An Inconvenient Wife (33 page)

T
he door was locked from the outside. William had made me a prisoner. There was no connecting room, no way to escape unless
I chose to jump the two stories from the balcony. My chest began to tighten in that familiar way, the way I hadn’t felt for
months. I went to the bed and sank onto it, forcing myself to breathe, to calm, and the things I had refused to think of came
into my head: Victor’s and my kiss at Bailey’s Beach, William’s anger, his threats. I heard Millie’s words again—
It’s unhealthy the way he controls you . . . as if he has you under his spell,
and I was afraid because I knew it was true and I knew that of all of us, I had lost the most. Because he had changed me,
and I could not go back to who I’d been. I had felt, in those last moments, Victor’s surrender to William, his release of
me, and I knew he would do what he could to save himself.

I went to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air, staring at the sea that was only a stain of darkness beyond. The
moon had fallen, and there was a heaviness in the air that spoke of heat tomorrow. I felt a dread that made me unsteady, so
I sat on the wicker chair near the doors. Tomorrow. I saw the faint edges of dawn lighting the horizon. Tomorrow was here;
it would be daylight soon.

But it was not until dawn was lighting the sky, making the sea look darker than ever, bringing breezes that were already warm
enough to break perspiration on my skin, that I saw a man walking along the seawall. I rose and went to the railing, clad
only in my dressing gown, my hair loose and blowing into my face. I watched the familiar walk, the way a borrowed morning
coat flapped against the back of his thighs, and it was then that I hurt, that the pressure of it seemed too much to contain.
I leaned out over the railing to call to him. Before I could, he stopped and looked up at me, and then he turned a little,
and I saw William step from the porch to stand on the lawn, waiting as I waited on the balcony above him.

Victor came up the lawn toward the house. I was afraid to say anything; William’s hands were clenching at his sides, and I
saw in him the mindless fury that had driven him to punish me. My own hands were so tight on the railing that I ceased to
feel my fingers. It seemed to take Victor an eternity to make his way to the house.

When he came close enough, I saw the dissolution of the night on him, rumpled evening clothes, boots covered with wet sand,
beard shadow. But his presence was still so compelling to me that when he stopped before William, my husband seemed shrunken
and wan, like a ghost before a live and vibrant man.

“I want you to leave my house,” William said, barely controlled, and Victor nodded.

“No. . . .” I had not meant to say anything. The sound was a breath. But they both heard it. Victor looked up at me, and William
looked over his shoulder.

“Get into the house,” he said. “This is between me and Victor.”

Victor looked weary. “Go inside,” he said softly. Strangely, I found myself doing so. I went into my bedroom and sat on the
bed, and then I heard the two of them come into the house, the closing of the back parlor door, the rise and fall of voices.
My worry weighted me as the voices went quieter and quieter. My dread grew so that I went to the door and tried the knob again,
though I knew it wouldn’t give.

Then I heard the parlor door open and footsteps on the stairs—Victor’s steps. I rattled the knob. “Victor,” I called. “Victor,
he’s locked me in.” There was no answer, only the brief pause of footsteps, then their resumption as he went to the back bedroom.

It was an hour before I heard them again, along with the brush of something heavy against the walls. His bag. I pounded on
the door. “Let me out,” I called. As the footsteps kept going, I called more loudly. “William, you must let me out. Victor!”

I rushed to the balcony, throwing myself on it so abruptly that my dressing gown flew open. I stood there with my nakedness
exposed as Victor stepped off the porch, William beside him.

“Victor, no!” I cried. He did not look up; I saw nothing to show he had even heard me, and then they were gone, around the
corner of the house where I could no longer see them. He could not be leaving me, not like this, not without a word.

In the distance I heard the wagon, David’s voice, the crack of reins, the starting creak of wheels. The road was on the other
side of the house; I could not see him go. I could only listen until the sound of the wagon retreated.

He had left me.

William came around to the porch. When he caught sight of me still standing there, he frowned.

“Go inside, Lucy,” he said. “You’ve forgotten yourself. You’re indecent.”

“Where did he go?”

“I won’t talk to you about this here,” he said.

“Where did he go?” I had raised my voice; I heard it echo out over the beach.

William said, “Calm down.”

I did just the opposite. I went into the bedroom and pounded at the door with all my strength, until he hurried up the stairs
and pushed open the door. He stepped inside, closing it tightly behind him, saying, “Calm down, Lucy. For God’s sake, what
if the neighbors should hear?”

“I don’t care.”

William’s expression was tight and mean. “He used you, Lucy. I should think you’d be glad that he’s gone.”

“Where has he gone?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Why? You’re my wife. He’s gone from your life for good.”

I went to the armoire, threw open the doors, and took a traveling bag from the cluttered depths.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I said, “I’m leaving you.” I began tossing things into the bag, gowns and underclothes, a pair of shoes.

“Lucy. Lucy, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m leaving you.”

“Think of who you are, Lucy. God damn it, I won’t let you go. You’re a Carelton. You’re my wife. And that’s what you’ll be
until you’re in the grave.”

I was stopped by his words. His face was as cold as I had ever seen it, the rawness of his emotion bared. I saw once again
the inflexibility of his will, and a vision came to me: a grave marker, my name chiseled in marble,
CARELTON
at the very top, with
Lucille Marie Schyler Van Berckel
beneath. The truth of William’s words struck me, its very permanence, so I had to shake myself a little to forget it.

“Let me go, William,” I said. “It would be best to let me go.”

“I won’t do that.”

“I don’t want this life any longer.” The bag could hold no more. I fastened the buckles and put it on the floor, and then
I pulled out the traveling gown I’d arrived in and threw off my dressing gown so I was standing completely nude before my
husband. I saw him flush and step back; he had never seen me so carelessly naked. It made me feel curiously powerful, dispassionately
sensual in a vengeful way, and I let him watch as I pulled on my drawers and stockings, my chemise. I threw back my hair to
pull on my corset.

His face was white. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re my wife, damn it. You’ll do as I say.”

I tried to shove past him. “Not anymore.”

He threw me back in the room as easily as he had the night before. His strength made me angry, so I tried to push past him
again. “Let me go,” I said. “I don’t love you. I don’t want to stay.”

“I don’t give a damn what you want,” he said, and this time he shoved me so hard I went sprawling to the floor. “You’re my
wife. You’re a Carelton.”

He left me, shutting the door firmly. I heard the turn of the key in the lock, the thin echo of his voice as he said, “I’m
sorry, Lucy, but you aren’t yourself just now. It’s best if you go to bed. I’ll call the doctor right away.”

William didn’t return. As the morning crept into a dully hot afternoon and I began to sweat and grow light-headed, I took
off the corset and put on my dressing gown again. I sat on the balcony watching the sea until the afternoon turned to evening.
I began to hear music floating on the breeze, and I realized that things were moving on exactly as they always had. Somewhere
there was a supper I had been invited to, a supper where they were gathering and drinking and gossiping, and for some reason,
I found my vision blurring with tears. I went back into my room and lay upon the bed, falling into a restless sleep where
dreams plagued me, until I heard someone knocking on the door.

It was dark. William came into the room bearing only a candle. He stood in the doorway and looked at me steadily, his eyes
seeming to glow in the darkness. He held a glass of lemonade.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said. “It was a hot day.”

I was captured still by the dreams; this seemed only another restless image. I sat up and nodded. I
was
thirsty; I’d had nothing to drink all day. He put the glass in my hand and said, “Drink it all, Lucy,” and I obeyed him.
The drink was strange, a little warm, with a familiar taste, but my throat was dry and I drained the glass.

He took it from me and backed away. “Go to sleep now,” he said, and then he was gone.

The next morning I woke groggy and dull, my mouth bitter with laudanum. I could barely move. William had drugged me, I knew
that, but the morphia made me helpless. I could not care. I could only stare blankly as he came into the room with a hearty-looking
man wearing bushy muttonchop whiskers and dressed soberly in black. He held papers in his hand, which he looked at often.

“You see?” William said. “She cannot even rouse herself to modesty.” The man nodded, and his gaze raked over me where I lay
exposed on the bed. I could barely bring myself to show any interest in him until he came over and took my wrist, his fingers
curling around it. Then I wrenched away from him violently, remembering Victor’s fingers just that way. I backed up against
the headboard, twisting my hands together and wrapping myself around them so he could not get them.

The man looked at me sorrowfully. “Mrs. Carelton, can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

I began—inexplicably—to cry.

He did not try to touch me again. “I understand your situation,” I heard him say to William, and my husband came over to the
bed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Lucy, my dear, I am sorry. But you must realize what a danger you are to yourself.”

I turned away from him and heard him sigh. Then he went to the door and said something, and two men came in—David, who averted
his eyes hastily when he saw me, and someone else, some man-boy I’d seen in town. His stare locked upon me greedily, but I
didn’t care. I could barely bring myself to wonder why they were there, what they wanted.

Sadie came in behind them. She looked sad and anxious. Quickly she went to the armoire. She pulled out drawers and petticoats,
a chemise, a corset, my traveling gown, and brought them over to where I lay on the bed. “You two go on out,” she ordered
David and the other. William said, “Wait in the hall,” and as they left, Sadie urged me to sit up.

“Come on, now, Mrs. Carelton,” she whispered. “Let’s get dressed, shall we? That’s a good girl.”

I was too limp to care or to help her. “Where are we going?” My voice sounded slurred even to my own ears.

“Why, out,” she said, glancing at William. “It’s a good sunny day. Wouldn’t you like to go for a ride?”

“William won’t let me,” I said. “I’m his prisoner.”

“Don’t be absurd, Lucy,” he said impatiently, coming to the bed to help Sadie. “Let’s get you dressed.”

They pulled me up and I stood on unsteady feet. I held on to the back of a chair as my dressing gown was pulled off. My eyelids
were heavy, my limbs slack. It was as if they dressed another body or a doll. The layers were put upon me one after another:
chemise and corset, petticoats and skirt. The corset made me woozy, so when they ordered me to sit down, I did so, watching
as they shoved my feet into boots, the flash of the buttonhook in the light.

“Her hair?” Sadie asked.

William shook his head. “We’ve no time. They’re waiting for us. Believe me, they won’t be surprised.”

Sadie gave me a pitying look.

William said, “Come now. Let’s go.”

The bag I’d packed was still there, buckled and ready. He picked it up and called for the boys and handed it to David. Then
he took my arm and we went down the stairs.

I felt a niggling worry: This was odd, even for a dream. Real but unreal—where was I going? Who was waiting? But I couldn’t
muster the strength to ask those questions. I forgot them nearly the moment I thought of them.

We went from the house. The carriage was there, and William bundled me inside and put my bag on the seat. He muttered something
to Sadie, then climbed in beside me. I felt the shudder as David climbed onto the box, another jolt—it must have been the
other boy—and then we started off.

The rocking motion of the carriage immediately lulled me to sleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices. I blinked and tried
to sit up. The carriage had come to a stop. I looked out the window to see two men approaching, both in dark suits, both sweating
beneath their hats. William stepped from the carriage and spoke to them. I heard him say
laudanum,
and the taller man nodded and came to me.

“Mrs. Carelton,” he said in a quiet voice. “How nice to see you. How are you feeling?” He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t
place him, and I was too sleepy to try.

He held out his hand for me, and there seemed to be nothing to do but take it. He helped me from the carriage and handed the
other man my bag. William came up to me and said, “They’re going to take care of you, Lucy,” in a mild voice that made me
afraid.

“Take care of me?” I managed.

“Go with them, darling,” he said.

I began to feel panicked. “Where are they taking me? Where am I going?”

“You’ll go on the steamer into the city,” he said. “Back to the Row. Your father is waiting there for you.”

“Papa?”

“Newport has been draining for you, I know,” he said. He squeezed my arm, kissed my cheek. “I’ll meet you there in a few days.
I’ve some . . . things to finish up here.”