Chapter Eleven
Today was the worst of all days. It was time for the doctor to come attend to her, as he did yearly.
Sometimes more often, if she fell particularly ill.
More so than usual. That happened occasionally, and those visits were thankfully usually brief.
He’d prescribe rest and constitutional walks and occasionally laudanum for her pain.
These yearly examinations, though, were thorough and thoroughly vexing.
“Dr. Seagle.” Harry presented him to the parlor that was empty except for Della.
She sat in an armchair in her best day dress.
It mattered little that the style was out of fashion, and it featured no lace or embroidery.
Her mother always sent gowns in dark colors, as if Della were in mourning for her own life.
Today’s was a light blue, the brightest option available to her.
She wore it as if she would a ballgown on the day of her debut into society, had such an event ever occurred.
“Good morning, Miss Harris.” The doctor bowed, placing his leather bag down on the sideboard and approaching her. “I must admit I’m surprised to see you out of bed, let alone sitting downstairs as if to receive callers.”
Della sighed. This was why she’d dressed up.
Why her posture was ramrod straight. Why she’d let Clara form her hair into some aggressively tight coiffure.
The doctor always assumed she’d be abed, even though she’d been downstairs in this very chair for his last four examinations.
For him to be surprised that she was well enough to receive callers, that comment carried a particularly sharp sting.
She was often well enough to receive callers.
They never came, except for Andrew, who had been politely asked to stay in his chambers until the doctor left, but that was not the point of the matter.
She had to appear competent. Stable. Or else the power to make her own decisions, the last power she held in this world, would be taken away from her.
Dr. Seagle stepped into her personal space without asking for permission. He pressed his fingers into her shoulders, running them down her arms. His fingers wrapped around her elbows, tight enough that Della felt pain.
“So interesting,” he murmured. Della knew he was not speaking to her. He’d have to consider her human to do so, and Della knew he did not. “It’s almost as if you’ve a fever in only your joints.”
Della knew this to be a symptom of her disease. Something she dealt with every day. That it was such a novelty to her long-time physician bothered her. Everything about him bothered her, so she tried to let it go.
Dr. Seagle never asked her questions while he was conducting his examination. He’d run his cold hands all over her body without a word in her direction, then he’d sit back and interrogate her while he wrote scribbled notes in his files.
“Hm,” he noted. He picked up her hands in each of his, fingertips glancing over her swollen knuckles. “Your hands are becoming deformed.”
Della had noticed the changes in her hands, the way the bones in her fingers seemed to rub together.
How the swelling in her knuckles seemed to have become permanent.
Her fingers weren’t straight anymore, and if she placed her first fingers side by side, she noticed they pointed in different directions.
She wouldn’t call herself deformed, though.
That word ate at her as he continued on.
Her mind drifted far away, and she pretended she couldn’t feel the press of hands against her knees, her ankles.
She was simply not here. Not in the parlor at Westfield Manor, not in the house at all.
She was taking a walk by the lake. The air was crisp, an early autumn breeze that fluttered against her unbound hair.
The chill made her hip ache, or maybe that was the walk itself.
Either way, she didn’t mind. It was peaceful out here. Tranquil.
“And how have you been feeling?” he asked, sinking into a chair opposite her and pulling out his leatherbound journal. His voice quite ruined her tranquility.
“I’ve been well,” Della told him. She always found it difficult to discuss her pain with anyone, to summarize the past year of her life in a matter of few words.
It was impossible. Besides, she could tell him that she spent most days bleeding from her eyes, and he’d have no other treatments to give her.
There was nothing for it. They’d tried acupuncture and bloodletting and the consumption of a variety of different metals.
Each was more tortuous than the last, and Della had decided years ago that the only treatment she would accept was the use of heat, and the occasional pain medication when things got dire.
The doctor, however, saw this as a failure on her part.
He saw it as a weakness, saw her as a woman not willing to fight hard enough.
In her mind, though, battles were something that could be won or lost. Her illness was something that must be lived with, like a strange elderly aunt.
She’d chosen to accept her elderly aunt, even with all of her quirks.
Dr. Seagle would never understand that choice, and Della was well past the point of caring.
“Your mother mentioned that you’d be willing to try some new treatment.” Dr. Seagle seemed so pleased at the notion, that he’d be able to load her up with metal and steal her blood and make her eternally fucking miserable, all in the name of health she’d never get back.
“Absolutely not,” Della wanted to scream, but her voice came out even-keeled.
She couldn’t be aggressive, lest she give all the power back to her mother.
“She must be mistaken. I am doing quite well as I am, taking my daily walks in the garden and traveling up and down the stairs several times a day.”
Several times a day might be an exaggeration, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting this man out of her house without boxing his ears or convincing him she was incompetent.
“My apologies,” the doctor spoke as he wrote. “I must have . . . misunderstood.”
It was not a misunderstanding, of that, Della was certain, but she wouldn’t address her mother’s duplicity.
Not about this, anyway. Della hated the fact that her mother knew everything about her visits with the doctor.
She felt there should be some notion of privacy, and she’d always considered Dr. Seagle a spy who would report any impropriety back to her mother.
That was why she’d told both Andrew and Clara to hide away upstairs.
“It’s quite all right,” Della assured him, her fakest smile in place. She swept her hands over her skirts, dusting off imaginary debris and trying to regain her dignity. She didn’t think she ever could, not with him. Still, she tried.
“I’m so pleased to see you up and about,” he said, standing and packing up his belongings.
She wanted to pick up that leather satchel and hit him with it.
“But I do wish you’d heed your mother’s request for more treatment.
It must be so difficult for her, having a daughter so ill.
It would mean so much to her if you’d just try. ”
Della’s blood boiled, but her face smiled. She simply nodded at the doctor as he took his leave. She hoped she wouldn’t see him again until next year. She hoped that someone else would take over his practice by then.
Frustrated tears sprang up, and she actually groaned.
The action was deeply unladylike, but it felt good.
She was so incredibly angry. He’d dared make this about her mother, as if having a sick daughter was worse than being sick yourself.
Della knew full well that her illness had ruined her mother’s life.
She needed no reminder. He’d accused her of not trying, as if she hadn’t put forth an incredible effort just to sit upright in front of him this very morning.
When he’d expected her to be in bed, fragile and alone.
The way everyone seemed so determined to keep her forever.
Most of all, Della was frustrated because there was no way to win. Either she was trying too hard or not enough. Either she was too active or too lazy. Either she was too sick or not sick enough.
There was no way to win, but like she’d always thought, this wasn’t a battle.
“Miss Della?” There was a knock on the parlor door, left open since the doctor’s departure.
The voice was Gwendoline’s, as was the name she called her.
Miss Della. It was unique to Gwen and Mrs. Goldsmith, and it was completely unnecessary.
“I heard the doctor leave. I hadn’t realized he was coming today.
We can postpone our lesson if you’d like. If you aren’t well.”
Postpone. What an excellent word. Della was so proud.
“No, no,” Della waved in her direction, gesturing for her to come in instead of lingering in the doorway. “I’m quite well, thank you.”
Gwendoline sat in the chair the doctor had just vacated, her posture timid and her clothing more fashionable than Della’s.
She had incredible skill with a needle, and Della was always impressed with her.
Gwendoline was naturally impressive. She was beautiful, the kind of classic, round-faced, soft-eyed beauty that would have suitors in every London ballroom fighting to dance with her.
With her demure speech and her soft-spoken nature, she’d be the diamond of any social season.
Instead, she was here with Della and Mrs. Goldsmith, making strange clothing and hiding whenever they had guests.
“How are you this morning?” Della asked her, partially relaxed by the horrors of the day being over, and still partially angry at what had transpired. What had been said. Her muscles should be loosening, and instead, they were still held tight in frustration.
“I’m well,” Gwendoline nodded, the blonde hair framing her face jostling with the movement.