and listened to him unfasten his trousers, the soft snap of buttons, the sssshhhh of fabric as it fell to the floor, and then he was crawling into bed beside me, pushing up my nightgown, his hands rough and steady, unassailable.

  I let him have his way. I had fought him only once, on our wedding night, when he came to me and I had not known what for. I had been afraid, and naive, and when it was over I lay there in terror, humiliated beyond bearing. But now I knew what to expect. Now I knew my duty. Now there was the hope of a child to sustain me. So I lay still, revolted and tense, passive as he forced apart my legs and entered me. I felt the rush of his breath against my throat, the grip of his fingers on my hips, and I turned my head to look at the wavering candle and waited impatiently for him to spend himself.

  It did not take long. He collapsed on me, and I pushed him off and pulled my nightgown down again to cover myself.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, as he always did. He leaned over and blew out the candle, then hurried from the bed to hastily dress. “I’m sorry, Lucy, to inflict such brutishness on you. You know I am. If it wasn’t necessary . . .”

  I made no reply.

  “You’re an angel,” he whispered. “My sweet angel.” He kissed me chastely on my forehead and was gone.

  I grabbed the laudanum bottle in my shaking hands and took another sip, lying alone in the darkness until the blessed drowsiness overtook me.

  Chapter 2

  To say I remember when I first saw William would be not quite true. It is more true to say I remember the constant presence of him. One day he was not there, and the next he was, and always thereafter. I can’t remember when I first thought him compelling, when it was that his laugh first arrested me, when I first took note of how beautiful his voice was as he accompanied me at the piano. That winter is like a blur around me, with him never far away, adjusting my wrap as it fell from my shoulders at the opera, murmuring in my ear, standing at the hearth with his elbow knocking the ruddy pears and yew set to decorate the mantel at Christmastime.

  What I do remember is how ubiquitous he was, then how completely he disappeared that summer when we removed to Newport. How the days lingered on moist and heavy air that even the soft sea breeze could not completely dispel, and the hours dragged on and on without end, without diversion. I missed him terribly and was startled that I did—he was only my father’s stockbroker, no one I should even take account of, much less miss. But miss him I did, so that my friends remarked at how dour I was, how dull. There was something lacking in the air, I told them; the vibrance was gone.

  Then, one day in the late summer, only a few weeks before we were to return to the city, I sat alone on the beach. It was near twilight, with the sun setting pink and peach on the water and the thin waves breaking on the shore, barely nudging the mass of seaweed that seemed forever to mark the end of the surf at Bailey’s Beach. Music from somewhere—a supper I had been invited to but could not remember where—had started, and it lingered on the air, underscoring a seagull’s flight as the bird hovered and drifted, borne backward by the currents. I wondered whether he would rise or fall, land on the water or the shor
e, and then I heard the footsteps behind me, shoes scrunching in the loose sand.

  I didn’t bother to turn around. I was annoyed at the interruption—no one should be here this late, no one should have found me.

  “How alluring. You look like a mermaid cast on the beach. Will you trade your fins for legs, my lady?”

  I twisted to glance over my shoulder, startled at the sound of his voice, breathless with surprise and pleasure. “William! When . . . ? I didn’t know you planned to come.”

  “Earlier than this, actually,” he said. “But I couldn’t get away.” He leaned against the wall of the bathing pavilion, settling his shoulders against weathered wooden planks, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here so late? I had a devil of a time finding you. I probably wouldn’t have done so at all if not for him.” He nodded toward the watchman, who stood impatiently at the gate, his gold-laced uniform glinting in the sun.

  “I’m surprised he let you in,” I said.

  William smiled. “I used my charm and told him I was with you. It wasn’t too difficult. I think he wants to go home.”

  “Yes. I’m sure he does.”

  “Your father said you were going to supper at Bayside.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “So I gather.” William smiled again and came away from the pavilion to squat beside me. He looked as if he’d walked far in his flannel suit and boiled shirt. When he took off his hat, his dark hair was pressed to his head, damp with sweat. “What are you doing here, Lucy?”

  “I was hiding,” I admitted.

  “Hiding? From what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Ah. Everything.” He made a broad, sweeping motion. “The water, the beach, the parties, the music, your friends, your teas . . . running away?”

  “I was bored by their . . .” I bowed my head, embarrassed at what I was about to admit to him.

  “Their company?” he teased. He tilted my chin so I had no choice but to look at him. His smile was gone, and I wanted to squirm at the expression on his face. “Now, I know that can’t be true. Have you missed me this summer, Lucy?”

  I pulled away from him and got to my feet quickly. The breeze blew the sand from my skirt into his face. I picked up my hat and shook it too. Sand floated from its pale satin flowers like pollen. “Why should I miss you?” I asked him, and though I meant my words to be careless and cruel, they sounded only fretful. “Have you written me a single letter? Sent me a single word? Did we make some promise to each other that you would do so? You’re my father’s stockbroker. Why should I care what you do?”

  “Oh, Lucy, Lucy.” He barely blinked at the sand I’d thrown so rudely in his face. That smile was there again, and a twinkle in his eyes. I turned so I would not have to see it and walked toward the water.

  I heard him rustle in the sand, and then he was hurrying after me. “You did miss me, then.”

  “I’ve been far too busy.”

  “You’ve been sitting on the beach. Your father says you’ve been distracted.”

  “As distracted as I might be over a romantic novel. The days are long here. It’s easy to get lost in . . . daydreaming. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “So if I were to—oh, say if I were to ask you to marry me . . . you’d certainly say no.”

  “Of course—” His words suddenly came to me, and I gasped and faced him, my boot sliding in the wet sand. “What did you say?”

  He was expressionless. There was no smile, no teasing now. He said, “I’ve spoken with your father. I asked him for the right to—”

  “How dare you,” I said. “I’ve not heard from you for months. How dare you come here and surprise me this way.”

  “Lucy—”

  “No.” I backed away from him, holding up my hands as if I could keep him from me. Beyond him I saw the gatekeeper start from his post, heading toward us as if he thought I was in danger. I waved at him and shook my head, stopping him before he could come too close. “I thought you no longer cared for me. I was . . . To be truthful, I was not sure you ever had. You’ve never said a word to me. . . . I’ve had no idea of your feelings. . . .”

  “Of course you had,” William said gently, and he kept moving toward me, closer and closer, until I realized I’d been standing still, no longer backing away. He captured me neatly with his hands before I could rally myself to move. “You’re no fool, Lucy. Don’t act like one. You’ve known exactly how I felt. I thought you felt the same.”

  “You never asked me—”

  “Should I have, when it was so clear to me? I’ve treasured your smiles, darling. I’ve thought of nothing but you all summer long.”

  “But you didn’t write. You didn’t visit—”

  “I’ve had no chance. I wanted to make sure everything was right, that I was secure enough to come to your father, to be a viable suitor.”

  “There was no need. He anointed you from the first,” I said bitterly.

  “I’ve made him a fortune,” William said, without pride or arrogance; it was simply truth.

  “And I’m your reward.”

  He released me and stepped back. “Only if you want to be, Lucy.”

  I saw the hurt in his eyes and felt ashamed for having put it there when the truth was as he’d said it. I did love him, and I knew that I was merely punishing him for his inattention, for the hurt he’d caused me. But something in me would not let me stop—it was a flaw, one that I’d fought often over the years. Now I did not even try to calm myself.

  “I don’t know if I want to marry you,” I told him, feeling a dim satisfaction when he flinched. “How can I believe you truly care for me? This summer I’ve seen no evidence of it.”

  “Because you haven’t seen me—”

  “Why is that, William?”

  “I told you—”

  “You said you’d been busy. Is this how it’s to be when we’re married? When you’re busy, I just won’t see you at home? You’ll begin taking your dinners at the Knickerbocker or Union League—”

  “Good God,” he said. He lurched forward, grabbing my arms and pulling me hard so I fell against his chest. “Do you really think I could? Do you really think that I could keep from you a single moment longer than I must? Lucy, don’t you know me at all?”

  He held me away, and before I could answer, he kissed me.

  I was twenty-five, and though I’d had suitors before, I’d never been kissed quite this way, so hard, with such need. I felt ravaged there on the shore, breathless as he pulled away and stared at me in a way that brought heat into my face. It was then that I first felt it: this sense that there was something hovering just beyond my knowledge, some vast landscape that I could not recognize, could not begin to know.

  The tide had crept up higher so we were both standing in the weak surf. It lapped against the leather of our shoes. Above us, the gull keened and dipped; beyond us, the watchman turned discreetly away.

  “We should . . . we should go,” I managed, pushing away from William. I was shaky, the hem of my skirt wet and dragging against me as I tried to move. William took my elbow, steadying me until we had stepped onto firmer sand. I felt the press of his fingers on my skin. I was too tender; it felt like a bruise.

  “Marry me,” he whispered, and his voice called to some yearning deep within me, something untried, that had only just been summoned. When I looked at him, I knew that whatever this feeling was, it was not mine alone.

  “Yes,” I said.

  That feeling did not go away. In the years since, it had grown stronger, until that odd yearning left me restless and weary. I had assumed children would silence it, and when there were none, I thought I should put my energies into filling the world with beauty. But William only laughed at my efforts: I was not a good pianist, and he was the much better singer. My father told him that as a girl, I had become unhealthily obsessed with art, so William brought me embroidery silks and gave me carte blanche to shop. Mak
e my world more beautiful, Lucy. I should like to come home to a palace of peace and contentment.

  Foolishly, I had agreed with him; I had thought being the queen of his castle might be enough. But that strange longing began to create its own place within me. Only the laudanum helped ease it.

  William did not think the morphia was healthy, and I deferred to him; I did not take it as often as I wanted. Not in the morning, nor before a ball. Never—like tonight—before the opera, though my anxiety was such that I could barely fasten the diamond earrings William had given me. I glanced at the dark bottle on my dressing table, and Moira paused in brushing out my cape and said, “Should I bring it to you tonight, ma’am?” My throat constricted in want of it.

  But William would know, and he would be angry, and I was tired of seeing that desperate concern in his eyes, so I shook my head and turned back to the mirror, finishing my toilette before I went downstairs to find William pacing the hall. He stopped when he heard me and grinned as if he could not contain himself.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “Only that you’re so beautiful,” he said.

  “That is certainly not why you’re smirking like a fool.”

  “No. I’ve a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” I could not help my dismay.

  “I know you dislike surprises. But not this one, I think.”

  “What is it?”

  He clucked at me. “Not yet. Not yet.”

  I could not explain, but I felt anxious again, and afraid. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Moira coming down the stairs with my cape, and I grabbed hold of the newel post and said in a quiet voice, “Moira, will you bring me my cordial, please?”

  “She’ll do no such thing,” William said. He held out his hand for my cape, and Moira, that stupid girl, hesitated between us, until she gave it to him and curtsied and slid past me. William draped my cape over my shoulders and handed me my bag. “Come along, Lucy. Don’t spoil it.”

  He propelled me to the door, out into the cold evening. The air was clear and frozen, with small, dry flakes of frosted snow swirling in the streetlights, blown by the wind. The black iron frets and anthemion of the front fence glittered with ice, and beyond, Washington Square was silent, imprisoned by snow.