An Inconvenient Wife Part 40

"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 embellishing 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?"

"It was due to her health."

Howe nodded sympathetically. He looked more like a compa.s.sionate friend than a lawyer. His voice was somber and quiet when he said, "Were you worried for her, Mr. Van Berckel?"

"Worried? Well, yes, I was."

"Why was that?"

Papa seemed confused. "She was my daughter."

"But there was another reason you were worried, wasn't there, Mr. Van Berckel?"

Papa hesitated, then said reluctantly, "Yes. Lucy was-Lucy is-very like her mother."

"Is Mrs. Van Berckel still alive?"

"No. No. She died twenty years ago."

"How was Mrs. Carelton like her mother?" Howe went on.

"Irene was fragile herself," Papa said slowly. "She was often melancholy. I blame myself for her death."

"You blame yourself for her death? How can that be?"

Papa lowered his head. "I was not as gentle with her as I should have been. She was unhappy."

"How did Mrs. Van Berckel die?"

"She drowned," Papa said.

"How so?"

Papa said nothing. The jury murmured among themselves. The crowd grew restless. Judge Hammond looked up sternly. Howe waited one horrible second before he said, "Isn't it true that Mrs. Van Berckel-your wife, Mrs. Carelton's mother-took her own life?"

Someone-Daisy Hadden, I thought-gasped. My father squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment I thought he would deny it; it was too d.a.m.ning, too irredeemable. But he sighed and said, "Yes."

"When your daughter married William Carelton, did you warn him of this unfortunate defect in her heritage?"

"Yes. I told him he must treat her with the utmost care. As if she were a child."

"And did he?"

"William was possessed of great energy. I thought he would be good for Lucy. I see now that he couldn't possibly know how to handle her." Papa didn't look at me as he spoke. He knew, as I did, that William had done exactly what Papa had said, that he had treated me just that way: like a child. Papa had finally taken my side against William. I should have been glad, but the truth was, it was too late. I no longer needed Papa, and I felt a bitter sorrow that William should be maligned like this by the one man who had supported him unconditionally. "I was . . . sorry . . . that I had allowed her to marry him."

"Why was that?"

Papa said, "He didn't have the right background."

"You mean he was not of your cla.s.s."

"Yes."

"Hmmm. I'm curious, Mr. Van Berckel. Why did you allow your daughter to marry so clearly beneath her?"

"I made a deal with the devil," Papa whispered. He clasped his hands together, fat fingers squeezing tight. "I'm not happy about it, but William made me a great deal of money when I needed it. I was . . . grateful."

"Grateful enough to give him your daughter?"

Papa's cheeks flushed in anger. "If she had not loved him, I wouldn't have. But she did."

"I see." Howe stroked his chin thoughtfully. "She loved him to her detriment, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Yes, I'm sure you don't, Mr. Van Berckel," Howe said. Before Papa could protest, he went on. "Do you know the circ.u.mstances that sent Mrs. Carelton to Beechwood Grove?"

"William told me that she had made a scene in Newport, then had taken an overdose of laudanum. She had done that before, and I was worried. When he said he wanted to commit her to the asylum, I agreed that it would be best."

"An asylum seems a drastic solution. Wasn't it?"

"As I said, I was worried. Lucy had been acting strangely. She wasn't herself."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She had always been so biddable, and now she was not."

"Did you discuss this with her husband?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That Lucy was under the care of a doctor. That she was improving. The doctor had said she might go through a phase of this kind, and we were not to be concerned."

"But you were concerned."

"Yes."

"Because your daughter was not so frail, or so ill, or so biddable?"

Papa squirmed. I looked down to hide a smile I couldn't control.

"You haven't answered the question, Mr. Van Berckel."

"She was not herself," he said. "I agreed with William that she should have a rest."

"In an asylum?"