An Inconvenient Wife (6 page)

“I do. I do. But to have hope dashed over and over . . .”

“We’ve never seen someone like this before. He’s a neurologist.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A doctor of the brain.”

“Oh, William. The brain? All the others said it was . . .” I could not even say the word.

“He specializes in nervous disorders, Lucy. Especially in women. Ella Baldwin speaks very highly of him. We haven’t tried
this before. Perhaps . . .”

The hope in his voice nearly brought me to tears. I watched the respectable shops and hotels give way steadily to the redbrick
buildings and warehouse trade of Lower Broadway, the advertising billboards pasted one over the other, layers of fluttering
paper—
TRY HOBENSACK’S LIVER PILLS, RHEUMATISM CURED IN THREE APPLICATIONS!
—and I wished I were naive again, that it was three years ago, when I had faith that a doctor could easily cure whatever ailed
me. How long had that hope lingered? When had it disappeared? After the second doctor? After the fifth? I could no longer
remember.

William once more covered my hand with his own. “When we’re done, we’ll go to Delmonico’s, and I’ll buy you tea and a cake.
Would that make you feel better?”

In spite of the fact that Dr. Seth was the current fashion, he could not afford the better offices in town. I grew more and
more nervous, to think of myself walking into one of these side entrances, past iron gates and down narrow stairs to a darkened
basement.

The carriage stopped, and this time it was not for traffic.

“We’re here, sir,” called our driver.

Jimson opened the door and helped me out, ushering me through the piles of stinking horse manure and garbage cluttering the
street. I hung back until William put his arm around my shoulders and forced me forward. I was momentarily confused—this was
no doctor’s office before me but a shop. Its windows were full of handsome trinkets, stained-glass lamps, gilt boxes. A bell
on the door tinkled when we went inside the incense-scented room, but no one was at the counter, and no one greeted us.

I hesitated, but William did not, and then I saw he was leading me toward a shadowed door in the back wall. Beyond it were
stairs and a dusty, dingy hallway that was in desperate need of fresh paint. The faint light from a window slanted in from
a landing above.

Our footsteps echoed up through the stairwell. We rounded the landing and went up another set of stairs that opened onto a
long and narrow hallway with doors lining either side. The stairs continued on, but William took me down the hallway to a
door at the very end. On it was painted in restrained black and gilt letters:
DR. VICTOR SETH, DOCTOR OF NEUROLOGY
.

I hung back and whispered, “Do let’s go, William. We could be home in time for tea.”

He grasped my hand and opened the door. We stepped into another dingy room with a small desk next to another door and an old
rosewood settee against the opposite wall, its red-striped floral upholstery frayed at the corners. There was no one there.

William cleared his throat and had stepped forward to knock on the other door when it opened. Out came a young woman with
pale hair and eyes. She saw us and stopped midmotion. “Oh . . . hello.”

“We have an appointment with Dr. Seth,” William told her.

The girl went behind the desk and fumbled with a thin book that lay open on the blotter. “Of course. I see it right here.”
She gave us an expectant smile.

William reached inside his coat and pulled out his pocket watch. “I believe we’re right on time.”

She checked the book again. “Oh yes, you are. But . . . um, well, the doctor . . . he’s not here yet.”

“He’s not here?”

“Well then,” I said, backing toward the door, “perhaps another time.”

William held me firm. “We have an appointment.”

“He—he had an unexpected visitor,” the girl said. “I expect him back shortly.”

“This is unconscionable,” William said. “I am a very busy man.”

“Yes, of course you are.”

The voice came from behind us. Startled, I jerked around to see a man wearing a heavy coat and a hat that shone wetly in the
light. Dr. Seth. He had opened the door without making a sound, though it was impossible that we had not heard him.

He smiled smoothly as he pulled at his gloves. “Forgive me for making you wait. I was unavoidably detained.” He glanced at
the girl, who shrank visibly at the sight of him. “Irene, perhaps you could make yourself useful and find some tea for our
visitors.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she murmured, leaving quickly.

He went to the other door and opened it, then stood back to usher us inside. I had expected William to continue to be angry,
but he was uncharacteristically quiet, caught—no doubt as I was—by the presence of this man. I remembered my sense that I
should have felt him the moment I stepped into Ella’s dining room; that feeling was more intense here, in this little office.
It was unsettling, the way he took up space, as if something had entered the room with him, something large and intangible.

Wordlessly, William and I preceded him through the doorway.

The room was darkened. Opposite was a bank of windows, though all but one were covered by lowered blinds; the single open
one looked out onto the brick wall of the building next door, at
COXLEY’S CIGARS, PIPES, AND TOBACCO
painted there in large black-and-white letters.

There was a click, and the room went bright, electric lamps blazing into brilliance. I blinked and gasped, used as I was to
gaslight.

“You see, we have the most modern conveniences,” said the doctor.

William murmured something, but I could not take my eyes from the room. The false light illuminated it to its worst advantage.
It brought into relief the large table near the window, scattered with papers and open books. Behind it were shelves full
of messily arranged books, shoved side by side, lying erratically one on top of the other. The only neat shelf was tightly
packed with thin black leather-bound volumes bookended with a large white phrenology head.

There was a settee that matched the one in the waiting room, two chairs upholstered in a bright red brocade, and a ladder-back
chair that sat next to a large wooden cabinet with several drawers. Near this was a long examination table. These—the cabinet
and the table—made me most anxious: the cabinet because I had no idea what it was, and the table because I did. I glanced
at William, who was frowning.

He turned to the doctor and said, “You
are
a phrenologist.”

Dr. Seth was taking off his coat and hat. Though he spoke to William, his gaze went to me. “No more than any other self- respecting
physician. The head is merely a personal reminder. Nothing to worry about.” He smiled, and I found myself transfixed, uncertain
whether to be charmed or afraid. “May I take your coats?” Dr. Seth asked.

William took his off, but I shook my head and grasped the front of mine, wanting the protection of it. Dr. Seth nodded mildly
and gestured to the settee for us to sit down. I did not want to do that either, but these choices were not mine to make,
so I went with William to the settee while Dr. Seth took one of the red brocade chairs.

Just then there was a knock on the door, and the girl—Irene—came in bearing a tea tray with service for three. She set it
silently on the table beside the doctor’s chair, then left.

When the door had closed, the doctor met my eyes. “You seem nervous, Mrs. Carelton. Perhaps some tea will reassure you.”

William laughed shortly. “Lucy’s nerves are the reason we’re here to see you, Dr. Seth.”

The doctor poured the tea with precision, added milk and sugar, and handed us each a gaily painted china cup. The rims were
thick, the edges uneven, but the tea was hot and sweet and soothing; he had made it as I liked it, though I had not said a
word.

“I have the feeling we’ve met before, Mrs. Carelton,” he said.

“The other night, at the Baldwins’ supper,” William told him. “We had not been introduced then, but you must have seen Lucy’s
fit.”

Seth straightened. His glance sharpened as it had that night. “Ah yes, of course,” he said, and I was surprised to hear a
brief impatience in his tone. “I assume that is why you’re here, but why don’t you tell me the whole of it?”

William said, “First, Dr. Seth, we need some reassurances. You’ve been highly recommended to us, but . . . well, you must
see our situation.”

“Of course.” Dr. Seth nodded. “I can assure you of the strictest discretion, Mr. and Mrs. Carelton. As you saw, this office
is deliberately situated to afford you the greatest privacy. I can promise that, should you decide to undergo treatment, my
notes will be destroyed at the conclusion. Irene is highly motivated not to speak of your visit. I guarantee that no one will
know you were ever here unless you tell them yourself.”

The doctor wrapped his long fingers delicately around the thick cup as if afraid he might crush it. He looked directly at
me. “Now, why have you come to me?”

William said, “We’ve been to ten doctors in the last three years. No one’s been able to help. You’re our last hope.”

I felt the doctor’s dark eyes on me. There was something improper, even dangerous, in the way he stared. My fingers shook
as I brought my cup to my lips; I dared not look up.

William went on, “It’s become unbearable living with her. We haven’t been able to keep a maid longer than two months. Lucy’s
fits terrorize the household. She has temper tantrums, screaming hysteria—the smallest things turn her into a mad creature.
When she’s not having a fit, she’s sad and inconsolable. She’s barely able to rise from bed. I’ve despaired of her. Having
anyone over for dinner is impossible, and in my business, it’s necessary.”

“I see,” Dr. Seth said, finally turning to William. “What is your business?”

My husband looked surprised. “You don’t know?”

“I confess not.”

“Yes. Well.” William looked discomfited. “Brokering. I’m a stockbroker.”

Seth nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, I . . . Last night Lucy took too much laudanum. It’s really become—”

“Laudanum? Who prescribed laudanum?”

“Dr. Moore. About a year ago.”

“How much do you take?” the doctor asked me.

“J-just a bit,” I managed. “A few spoonfuls at bedtime. It . . . it helps me sleep.”

“Tell him when else, Lucy,” William said.

“There is no other time.”

William gave the doctor a look as if to say:
Do you see what I must contend with?
I looked down at my tea, humiliated by my small lie.

Thankfully, Dr. Seth did not pursue it. “What have the other doctors said?”

William sighed. “Well, we’ve been”—he cleared his throat—“I’m sorry, this is indelicate.”

“I’m a doctor, Mr. Carelton.”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that . . . well, Lucy has been . . . unable to conceive.”

“And other doctors have attributed her moods to uterine monomania?”

“Why, yes, that’s just what they’ve said—some of them, anyway. We’ve tried everything. She took the water cure a year ago,
and then there was some kind of belt contraption that she had to wear. The one doctor thought an ovariotomy. Recently one
suggested she was incurable. He said I should send her to an asylum. An asylum!”

“Has anyone suggested a clitoridectomy?”

I went hot. I could not look at either of them.

“One. But Lucy . . . she’s not . . . not that way. It’s just . . . except for this hysteria, she’s the perfect wife,” William
finished lamely.

There was silence. I glanced up into the eyes of the doctor, which so agitated me that I looked down again into my tea, which
was sloshing in my cup, so badly were my hands shaking.

Dr. Seth said, “I think I understand, Mr. Carelton. Now, if you will excuse us, I’d like to examine your wife. Irene will
find you a newspaper to read, if you like.”

“Of course.” William rose from his seat abruptly. He set aside his cup and patted my shoulder and left. The door latched shut
behind him.

Dr. Seth leaned forward. I pressed back into the cushioned settee when he reached out. “Your teacup, Mrs. Carelton,” he said.
When I gave it to him, careful not to touch him, he set the cup gently on the tea tray, much as a woman might. I had never
seen a man move so gracefully.

“The examination is simple enough,” he said reassuringly. “I trust you’ve experienced one before?”

I could only nod.

“I will try not to embarrass you unduly. But you understand, I do need to know these things to treat you effectively.”

His gaze did not waver. I felt imprisoned by it.

“I understand,” I managed.

“Good.” He went to the door and called out for the girl, who came hurrying in. He said, “Irene will assist you. Please undress
to your chemise. There’s a screen just over there—” He pointed beyond the wooden cabinet and chairs, and I saw a red-and-black-lacquered
Japanese screen.

He rose and went to the table that served as his desk, turning his back to me, and I slowly went behind the screen and let
Irene help me. When I was ready, she gave me a small smile and left again. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest when
I came out from behind the screen, clad only in my chemise. He was waiting by the table, his suit coat off, his shirtsleeves
rolled up to reveal his bare forearms. The sight of that, along with the tangle of shining instruments gleaming beside him,
made me hesitate, but he nodded reassuringly and gestured to the examination table. “Please,” he said, and as I stepped onto
a small stool and sat gingerly on the edge of the table, he took up the first of his instruments.

Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth

Observation 38

Diagnosis: Hysteria (Neurasthenia?), possible Uterine Monomania

January 14, 1885

Mrs. C., thirty years old, consulted me for general hysteria. Married for four years, subject to hysterical bouts occasionally
before then but with increasing attacks, especially in the last three years, probably related to an inability to conceive,
though she has normal menstrual cycles. Has consulted ten doctors during this time, with diagnoses ranging from uterine monomania
to displaced ovaries. Took water cure with mixed results. Laudanum at night (possibly more often) for the last year. According
to her husband, she has developed an increased reliance on it, which resulted in an overdosage the night before, producing
a deep, comalike sleep lasting fifteen hours.