Part 40 (1/2)
”Why, yes,” Dr. Little said, but warily, as if he had begun to smell something unpleasant.
Again Howe turned to the jury, raising his voice so it echoed against the smoke-stained ceiling. ”What was the name of that doctor?”
”Victor Seth.”
There was more than a murmur. There were hushed whispers, nudging, shuffling feet. I kept my gaze on William Howe, on Dr. Little. I didn't dare turn around for fear of what the reporters might see on my face.
”Were you aware, Dr. Little, that Victor Seth was the same doctor Mrs. Carelton had been seeing previously? The one who was with her in Newport, the one who treated her in New York City, the one she claimed to have had an affair with?”
”Objection!” Scott was on his feet. The judge waved him quiet.
Dr. Little looked genuinely shocked. ”No,” he said. ”He never said anything. She never said-”
”He had good results, you say?”
”Yes, yes.” Dr. Little was pale.
”She was not insane when she left Beechwood Grove?”
”No.” It was a whisper.
Howe smiled as he turned from the witness box. He made a dismissive gesture. ”That is all.”
”Tomorrow it's our turn,” Howe said, settling into a chair in my parlor. He smiled, and I smiled nervously back.
”Who will you call first?” I asked him.
”Your father,” he said, and then he slanted me an a.s.sessing glance. ”Are you worried?”
I shook my head. ”There's nothing he could say that I haven't already heard.”
”After that I'll call your friend Millicent Wallace.”
I was almost afraid to say the words. ”And then . . . Victor?”
”Ah yes, Victor Seth.” Howe sighed. ”You must tell me something, Mrs. Carelton, and I want the truth.”
”Of course.” I waved my hand at him. ”Whatever you want.”
”Were the things you told Dr. Little true? Were you having an affair with your doctor?”
I couldn't look at him.
”Forgive my bluntness: Were you intimate with him?”
I nodded.
Howe went still. I felt him watching me. Then he said, ”Did your husband know this?”
I took a deep breath. ”You remember the 'incident' I told you about?”
”Yes.”
”William discovered us . . . together.”
Howe looked so somber-which was hard enough to do, given the bright orange-and-green-checked vest he wore-that I found myself embellis.h.i.+ng my story. ”I believe now that it wasn't what William believed. It wasn't even what I believed.”
”How so?”
”When we first . . . when Victor and I . . . I think he believed that our . . . intimacy was a kind of treatment, that it would help me be healthy again.” I looked at the wall, at the painting that had hung there as long as I could remember, Saint Beatrix with her face turned to the light, to truth, to G.o.d. ”I may have . . . mistaken things.”
”Is that why you shot your husband, Mrs. Carelton? To be with Dr. Seth?”
I stared at him. ”I don't know why I shot my husband, Mr. Howe, I've already told you that.”
He shook his head chidingly. ”The truth, Mrs. Carelton.”
”That is the truth,” I lied. ”It is the only truth I know.”
My father took the stand with the dignity that had sustained him throughout this entire ordeal. I could spot strands of gray in his hair that had not been there before, and new lines in his face. He was wearing stark black, as if he were in mourning, and I suppose he was. The only question was for whom: me or William.
I tried not to think such ungracious thoughts. He had done everything for me since I'd been arrested. He had hired William Howe; he had defended me staunchly to every paper in the city and to all our friends. But I could not rid myself of the feeling that I would pay for this later, that he would extract his pound of flesh for standing by me.
He spoke slowly, as if his words were weighted, as if his sorrows were too great to be borne. ”Lucy was a sensitive child. From the time she was very young, her mother and I worried over her. She formed such quick attachments. It wasn't normal.”
”Quick attachments, Mr. Van Berckel?” Howe asked. ”What exactly do you mean?”
”First there was religion. Now, we went to church, you understand-we're good Episcopalians, we've a pew at Saint Thomas now, and Grace Church before that-but Lucy took it too far. She fancied she would join a nunnery when she was old enough. She wasted away to nothing, praying all the time, fasting. It was distressing.”
”What came of that?”
”Eventually she outgrew it. Then she took on poetry. It was the same thing all over again. And then it was painting. She was delirious with it. I feared for her health, which was always fragile.”
”I see. Your daughter was often ill?”
”Yes. She suffered headaches and aches and pains from the time she was a girl.”
”Even into her marriage?”
Papa's face was grief-stricken. ”It seemed to grow worse then.”
”Why do you think that was?”
”I don't know.” Papa took a deep breath. ”I talked to her often. I urged her to find happiness in her marriage, in her duties as a wife.”
Howe frowned. ”She was unhappy being a wife?”
Papa waved his hand dismissively. ”No, not as you'd think. It was simply that she was not good at keeping a house. She often had trouble with servants.”
”Why do you think that was?”