Dr. Davies, the Tate family physician, pushed his fingers under Nora’s vest and set the stethoscope on her back. “Deep breath now, my lady.”
She took a breath.
“Deeper, please.”
She took another. Whether it was deeper than the one before, she didn’t know. Nor care. He moved his hand, and the tool it held, to her front and set it over her heart, again inside her vest. Nora took a breath without being asked. She darted a glance to her father, who stood next to her armoire, watching the doctor, his arms folded across his chest and a chasm dug between his eyebrows.
“Thank you, Lady Nora. Lie down, please.”
She lay down on her bed. The doctor picked up one hand and held it out, studying the arm attached to it. Setting it down gently at her side, he turned to his leather bag and dug out a measuring tape. He wrapped it around her arm—her biceps, just below her elbow, her wrist—then made notes in a small ledger, with a stub of a pencil. He did the same with her other arm, and her legs, and her neck, all the while frowning behind his spectacles and white walrus moustache.
He looked up at her father, and Nora looked, too. When her father nodded, dropping his head slowly once, Dr. Davies untied her drawers and pushed both hands into the loosened waist. Nora shuddered at the touch of his cold, shriveled fingers. He pushed hard on her belly, all over, like he was searching for something or trying to feel the outlines of her organs through her skin. He pushed all the way down until she could feel his fingertips in the hair between her thighs. Nora shut her eyes as tightly as she could and steeled herself, waiting for his vile, unwanted fingers to be where no one else but William and herself had been.
Was this the moment that her father would learn she wasn’t a virgin? Christopher knew, but had never said. He’d simply deposited her at Tarrindale Hall, alone, and hied off back to London. In the four months since, he’d been home for two days: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
She didn’t care. If she never saw her brother again, she’d be glad of it. He’d told her that William had absconded in the middle of the night and that he had no idea why. But Nora knew the truth, and her brother could rot. She didn’t care if her father found out about Dover and William, and the one night of her life in which she’d ever since her girlhood be happy or free. She hadn’t told him herself because it didn’t matter. But she didn’t want the news to come from this shrunken relic with his hands on her now.
She lay on her bed, atop the duvet, and shook while the doctor pressed his fingers into her flesh. He grabbed her hipbones in his wrinkled fingers and squeezed, as if they were handles. He made more notes, and then his hands were under her vest, on her breasts, prodding and squeezing. Nora felt sick, but she said nothing, did nothing. When a tear slid from her eye and down her temple, she let it fall where it would.
“Thank you, my lady,” Dr. Davies finally said. “You may sit up now. It’s all over.”
She lay where she was. He patted her knee and packed up his bag. Without another word to her, he walked to her father, and the two men left her room. Out there, out of her hearing, they would discuss her health and decide what should be done about her.
In here, none of it mattered. Nothing ever would again.
She lay where she was until Kate came into the room. “There, there, milady. Let’s up with you and get you dressed. Your father wants you downstairs for luncheon today.”
Nora sat up and let Kate dress her, let her lace her into a corset and stockings and a spring-coloured gown. She sat at the dressing table and let her braid and wind and pin her hair. She sat quietly while Kate chattered on, filling the room with meaningless, cheerful drivel Nora cared nothing about.
When she was done, Kate set her hands on Nora’s shoulders and sighed at her in the mirror. “Milady, please. You must eat today. They—”
She cut off, and Nora felt a glimmer of interest. “What?”
“I shouldn’t say. But—I overheard Dr. Davies talking with Lord Tarrin, and …”
That, Nora was interested in. “Go on, Kate.”
“He was talking about … about other ways to get food in you, if you won’t eat. Please, milady. I’ve heard of the things they might do. Better to enjoy a slice of mutton, truly. No matter how sad you are.”
Her father was waiting for her outside the dining room. He smiled warmly and held out his arm for her. “I’ve asked Mrs. Dellen to prepare chicken timbales for luncheon today, and spring fruits and lemon cake as well. Your favourites.”
She took his arm, as she was meant to do, and let him lead her into the dining room and sit her at the table. There was a spray of spring flowers in a small silver vase before her place. The chicken timbale sat already on her plate, dressed with a swirl of sauce, a sprig of parsley, and a cluster of small tomatoes. Fred, a footman, stepped up and poured tea into her cup.
“I walked in the garden this morning,” her father explained, nodding at the vase. “The flowers are in full bloom already. Your mother would have been delighted. Perhaps you’ll walk with me this afternoon?”
Nora nodded and picked up her fork. She poked at the mould of chicken and rice, but had no appetite for it.
After a moment, her father set his own knife and fork on his plate. “Nora. My sweet love. I understand that you became infatuated with Christopher’s friend, and that his sudden departure was a disappointment, but that was months ago. Now we know he was a charismatic charlatan and nothing more—and not a suitable match for you in any regard. I’m only glad Christopher discovered his treachery before it was too late. Dr. Davies has serious concerns for your health, and if you cannot set this ennui aside, I will be forced to agree with him. You must overcome these willful, childish fancies and be the woman you are meant to be.”
The woman she was meant to be. A stranger to her. An empty husk in beautiful clothes. A mannequin who could breed. Nora turned to her father and studied him. She considered telling him what her brother knew: that she had given William her innocence and ignorance, and he had, in return, shown her herself. What would he do if he knew that she wasn’t ‘infatuated’ with William, but truly, spiritually, emotionally, physically in love with him and had given herself, and taken him, freely? That the thing her father found most important about her was gone?
It didn’t matter. William was gone. He had no way back. Nora was lost.
She carved a bit of chicken and rice from the mould and ate it. She tasted nothing, but took another bite anyway.
Her father relaxed and picked up his silverware with a smile. “I have good news, monkey. Your aunt is coming in a few days. She’ll spend a week or so with us and help you prepare for Paris.”
Paris. To shop for clothes for the next Season.
Aunt Martha had spent nearly a month at Tarrindale around the Christmas holidays, while Nora’s grief and rage had been an inferno burning in her soul. She’d taken it upon herself to soothe Nora’s savage breast, but she had failed—and she’d failed because she was no more on Nora’s side than anyone else. She wanted her married just as much as her father did, to anyone suitable, as quickly as possible. Her stratagem was to submit. To smile sweetly and give the men what they wanted, what they expected, and to do what she would while they weren’t looking, blinded by complacency in their power.
Nora wanted to shove their power down their throats. She would not submit. She would not sneak. Even if—when—she were made to marry, she would not submit. If she couldn’t act in her own interest, then she simply would not act, not even in submission. If she couldn’t do what she wanted, she wouldn’t do anything at all. Whatever husband her father scrounged up for her would find himself bound to the very mannequin he’d ordered.
She set her fork on her plate and leaned back in her chair. He father stared at her barely-touched meal and sighed heavily. “Nora. I’m trying to do what’s best for you. Help me.”
There was no help for him, or for her.
That night, as every night, when she was finally alone in her room, Nora opened the drawer of her writing desk and eased the tattered paper from the seam between two pieces of wood. She sat on the floor beside her desk with a candle flickering at her side and carefully unfolded the page.
My Darling Nora,
I don’t know if you’ll find this; I mean to try to push it under your door, if I have the chance. Chris was waiting for me tonight. He knows, and I’m sad to say I was right. If I could get to you right now, I would sweep you into my arms, and I would take you with me. But I can’t, and I can’t stay. Please know that I would never want to leave you, and I do it now because you would be hurt more if I stayed. I love you. I will always love you, and I am
Forever yours,
William
The handwriting was strong and clear, but the note had been quickly composed and folded while the ink was still wet. That, and the tears she’d dropped on the page over the months since, had made some of the words nearly indecipherable by now, but Nora had it memorised. She held it in her hands and studied it with her eyes because it was the last thing William had touched in his time with her.
It infuriated her and devastated her in equal measure. She’d had a love like this, a man like this, and she’d lost it over something as absurd as her family’s archaic, arrogant, dismissive, massively hypocritical assertion that her virginity was the only thing of value about her. Not only her family’s but the whole world’s. Even William—he’d left without coming to her why? Because, she’d deduced, Christopher had threatened to tell their father. That was the only reasonable explanation for her father not yet knowing—Christopher had promised not to tell him if William left quietly.
Two men who ostensibly loved her had stood not thirty feet away from her and decided her fate on the grounds of a threat made regarding what a third man who ostensibly loved her would do when he learned something true about her.
And the true thing? That she loved a man and had enjoyed his body. That she was a human being. That was a truth beyond their tolerance.
Nora dried her eyes and folded up the paper, pressing it to her lips before she rose onto her knees and tucked it into its safe place. For a few hours, on the same night William had written those words and broken her heart, Nora had felt like the woman she was meant to be.
“Mercy! Nora!” Aunt Martha yanked Nora into her arms and held her tightly, smothering her in the feathers trimming her massive hat. “You’ve wasted away, little dove!”
“I’m fine, Auntie.” Nora worked her way out of the bruising clutch of her aunt’s embrace.
“You most certainly are not.” She picked up Nora’s wrists and held her arms out, examining her body, then dropped them and grabbed her face, pressing her thumbs at the sensitive skin under her eyes. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Oliver, how have you let this go on?”
Nora’s father scowled at his older sister. “Dr. Davies has been to see her twice, Martha. She needs fresh air and rich food, and all will be well. Now that spring is here, all will be well.”
“Perhaps she should sit London out this Season.”
Nora perked up at that idea and pushed her aunt’s hands from their exploration of her collarbones, looking to her father for his response.
He shook his head, of course, and crushed the tiny flutter of hope. “Absolutely not. She must have her betrothal by the end of the summer. For her health and well being, if for no other reason. You, Martha, must see to it.” He cleared his throat. “I have correspondence to finish. I’ll see you both for tea.” With a brisk nod, he turned and headed to the library.
Nora and her aunt watched him go. When they were alone in the hall, Aunt Martha spun on her heel and set her hands on her hips. “What are we to do with you, little dove?”
“Marry me off, apparently. I’m tired. I’m going to lie down until tea.” She was honestly tired; these days, she was always tired, could always sleep. And dream.
Aunt Martha caught her arm before she could walk away. Gasping, she squeezed her fingers around Nora’s biceps, her brows drawn tight. She turned worried eyes on her. “Nora. You can talk to me. Always, we’ve talked.”
She pulled her aunt’s hand away. “There’s nothing to talk about, Auntie. I’ll be down for tea.”
Nora came down the stairs at tea time to the accompaniment of raised voices from the library. Mr. Gaines stood stalwart outside the door, affecting no expression—until he saw Nora, when his eyes softened sadly for the span of a breath.
“She’s killing herself!” Aunt Martha exclaimed, her voice strident with worry greater than the heavy walls of the library could conceal. Nora sat on the bottom step and listened.
“My lady …” Gaines began, but she waved him off, and he resumed his sentry stance.
“Don’t be dramatic, Martha,” her father’s voice was coolly angry. “She’s a silly girl, trying to get her way. Once she’s married, and the question is behind us all, she’ll be well. She needs a strong hand, and I’ve failed her in that regard. If her mother had been here to raise her, she’d have grown into a gentler girl.”
“She was already headstrong when her mother died, Oliver. Your wife was weak in body and spirit and would have controlled her no better.”
A heavy thud, as if her father had slammed down a leather-bound book. “Don’t you ever dare speak of Eve like that again, Martha, or I will put you out of this house and our lives.”
A long pause, and then Aunt Martha answered more calmly. “Forgive me, Oliver. I spoke intemperately. But my point is sound. Nora is who she is, and right now, she is a desperately unhappy girl who is committing suicide before your very eyes.”
“STOP SAYING THAT!” her father roared. “She’s not killing herself. She’s having a prolonged tantrum, and when she is hungry enough, she will eat.”
“How long since she’s had a full meal? At Christmas, she picked at her plate. That was three months ago. And you think she’s not hungry enough now? There’s nothing left of her!”
Quiet greeted Aunt Martha’s question. Nora, fascinated to hear herself discussed this way, leaned over her knees and sharpened her ears. Gaines, deciding he had an opportunity to break in gracefully, turned and set his hand on the knob—and then her father spoke again.
“Do you know what Davies suggests? That we force feed her. He described it to me—he’d put a tube up her nose and push liquid food into her stomach that way. Can you imagine?”
Gaines dropped his hand and turned a pitying eye on Nora. She ignored him.
“That’s gentler than what they do to the women on hunger strikes in prison. They shove a much bigger tube down their throats—or up their bottoms.”
“Don’t bring those ridiculous ruffian women into this conversation. Why on earth would you concern yourselves with them?”
“You know how I feel about women’s suffrage, Oliver.”
“The very idea is an abomination, and it will never happen. It has nothing to do with Nora, and I’ll not have it mentioned again in my home.”
“This was my home once, too, remember.”
“She talks with you,” Nora’s father said, ignoring his sister’s latest statement. “You understand the female mind. Get her in hand before the Season, Martha. She must be married this year. We’re all worried for her health. Davies assures me that the best cure for this mood is a husband and all that attends to the role of a wife.”
“You mean she needs sex and motherhood, and a master.”
“Don’t be vulgar. It worked for you, did it not?”
Aunt Martha’s laugh was loud and bitter. “You see only what you wish to see, Oliver.”
Her father didn’t respond, at least not audibly, and at last, there was a true break in the argument. Gaines gave Nora a quick nod. Knowing that he meant for her to run back up the stairs while he went in to call them for tea, she stood. And stayed right where she was.
Gaines sighed at her and opened the door. “Your pardon, my lord. Tea is served.”
“Thank you, Gaines.”
Aunt Martha came through the door first, followed by her father. Nora stood where she was, her gaze steady, and watched them wonder how much she’d heard.
She stepped off the bottom step and walked to them, crossing her arms over her chest. “If I wanted to kill myself, there are far more expedient ways to do it. I could go to the stable and hang myself from the rafters. I could cut my wrists open in the bath, or use Mrs. Dellen’s cleaver to open my throat. I could go to the cliffs and throw myself into the sea. I’m not killing myself, and I’m not having a tantrum. I’m not eating because nothing has taste anymore. This is a grey, dull, flavorless world, and I hate it. But I’ll eat, if it means you’ll stop talking about me like a recalcitrant broodmare.”
She left three gaping faces behind her and went to the dining room to sit at the table and perform the social convention of tea time.
“Ah, mademoiselle, your frame, c’est parfait for this Season. The gowns, they will drape and flow”—the dressmaker closed his fingertips together and kissed them—“just so. Et le corset, I have just the one to show off these pretty pommes.” He plumped Nora’s breasts, which were apparently like apples.
In Paris, her jutting collarbones and bony elbows were considered perfect, a joy to dress here at the celebrated House of Worth, and yet she still apparently needed a corset, to push what could be pushed up and out. On display.
“Et ton teint! Flax and cream! Your eyes, c’est magnifique! We will do for you everything in blue, oui? Blue and crème and silver, perhaps a kiss of rose—ah, the mens, they will fall at your dainty feet, mademoiselle.”
Nora stood on the round platform and tried to keep her balance while the flamboyant dressmaker and his two female assistants pulled and pushed at her, measuring her, draping fabrics over her, clutching her breasts, her bottom, her hips, her arms, moving her this way and that.
A mannequin. Truly. Only.
In one of the three mirrors around her, all of them ornately framed in gilt, Nora espied her aunt, who sat primly, watching the bustle of activity around her. Aunt Martha, secret suffragette, secret lover of women, survivor of a loveless marriage made to hide who she truly was. And she meant to serve Nora up to the same fate. Her aunt wasn’t brave or revolutionary. She wasn’t a rebel. She served the real rebels egg and cress sandwiches and sent them off to fight a war for all women and to suffer all the consequences for them as well.
Nora remembered the bruise on William’s head, the day he’d first come to Tarrindale. He’d got it, he’d said, saving a suffragette from a beating. She’d been one of the Kensington Roses, in fact, one of the very women who took the risks for Aunt Martha. Those women had been arrested. Had they later been among one of the groups of hunger strikers? Nora’s father didn’t allow her to read the newspapers any longer, but she eavesdropped on the servants, and had heard quite a lot—about the tactics of the imprisoned women, and the acts of civil disobedience and disruption of the suffragettes, some more violent, like property damage, and others passive, like the Census protest at the beginning of the month, when women all over England used their census forms to write notes and letters and essays in support of the right to vote.
How had Lady Martha Collington filled out her census form? How had she described Mrs. Sylvia Everham? Nora could guess.
Her aunt wasn’t a rebel at all. Or an ally, really. Not for the suffragettes, and not for her.