She Walks in Beauty (37 page)

“I could not keep it inside.”

“Keep … ?”

“Of course, she worked with the corsetiere … I provided her with the best services that money could buy.”

Corsetiere?

“The woman said she could provide a sort of structure for her. To keep it fixed inside.”

It?

“But the tighter she laced, the worse the problem became. I should have known … I might have thought … but … she tried them all.” He was staring at the pile of devices strewn about the floor.

I gathered them up and shoved them back into the box.

“They worked, each one, for a while. But none of them permanently. And then she developed the infection.”

“Mama died of the fever.”

“Yes. Caused by a prolapsed womb which finally fell completely and then became infected.”

“I don’t understand what you mean when you say
prolapsed
. . .”

“She could not keep her womb fixed inside her.”

“Her womb?” How could a womb not be … ? “But isn’t a womb meant to be inside?”

“Yes.”

“When you say that it wasn’t inside … ?”

“It fell. Outside.”

Her womb fell outside. “Of her … her … body?”

“Yes. She was in great pain.”

“But couldn’t you do something for her?”

“We tried. I tried.” He gestured toward the box.

The box of devices. With rings, and cups, and bowls in varying sizes. From small to large. And suddenly, I understood.

“I ordered every kind of support, every pessary … I tried everything I knew to do. But still, her liver atrophied … and then when she developed the infection . . .”

Now I understood why she always winced when I sat on the edge of her bed. I understood why she nearly fainted the day I stumbled in my approach and threw an arm out to steady myself. And I understood now exactly what those devices had been used for. Bile rose in my throat.

“You asked the corsetiere to treat her?” I could no longer keep my tone modulated. Hysteria had spun my words into a shriek.

“It seemed best.”

“She was clawing at her corset! She wanted to be freed!”

“I did what I knew to do.”

What he knew to do? He didn’t know anything! “But don’t you see? You’re the one that killed her! You told her she had to do that to herself. In order to be beautiful. To you! Can’t you see?”

He stood there, staring at the devices, mouth working, but there were no words. He had nothing to say.

“Couldn’t you see? Why couldn’t you see! She was beautiful. She was perfect.”

“She was. We made her into the most beautiful woman in the city.”

“But she was already beautiful. You’re the one that ruined her.”

“I did no such—”

I pushed up from the floor to my knees. Tried to gain my feet, but stood up on my skirts instead. My gait shortened, I stumbled. Throwing out my hands for balance, I plunged them straight into the box of pessaries.

I remember opening my mouth to scream. I remember feeling my fingers caught up in steel coils and rubber rings, and then the box began to swirl and the cups and bowls merged together as all of the color drained out of the world.

32

I WAKENED SLOWLY, feeling as if my limbs had been weighted with something deliciously warm and downy. I felt as if I were floating, shrouded by a big, heavy blanket. It seemed too much trouble to move, too much trouble to even open my eyes. So I just lay as I was, uncertain where I was, but not truly caring to know.

“Give her another dose in three hours.”

Wherever I was, I was not alone. That voice had been my father’s.

I felt a hand touch my cheek. A warm hand. It slid to my temple. “And perhaps … perhaps you should think about a larger corset.”

“Larger?” That voice was Aunt’s. “But her waist is gargantuan! No one would want her as she is. Not as she is now. And certainly not the De Vries heir. Not when there’s Lizzie Barnes to consider. There’s too much that depends upon this debut. And there are less than two weeks left in the season.”

I heard Father sigh. The hand disappeared, and I regretted the loss of that warmth. “Then at least do not lace her any tighter. There is a point at which I can no longer be of any help. The point at which her mother … failed … and if that happens, she’s no good to anyone.”

I heard Father’s footsteps retreat. Heard a door open. Then close.

I had almost drifted into a place of perfect peace and contentment when I heard a sigh and came to realize that it came from beside me. I tried to turn my head, but could not do it. And so, not displeased, and certainly not anxious, I slipped back beneath the comfortable haze of oblivion.

I slept through the rest of the night. When I woke the next morning, my limbs were restless and my body longed for some useful activity. Aunt aided me to sitting. And then she helped me to stand. My head spun for a moment, but then slowly settled, like a swirl of autumn leaves.

Aunt gestured to the maid.

She came, hands ready to tighten my laces.

“It was the corset that killed Mama.”

“Yes.” Aunt looked me in the eyes. “But we didn’t know it at first. Not until it was too late.”

“The same corset that you’ve made me wear.”

“The same corset that any girl of good breeding wears.”

“It’s killing me.”

“It’s molding you. In any case, we’re not reducing to the extreme that your mother reduced. And once you’ve obtained the heir, then we’ll order new, larger ones.”

Once I’d obtained the heir.

The maid pulled the laces tight. My breathing was severed, for just an instant. Then, slowly, my lungs adjusted and my breath returned.

Whenever I tried to turn my thoughts back to what happened in Mama’s room, they slithered away from me like serpents. I couldn’t reconcile the facts of Mama’s death with my childhood’s beliefs. I couldn’t bring myself to comprehend the horrible, agonizing illness that she had endured. Or the fact that my father, a physician, a man who ought to have been her first defender, had failed her. And that he had chosen to sacrifice my own well-being the same way.

There rose no day, there roll’d no hour
Of pleasure unembitter’d;
And not a trapping deck’d my power
That gall’d not while it glitter’d.

I understood the words now. And if I had any tears left, I would have wept from the knowledge. But a rage had welled up inside me against my father. If he had implicated himself in Mama’s death, then what else had he done? Who else had he harmed?

And what had he been doing in The Bowery?

I knocked on the door to Father’s study.

“Enter.”

I turned the knob and pushed it open.

“My dear. Are you feeling better?”

I nodded and tried to smile.

He gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

I sat.

“What can I do for you?”

I wasn’t quite sure. And now that I was in his study, sitting across the desk from him, I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t just ask him outright. Could I?

He was drumming his fingers against the polished wood of his desk.

“There’s a society column.”

“Yes?”

“
The Tattler
.”

He nodded. Once. “I am familiar with it.”

“There was a piece … not a piece, really, but there was a mention in it of your being familiar with The Bowery.”

“The Bowery.”

“I think it said ‘the bowels of The Bowery.’” I knew that it had said “the bowels of The Bowery.”

“And why does this concern you?”

“Because it seems that this column is usually … right. And The Bowery is—”

“Unsavory.”

I nodded.

He pursed his lips as he looked at me.

“Do you … I mean to say, you don’t go there … ?”

I regretted the words the instant they left my mouth. Looking at his studied good looks and respectable bookshelves filled with texts, I couldn’t think why I imagined he would ever frequent such a place.

“What concern is it of yours, Clara? I am doing my best, everything I can think to do, to ensure that you gain a place in society. To ensure that you will never fall victim to the sudden poverty that I had to endure. Are you telling me that you’re ungrateful for my efforts?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Then why should you care about my methods?”

“If it’s … perhaps … Do you go to The Bowery to treat patients?”

He laughed. But it wasn’t at all in amusement. “I have plenty of patients uptown. They pay me quite nicely and rarely complain. My work is not difficult. I dose half my patients with laudanum and the other half with alcohol.”

“Alcohol?”

“They’re drunks, all of them. Or cocaine addicts.”

Cocaine? “How could—?”

“What do you think is in my famous tonic?”

“Medicine.”

He smiled at me as if I were simple. “Yes. Medicine for the nerves. Created from alcohol. Thirty percent. It would steady anyone’s nerves. A nice bit of luck that I stumbled onto the recipe.” He eyed the safe in the corner with something akin to pride in his eyes. “And it’s locked away so that it can never be duplicated. Unless I choose to let it be.”

“But—”

“They’re not ill. At least not most of them. But if taking a sip of
Dr. Carter’s
now and then allows them to put their minds at ease and face another day of drudgery, then why should I begrudge them?”

“Because it’s immoral!”

“Yes. I suppose it is. Tragic. But they keep asking me for more. And more for them means more money for me.”

He seemed quite imperturbable. “Is that what it’s all about? Money?”

He laughed. “Of course it’s about money. It’s all about money—everything’s about money! And don’t look at me as if you’re horrified by it. It’s only thanks to me and my quick thinking that you’ve had the upbringing you’ve had. The Panic of ’73 and those De Vrieses stripped me of our family’s money. We owe everything we have to
Dr. Carter’s
. . . and the patients who drink it.”

“It’s all about money.” At last, I was beginning to understand him.

“Yes. And if I hope to gain any, I must go where it is. The Bowery is one of those places.”

The Bowery. A place of prostitutes and abortionists and extortionists.

“Ah. I can see that I’ve shocked you. But any well-bred woman knows that it’s best to just accept and ignore.”

“Accept and ignore.” My voice sounded as if it were coming from such a great distance.

“Accept that all men have their little peccadilloes and learn how to ignore them.”

“All men?”

He shrugged. “Most men. There has to be somewhere to go to discuss Mr. Hamilton’s affairs and Mr. Vandermere’s perversions and Mrs. Remstell’s unmentionable liaisons.”

“I’m not meant to speak of things so disagreeable.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

“It’s what Aunt taught me.”

He nodded approval. “Always listen to what she says.”

“But … if you … what I mean to say is, I don’t know how to speak of such things!”

“And well you shouldn’t. It’s the way things are. Women agree not to mention the unmentionable, and men agree to pretend as if they never commit such transgressions. That’s the way it works in polite society.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “I’ve disillusioned you. I’ve disillusioned me. But if this is life—then let’s have the best of it.” He smiled, but it was a smile devoid of animation. “That’s what I’m working to secure for you. The best of it. If this is all there is, then at least you’ll have it all.”

33

WITH THE TRUTH of Mother’s death and the revelation of Father’s life, society seemed a sham. A swirling, twirling, glittering façade. None of it of worth. None of it quite real. Except for Katherine. She, I believed, was real. And I had come to detect a deep sadness in her when she looked at Mr. Douglas. Which was quite often. But as far as I could tell, they had never once spoken. I decided to remedy the situation.

That night, once Lizzie relieved me of Franklin, I made my way to Katherine’s side.

“There is someone you must meet. He has been a great help to me this season.”

She turned to me and smiled. “Of course. I would be pleased to. It’s always good to have a savior.”

As soon as she saw who it was I was taking her to, she plucked at my sleeve. “But—”