20

The odd heart-shaped pendant was the first of a flurry of gifts. Our Chelsea home had been sparsely and tastefully furnished up to that point, decorated with a restrained awareness of what was proper. I had not added to it myself; it was never my house or my money. But it began to be filled with curiosities and ornaments seemingly purchased by Thomas when drunk or in some kind of excitable fit. The money worries that had been the subject of letters from Helen had clearly disappeared. There were boxes upon boxes of hideous cigars, despite the fact he didn’t smoke, and disgustingly expensive cognac that tasted as revolting as it smelled, but the bulk of his purchases were clothes. Thomas adored buying clothes.

Thomas had changed again, from agitated and distant to giddy, manic even, and we had barely finished the first week of September. The household was far from relieved by this; having suffered from his moods before, there was an uneasiness about this new side of him. Something simmered beneath his skin. What remained consistent was that whenever Thomas was forced to spend time with me he was restless, as if waiting to get the husbandly duty over and done with so he could hurry to the real destination. Where that was and with whom, I had no idea. I cared little that he wanted to be away from me, but I did care that he was taking days away from work with cavalier abandon. I may not have known much, but I did know how hospitals worked, and there were many young, ambitious and talented doctors waiting to work for free at somewhere like the London. Failure to show up would not be tolerated for long, no matter the doctor’s background or connections. Thomas kept complaining that he barely had any private patients, yet he would cancel them with little notice, saying he was not in the right frame of mind that day or that he needed rest. He would disappear come the evening and return late, only to lock himself away in his attic and sleep well into the next day.

I avoided him for the most part, until one day he announced that he would purchase me a new wardrobe, cover me with the latest fashions. As his wife, I was a reflection on him. It was much like being a doll, a plaything. Even as I obediently followed, I hated myself. Dressed up in clothes I would never have chosen, I would reveal my true self for all to see, the unctuous, creeping whore that I was. We traipsed in and out of dress shops for hours and it was inside one of them that what had been waiting to split his skin almost did. He had driven the shop assistant ragged, demanding dresses and hats and coats in different colours on my behalf while I stood like a dummy.

‘What about all the concerns regarding money?’ I whispered when the girl was out the back. ‘Helen’s letters…’

I thought I’d been discreet, but the hysterical grin slipped from his face, and he walked over to me, gripped my arm and purposely dug his fingers into my flesh. I’m ashamed to say I yelped.

‘How dare you embarrass me,’ he hissed into my ear.

Through a gap in the curtain I saw a sliver of the shopgirl’s face. She blushed when she realised I had seen her watching and slipped away into the shadows. There was pity in her expression, which made it difficult not to cry.

I did not argue with my husband, but I was running out of ways I could acquiesce without disappearing altogether. To survive, I would have to adapt. If what I said made him angry, then I would keep my mouth shut. If what I wore displeased him, I would wear what he preferred. If he didn’t want to spend time with me, I would be uncomplaining in my solitude. If he griped that I looked miserable, I would wear the vacant smile of an imbecile. If he wanted me to do whatever on the occasions he sought me out in the bedroom, I would be docile and hope it would be over quickly. I accepted my disappointment. I had been an idiot to let myself dream the marriage would be a happy one, but it would do. I couldn’t admit it yet, I was still bribing myself with money, space, warmth and comfort, the house in Chelsea.

Immediately after the incident in the shop, he went back to being happy again, at least for the time being. It was not for my benefit, but for the audience Thomas always imagined was watching.

It was Friday the seventh of September when he told me we were to see Richard Mansfield in a new production of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde at the Lyceum. Afterwards, we would have dinner at the Café Royale. I erupted into giddy excitement, or hoped I did a good impression. In truth, I was dreading spending such a long time in his company. I knew I would find it difficult not to displease him.

Thomas wore his most decadent recent purchase: a dark blue overcoat fashioned from the skin of thirty-two wolves and trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs. I was trussed up as fussy as a trifle in a rose-coloured silk dress trimmed with satin and embroidered net and pulled tight in the bodice thanks to its many uncomfortable strips of baleen. Thomas had picked it. He had also chosen the dolman I wore over it, a snow-white mantle with sling-like sleeves, half cape, half jacket. It was edged with arctic fox fur at the neck, front, cuffs and hem, decorated with silk chenille like marabou, and lined with cream satin. It was the most outrageous thing I’d ever worn. I’d never imagined owning anything like it. Mrs Wiggs had nearly fainted when she saw it. ‘How in the heavens am I ever to keep that clean?’ she said, throwing her hands onto her hips. As we were preparing to leave for the theatre, she told us we looked like a pair of Russians.

The play went smoothly enough. The lead actor was English and had returned with this production after finding success in America, so it was a homecoming of sorts. ‘It is easier for the common man to be mistaken for a gentleman over there, since there they have no class,’ said Thomas. Which was his way of dismissing a working man’s success, a concept he could not conceive of.

At the Café Royale, his mood deteriorated. Little clues told me: the one-word answers, the bored expression and wrinkled nose, the twitching of his leg under the table, which made it shake, though not quite enough to rattle the cutlery or the glasses. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if trying to spot someone he was expecting to see.

I knew I had played my part impeccably and could not be responsible for his change of mood. I’d styled my hair in the fashion he said suited me best, and I was wearing the ugly heart-shaped necklace, which felt like a lead weight on my chest. When he started to bounce his leg under the table, I wanted to scream. I kept quiet even though I had the sense he was daring me to say something. I avoided his eyes but saw he kept catching glimpses of his own reflection and pouting into the mirror. I wanted to laugh, to let him know he was vainer than any woman I had ever known, but I didn’t. Aisling would have. She would have laughed in his face and walked out of the restaurant. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The menu was written in French. Frightened I would order incorrectly and embarrass him, I whispered this to him. I thought it might even amuse him, make him laugh. The old Thomas at the hospital would have made a quip and set me at ease. This Thomas rolled his eyes and snatched the menu away from me, made a comment about me signing my name with a mark and chose for me. In retaliation, I ordered more wine, and he glared at me.

‘Why order good wine when you can’t tell the difference between that and a glass of witch’s piss?’ he said as soon as the waiter had disappeared.

‘You are beginning to sound like Mrs Wiggs,’ I snapped.

Thomas had preached how this restaurant was popular with writers, artists and actors – beautiful, cultured types. Quite what we were doing there, I did not know. The walls were mirrored, the ceiling and walls painted in thick orange gold and decorated with Cupids. The flickering candlelight and endless reflections made the whole room appear as if it were glowing a hedonistic yellow. The chairs were red velvet. It felt opulent and garish, like being trapped inside a Christmas bauble. To be frank, the style was not so dissimilar from what I had seen at Wilton’s Music Hall in the East End. I went there on a demonstration once: a group of women, all Methodists and Salvationists, forced our way inside, incensed by rumours that the actresses in the gallery could be hired for a few shillings. The Café Royale had the same tawdry and vulgar décor, only its whores were more expensive. I included myself, an overdressed poodle sat tethered to a wealthy brat by a leash that I had chained around my own neck.

The room buzzed with clinking glasses and other people’s conversation, as Thomas and I sat in stony silence. As much as he teased me for my lack of friends, I had seen little of his. He made a great show of discussing people, namedropping, identifying certain individuals as close confidants, but never had any of these so-called friends been to our house. When we attended events or benefits, he would introduce me, but I think now that I did not imagine their discomfort at his over-familiarity. They were polite enough, but confused, as if they had only a vague idea of who he was, and inside I cringed. Thomas was a man of a million acquaintances but no real friends. The more I learned of him, the more disappointing he was.

It was a relief when he announced we were leaving the restaurant, even though he loped off without waiting for me. I emptied the rest of my glass and hurried after him, dragging my fussy skirts. We collected our coats and made our way through the crowded foyer. I was trying to keep up when he stopped abruptly and I barged into his back. He had paused to talk to an older gentleman, a man with a bushy grey beard, cheeks and a red nose from too much brandy, a swollen stomach, and medals on his lapel. The man had a finger pointed in Thomas’s chest. I stood in Thomas’s shadow; he didn’t introduce me and the conversation was rapid and the words didn’t travel. I could tell it was about work, and that the other gentleman certainly had the upper hand. Thomas kept nodding at everything he said, almost like a schoolboy trying to absorb all the instruction he was being given by his master.

The gentleman’s wife was a dumpy little thing and as she smiled, the thread veins on her cheeks made a mesh-like rouge. She leaned over and put her spectacles to my neck.

‘What a charming necklace, my dear. Have you recently had a birthday?’

I shook my head.

‘Your necklace, it’s a birthstone – isn’t peridot for August?’ She nodded, confident in her assumption.

‘Is it?’ My suspicion that the necklace had belonged to someone else came charging back. I put my fingers to my throat to feel it. ‘My birthday is in January,’ I said.

The lady looked bewildered but smiled anyway. The men stopped talking and we were pulled apart, swept along by the crowds and hustled towards the entrance, Thomas, with a gloved hand on my back, pushing me along. Whatever had been said had put him in an even worse mood. Trapped with him in the confines of the coach was like being strapped to the side of a rumbling volcano. I could feel the heat coming off him and I sat at the very edge. If I asked him what was wrong, it would be like baiting a bear, but if I didn’t ask, it might seem neglectful.

‘Is something the matter?’ I asked.

He gave a forced, operatic laugh. ‘It wants to know if something is the matter. Tell me, why bother asking.’ It was not a question.

I looked down at my knees. There was nothing I could do or say to avoid being drawn into this argument. I would just have to make myself as unobtrusive as I could. If I gave him nothing to react to, perhaps his temper would burn itself out. We stayed in silence, bobbing with every jerk and lurch as the wheels of the cab rolled over the cobbled streets. I let it roll through my bones, thought about being soft like a rag doll.

‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘that gentleman is on the board of governors, and he said I am making a name for myself as unreliable. I cancelled a friend of his – a whining pain of a man who’s constantly self-diagnosing with tropical diseases he has read about and has little chance of acquiring in London. I couldn’t care less about him, but the governor is an important member of the group of doctors with whom I have my other work and I cannot have him think badly of me. I shall have to remedy the situation somehow. It’s really not fair. I’ve done everything they’ve asked me to without question, and to have some whining old boy spread rumours and ruin my chances… I won’t have it. He said he told me because he used to know my father. So it would appear that even though the old man is long buried, he still finds ways to judge me.’

I stayed silent, head down.

‘Aren’t you going to offer any wisdom? No wifely comfort?’ he said.

‘Do you not think it was kind of him to tell you, so that you might remedy this… false perception?’

‘Oh, you think it kind, do you? How kind of him! Susannah thinks he is kind.’ He mocked me, his voice high like a little girl’s, then said, ‘I have been summoned to do more private work for this man already, so I must be sure to go over and above any expectations. It is stressful work, Susannah. The position I play is beneath me, I’m aware, but if I am to be accepted and progress, I have no choice. The money is what keeps us, and these are not the sort of people to let down.’

I had no idea what this ‘other work’ was, but I was not about to start asking questions. ‘That’s good, isn’t it, if he’s well connected? Isn’t that what you wanted? And you said yourself, this work is handsomely rewarded.’

‘But of course you don’t care, as long as I can keep you in furs and dresses.’

‘Thomas, it was your idea to buy all these things…’ There, the wine had dulled my senses, and I had walked into his trap, baited and hooked.

I was still gawping with my mouth open. I didn’t even flinch when he slapped me across the face with his gloved hand; it happened so quickly. The sting spread like fire across my cheek.

‘You enjoy humiliating me, don’t you?’ he said, and when I didn’t answer, ‘I said, you enjoy humiliating me, don’t you? I’m asking you a question.’

I was turned away from him and he was addressing the back of my head. With one hand he gripped my hair, yanked my face towards him and pulled me closer.

‘I won’t get drawn into it.’

‘Do you have any idea of how you embarrass me? How people laugh because my wife went and picked the fucking Jew as her physician. You did that on purpose! You knew how it would make me look.’

I fell further into the trap of explaining myself, convinced I could reason with him.

‘I didn’t know he was Jewish when I chose him. I didn’t think of it. I only knew him as a good doctor. Why would I care about anything else?’

‘You know he hates me with a passion, which is why you selected him, to antagonise me.’

‘I didn’t, I swear. All I know is… I know he takes charity cases. I’ve seen him, in Spitalfields, looking for vagrants with skin diseases. I thought he would be a good doctor, that is all.’

He burst out laughing. ‘You really are a fucking idiot.’ He stopped laughing and leaned close into my face, but he still had hold of my hair so I could not pull away. ‘Poor, simple Susannah. So stupid. You know the real reason he goes there, don’t you? He pays them, he tests his new little surgeries on them. He pays them, because only the most desperate accept money for operations they don’t know whether they’ll wake up from. Sometimes they don’t need operations at all, he just likes to ferret about inside and have a good look, especially with the women. Everyone knows he likes to open them up and tinker around inside his whores. What do you think of your doctor now?’

I said nothing.

‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think the man loves his whores. And you are a tired old whore, aren’t you? Do you enjoy fucking Jews, Susannah? Do you moan underneath him, and then act the dead dog with me?’

He pulled and then pushed me onto the floor by the front of my dress. I lost my breath when my back hit the floor. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the dolman clasp around my neck, trying to rip it off me. His face bulged over mine, his eyes a freezing blue against the livid red of his cheeks. I undid the clasp myself and threw the dolman off my shoulders. It wasn’t white any more but brown from the dirt and spotted with my blood on it. My lip had split where he’d hit me.

I sat on the floor with my knees bent up to my chest as the coachman shouted, ‘What’s going on down there?’

‘Drive on!’ shouted Thomas, and he thumped the roof of the coach. He pushed me onto my back by my neck and slapped me twice round the face. Now I could taste blood.

The driver shouted again, but Thomas told him to keep driving. I thought he was going to strangle me there, on the floor of the coach, but his hands found what they were looking for: the heart-shaped pendant, and he tore it from my neck. The chain burned my skin where it snapped.

When we arrived home, I got down from the coach by myself and left the door open for him to follow, but he reached forward and slammed it shut. The driver looked down at me. I met his eyes for a moment before he chose to pretend he’d not seen anything. I could tell from his face that I looked a mess. Then the coach pulled away. Thomas had taken my dolman with the white fur and the pendant, the things that had been my gifts. I was naive to think they had ever really been mine. I was left standing in the fussy dress, blood from my mouth dripping down the front. I ran my tongue over my lip; the skin was smooth and taut where it had already begun to swell. When he’d hit me, I knew he was holding back. There was still so much more to come out.

When Mrs Wiggs saw my face, she gasped, then, quick as a flash, collected herself and pretended as if nothing more than another silly accident had occurred. She pestered me to take off the pink silk dress, chasing me as I walked up the stairs.

‘Quick, quick, Mrs Lancaster! Blood becomes more difficult to get out the longer it is left.’