The Web Weaver

“Much better.”

With a sigh, I sat down, stretched out my legs and flexed my toes again, warming them. “I shall want you to eat quite regularly, and every hour or two between meals you must drink some milk.”

She made a face. “I do not much care for milk, Doctor.”

“Consider it medicine and drink it down.”

She let go of her stomach. “I suppose it could be worse. It could be cod liver oil.”

“You take that after the milk.”

She gave me an incredulous look. I laughed, and she smiled. “Thank you again for coming. I was so dreading this evening, this night. I...”

I waited for her to continue, but she did not. “You should have sent for me if you were having pains.”

“I did not want to bother you, especially after last night.”

“Violet—it is no bother. Even were you not my friend, it is my work. Promise me that if the pains change, if they grow... more severe, you will call me at once.”

She looked up at me, her cheeks slightly flushed, her dark eyes bright.

“Promise me.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Ulcers can be quite serious if left untreated. I shall... I should speak with your husband.”

Her hand clutched at her side. “You must not!”

“He should be told.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She said nothing, but glared at the fire.

The sadness caught me by surprise, my fatigue augmenting it. “Do you hate him so much?”

She glanced at me, and now her brown eyes truly seemed to burn, to smolder, like the red-hot coal on the grate.

“Oh, Violet, he must feel something for you—I know he does. When the cake was brought out...”

“You know nothing about it. Nothing.” Her voice was colder than I had ever heard it. I had an odd feeling at the nape of my neck; I turned away. “You are upset. Why?”

“Because you hate him—because you are unhappy, and it should not be that way.”

She sighed. “It is as I said. You are too good.”

“You are good, too.”

She gave her head an emphatic shake, a hard, sharp laugh slipping from between her lips. “No, there you are wrong. I am not good. Quite the contrary.”

“That is nonsense! I told you so. You deserve to be happy.”

“Do I? Does anyone deserve happiness?”

“Everyone deserves happiness.”

She smiled. “The Reverend Killington would be interested in your view. Does even Donald deserve happiness?”

“Yes, but perhaps... perhaps apart from you.”

Her smile was cruel. “That is all rather beside the point. I could never obtain a divorce. As a man, his adulteries are excusable under the law, and my virtue is intact. However, if I could find a partner in sin, then Donald might be persuaded to divorce me. Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination.”

My face felt hot, and I stared in horror at her. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, he has a mistress, a plump little blonde thing. No doubt that is where he is tonight, seeking consolation.”

“Is this some... joke?”

“No joke, I assure you.”

How would I feel if I ever discovered Henry had been unfaithful to me? I wanted to speak, but my throat seemed to have closed off.

There was a knock. I rose quickly and went to the door. “Thank you, Gertrude.” I took the silver tray and carried it over to Violet, then returned to my chair.

The grief had come from nowhere, and it all whirled about—the look in Violet’s eyes, the thought of how such a betrayal must hurt, the sense of what my life would be like without the love that sustained me. I did not trust myself to speak yet.

Violet frowned, then set the tray down before her chair and stared into the fireplace. “Oh God, how I loathe myself.” Her hands curled into fists, and one slipped again to her side. “I had no right to tell you—to burden you with my shame. I knew it would disturb you, but I went ahead anyway. Can you forgive me?”

I gave an impatient sigh. “For God’s sake, Violet—will you not believe I am your friend? There is nothing to forgive. The hurt, after all, is yours, not mine.”

“Will you not understand? There is no hurt.”

“The pain, then.” I suddenly understood. “The shame—the rage, the anger—it is pain.”

“Ah.” She laughed once. “Yes, perhaps... You are perceptive.”

I drew in my breath resolutely. “Now eat your soup. We are both too tired to know exactly what we are doing or saying.”

She picked up the tray and set it on her lap. She removed the silver dome covering the soup bowl. “Perhaps there is something to what you say.” She took a spoonful of soup, showing even then a certain graceful elegance.

I took a slow, deep breath. The thought that Donald Wheelwright had a mistress still shook me. I knew I was being foolish. So many men did. There were reasons, explanations, but none of that mattered. A thought popped into my mind—Sherlock saying Donald Wheelwright did not much care for his wife—then the glance he and Henry had shared. “They should have told me,” I murmured angrily.

“What?”

“Nothing. How is the soup?”

“Very good. It does feel quite... soothing.”

“That is what we want. I shall have to talk to the cook about what you should eat. No curries or extremely spicy food.”

“I never much cared for curries.”

The sudden grief had died away, and now I felt very tired. I knew if I closed my eyes I would be asleep at once. The fire felt so warm and good on my feet. They had been half frozen during the cab ride.

Violet’s throat rippled as she swallowed the soup. She did have the longest neck I had ever seen. She too appeared exhausted, her eyes dull, the lids half closed. I thought of Donald Wheelwright off with some plump, insipid blonde, and again I felt an ache of sorrow. He should be the one with Violet now—the one to comfort her.

“You know,” she said, “that I do envy you.”

“I am flattered.”

“Do not joke about it. You have everything, and I have nothing.”

“I would not mind a room like this.”

“Gladly would I give it to you—along with this entire house, all the servants, the furniture, the whole wretched lot. I have nothing that matters. I wish I could trade places with you for one day, but that would be worse—I could never bear to return.”

“You are serious.”

“Of course I am. I can see how you and Henry feel about one another.” She smiled briefly. “I cannot exactly understand it, but I can see that it is genuine enough. Then there is your profession—to actually be doing something worthwhile, something using the brains God gave you—and there is your beauty.”

At this I could not restrain a laugh. “Are you mad? You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever known, while I... You would not want paws like this.” I held up my red hands with their thick fingers.

“I like your hands. My beauty, as you call it, is only fashion, mere convention. Every man at the party was staring at you, even the Reverend Killington.”