Of Monsters and Madness Page 3

  Three

  The next morning, I wake to the sound of Maddy sweeping ashes from the fireplace. I roll over, peeking out of one eye. The draperies are pulled back and sunlight is streaming through the windows. The menace of yesterday’s storm is completely gone. Light ripples across the room, and I gasp out loud when I see the floor. It’s bathed in an orange glow of patterns so strange and wonderful they seem to be alive.

  Maddy turns to face me with a wide smile. “Good morning, miss. It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

  I look toward the source of the light. It’s coming from the top part of the window I’d looked out of last night. Instead of clear panes, the glass is colored. I wiggle my fingers back and forth and watch as the light bounces off of them. “It reminds me of the morning sunrise in Siam.”

  “It’s called staining the glass. Only a skilled tradesman can do it.” Maddy staggers to her feet with a bucket filled with ashes. “There are seven different ones in the house. Blue in the study, purple in the library, green an’ black in the upstairs hallway, white in the Master’s room, violet in the great room. Cook says they was a gift from a Prince Prospero. They’re my fav’rite thing to clean.” Her left cheek is streaked with soot.

  I hurry out of bed and reach for the bucket. “Let me help you with that.”

  “No, miss,” she scolds. “It isn’t yer place.” She brushes a hand across her face, and the soot disappears.

  I glance down at the floor, hoping I have not offended her. I’ve never had servants before and I don’t yet know what my place is. “My apologies.”

  “No need to worry, miss. When I finish with this, I’ll be right back up to help you get dressed.” She carries the bucket toward the door.

  After Maddy leaves, I go to my trunk and retrieve my robe. It still smells of maphrao—coconuts, as Mother used to call them—and a wave of homesickness washes over me. Even though months have passed, I still have not found myself used to the idea that she is gone. I bury my nose deeply into the worn silk. “I miss you, Mother,” I whisper.

  Placing the robe around my shoulders, I pad over to the windows and sit cross-legged in a patch of sunlight. It’s been so long since I was last able to practice my morning meditations. On the ship from Siam, it was too noisy for me to properly focus. Even at night, when the other passengers had settled in for the evening, the sounds of the masts creaking and timbers groaning were a constant companion.

  Closing my eyes, I focus on slowing my breathing and clearing my mind.

  “Begging yer pardon,” Maddy suddenly whispers from behind me. “What is it you are doing?”

  I open my eyes and glance back at her. I did not hear her come in. “It’s called meditation. It helps me to start the day with clear thoughts.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You sit very still and clear your mind of distractions.”

  “How do you do that? My mind doesn’t ever want to stop moving.”

  “Truthfully, I find that to be the hardest part,” I admit. “People in Siam meditate every morning and some in the evenings, as well. I’ve only started practicing over the last couple of years. I’m still learning.”

  “What’s it like there in Siam?” She moves closer, her face curious. “Is it much like Philadelphia?”

  A vision of home unfolds in my mind. Flat greenery and watery channels of a rice paddy field. Muddy rivers that connect to one another. Colorful trinkets designed for the tourists at market. Dirt roads and elephant riders. Lychee fruit and fresh mangoes. Monsoon season with its sudden torrents of rain …

  I describe it all to her and she listens with rapt attention.

  “The elephants just walk around free as they please? Do they really have great horns on their faces?”

  “Oh, yes. Their horns are called tusks and they have two of them. Elephants roam freely and are ridden like the horses are here. Only, there’s no carriage, and you ride much higher up.”

  “I can’t imagine all that rain.” She shakes her head and sighs.

  “It only rains that much during monsoon season. Otherwise, the weather is clear and beautiful. Not like England. From what I can remember, it rained all the time there. Almost every day.”

  “You lived in England, too?”

  I nod again. “My mother was born there and she took me to England when I was a young child. We stayed until I was six. Then we went with the missionaries to Siam.”

  I don’t tell her the reasons why we left England. Or how hard life was without my father. Since Mother refused to speak of him, many labeled me a bastard child. Moving to Siam was a welcome respite from the cruel tongues in England.

  “Which one felt more like home?” she asks.

  “Siam. Definitely Siam,” I say quickly. “We had simpler lives there, but happier ones. Mother was always smiling, and the villagers welcomed us as family.”

  “Then you came here. I never could’ve made it all on my own like you did, miss.”

  I glance down. When Mother and I went from England to Siam, we were stowed away on a small boat with the missionaries. They kept us safe and protected. But there was no one to protect me on the ship from Siam to Philadelphia. It was much larger, and the other passengers kept their distance. I learned quickly not to venture topside too often where I could overhear whispers about my sun-darkened skin and the scandal that I was traveling all alone.

  “Do you think Philadelphia will ever feel like home to you?” she says.

  “I hope so, Maddy. I truly hope so.”

  I get to my feet, and Maddy’s eyes grow larger when she sees what I’m wearing. “Can I touch yer robe?” she whispers. Then she blushes. “Oh, forgive me, miss. I shouldn’t be so bold.”

  I hold out my arm. “My mother gave it to me.”

  The tip of her finger barely brushes my sleeve before she draws back. “It’s so soft. An’ the color!”

  “I would have packed another to give to you had I known you would like it so much,” I say regretfully.

  “Oh, no, miss. I could never take such a gift!” She glances down at the pocket watch attached to her uniform, and panic briefly crosses her face. “Listen to me going on an’ on. I’ve near talked yer ear off. Best hurry now. We have to see to yer toilet an’ get you properly dressed. We mustn’t be late fer breakfast.”

  Grand-père is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Maddy and I finally make our way down, but Father is nowhere to be seen. I have to keep reminding myself not to follow Maddy into the kitchen and offer to help her with breakfast. That is not my place anymore.

  “Good morning,” Grand-père says. “Did you sleep well?”

  How do I tell him that visions of being murdered in my bed caused me to toss and turn most of the night? “My bedroom is lovely,” I finally reply, “but I think my new sleeping arrangements will take some getting used to. Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept excellently. Thank you for asking.”

  He leads me to the dining room, where a sideboard has been set up with every breakfast dish imaginable. The sight before me is almost too much to take in. Breakfast in Siam consisted of hot black tea, rice porridge, and pa-tong-goh, which was my favorite—bits of dough cooked in lard, with crispy outsides and soft, sweet insides. In front of me now is surely enough food to feed the entire village.

  Grand-père moves to a small stack of gleaming china at the far end of the sideboard and picks up an empty plate. He starts to fill it with food, so I move to follow his example. Then I stop and study what’s on a platter next to some poached eggs. “Grand-père, what are these dark brown things here?”

  “Those are kippers, my dear. Fish.”

  The kippers don’t look like any fish I’ve ever seen before. But the thought of fresh fish reminds me of home, so I fill my plate with two of them and add a boiled egg. When I sit down at the table, I cut off a piece of the kipper and bite into it. It’s dry and leathery. I force myself to swallow. The taste is indescribably gruesome.

  Reaching
for my water goblet, I take several sips to try and wash the flavor away, when Father finally enters the room. He seems to be having an easier time walking this morning, but it’s still an obvious struggle. His coat is rumpled and his bow tie hangs in loose ends around his neck. A newspaper is tucked under one arm and he thumps it down across the table.

  “Where is the coffee?” he says crossly. “Why can it never be waiting for me as I have requested? Is that not a simple task?”

  I open my mouth to ask him if he’s slept well but then think better of it. He has not acknowledged me yet. “Good morning, Father,” I say instead.

  He waves a hand in my direction and closes his eyes, slumping in his chair. “Cook!” he yells. “Maggie! For the love of God, someone bring me some coffee!”

  It’s Maddy, not Maggie. If you cannot get her name right, do you even know mine?

  Turning my attention back to the kippers, I punish myself for my wayward thoughts and force another piece into my mouth. It’s even worse the second time. I reach for my water again and drain it dry.

  Right on cue, Maddy enters the room, bearing a tray filled with a water pitcher and a silver pot. I give her a smile when she stops to fill my glass first. Father’s cup is next, and her fingers tremble as she fills it with coffee. But the dark liquid seems to instantly put him in a better mood. He reaches for it before she’s even done pouring and manages a gruff “Thank you.”

  Maddy curtsies and goes to pull the pot away, when a loud scream suddenly comes from the kitchen. She narrowly misses knocking over the water pitcher as we all look up. After another cry, I quickly stand. I must find out what is wrong.

  Hurrying into the kitchen, I discover Cook and Johanna bent over the sink. Johanna has a rag held tightly to her finger. A red stain blossoms on the fabric and she grows paler by the second.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Johanna cut herself peeling potatoes,” Cook says frantically. “It’s bad.”

  I put a hand on Johanna’s back. “May I look?”

  She nods.

  Pulling back the blood-stained cloth, I see a jagged cut bisecting the middle section of her forefinger. The skin has split and peeled away from the bone. “I need a needle dipped into some boiling water and some thread,” I tell Cook. “Quickly.”

  Cook reaches into her apron and pulls out some thread, then hurries to a nearby cabinet. Removing a needle from a drawer, she brings me the thread and puts the needle into a pot on the stove. “Water for the potatoes,” she explains.

  I hold the rag tightly to Johanna’s finger as I wait for Cook to fish the needle back out. She carries it over to me in a large spoon. The needle is hot, but I know I must work quickly. “This may hurt a bit,” I tell Johanna, “but it’s necessary. The cut has to be closed so that it can heal.”

  She bites her lip and closes her eyes as I work hastily to sew the skin back together. I’ve watched Mother perform this task many times, and I used to practice my sutures on a spare piece of cloth whenever she would let me. By the time I have finished, Johanna’s face is dotted with sweat and my fingers are speckled with blood, but no sound has escaped her lips.

  “Be sure to check it every day for signs of pus or discoloration.” I tie off the thread in a knot. “If you see either of those things, let me know immediately. And avoid using it, if you can.”

  “I will try, miss.” She nods her head. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “You’re very welcome.” I go to the sink to wash my hands. “You did well, Johanna. You kept calm and were very brave during the sutures.”

  She offers me a proud smile. “My sister cut her foot when we was younger, an’ I stayed with her the whole time it was bleeding. I just told myself to keep steady, just like I told her.”

  “Keeping calm is the most important part of …” My voice dies off when I turn and see Father and Grand-père standing right behind me. I lower my eyes and stare down at the floor.

  It’s Grand-père who speaks next. “Well, that was quite an event. Who would have thought we would have need of a doctor’s services this morning?” He pauses, and when I look up again, he’s giving Father a sharp look. “Thank goodness you were able to offer assistance when it was needed, Annabel,” he continues. “We are most grateful to you.”

  I don’t know how to respond. Should I thank him for thanking me?

  “Now that the excitement has passed, let us return to the dining room to finish our breakfast.”

  He and Father both turn back toward the table, and I follow silently behind. We are seated, but the room remains silent, and all I can think is that I have done something wrong again. Was it not my place to help the servants?

  I look up when I feel someone’s gaze. Father is staring at me.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” he asks.

  “M-mother taught me.” My voice catches. “One of the missionaries we lived with was a doctor. Mother worked for him, and I was her helper.”

  “And this work, it involved sewing up body parts?”

  “That’s enough, Markus,” Grand-père says sharply. “This is not suitable breakfast conversation. Especially now that we have a young lady in the house.”

  Perhaps now is the time to let Father know of my interests in medicine. “Such conversation does not bother me,” I volunteer. “I hoped that by coming to Philadelphia, I might have the chance to further my medical knowledge. According to a book I have, written by one of the first female surgeons, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, the human body is—”

  “A female cannot practice medicine.” Father cuts me off. “It’s against the law. I don’t know what book you claim to have been reading or where you came upon it, but it was most certainly written by a charlatan.”

  “It came from a bookshop in England. Mother got it for my birthday last year, and I’ve been studying it because I wish to become a surgeon as well.”

  “Women practicing medicine is unseemly.” Father’s words are sharp, like tiny bits of glass, and revulsion is written clearly all over his face.

  Tears gather behind my eyes. He is disgusted with me. Disgusted by a daughter who wishes to practice medicine.

  “I think the pursuit of medicine is a noble goal,” Grand-père offers. “Who knows what the coming years will bring? We may find more and more women in the medical field.”

  “Women do not now, nor will they ever, have a place practicing medicine. Can you imagine? A woman doctor?” Father’s revulsion turns to anger. “No daughter of mine is going to study medicine. I forbid it.” He attempts to rise from the table and it is a labored effort. “Now I will bid you a good day,” he finally says, standing again. “When my assistant arrives, pray do tell him to come see me directly.”

  Grand-père stays silent and I cut up the remaining bits of kipper as Father exits the room. I don’t think I can bring myself to eat any more of it, but at least the process keeps my fingers occupied. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my thoughts. Although I will not let Father deter me from my dreams, it’s clear I have disappointed him.

  Yet again.

  Four

  As soon as breakfast is over, Maddy escorts me to another grand room. This one has fine china on display and several seating areas. She tells me it’s the drawing room and says I am to wait. I have no idea why I’ve been brought here, until I’m introduced to a woman with a severe bun and a stiff brown dress. Her face is unmovable. Much like her dress.

  “Good morning,” she says briskly. “I am Mrs. Tusk. Former headmistress of Menard’s School for Girls, and I am to be your tutor. We shall begin our lessons immediately.”

  I bow to her and then immediately remember Father’s annoyance with the gesture. “Forgive me,” I say. “Where I’m from, it’s appropriate to bow when introductions are being made. Though my father does not seem to approve.”

  Mrs. Tusk sniffs once and straightens the edges of her collar. “He is correct. Bowing is not ladylike. It implies a lack of proper upbringing. A curtsy or a hand
clasp is the only respectable way to greet someone when you are being introduced.”

  She looks at me expectantly and then gestures to a nearby chair, waiting to speak until I have taken my seat. “I would normally start with an introduction to elocution and etiquette, but since I—and all of Philadelphia, I can assure you—have been informed of the incident that occurred yesterday, such behavior necessitates that we immediately attempt to repair the damage done. Therefore, we shall begin with the importance of one’s reputation.”

  My voice is barely a whisper as I say, “What incident has occurred?”

  “Why, the incident”—she sniffs again as she pronounces the word—”that resulted in your appearing in a scandalous state in front of a gentleman. I heard your clothing was entirely soaked through. You must think of what people will say!”

  I bow my head in shame. Father cannot be pleased by the fact that I have caused a scandal before I even arrived.

  “Reputation is your most prized possession.” she says. Her shoulders straighten, and she lifts her chin. “You must zealously guard it at all times. A proper lady does not walk alone with a gentleman, and she does not speak to a gentleman unless accompanied by a chaperone. Once in the correct setting, polite company will mean polite small talk. Acceptable topics are matters such as the weather or gardening. You must take care not to speak too much, or speak too intensely. A lady never gives a gentleman the wrong impression.”

  I try to remember all that she’s saying.

  “One must never, ever be caught in a state of undress or dishevelment in front of a gentleman.” Mrs. Tusk straightens her cuffs and gives me a disdainful look. “It is simply not done in polite society.”

  I wonder what I will have to do to repair my reputation now that I have sullied it by committing every grievous sin on her list of admonishments. Albeit unknowingly.

  Mrs. Tusk then crosses back and forth in front of me. “A most important part of a lady’s reputation is decorum. The way you hold yourself. The way you walk.” She turns slowly and gestures down at the floor. “Feet slightly apart, never spread more than your foot’s length, with arms at your sides. Your head should be held erect, and you should maintain a pleasant demeanor.” Her lips part into a semblance of a smile, and she walks the floor again, nodding at imaginary people. “Now it’s time for you to try.”