Chapter 21
Soon after dinner, August calls to let me know he made reservations for tomorrow evening at a swanky restaurant in Sloane
Square. I look it up quickly on my phone. Geesh. The champagne is thirty-five pounds a glass. Inspector Hall is lucrative.
After tucking Heathcliff in bed for the night, I walk downstairs for a cup of tea. I’d like to enjoy tomorrow, and I’m determined
to get a good night’s sleep. I take my time steeping the tea, savoring the chamomile steam.
“Do you think sleep will be any better tonight?” I ask as Ms. Fernsby walks through the room.
She smiles a little mischievously. “I hope you don’t mind, but I picked you up something that I thought could help you with
the anxiety.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
“I’m just one woman helping out another. Come on. It’s upstairs.”
I follow her up. It’s probably a new essential oil diffuser. Several widow blogs recommend essential oils for insomnia. Maybe Ms. Fernsby bought me some lavender or eucalyptus scents. I’ve heard they’re particularly good for restfulness.
I follow her into her neat and cozy bedroom. I admire the floral wallpaper and busy rose-patterned bedspread, perfectly mimicking
the roses she plants and prunes outside. A bulky antique chest sits at the bottom of the bed, and I wonder how many centuries
it’s been in the Routledge family.
A paperback novel lies half-open on the nightstand. It’s one of Ms. Fernsby’s many bodice-rippers. A woman with a gown slipping
off her shoulders makes out with a half-dressed man—Emma and her Scottish duke.
Ms. Fernsby opens the top drawer in an old maple dresser and pulls out an unwrapped package.
“Oh . . .” My face burns.
“I know. I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, but my own Magic Wand has given me so much comfort over the years and helped me
drift off on many a sleepless night.”
I take the package, smiling but tongue-tied. It’s a classic. Long electric cord, silicon knob. A glorious grandmother’s vibrator.
Quite literally.
Nostalgically, I remember around the age of ten snooping in my grandma’s room. It was a slow summer for Ian and me at her
Martinsville farmhouse. Sunlight spilled across the blue quilt of her spindly antique Jennie Lind bed. Her curiously large
hurricane lamp rested near the bedside. I don’t remember why I was in there. I think I was just bored and thought it might
be fun to poke around her drawers. I found the Magic Wand in the nightstand. The box said it was a body massager. That looked
like fun to me, so I plugged it into the wall, a little surprised at how loud it was. Giggling, I rubbed it on my lower back
like I had a backache.
“Lizzie? What are you doing?” my mom barked sternly from the doorway, a basket of folded laundry in her arms.
“I’m playing with Grandma’s body massager. This is so fun!”
“Yes, well, this massager isn’t for little girls.” She plopped the basket down, unplugged the “massager,” and took it from me. She folded
it neatly back in the box, telling me over and over again how rude it is to rummage through people’s drawers.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager when I learned what the “massager” actually was.
“You’re not offended, are you, luv?” Ms. Fernsby asks, blushing a little.
“Oh no, not at all! It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen one of these.”
“Oh . . .” She looks a little sad. And, happily married or not, that was a rather sad thing of me to say.
But I keep talking, sounding more pitiful by the second. “I mean, who needs a vibrator when you have my husband, right?”
Again, really dumb. Every woman needs a vibrator, and I haven’t indulged in years. Honestly, I’m not even sure where mine
is. Probably stuffed in the back of one of my drawers with a spent battery.
“I do hope it helps,” Ms. Fernsby says kindly.
I thank her and leave with the package, my face searing hot.
When I get back to the bedroom, I stare at the wand, wondering what to do. Why am I so embarrassed by another woman giving
me this? I’ve always considered myself liberated. And yet, why haven’t I used my own vibrator in years?
Back in graduate school, I remember a Gender Studies class where we discussed vibrators as essential to women’s sexual pleasure
and how the Victorians, oddly enough, invented the vibrator.
Philip and I had a fantastic sex life. Yet why did I forget how fun these are?
It’s strange how amid this ritualized grief, I’m feeling more connections to my pre-Philip self.
I touch the jet necklace around my neck.
Long before the 1960s wand, Victorian women loved their vibrators.
Using Ms. Fernsby’s gift might be my most authentic Victorian move yet.
I wake up the next morning, sunlight spilling through the drapes. My brain feels strangely clear, like a dissipating fog.
I glance at my phone—I’ve slept seven straight hours.
This is the longest I’ve slept since Philip died. Before the advent of sleeping pills, vibrators must have made a world of
difference health-wise for young wives advised to “lie back and think of England.” (Although, as I always tell my students,
there is zero evidence Queen Victoria actually ever gave this advice to any woman. As indicated by the scandalous loose-haired, bare-shouldered
self-portrait she gifted Prince Albert, they had quite the steamy relationship.)
A text from Henry pops up. Almost to the finish line and will be in touch soon!
Wonderful! Can’t wait to hear! I text back.
?
I stare at Henry’s smiling emoji, heartbeat quickening. Whatever will come to light is what Philip was trying to tell me that
night. I want to know, but I’m anxious. There are some big secrets at bay. I’ve had one awful shock this year, and admittedly,
I’m also afraid of the truth.
I get out of bed, pull on my robe, and brush my teeth.
But I’m me and not Mirabel.
I’m my steely nurse-mother’s daughter, and I’m not about to keep the Wellses’ Southern family skeletons crammed in the attic. Philip was going to tell me the truth that night, and I need to know it all—at least for our son.
After a leisurely breakfast with Ms. Fernsby, Heathcliff and I go to the Sherlock Holmes Museum. With a promise to Heathcliff
to find some nondairy ice cream if he is good during the tour, we make our way through the museum’s quirky rooms. Heathcliff
likes the interesting toilet with the blue patterns. Dad always gave books as gifts for every holiday and birthday, and I
still remember my thirteenth birthday, when he presented me with a shiny new Sherlock Holmes anthology. I stayed up all night reading The Hound of the Baskervilles.
As we leave, Heathcliff happily wearing a gift shop Sherlock Holmes hat, I think of Dad sitting alone in his study, rejecting
sweet, artistic Beverly Lamott because she can’t cook.
“I know what Daddy would say about everything,” Heathcliff says, ridiculously expensive coconut ice cream dripping down his
bottom lip.
I push the hat up to see his face better.
“What would he say now?”
“That Batman is cool, and you shouldn’t be sad all the time.”
“Do I look sad all the time?”
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Part of me will always be sad about Daddy. But you don’t need to worry about me.”
He sighs long and hard, exhausted by this truth. “Yeah, I know.”
After taking Heathcliff back to the town house, I can’t stop thinking about what he said. Although his comment is strange,
I know exactly what he meant by knowing what his dad would say about everything. Philip was so involved as a dad and partner,
the conversations keep going and going in my head. Heartbreakingly, I know what he would say in every moment.
Admittedly, sometimes I don’t want to know what he would say. I know he would say I shouldn’t be sad all the time. I know he would tell me Brad McGregor is a
twerp, and I shouldn’t let him get to me. I know he would say he can’t believe I put him in a dumb bird urn and an old-lady
necklace.
Feeling a new drive to move forward, I buy a cocktail dress. It’s black of course. But it’s the sexiest black outfit I’ve
bought in my widowhood.
August made reservations for seven. I take my time, plucking neglected strays from my eyebrows and slipping my favorite pair
of dangly earrings through my lobes. I pick up my widow jewelry, hesitating before I clasp the jet necklace around my neck.
I’m not ready to give this up yet.
As I finish getting ready, he calls at about 6:30.
August groans into the phone. “Hi, Elizabeth, I really hate to do this, but my publisher called and I’m in a bit of a bind.
Because the Inspector Hall Netflix series debuts next month, they want to get the third book, Blood Offspring, out ahead of deadline. It’s pretty urgent, and I think I can finish if I pull an all-nighter tonight. Would it be bloody awful
if we bumped our reservations to tomorrow night?”
“Not at all,” I say. Although my stomach sinks in disappointment.
“You’re wonderful, Elizabeth. Tomorrow night, then. I’m sure you’ll look ravishing in something widowy-black. Enjoy your evening.
For me, it’s loads of coffee.”
“I understand. Good luck.”
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Take care.”
I sigh, staring into the mirror at my hair, half-secured in a French knot. Strangely, the jet necklace looks like an appropriate
accent piece at my neckline. My gold earrings dangle elegantly. The cocktail dress fits perfectly, tailored at the waist and
showing off my bare arms. It felt good to want to look good again.
Obviously, this is disappointing, but I can at least do something nice for him.
Slipping the dress off, I pull on my black leggings and tennis shoes.
He’s only a few blocks away from the town house, so I grab the coffee from our favorite shop. We’ve had enough coffee together,
and I know exactly how he likes it—extra shot of espresso, milk, two sugar cubes.
I buzz up.
“Elizabeth!” he says through the intercom, sounding slightly surprised. He was probably deep into a Chadwick Hall chase scene.
“Hey, August, I brought you something to help out. A little pick-me-up from one writer to another! Don’t worry. I won’t keep
you.”
He lets me in.
For some reason, I expected more evidence of writerly chaos—cups of tea in random places, takeout cartons on the kitchen countertops.
Stray beer bottles. I thought he’d be sporting sweatpants and sexy tousled hair.
Instead, he’s well-groomed and put together in pressed slacks and a dress shirt. A bottle of champagne and two flickering
candles rest on the table.
“Ahhh . . . you’re a darling.” He takes the coffee from me.
“Is this the mood you set while writing?” I’m trying to sound lighthearted and not possessive. But I really want to ask if
someone else is here.
He glances nervously in the direction of a clock on the wall.
“Yes—um . . . peculiar quirk of mine. When I’m deep into writing, I dress like I’m going into the office, and I sip champagne.
It makes me feel bloody successful.” He smiles, the dimple deepening.
I smile back—as if it makes sense.
The doorbell sounds, ringing right by my head.
“Hullo, Professor!” A young twiggy blond woman appears on the security screen. She’s wearing a cocktail dress like mine. But
she’s fifteen pounds skinnier and has clearly had breast work done.
“Uhhh . . .” The dimple disappears as his face reddens.
“A student?” I mutter, my voice barely audible.
His mouth hangs open. For once, he has nothing clever to say.
“Right.”
“Elizabeth . . . wait . . .” He reaches for me.
“Just leave me alone,” I say, wrenching away from him.
I leave quickly, passing the pretty girl outside without a word.
I walk up the streets, evening settling around me. I walk through busy Covent Garden, the young professional crowd off work,
clustering around the pubs with pints. I walk slowly, my arms crossed across my chest—lonely in the happy throng, tears in
my eyes. I remember this ache of betrayal, and it hurts now like a phantom limb. I remember how it felt as I walked the narrow,
uneven streets of Haworth after catching Wes with Samantha on the antique icebox. I remember wondering how I’d get through
the last few days of that excursion, how I’d sit near Wes on the plane. I wondered how I could keep my dignity around him
and not break down in tears when I couldn’t wait to get home and cry in my practical mother’s arms.
I meander the streets, not ready to go home.
As I pass Victoria Square’s private garden, I pause at the statue of a young Victoria.
This might be my favorite monument to her.
It’s years before she delivered eight children and then lost Albert.
Her back to me, I can’t see her expression in the lamplit darkness.
As I wrap my fingers around the cool wrought iron fence, I stare at her form, the folds of her bronze skirt, the swooping braids in her hair, and I feel something slip in me.
Wes was a stupid weasel, and you should never cry more than five minutes over such a person.
I’m not only grieving Philip. I’m grieving Mom. Although Dad took me out for ice cream and listened as I cried, Mom was the structure behind everything, baking and cleaning
and making sure we all took our vitamins and went to bed by nine. She kept Dad, Ian and me going like clockwork. We’re unmoored
without her.
I’m terrified of the grief. There are many reasons I’ve adhered to these rituals. But I realize now, I’m clinging to Mom’s
order because whenever the world felt like it was falling apart, she was there holding us all together. And then when my world
fell apart, she wasn’t there. When Philip died, I needed her more than ever, and everything crumbled for me. There was no
remarkable Nora to keep me wound up and running. I needed tangibles and rituals and black clothes and jewelry to keep me rooted.
I needed structure because Mom wasn’t there.