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
