Part 14 (1/2)

She was quiet for a long moment. There is intelligence in her eyes that is sometimes quite astounding. I waited to see if she would admit the connection between her mother's death and her search for fulfillment.

E: Why . . . yes.

S: As a subst.i.tute for your mother?

E: I've told you I barely remember her.

S: Your unconscious remembers her quite well. She was very kind to you, and quiet, as you've said before. She guarded you from your father's outbursts, though you were always aware of them, and it was impossible not to feel the tension of his disapproval in the house. She came from old money, and she smelled of it in a way your father did not: She wore the same perfume her mother-your grandmother-had worn. Something imported from Holland. It smelled of tuberoses and ivy. When you smell it today, you feel faintly nauseated. She had soft hands, and she preferred colors in plums and roses, though your father did not, and she ultimately gave in to him.

When I finished speaking, Eve reached for her wine so convulsively that her wrist caught the fork and sent it clanking hard on her plate. I could barely hear her when she spoke.

E: I . . . I told you all that?

S: How else would I know it? I did not know your mother.

E: I don't understand. How could I have forgotten so much?

S: You haven't forgotten. Your unconscious remembers it all.

The waiter came, looking embarra.s.sed as he brought the next course, partridge in some winey sauce. I put my hand over Eve's to calm her. She gripped my fingers hard, as if she took strength from them.

When the waiter left again, she gave me a thin smile.

E: I'm sorry. I had not meant to- S: It's quite all right.

E: We're in public, after all.

S: It is nothing to be ashamed of, missing your mother.

She looked thoughtful, and I asked her what she was thinking about.

E: How much I have longed for her. Or perhaps not her but something .

I explained that what she felt was sehnsucht, as the Germans call it. The longing for something that can't be named. She agreed that her bouts with religion and poetry and painting all may have related to the loss of her mother, and with the sense she had that there was something more for her, something she couldn't see and did not understand.

This was my opportunity. How easily she presented it. I admit I did not feel a moment of guilt as I suggested she make an attempt to somehow regain the satisfaction she had felt from her religious frenzy and her poetry and painting, before her father took those things away.

E: I could not. William would never allow it. Papa would- S: Don't tell them.

The notion shocked her.

I did not want to frighten her into retreat, so I suggested that she start slowly, perhaps by sketching in pencil in her garden at times when neither William nor her father are at home.

She seemed to come alive at my words. Though she was still wary, I detected a certain glow in her eyes: The idea appealed. I told her I thought it would help to ease her feeling of emptiness, that elusive sehnsucht, and when she agreed to try, her fingers linked through mine. I was aware that I had not released my hold on her hand, nor had she on mine, and I felt the sheer exuberance that power can bring.

Chapter 11.

He had given me permission to be free. When I left him, I asked Jimson to stop at some little shop on Lower Broadway. Careful that no one saw me, I ran inside and purchased a small sketch pad and pencils, along with a little cloisonne box that was quaintly pretty. I hid the sketch pad and pencils beneath my cloak and gave a vapid smile to Jimson as I came out into the freezing air, muttering some nonsense of how I'd seen the box earlier and it was the prettiest little thing. All of which puzzled him, I'm sure, because I'd never made a habit of talking with him before, and it was none of his concern where I might have him stop or why.

But I felt safer for the lie. I could not take the risk that William or Papa should find out. I felt a little guilty about it as well, but that feeling fled nearly the moment I got back into the carriage and went home.

My fingers itched to do as Dr. Seth had bade me, but it was too late in the afternoon. William would be home soon, and though I was tempted to draw only something small, I was glad I had not when he came home earlier than expected, bringing Papa with him for supper.

”I heard you were at Delmonico's with some gentleman today,” Papa said as he applied himself to a saddle of mutton.

Papa's tone was insinuating, and William looked up with a frown on his face, his fork poised in the air. ”A gentleman?” he asked.

I felt a twinge of guilt that made me angry. I had done nothing wrong. I met my husband's gaze steadily. ”It was Dr. Seth, William. He said he wanted to observe me again in public, and it was time for luncheon.”

”I see.” William looked uncertain.

Papa frowned. ”I've never heard of a doctor taking a patient out for luncheon.”

”I admit it's unusual,” I said. ”But William felt I should spend as much time with him as possible. You did think it would be beneficial, William.”

William seemed about to protest, but then he glanced at my father and said with false ease, ”Yes, I did. Well. I certainly hope you introduced him to anyone who might not know who he is.”

”Thomas Crowe was there,” Papa said.

”Was he? I didn't see him.”

”He said you looked right at him and looked away again as if you didn't want to be seen.”

”Of course I didn't do that,” I said, though I had, of course I had. To him and to several others. It had been the wrong thing to do, I saw that now. William was right. I should have introduced Dr. Seth. I should have made sure everyone saw how innocent it was. Why hadn't I done that? ”I don't remember even seeing Thomas Crowe.”

”He said he was at the table next to yours. That you and Seth seemed to be quite involved in your conversation.”

I didn't turn to William, but I felt the question in his gaze, and I flushed again, as though I were lying or trying to keep something secret. The store flashed through my mind, my surrept.i.tious visit, the sketch pad and pencils that were hidden in a box beneath my bed, the doctor's words, Don't tell them, the way his hand had covered mine.

”It was merely lunch with my doctor.”

”No doubt it was. It was simply the way it looked.”

”And how was that?”

”You should have introduced him,” William said quietly. ”It looks bad, darling, not to do so.”

I glared at him, and William had the grace to lower his gaze.

After dinner, when Papa had excused himself and retired to his room, I said to William, ”You were the one who wished for Seth to be seen more in our circle.”

”I know that.”

”How am I to deflect gossip, then, if I'm to see him constantly and not let anyone know why I do so?”

”Introduce him as a friend,” William said calmly. ”Let Victor find ways to deflect their suspicions. He's promised to do so. Don't act as if you're ashamed to be seen with him.”