The Web Weaver (20 page)

“I... I am not exactly sure.”

“You did not eat supper?”

“I could not face Donald—not today. I...”

“Violet, that is foolish! You must eat regularly. You may have the beginnings of a stomach ulcer.” Actually, it was probably quite far along. “Where is the pull for the maid?”

She took a deep breath and sat up. “There, by the bed.”

I walked over and pulled twice. I poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. “Drink this. It should help.”

“Thank you.” Her color was coming back, but she still held her hand to her side.

There was a knock at the door. I walked over and opened it. Gertrude looked up at me; she was so small she made me feel like a giantess. “Your mistress needs some food. Could you bring some hot soup and bread up on a tray?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

I closed the door, then walked back across the room, picked up a chair and carried it over next to Violet and the fireplace.

Her mocking smile had returned. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Violet, you must take care of yourself.”

She sighed, and then put her lip between her teeth. “I shall try.”

I put my hand on her shoulder; she felt so bony, so slight. She was only five or six inches shorter than I, not tiny like Gertrude, but next to Violet I must resemble some brawny peasant lass. She brought out both my maternal and professional instincts: she needed to eat more—she was far too thin.

“Is the pain better?”

“Much better.”

With a sigh, I sat down, stretched out my legs and flexed my toes again, warming them. “I shall want you to eat quite regularly, and every hour or two between meals you must drink some milk.”

She made a face. “I do not much care for milk, Doctor.”

“Consider it medicine and drink it down.”

She let go of her stomach. “I suppose it could be worse. It could be cod liver oil.”

“You take that after the milk.”

She gave me an incredulous look. I laughed, and she smiled. “Thank you again for coming. I was so dreading this evening, this night. I...”

I waited for her to continue, but she did not. “You should have sent for me if you were having pains.”

“I did not want to bother you, especially after last night.”

“Violet—it is no bother. Even were you not my friend, it is my work. Promise me that if the pains change, if they grow... more severe, you will call me at once.”

She looked up at me, her cheeks slightly flushed, her dark eyes bright.

“Promise me.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Ulcers can be quite serious if left untreated. I shall... I should speak with your husband.”

Her hand clutched at her side. “You must not!”

“He should be told.”

“
No.
”

“Why not?”

She said nothing, but glared at the fire.

The sadness caught me by surprise, my fatigue augmenting it. “Do you hate him so much?”

She glanced at me, and now her brown eyes truly seemed to burn, to smolder, like the red-hot coal on the grate.

“Oh, Violet, he must feel something for you—I know he does. When the cake was brought out...”

“You know nothing about it.
Nothing
.” Her voice was colder than I had ever heard it. I had an odd feeling at the nape of my neck; I turned away. “You are upset. Why?”

“Because you hate him—because you are unhappy, and it should not be that way.”

She sighed. “It is as I said. You are too good.”

“You are good, too.”

She gave her head an emphatic shake, a hard, sharp laugh slipping from between her lips. “No, there you are wrong. I am not good. Quite the contrary.”

“That is nonsense! I told you so. You deserve to be happy.”

“Do I? Does anyone deserve happiness?”

“Everyone deserves happiness.”

She smiled. “The Reverend Killington would be interested in your view. Does even Donald deserve happiness?”

“Yes, but perhaps... perhaps apart from you.”

Her smile was cruel. “That is all rather beside the point. I could never obtain a divorce. As a man, his adulteries are excusable under the law, and my virtue is intact. However, if
I
could find a partner in sin, then Donald might be persuaded to divorce me. Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination.”

My face felt hot, and I stared in horror at her. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, he has a mistress, a plump little blonde thing. No doubt that is where he is tonight, seeking consolation.”

“Is this some... joke?”

“No joke, I assure you.”

How would I feel if I ever discovered Henry had been unfaithful to me? I wanted to speak, but my throat seemed to have closed off.

There was a knock. I rose quickly and went to the door. “Thank you, Gertrude.” I took the silver tray and carried it over to Violet, then returned to my chair.

The grief had come from nowhere, and it all whirled about—the look in Violet’s eyes, the thought of how such a betrayal must hurt, the sense of what my life would be like without the love that sustained me. I did not trust myself to speak yet.

Violet frowned, then set the tray down before her chair and stared into the fireplace. “Oh God, how I loathe myself.” Her hands curled into fists, and one slipped again to her side. “I had no right to tell you—to burden you with my shame. I knew it would disturb you, but I went ahead anyway. Can you forgive me?”

I gave an impatient sigh. “For God’s sake, Violet—will you not believe I am your friend? There is nothing to forgive. The hurt, after all, is yours, not mine.”

“Will you not understand? There is no hurt.”

“The pain, then.” I suddenly understood. “The shame—the rage, the anger—it is pain.”

“Ah.” She laughed once. “Yes, perhaps... You are perceptive.”

I drew in my breath resolutely. “Now eat your soup. We are both too tired to know exactly what we are doing or saying.”

She picked up the tray and set it on her lap. She removed the silver dome covering the soup bowl. “Perhaps there is something to what you say.” She took a spoonful of soup, showing even then a certain graceful elegance.

I took a slow, deep breath. The thought that Donald Wheelwright had a mistress still shook me. I knew I was being foolish. So many men did. There were reasons, explanations, but none of that mattered. A thought popped into my mind—Sherlock saying Donald Wheelwright did not much care for his wife—then the glance he and Henry had shared. “They should have told me,” I murmured angrily.

“What?”

“Nothing. How is the soup?”

“Very good. It does feel quite... soothing.”

“That is what we want. I shall have to talk to the cook about what you should eat. No curries or extremely spicy food.”

“I never much cared for curries.”

The sudden grief had died away, and now I felt very tired. I knew if I closed my eyes I would be asleep at once. The fire felt so warm and good on my feet. They had been half frozen during the cab ride.

Violet’s throat rippled as she swallowed the soup. She did have the longest neck I had ever seen. She too appeared exhausted, her eyes dull, the lids half closed. I thought of Donald Wheelwright off with some plump, insipid blonde, and again I felt an ache of sorrow. He should be the one with Violet now—the one to comfort her.

“You know,” she said, “that I do envy you.”

“I am flattered.”

“Do not joke about it. You have everything, and I have nothing.”

“I would not mind a room like this.”

“Gladly would I give it to you—along with this entire house, all the servants, the furniture, the whole wretched lot. I have nothing that matters. I wish I could trade places with you for one day, but that would be worse—I could never bear to return.”

“You are serious.”

“Of course I am. I can see how you and Henry feel about one another.” She smiled briefly. “I cannot exactly understand it, but I can see that it is genuine enough. Then there is your profession—to actually be doing something worthwhile, something using the brains God gave you—and there is your beauty.”

At this I could not restrain a laugh. “Are you mad? You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever known, while I... You would not want paws like this.” I held up my red hands with their thick fingers.

“I like your hands. My beauty, as you call it, is only fashion, mere convention. Every man at the party was staring at you, even the Reverend Killington.”

“That dirty hypocrite. I know one man who could not take his eyes off you—Sherlock Holmes. You really are very lovely. That is why I
cannot understand...” I did not mention Donald’s name, but it rose like a dark cloud between us. “You know, if you wished—you are not too old—and you would make an excellent physician.”

This set her laughing. She grasped her tray with both hands.

“I am not joking.”

“I know you are not, but I haven’t the stomach for it—literally—nor the inclination.”

“It is good to use the brains God gave one, as you put it.”

“I know.” She kept laughing.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She caught her breath and managed to stop laughing. “It struck me as funny for some reason. I know because I do use my brains—I cannot help it. I cannot exactly turn off my brain, if you know what I mean.” She took a piece of bread and buttered it, then set down the tray. “I was hungry, and I do feel much better.” She began to yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “Pardon me. I feel now like I could sleep.”

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No.”

“Perhaps I should leave and let you go to bed.”

“Please do not go—
please
.” Her eyes were suddenly frightened.

“Of course, I shall stay if you wish.”

She bit off a piece of bread. “I am being foolish. Go if you wish. I only... I am tired now, but when I lie down I grow so... restless. How can I be so weary and yet not sleep?” The question had an undercurrent of anxiety.

“You are overly tired. Let me give you something, and then I shall stay until you fall asleep.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You really are a generous person.”

“Oh, do stop it, Violet! I assure you, I am no paragon, no angel in womanly form. You know better.”

“Ah, but you
are
an angel in womanly form, that bearer of the divine spark, that divine vessel meant to guide the errant nature of your husband onto the spiritual plain.”

“Now you are delirious. Whatever have you been reading?”

“All that is needed are the darling children, four boys and four girls.”

“Rather more than I had in mind.”

“But there will be children?” Her dark eyes were fixed on me.

“Oh, yes. When we are ready.”

“Ah. The Princess of Wales was quite worn out when she was our age. She had borne the Prince, our future king, six children by the age of twenty-six. Her reward was that he took up with Lily Langtry, the first of his whores to be publicly flaunted. Have you seen Mrs. Langtry on stage? They say she is still a beauty but has gotten quite fat.”

“Violet...”

“I am sorry. Please pardon me. My mind sometimes does cartwheels. Perhaps you should give me the magic potion so you can be off.”

“I can stay as long as you wish.”

“You are very kind, but I have imposed on you long enough. Besides, I am so exhausted I can hardly think straight. Do you ever wish you could shut off your mind? Mine just seems to go and go like some mechanical thing, the same tired thoughts repeating themselves endlessly.” Her eyes had an unhealthy glint.

I took her empty water glass and filled it from the pitcher near the bed.

“All of life seems like clockwork,” she said. “It all just goes, the wheels and cogs turning ceaselessly. The key has been wound, and now the machine must run. It is out of my hands. I thought I was controlling
it, but I am only one tiny part, one more cog. There can be no retreat, no turning back.”

I gave her so curious a look that she laughed.

“Surely by now you know not to pay any attention to my ravings.”

I added a few drops of an opiate to the water. “Drink this.”

She took the glass, swirled the liquid. “Will it keep me asleep? I... I do not like waking in the early morning.”

“It will,” I said, knowing that my firm pronouncements were often more effective than my medicines.

She raised the glass. “
A ta santé, ma chère amie
.” She drank it down.

“Now get into bed.”

She stood up and swayed slightly. I stepped forward and seized her arm. Again I had a sense of being so much larger than she. She smiled at me. “I am only a little dizzy. It is nothing.”

I led her to the bed and drew aside the covers. “Do you sleep with your robe on?”

“Yes, the sheets are cold—icy.”

I thought of the familiar warmth of Henry beside me at night, and something seemed to catch in my throat. I drew the covers over her. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. I turned and walked toward the fire.

“Michelle!” She had sat up in bed, her eyes wide open.

“I am only getting a chair.”

“Oh. Yes.”

I brought the chair over to the bed and turned down the flame of the nearby lamp.

“Do not turn it off.”

“I shall not.”

I sat down by the bed. Violet smiled at me. The drug already seemed to have soothed her agitated mania. Her pale thin face showed all her
weariness. She had dark circles under her eyes, her mouth pinched. She looked so ill it frightened me. I reached out and took her thin white hand in mine.

“You are so cold.”

“I am freezing. It was nice by the fire.”

I put my hand on her forehead. “You have no fever.”

She gave a restless sigh. “If only I could sleep.”

“You will, and I shall be here until you do. You have my promise.”

She smiled. “Did your mother tuck you in when you were a child?”

“Yes, she did.”

“I wish I had known my mother. My nanny tucked me in, and sometimes my father. He would tell me bedtime stories.”

“I’m afraid I cannot remember any.”

“His stories usually had insects in them. The ants were very good, very civilized, while the beetles were bad.”