An Inconvenient Wife (20 page)

So I spent my days drawing and longing for paints. I wanted to show William my sketches, but I remembered too well Papa’s
admonitions and my husband’s solid acceptance of them. So I brought my sketches to Dr. Seth.

I had a case full of my work—studies I had made of the garden or the park. I drew these out and handed them to him one by
one, sitting on the edge of my chair to hear his opinion, wanting his approval so much it was like a fever.

He said nothing. He leafed through them one after another, with little expression in his face. When he was done, he handed
them back to me, and my heart sank.

“You don’t like them,” I said, stuffing them blindly back into the case.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I like them very much.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t help my smile. “Do you think them good, then?”

He steepled his fingers before him. “What do you suppose William would think of them?”

“William? Why, he would hate them.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because he would. I know it. He’d rather I was spending my days shopping for trinkets and carpets and curtains. I tell you,
I hate curtains. If I could, I’d have every window bare.”

Seth looked thoughtful. “Why?”

“So I could see the outside. The sky, the trees . . .”

“If you cannot be among them, then you can at least see them.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly!”

“It’s more than a longing to be outside, isn’t it?”

I frowned.

“You can see it in your sketches,” he went on, motioning to my case. “Every stroke of your pencil is in motion, every scene
is open. There are no houses or windows. No dark places. I think you’re right. I think William wouldn’t like them. I think
he would find them threatening.”

“Threatening?”

Dr. Seth leaned forward, and his face filled my vision. “Every page shows your longing, Lucy. For freedom. For passion. Just
think of what you could be if William encouraged you, if he wanted your passion.” His hand dropped to cover mine, settling
on my knee. “Just think of it.”

I barely heard his words. He had curled his fingers around my hand. As if he realized my discomfort, he drew back again so
quickly it was as if he hadn’t touched me at all.

“Was there ever a time when William wanted your passion, Lucy?”

I did not need to search my memory; the scene was there. Seagulls and salt wind. Sand in my boots, the rising tide. The smell
of seaweed in the sun and William’s warmly astringent bay rum.
Do you really think that I could keep from you a single moment longer than I must? . . . Marry me.

“I see there is,” Seth murmured.

I shook away the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

“Before you were married?”

“The day he proposed to me.”

“Show me,” Seth said.

Obediently, I began. “It was during the summer. My father and I were at Newport, and I hadn’t seen William—”

“No.” Seth rose from the chair and stood before me. “You must show me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I will be William, and you must be yourself.”

I was confused and a little appalled. “You mean I must act it out?”

“Yes.”

“I fail to see what good could come of that.”

“Because I believe that you have refused to feel such emotions since that day. I would like to know why. What did William
do or say to show you that such feelings were anathema to him?”

“There’s nothing—”

“We will try to see if we can reach some conclusion,” he went on. “But you must try to describe your feelings to me as we
progress. Now, where are we?”

Reluctantly, I said, “At Newport. Bailey’s Beach.”

“You went there together?”

“I was there alone. He came after me. It was the first time I’d seen him all summer.”

“And you were angry.”

“Of course I was angry!” I rose. “I had thought he no longer cared for me.”

“Very good,” he said. “Then let’s proceed. You are on the beach, and I am William. I’ve just come upon you.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You must try, Lucy,” he said, and his voice lulled me into submission. “I’ve come upon you at the beach, and I say, ‘There
you are, my dear, I’ve been looking for you.’ ”

I shook my head. “No, no, it wasn’t like that.”

“How was it, then?”

“I was watching the surf, and he stole up behind me.”

“And said?”

I turned my back to him, trying to remember. “Something about mermaids trading their fins for legs. How I reminded him of
that.”

“Very poetic,” he said. “Very well. Lucy, my dear, you look very like a mermaid who’s traded her fins for legs.”

Not right, but this entire exercise felt so odd to me, I only wanted it to be over. I turned to face him. “William,” I said,
then nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “I didn’t expect you.”

Dr. Seth gave me a chiding look. “I had trouble getting away.”

“The entire summer?”

The doctor shrugged. “It’s been a busy season. I came as soon as I could.”

“You could have written. Or sent someone to explain.”

“But I thought you would know,” he said, stepping closer. “You must have known I would come if I could. You must know how
much I love you.”

I winced. “William was not so . . . passionate.”

Dr. Seth raised a brow. “No? But I think that’s how you wanted him, wasn’t it? Passionate.”

“Perhaps a little,” I admitted.

Seth came closer still, only inches away, and he took my arms, lightly holding me in place. “It was a romantic evening, wasn’t
it? Near sunset?”

“Yes,” I said. I began to feel a little breathless.

“The sky was pink. There were seagulls—”

“A single gull.”

“A single gull. Dipping with a wind that was barely there. The waves were soft on the shore.”

“Yes.”

“You were longing for something. For me.”

“Oh, yes. . . .”

“I love you, Lucy,” he said. “I want to marry you. Say you’ll have me.”

“Why should I . . . have you?” I managed. My throat was dry. The doctor’s face was wavering before me, so I could not see
it clearly. “You’re nothing to me. My father’s stockbroker—I shouldn’t care for you at all.”

“But you do.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then perhaps I can convince you how much
I
care,” he said, and he kissed me, and for a moment I forgot it was not William; I closed my eyes, lost in the experience,
in the hard softness of his lips. I opened my mouth to him and stepped closer and felt that dip deep in my stomach, that turning
over, that yearning that made me moan against him and grip him.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered in my mouth, and I said, “Yes. Yes. . . .”

I was still saying
yes
as he drew back slightly, saying, “What do you want to say, Lucy?”

“Don’t leave me,” I whimpered. “Oh, why won’t you take me there? Why must you leave me?”

“Because I’m afraid of you,” he whispered back. “A woman like you, Lucy, would suck me dry. You’re a vampire.”

I felt as if I’d just awakened from a deep sleep, from too vivid dreams. I opened my eyes and broke away, seeing not William
but the doctor, his expression contorted and angry, speaking the words William had never spoken but which I knew were true.

“Oh dear God,” I said, putting my hand to my mouth, trembling.

Impatiently, Seth said, “Isn’t that what he would say?”

“Yes. Yes. But how do you know this?”

“You forget, I know William. I’ve talked to him. Do you think he’s so different from anyone else? Half the men on Fifth Avenue
think the same way.” Seth turned on his heel and strode to his desk. “No doubt he’s even afraid of self-gratification,” he
said contemptuously. “Such absurd ideas run rampant among supposedly learned men. To think that a woman’s passion can steal
the energy from a man . . .”

“It’s not true?”

“There are no scientific grounds for such a belief, only moral claptrap.”

“And morality cannot be truth?” I asked.

He was at his desk riffling impatiently through papers, but when I asked the question, he stopped and looked at me. “Do you
think you’re a vampire, Lucy?”

“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “I believe that marriage has taken the best from William.”

“Really? I rather think the opposite.”

“The opposite?”

“That marriage to William has taken the best from you.”

I could say nothing to that.

“I believe,” he said, leaving his desk and coming toward me, “that William felt your passion that day at the beach—it would
have been impossible not to—and it frightened him. I believe this is one of the reasons he’s never encouraged it. The only
question is why he went ahead and married you, if passion was not what he wanted.”

“Perhaps he wanted love,” I said.

“Or social advancement?”

“He does love me.”

“Conditionally,” Dr. Seth said. “If you were to give in to your passion, do you think he would accept it?”

I knew the answer, but I would not tell the doctor. “We both had expectations when we married,” I said stubbornly. “I know
of no one who doesn’t.”

“I’m not speaking of expectations,” he said. “I’m speaking of conditions. What were yours, Lucy?”

I could not answer.

“You said: ‘Why won’t you take me there?’ What
there
did you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I felt undone. I could not think. “It was just something I said. I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you should think on it,” he told me. “What was it you wanted from your marriage? Did you perhaps think that at least
one aspect of your longing could be fulfilled? Did you think your husband would satisfy your desires? Or did someone tell
you that only coarse women experience sexual fulfillment?”

“My father,” I whispered. “My husband.”

“Ah,” he said with a sharp smile. “The two men who have kept you in chains. Tell me, Lucy, what does your husband call you
when he makes love to you? ‘My angel’? ‘My savior’?”

Startled, I said, “A-angel.”

“A man worships angels, he does not screw one.”

His crudeness brought tears to my eyes. I backed away from him. “How can you say such things to me?”

“I’m trying to help you, Lucy,” he said, and his voice softened. His eyes became gentle. He came over to where I was, nearly
at the door. “Do you remember how you feel when you’re drawing?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And when your mother drowned, wasn’t there a moment when you envied her?”

“For dying?” My voice was shaking.

“For escaping,” he whispered. “For finally being free.”

I could not deny it. He reached for my cloak and put it around my shoulders, fastening the clasp. I fancied that his hands
lingered there overlong, that his fingers stroked my shoulder.

“Come, now, Lucy,” he said tenderly. “I want to help you to be free.”

When I returned home, Harris informed me that William was at the building site and would be home late, so I had the hours
to myself. I went to my bedroom and stood at the window looking out, thinking over what Seth had said, and my body yearned.
I allowed myself to think of how I’d felt in his office, and I could not deny that I wanted it again—but this time with William.
It had been the overriding sense in my dreams, what I’d searched for in every painting I’d bought, every sculpture. I wanted
to feel passion with my husband that was real and welcomed.

I changed into my dressing gown and stood again at the window, watching the sun go down and gild the sky above Washington
Square. I watched the carriages and the fading light and knew exactly how the air felt; the days were reluctant to give up
their growing warmth to the night.

I asked Moira to send William to me when he arrived home. I told her that I would take supper in my room, but when she brought
the plate, I let it lie there. I took the glass of wine and drank that—for courage as much as any other reason, though the
truth was that I did not feel nervous or afraid about what I was to do. It seemed I’d been waiting on such an occasion for
some time; it was my doctor who had brought it to the fore.

I saw him come home. He stepped out of the cab and came up the stoop with rushing steps, as if he could not wait to be here.
I wondered if he did that every day, or if there was simply some good news to tell—good enough to make him want my inconvenient
company.

The door opened and closed; there were voices in the hall, Harris’s soft whisper, William’s boom. He did not come up right
away. He would go to his study, of course, and pour himself a drink. I knew his habits better than my own. When, moments later,
I heard his step on the stair and the soft knock on my door, I turned with the words already on my lips.

“Come in.”

He stepped inside, closing my door behind him. He held a glass of bourbon in his hand. On his face was a look I had seen many
times before. It was wary.

I smiled at him. “Which Lucy will you find today?” I teased. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking? Will I be hysterical or sad
or disobedient?”

“I would prefer,” he said slowly, “that you be the wife welcoming her husband home.”

“I am that,” I told him. “Welcome home.”

He frowned at me. “What ails you, Lucy?”

“Nothing at all. I feel fine, in fact.”

“Did you see Victor today?”

“Yes. I’ve missed you,” I said.

“Well, I’ve been quite busy. You know that. I’ve taken on two more clients at the ’Change, and what with the house and the
clubs—”

“I don’t mean today,” I said. I put down my wineglass and moved toward him. “I mean that I miss the man you were; the man
I married.”

He looked confused. “What’s this about?”

“Do you remember that day at the beach, William? The day you proposed to me?”

“Of course I remember it,” he said, though he squirmed a little, and I was not sure he told the truth.

“Do you remember kissing me?”

He went still. His hand gripped his glass. “Yes.”

“You never kiss me. I don’t think you’ve kissed me since the night we wed.”

“I’ve kissed you,” he said.