Chapter Twelve
WHY HAD CONSTANZA THOUGHT UNBURDENING her past onto paper would free her from its bondage?
She should have known better. Confession?
Ha! All it had brought her was penance without reprieve.
It didn’t matter what she did. There was no washing the stain of her past from her soul.
She was a cursed woman, cursed by her ambition for a life far more extravagant than she deserved.
Even seeking absolution through confession reached for something unattainable, and she was a fool to have tried.
At least if she’d kept to only claiming to be Constanza Brisbane, she wouldn’t have had to suffer under the insidious Nurse Ingram.
Whack!
The harsh sting of that pernicious woman’s stick slapped across Constanza’s hand, and a blob of ink splashed onto the half-filled page.
“Do not hesitate. Write only what you see.”
Constanza glared at the woman. The only reasons she’d hesitated were because she’d already been at this for hours and her hand ached.
This exercise was a mockery of truth. Did they truly expect it to convince her she was wrong and didn’t know who she was?
It was they who knew nothing. Josephine Davis was merely a persona assigned to her by her husband, a persona Constanza despised.
Josephine was a meek, unmusical woman racked by fear.
She was abandoned by her husband, pitied by her daughter, and forgotten by all, even by the half brother who’d helped her escape England.
Constanza Brisbane was her true identity now, a woman grown beyond the foolishness of Katherine Yates’s youth.
She was a fighter, strong, courageous, and determined.
She was a musical force crescendoing to the fortissimo of her career.
Her husband cherished, adored, and desired her.
Her daughter admired and wanted to be her.
Everyone knew her and clamored to hear her sing. Constanza was—
Whack! “I said write!”
—a woman forever suffering the consequences of Katherine Yates’s crimes.
Constanza shook out the discomfort in her hand, then set the nib to paper.
Whack! “Speak as you write.”
An absolute must for this ridiculous exercise to work, because speaking and writing meant Constanza had no space in her mind to argue with the words being committed to paper. She rolled her eyes, but did as commanded.
“I am Josephine Davis.” Not that I want to be.
“Wife of Mark Davis.” Marcellus, not Mark.
“Mother of Nora Davis.” Eleonora is prettier.
“I am not an opera singer.” Not anymore.
“I am not a thief.” Unless you count the extra biscuit I stole from the dessert tray at lunch.
“There is nothing special about me or my past.” Except I have three lives and a past that will kill my daughter and me if it catches up to us.
And so it went on for another hour before finally Nurse Ingram made her stand.
“Who are you?”
“Josephine Davis. Wife to Mark Davis, mother of Nora Davis, and no one special.”
“And your past?”
“As deadly as an adder and as criminal as Judas Iscariot.”
The expected slap echoed in the room. “Dr. Chalfant shall hear of this defiance.”
Constanza wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of rubbing the smarting cheek. “For it to be defiance, you would’ve had to give me a past other than the one I claim.”
“Impertinent wench.” Nurse Ingram pivoted toward the attendant—mercifully, without slapping Constanza first. “Prepare an ice bath. Mrs. Davis needs a shock to her nervous system to make it more pliable for receiving the truth.”
An ice bath in January? How original. It hadn’t made a difference yesterday or the day before, but who knew?
Perhaps the third time would be the charm.
But what more did Constanza deserve? This was her penance, and she would pay it until absolution was finally granted.
Once forgiveness was hers, she’d play Dr. Chalfant’s game, convince him she was healed, and walk free to live her life as she so chose.
She’d find Winston and Ursula, bring an end to their threat, and then she and Eleonora could make a life together on the stage.
As expected, Nurse Ingram delighted in shocking Constanza into numb compliance.
Forced dunk after forced dunk beneath the icy water took longer than the previous time.
Constanza’s lungs burned for breath. What breaths she managed were expended on repeating her identity as Josephine Davis, whose worst crime was the need to be committed to an asylum.
By the time she was allowed to shiver outside the tub, knifelike tingles stabbed her feet, hands, and face.
An attendant tugged a thin gown over her wet body, her dampness immediately seeping into the material.
Nurse Ingram added a brisk half-hour walk outside to Constanza’s punishment.
Wet hair and only a blanket for a coat made it extra miserable.
Fortunately, no talking was required. Frosted puffs marked each breath as Constanza trembled and shook.
By the time the attendant returned Constanza to the ward and tucked her beneath the thin bedsheets, Constanza’s teeth chattered and her body convulsed.
Oh, if only speaking a story different than her own would make it true.
But despite Dr. Chalfant’s and Nurse Ingram’s goals, this marrow-deep chill only served to freeze in place the memory of the day in England when Constanza had finally realized what demons she’d sold herself to and what she would become if she didn’t flee.
“See that she has a cup of tea and remains abed the rest of the day. Nothing is to excite her senses. I will return later with a portable writing desk and new pages for her to copy.” Nurse Ingram marched out, no doubt glad to be rid of her for the time being.
Usually Constanza found ways to dump the bitter tincture meant to dull the senses and induce sleep, but today she would welcome it. Better to sink into oblivion than to relive that day or the many others when her conscience lay dead and buried by her ambitions.
As she curled herself into a ball, striving to contain what little heat remained, two orderlies escorted a familiar woman into the room and assigned her to the bed next to Constanza.
Thin and somber, the woman lay unmoving, her vacant eyes fixed on nothing.
Mrs. Beaumont, if Constanza recalled correctly.
But why would she be brought into a ward where its patients were considered volatile and dangerous?
The woman couldn’t even be roused enough to show affection to her son.
“Keep a close eye on that one,” the orderly instructed the room’s attendant. “We caught her making a noose of her sheets. She didn’t have anywhere to follow through, but we can’t chance her coming up with something viable.”
Ah. So Mrs. Beaumont was a danger to herself.
Well did Constanza understand that problem.
How ironic she’d symbolically killed Katherine Yates so she could build a new life, only for Katherine’s past to be resurrected and take Constanza’s life in retribution.
Life as Josephine Davis was no life at all.
Constanza shifted to her bed’s edge so Mrs. Beaumont might hear her without alerting the roaming attendant to their conversation.
Bed rest was strictly a silent affair. Luckily, the long room contained a dozen patient-filled beds and made hushed talks possible.
“You’re the mum of that man with the cat, aren’t you? ”
Mrs. Beaumont blinked slowly, gathering her thoughts from a likely drug-induced fog. “Yes. Ezekiel is my son. Tristan is my cat.”
“He seems like a nice young man.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “He’s wonderful, and one day he’ll be a famous composer.”
“A composer?” Oh, that was rich! Here Marcellus had been keeping Eleonora away from anyone who might even hum to themselves, and God had sent a musician to beguile her. Marcellus would find himself in the men’s ward of Longview once he found out.
“He works at Pike’s Opera House for now, but he’s writing his first score to an operetta. I’m sure he’ll be highly sought after once it is performed.”
A musician and a man of the opera? Constanza couldn’t have chosen a better suitor for Eleonora herself. “Will you attend the opening?” If Mr. Beaumont was half as nervous as Constanza always felt, he’d want his mum there.
The small smile on Mrs. Beaumont’s lips disappeared. “No. I think it best for him if he no longer has to concern himself with me.”
Her ominous tone reminded Constanza of why Mrs. Beaumont had been brought here, and it pained her to think of a mum unwilling to fight to live for her child.
“I never had the privilege of a son, but I hear they are quite partial to their mums. I think you’d be making a grave mistake in trying to number your own days instead of allowing God to. ”
“God doesn’t care about me anymore. Do you think I want to feel this way?
To have these thoughts of how to kill myself?
To know I am a burden to my son? That he would be better off without me?
” Tears formed in Mrs. Beaumont’s eyes and dripped down her face.
“No. I want to be a whole and happy woman. Someone he can love without causing him sadness too. Our pastor told me if I prayed hard enough, studied and memorized God’s Word, and believed enough, God would heal me.
But he was wrong. I’ve cried out over and over for God to take these thoughts from me, but He hasn’t. He’s abandoned me.”
“Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Beaumont, stop talking!” The attendant called from the other side of the room, breaking the rule for silence himself.
They quieted, but Constanza could not allow their conversation to end like that. Desperation clawed at her to give air to the question that haunted her most.
As soon as the attendant turned his back, she returned to whispering.
“If a churchgoer has been abandoned by Him, what hope is there for me? I haven’t attended church faithfully since before I joined Winston’s opera company, and oh, the things I’ve done and seen since then.
I cannot even begin to hope God would forgive me, for I am sure you are an innocent dove compared to my snake-like history. ”
Cold, thin fingers reached across the space between their beds and touched Constanza’s arm. “There is always hope. ‘For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’”
“Yet you called upon Him, and you have not been saved.”
“Maybe not from these thoughts, but I have been saved from eternal death. Even when I die here, I know I will live forever with Him. He has promised it.”
“But hasn’t He also promised to neither leave nor forsake us?”
Mrs. Beaumont’s nose scrunched as if she’d bitten into something sour. “He did.”
“So God can abandon you, but He cannot abandon me? Are you the exception? Because if you’re the exception to His promise not to abandon, then maybe I’m the exception to forgiveness.”
“There are no exceptions to His promises—”
“But—”
“Which means He has not abandoned me even though I feel He has.” Deep creases formed between Mrs. Beaumont’s brows. “I will have to think on it, because I do believe God’s Word.”
“But I wrote down the truth of my past, and none of my guilt has gone away.”
“It’s not about what you confess, but to whom you confess.”
Constanza’s breath caught in her throat.
Of course. How could she be so foolish? She’d been going about this all wrong.
Neither the police nor Dr. Chalfant could do anything for the state of her soul—only a priest could provide her that.
Hadn’t Father Elliott admonished his congregation to regularly visit the confessional?
She hadn’t set foot in an Anglican church since she’d left home to seek a musical career, let alone confessed to a priest. There were plenty of Catholic churches in Cincinnati.
They may not be part of the Church of England, but a priest was a priest, wasn’t he—so long as neither church knew she considered them the same.
As a representative of God, he’d have to listen to her confession, absolve her of her sin, and determine what her penance must be.
The attendant stalked between their beds, sloshing the tea tincture over the edges of two cups. “I said no talking. Drink your tea and not another word.”
Constanza wanted to ask more questions, but the attendant stood between their beds even after they’d drunk the entire contents.
From Mrs. Beaumont’s bed, a rebellious whisper carried to Constanza. “‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house.’”
“Face the other way, Mrs. Beaumont. Rest is what you need, not conversation.”
Constanza rolled toward the wall and smiled.
‘Thou shalt be saved, and thy house.’ Not only would confessing free her, but Eleonora and Marcellus would be saved from the consequences of her folly.
Excitement thrummed through her, warming her from the chest out.
Finally, she had an answer to all her guilt.
There would be no need for her to stay here longer than the priest deemed.
She’d be absolved, her family restored, and she could join Eleonora in seeking a new life on the stage.
All she needed was to appeal to Dr. Chalfant for a priest to visit her.
It was so simple she should have thought of it herself.
Soon all would be set to rights. Soon she’d be free.