Chapter Text
“Mother?” said Gladys, honest confusion colouring the previous joyful tone of her voice. “Is that Father- Where is he going? Will he be back soon?”
Bertha took a deep breath in, giving herself a heartbeat to let herself feel the bone-deep pain of it all before she pressed it down and away from her. She let the breath out again, smoothing her features back into a smile before Gladys could see any upset on her features.
“He had to go back to New York I’m afraid,” said Bertha. “I don’t know that he will have time to be back, you know he and Larry are quite busy now, with the mines.”
The mines that she’d had to read about in the newspaper, just as she’d had to find out about their near financial collapse. Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he trusted her? He used to tell her everything, every little thing, just as she had always told him all-
Though, lately, he had not wanted to hear much of anything from her at all, her plans dismissed as meaningless frivolities, her desires cast as cruelty. Even news about Gladys got her waved away, George too dismissive to even march her to the door. She stepped towards Gladys, clasping her daughter’s hands, the movement giving her an excuse to look down for a moment to get control her features again. She could do this. She could hold for just a few minutes to coax Gladys out of the room and give herself time to properly compose herself.
“I suppose he shouldn’t travel too much anyway, to keep going back and forth over the season,” said Gladys. “I know he’s still recovering.”
“Your father is fine,” said Bertha.
“My father was shot,” said Gladys. “I think I have every right to be concerned.”
Bertha felt the pain of it in her own chest, and worse, the desperate, clawing helplessness she had felt looking down at his body. But he was alright now, he was perfectly fine, well enough again-
Well enough to leave her.
“Your father was shot,” agreed Bertha, relieved that her voice held steady, “but now he is recovered. He certainly wouldn’t want you worrying over him, not with a baby on the way.”
The smile returned to Gladys’ face, the sight of it enough to blot out all Bertha’s unhappiness, if only for a moment. Her daughter, a mother. Their first grandchild, born into nobility, and all the safety and security that the title marked such a life with.
She'd done it. She'd really done it. Everything she'd worked for, everything her mother had worked for, everything they'd done-
She heard the metallic clang of the gates outside as they were shut, George cutting her away from him. Gladys, apparently making no note of the sound, beamed at her.
A life's purpose fulfilled at great cost.
“You are both as bad as Hector,” said Gladys. “Ever since I told him this morning he’s worried that I might overexert myself going up and down the stairs.”
“You might feel that way as you go along,” said Bertha.
“Is that how it was for you?” said Gladys. “I- Ever since the doctor told me, I just- I have so many questions I’ve wanted to ask you.”
The thought of that almost made Bertha want to cry as much as George’s leaving.
“You can ask me anything you like,” said Bertha. “But first, I think what you ought to do is send a telegram ahead for your father and brother with your good news, and a proper letter to follow.”
“Now?” said Gladys.
“You wouldn’t want them to wait, would you?” said Bertha, the skill of years allowing her to pull forth a smile. “Just because they cannot be with you in person that is no reason for them to miss out on any piece of your good news.”
They likely wouldn't believe it, if Bertha told them. Or if they did, they would not receive it as good news but another one of her crimes against Gladys, against their family, against the world.
“I suppose not,” said Gladys. “I’ll just- But then, after, you have time?”
“Of course,” said Bertha.
Gladys smiled, squeezing her hands before she let go, rushing off to write of her good news.
Bertha did, as a matter of fact, have time. She’d left the day free for George.
She carefully closed George’s bedroom door, locking it, before moving into the adjoining bathroom. She locked the door, and the door to the servant’s entrance, before she slid to the floor, her hand pressed against her mouth to muffle her sobs.
She’d thought after such a lovely evening they might…
Might what, exactly? What foolish hopes had she held too tightly, trying to press them into reality? She’d thought it was all mended, that her weeks by his side had shown him her dedication to him, that seeing their children’s happiness had proved that he’d had nothing to fear. It had not been enough. She had not been enough.
The thought made her feel very cold, despite the heat of the Newport summer pressing against her skin. George had never made her feel lacking in herself before. Everyone else thrilled at it, but not George, never George.
Though that hadn’t been quite true lately, had it? Bertha closed her eyes, her head tipping back to rest against the door, looking up and seeing not the vaulted ceiling above but George’s face over the past months, since the wedding, before it even. The slow dismissal of her ideas, her plans. The disgust that had coloured his tone at the thought of anything that approached her interests. Laughing with their son’s cruel remarks instead of his gentle reminder that she deserved respect despite her humble origins. Slowly pulling away from her, from only a night here or there spent in her bedroom to none at all. He was busy. He was too tired even to sleep beside her. He had no time to discuss anything.
A lie, obviously, but one she had chosen to believe. She squeezed her eyes shut. Well, there was no hope of fooling herself now, even if George was content to fool everybody else. At least he gave her that, even if his concern was for its effect on the business and not her heart.
She would lie to herself no longer. Her husband-
She curled her fingers tight in her dress as the pain of it caught her. Bertha let out a breath, forcing herself to relax her hold on the fabric, forcing herself to look the truth of it in the face.
Her husband no longer loved her.
She held her breath, letting it out slowly, wiping away the new tears as they fell. That was the truth of it, and there was no use in avoiding it. That was how she had gotten ahead in the first place, by always being willing to look at the burning truth of it, wrapping her hands around the glowing coal that other women seemed afraid to touch. Her husband, the cruel robber baron. Her children, who thought less of her than dirt. Her family, the potato diggers. It was easier to hold your head high in an unfamiliar ballroom when you weren’t so weighed down by lies you were trying to tell yourself.
She held the painful weight of it in her hands for a moment, that desperate, clawing hope that maybe it wasn’t true, before she let it go. When a man no longer cared for you, it did not matter to him how many tears you shed and so she would not allow herself to weep. He no longer cared for her. That was that.
Slowly she pushed herself up, going first to the mirror to do what she could for her appearance. Cold water helped a little. She sat on the cool tiles and forced herself to drink some as well, pressing the cool cloth to her eyes between sips. The redness faded, though she could still feel the tiredness of it in her body.
Bertha ran her eyes over her reflection - her eyes were a little red, but that could be easily passed off as the product of happy tears at Gladys' news. Her face was a little pale, but then she’d always tried her best to stay out of the sun. Her dress was a little wrinkled from time spent on the floor, but she’d change before dinner, so that would go unnoticed too.
She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. Well then. What to do with the rest of it, the rest of her life?
Bertha let out a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. Focus. Start small. Start at the beginning.
The Newport season would last another few weeks. That would give her a grace period before she returned to New York. If George truly wanted it to seem as though nothing was amiss with them, he might be enticed to move home - surely their house on 61st Street was large enough that he could avoid her. If he was still set on staying at the Union, she could claim that she’d taken to Newport, though that wasn’t particularly believable unless she could find some reason that would cause her to stay.
Aurora. Aurora Fane was staying on for a little longer than the others. She could stay up in Newport, frame it as support for her. With Aurora’s appearance at the ball, that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. Aurora seemed as though she needed the companionship in any case, as she herself might in the near future-
Bertha squeezed her eyes shut. Focus.
So staying up with Aurora would give her an additional week or two. Then what? If George couldn’t be convinced to come home, then she could- Well. Hmm. Gladys would be a few months along then. If Gladys were about to have a child, no one would question her leaving for England, surely. Gladys might even wish for her to be there, if only to combat any opinions Lady Sarah had about how the birth was to be handled.
She would have wanted to go, in any case, though she had always thought they would go together, she and George there to welcome their first grandchild into the world-
Focus. The voice in her head sounded like her mother’s, or at least an approximation of it, the way her mother’s tone would harden as it coloured with frustration. Your stitches are all over the place. You have to dance to the right steps of the song, not whatever you feel like. Your smile needs work. You aren’t even trying. Focus.
Bertha let out a breath. Well then. To England. That was months laid out before her, almost a year. Surely that was enough time to see where else she might have to lay tracks, to give her time to pull the remaining threads of her life together to make something new out of it.
After all, she was used to being without him at home, wasn't she? He'd always travelled for work, even if he didn't spend nearly as much time away now as he had in their early years. He'd always had to miss dinners, even if in the past he would have sent a note to apologise for his absence, to give some little update.
Even if, now, he would not return travel-worn and so very glad to see her. Even if, now, there would be no apology for his late arrival home. There would be no note at all, no connection, no-
George’s voice, his well-loved, well-remembered voice, curled back into her mind. Defeat is not your colour. Bertha let out a shaky breath. Just because he no longer cared what colour she looked best in, it still held true enough. There was no point in holding onto the idea of a victory that had been placed so firmly out of her reach. There were many ways to be victorious, after all, just as many ways as there were to be defeated, and she would simply have to find a different kind of victory than marital bliss.
Perhaps it would always have been so. People always thought it absurd that someone as cold as her had found a love match. It had made her own mother fret to think about, that Bertha might be walling herself into something inescapable, before Bertha had been able to show proper proof of George’s ambitions, his support. He’d liked that about her as well in turn, that shared drive, that shared ambition-
Bertha squeezed her eyes shut. Focus. Focus.
The first of her victories came easily. Gladys was delighted by the idea that she might be there for the birth, her beaming smile growing even wider as Hector took her hand when she shared the news with him. Hector smiled down at Gladys, all warm affection. If only George could have seen it-
But George had seen it, at the ball, and it had made no difference. There was little use in such thoughts now. She had to remember that. There was nothing to be gained by pretending that she could affect his heart.
The second victory arrived the next day. Aurora was pleased that she would be staying down in Newport, and very glad for the idea of company on the return trip. An infinitely small favour, really. At least until George decided to divorce her-
But George had not said he would. There was no use planning for it. Doing so might even set his mind on that path. There would be enough impending downfalls without her setting one in motion by her own hands. For now, he was content with separation - a difficult thing, and certainly she would have to endure snide remarks after having a publicly happy marriage for so many years, but otherwise unremarkable for their set. Surely that was pain enough to deal with without seeking more.
Travelling back with Aurora brought with it an additional victory, though perhaps it was not strictly hers to claim - Marian had decided to stay with Aurora instead of travelling back with her aunts.
“Aunt Ada might have stayed too,” said Marian, when she stopped by to share the news and to take tea with them, “but Aunt Agnes is keen to get back to begin her work for the historical society, and she does not like to travel alone.”
“Mr Van Rhijn could not travel with her?” asked Gladys.
“He is…” Marian paused, glancing at the doorway as though to check they were alone, or as alone as they could be in such a well-staffed house. “He wished to travel back on the same passage as Mrs Winterton.”
Bertha raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
That explained Oscar’s request of her a little better than simply concern for his cousin’s future happiness. Bertha had always found it admirable when a person could help themselves as well as another, and certainly it showed the man was against burning bridges unless forced to. Both traits that had been helpful to her in the past and were sure to be helpful in the future.
Gladys frowned. “That seems very fast. I had thought Mr Winterton had only recently passed away. But I suppose he must have been sick for some time, so perhaps…”
“Gladys really,” said Bertha. She paused. “Though, it has only been a few months.”
“I do not think it is a love match in any case,” said Marian, her tone turning a little wry.
“I don’t think I am too out of line to say that I do not think it was a love match with Mr Winterton either,” said Bertha. “At least, not on her side of things.”
“No,” said Marian. “But not everyone can rise as you and Mr Russell did.”
Bertha paused, her throat suddenly tight. “No, I suppose not.”
Gladys frowned, which wouldn’t do at all. Bertha certainly intended for her time with her daughter to be as light as possible. Just because George seemed perfectly happy to put their conflict on display for their children, that did not mean she wished to do so.
“In any case, I wish them only the best of luck,” said Bertha.
“You do?” said Gladys.
“Well,” said Bertha. “I wish your cousin the best of luck Miss Brook.”
Marian laughed. “So do I. Though I certainly hope that Aunt Agnes never finds out she was your maid. We’d never hear the end of it.”
“I am quite sure that the future Mrs Van Rhijn will do all she can to keep it under wraps,” said Bertha. “And I myself will not be the one to share it.”
“I am sure she would appreciate it,” said Marian, “if nothing else, I’m sure Oscar would be glad to not have to deal with the consequences of it.”
Bertha hummed, taking a sip of her tea. Something to be planned for anyway, for how the threads of it wound their way back to her and especially to George. Hurt flared in her chest again to think of it. For all that she might have forgiven him, he’d left her with something of a time bomb in their lives by keeping such a thing from her.
Perhaps, even then, when she had thought things between them were good, he had not been particularly skilled at thinking of the consequences. But then, he’d had her for that, hadn’t he? And he still did, no matter how distasteful he might find her current involvement.
The remaining few weeks of their Newport season passed quickly, a flurry of events, a rush of Hector and Gladys leaving, and then a much quieter week with Aurora and Marian for company. Bertha found she was glad of it, their conversation practice for those she was sure to have once she returned to the city.
Yes, George was quite busy. Oh, no, she couldn’t speculate on details, but it was all going quite well. Yes, he was in good health. Yes, Larry too. But of course she’d heard from them. Of course she had.
She hadn’t, of course, but she hadn’t really expected to.
Marian, she knew, did receive letters from Larry. She edged around the conversation of such things, lest she be accused of meddling. Marian apparently had no such concerns, never smiling more than when she had received a new letter from Larry. Aurora kept shooting her conspiratorial looks whenever Marian’s happiness bubbled over, which made Bertha suspect Marian was sharing confidences with Aurora in a way that might signal the return of their engagement.
She hoped so. While perhaps Larry could have done better, he could certainly have done worse, and, while it was perhaps a little selfish of her, there was a distinct novelty in having any acquaintance of his that thought so well of her. The closest most of his friends had ever achieved was a kind of childlike fear that misspeaking in front of her would get them in trouble which, while useful in getting them to behave respectfully, did not provide easy conversation.
Her good mood, such as it was, lasted until she returned to 61st Street. George was still gone, of course. She had notified him of her return, had hinted that perhaps for the sake of his business it might be better for him to return home if only for the look of the thing, but he had left no reply for her. Bertha nodded to Church when he told her, keeping her face still, and then claimed tiredness and retired to her room.
Tears did not fall, but it took a long time for her to rally her thoughts or indeed to have any at all, her mind a deep, endless well of darkness.
Bertha let out a long breath. Focus. What you cannot fix you can control. She would begin with herself, begin at home, and then spread outwards. It would only be for a few months, before she could escape to England where George’s separation from her would be far less noticeable.
Her bearing when she moved through the world, her tone with the staff, that she could manage. Calm, undisturbed by George’s absence. Now that their main leak had been stopped things would be easier in that department, though surely word would spread of George’s continued presence at the Union.
She couldn’t imagine it was comfortable there, not after the life she’d made for him. Surely there would be part of him that wished to return home if only for the comfort of a nicer bed and the convenience of having his own things close at hand, and certainly he’d made use of their rooms far longer than men were ordinarily supposed to. Bertha bit the inside of her cheek as she thought. Sending him another letter about returning now, so soon after her previous attempts, would likely be useless. George hated begging, saw it as only weakness and so would no doubt delight in showing no mercy.
In a few months, before she departed, she would suggest the idea again. He could move back while she was away, establish his own routines within the house without her there, find comfort in surroundings she had made for them again. She could easily fit around what he might need after she returned. She would be well-used to his absence from her own routines by then. She already was, really.
Bertha swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Focus, focus, focus.
She would have her charity work, and the Met, and the little teas and dinners that the ladies of their society held for one another. She could even make a joke of it, that she and Aurora were available to round out the numbers if people found themselves with a surplus of gentlemen.
Well. Perhaps that kind of joke wasn’t to everyone’s taste. It was more of George’s sense of humour, or rather it was the kind of thing she might once have said to make him laugh.
Still, that would be her play of it, with George at least - keep herself busy and out of his way, making it known to him at the appropriate time that she intended to be sensible about things. Surely George wasn’t so changed in their time apart that he wouldn’t appreciate that, even if she didn’t relish the idea of him thinking of her as an employee rather than a wife.
Larry would more than likely follow George’s path. As dedicated as he declared himself to be to Marian, she couldn’t rely on his heart to be swayed by Marian’s offer of friendship towards her. He’d spent far too long in the opposing point of view, surely. Better to manage her expectations on that front.
Gladys, at least, seemed keen to continue their closeness, letters arriving once or even twice a week with some update on how she was feeling, some anecdote about a dinner or Hector or the grounds, a question about birth or motherhood or simply just as to how Bertha was faring in the city. Her daughter seemed to be in very good spirits. Bertha took to keeping the letters at her bedside, to read through the warm words when sleep had difficulty finding her.
Marian and Aurora, too, kept in close contact. Aurora she might have expected - one ball was not, of course, enough to cure all society of its prejudice about divorcees and so she still required a little pressing from Bertha to step into a room. Bertha found herself glad of the work of it, the focus it took pulling her thoughts further away from her troubles.
Marian- Well, perhaps she ought to have expected that, too. The girl was almost astonishingly loyal, only turning down an invitation from Bertha if she had another appointment that could not be forced to move, and even then she was so apologetic about it. Though the Van Rhijn home was still not particularly welcoming to Bertha, Marian took herself across the street most mornings, taking a cup of coffee with Bertha before they separated for their tasks of the day and even, sometimes, stopping by again for dinner.
They had enough shared acquaintances and causes that conversation between them was easy, and Marian was perceptive enough to talk around George’s absence and to give little updates on Larry's progress here and there. Bertha found herself grateful for it - she wasn’t sure what she would have said to Marian about it, if asked. It did ease things, too, to think that she might not have to spend her whole existence alone just because she was without George, even if sometimes, at night, in her room when the world was far too quiet, it felt like it.
She had only been home a few weeks when a letter arrived from Larry. Very short, the few sentences stilted the way they had been in his youth when he’d written to her from Harvard.
I understand Marian visits with you most mornings for tea. Might it be alright if I join her?
Might it be alright? Might it be alright? After weeks, after months of silence, it was far more than alright, it felt nothing short of a miracle. She sent a short reply back in the affirmative, agonising over the phrasing for two full hours before she sealed the envelope.
She saw Marian the day after, clasping her hands as soon as she saw her.
“I received a note from Larry yesterday,” said Bertha, flushing at the way her voice shook.
“Oh?” said Marian, smiling.
“There’s no need to be coy, Miss Brook,” said Bertha. “I know when another woman’s hand is in the game.” She paused. “And when I should thank her for it.”
“There is nothing to thank me for,” said Marian. “He’s being needlessly stubborn, and I told him so. I’m only glad he’s finally beginning to listen.” She paused as well, her smile fading slightly. “Actually, I- Well. It was not so selfless a reason. Lately he’s been… the business is…”
Bertha’s stomach lurched. “A problem with the mines?”
Marian shook her head. “I- Perhaps we ought to sit down?”
“Never a particularly reassuring phrase,” said Bertha.
“I don’t mean to trouble you,” said Marian, as they settled themselves next to one another on one of the couches. “I only- Larry has been working very hard. Too hard, perhaps, because I- And he doesn’t say such a thing to me directly, of course, but I- Well. Now that I have seen Mr Russell with my own eyes-”
Bertha’s breath caught in her throat. “Miss Brook-”
“He’s-” Marian paused, as though gathering herself, her tone careful. “I don’t think he is taking care of himself as much as he ought to, and I think it’s- I think Larry is taking on more than either of them wish for people to know.”
In her mind Bertha could see George in front of her, pale and still, his blood spilling out around Marian’s fingers. She took a breath in, held it, let it out. That was the past, not the present. Focus.
“What do you mean?” said Bertha, glad that her voice held steady. “What do you mean exactly?”
“I… The laudanum, he…” Marian paused, letting out a breath. “Oh, this is much harder than I thought to say, he- He’s relying on it. Too much, I think.”
“For the pain?” said Bertha.
“No,” said Marian. “I think- I think the only pain he feels now is when he goes too long without.” She paused, her face colouring with concern. “My Father was the same with liquor. I know the signs better than most.”
“He couldn’t,” said Bertha.
Her stomach twisted. Not her George, who was so strong, so focused, so unlike the men she’d grown up around. Surely not.
And yet Marian shook her head, taking Bertha’s hands, a movement of sympathy. “I’m afraid so.”
“Larry?” asked Bertha.
Her son had always followed George’s path after all.
Marian shook her head again. “No, he- He can’t admit there’s anything wrong, or he won’t, but sometimes he- I know he is covering for his Father, probably even more than he lets on to me. I know he’s tired. I know it’s wearing on him.” She paused. “I wish I had better news to bring you.”
“I would rather the truth of it,” said Bertha. “But if he- If it is all so difficult, surely he won’t have time to meet with me. I’m not entirely sure he would even want my help, Miss Brook. You know how things are between us, better than most.”
“Yes, but- He will need help, with Mr Russell,” said Marian. “Even if he won’t admit it now, he will and, even besides that-” Her cheeks coloured, hesitating only a moment before she continues, “besides that, if he truly wishes to pursue an engagement with me, I would not have him scorn such a dear friend of mine.”
It took Bertha a moment to realise that Marian meant her. What a childish thing to be moved by. Certainly she should be well past caring about anything as simple as friendship. She swallowed, her throat oddly tight.
“That is very kind of you Miss Brook,” said Bertha carefully.
“Not at all,” said Marian, squeezing her hands. “It is only as you - as we both - deserve.”
When Larry arrived, it was easy to see what exactly worried Marian. Her son looked as though he had not slept properly in weeks. Though his hair and clothing might be orderly and neat, there was a slump to his shoulders that spoke of defeat, some greater tiredness than a few sleepless nights. He was quiet, though Bertha might well have expected that in any case, his eyes moving between them as Marian kept up conversation with her.
She’d thought it a wasted exercise, for all that it had been good to see him, but then-
But then, as he was leaving, he asked if he might return another time.
“With Marian, of course,” said Larry. “Whenever we- I’m sure I can make our schedules align.”
“I’m sure we can,” said Bertha, feeling quite stunned by the offer. “Please let me know when you are both next free. Perhaps we can- A dinner?”
“I don’t know if I can get away, I- Father tends to-” Larry paused, his eyes searching her face and then flicking to Marian. “I cannot get away for a dinner at present.”
“I understand,” said Bertha, desperately wishing that she did. “A luncheon perhaps.”
“Maybe,” said Larry. “I… I should walk Miss Brook home.”
Bertha had not thought there would be any kind of follow through on the offer, but he returned a week later, and then again, and then again. Gradually, Larry began to offer a word here or there, and then a sentence, and then an offer of his own topics of conversation, the three of them sitting down to luncheon as though there were no troubles in the world.
There were, of course. Larry had spoken little of it, but it was obvious in the slump on his shoulders and the circles under his eyes and, most obviously, in how he would avoid speaking of George at all, the shape where George should have been in every anecdote as clear to Bertha as if it were lit by Edison’s lightbulbs.
Still, that darkness was coloured by his presence - her son, returned to her after years of absence. They could speak of Gladys, Larry still a little wary on the subject of Hector but delighting over every piece of news of his sister. They could speak of the plans he and Marian had in the future. No specifics, not yet, both of them edging around the topic of why their futures might have been so completely shared. Bertha was very careful not to push.
She did not push for news of George, either. For all that she knew she should look into the face of it, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know.
In the end, she did not have to push, though the reveal of it was hardly what she might have hoped.
Larry and Marian had arrived, as usual, bubbling and bright. They had exciting news to share, but they wanted to tell them both at once this time. Marian insisted, beaming up at Larry. Larry smiled fondly down at her, the sight of two people so content in one another at once warming Bertha’s chest and making a pit open in her stomach.
George would be here. She would see George again, after months.
Or, he was supposed to have been there. Minutes of waiting turned into hours. Larry gave up pacing and went to the Union to see if he couldn’t find him. Bertha thought, as she sometimes had since Marian had begun to hint at trouble, of George, pale and still in some carriage racing through the streets.
Larry returned after hours more, dishevelled. His hands shook as he clasped Bertha’s in greeting, lowering himself down on the couch before he spoke.
“He- I can’t believe it,” said Larry. “I just can’t believe it.”
“I did think he might not wish to see me,” said Bertha carefully. “He has not replied to any letter I’ve sent him.”
“It’s not that,” said Larry. “I don’t even know if he could get here, he-”
Larry swallowed, looking away. Marian sat next to him, reaching over to take his hands.
“Will you admit it’s a problem now?” said Marian softly.
“I- I have, I- I sent for a doctor last week, and he said-” Larry made a face. “He didn’t help. I think his telling Father to just stop taking it only made him hide it from me.” He paused, his gaze still on the floor. “We- Argued. I told him we were engaged, but I don’t know if he even heard me.”
Bertha put a hand on the couch to steady herself. Marian glanced over at her, her expression grim. It was as bad as might be feared, then. She took a breath in, letting it out slowly. She could not control that at present. She would, for Larry’s sake and the business’, and perhaps having a modicum of control would help her fix it, but until then-
Focus.
“You’re engaged?” said Bertha.
Marian huffed a laugh, Larry managing something close to a smile as he looked up.
“Is that really the part you want to be focusing on?” said Larry.
“Yes,” said Bertha.
Larry made a face. “Mother, we-”
“We can do nothing about your father in this moment,” said Bertha. “Whatever cure will work will take time to find, and time to work. For now, let us enjoy your good news. I want to hear all about your second proposal. I hope you made one?”
“He came to the school and wrote it out on the blackboard,” said Marian. “It was the first thing I saw when I walked in, and when I turned around he was there with champagne.”
“Not a ring?” asked Bertha.
“I still had the ring,” said Marian, smiling down at hers and Larry’s joined hands. “In my pocket.”
“I insisted on her keeping it,” said Larry.
“As well you should have,” said Bertha. “You would be quite a fool to let someone of Miss Brook’s quality get away from you.”
Larry blinked, looking quite startled by her pronouncement. “You approve, then?”
Marian gave him an admonishing look. “Larry, really.”
“It is a fair question, Miss Brook,” said Bertha. “I was not altogether very enthusiastic about the idea of it the first time.”
“But I knew that was- I took no offense from it,” said Marian.
“But my son did, I think, on your behalf,” said Bertha. She reached over, putting her hand over their’s. “A good quality to have, and one I hope he keeps.”
Longer than George had, at least. Decades together could pass so quickly.
It took another month for George to make it to 61st Street, after several dozen broken promises to attend. The change in him was-
Shocking, was one word for it. He looked, she thought, worse than when he had been bleeding over Marian’s gown, gaunt and haggard as she’d never seen him, his clothing rumpled as though he’d slept in them though it was well past midday. He swayed on his feet, pulling his arm away from Larry as Larry tried to help him to the couch, scowling at their son.
“Larry, might I have a word before we settle in,” said Bertha. “Some mail arrived here for you, and I’d like for you to look it over before I forget.”
Larry opened his mouth to reply, but Marian was faster.
“I’ll entertain Mr Russell,” said Marian, her voice cheerful, her voice a reminder of every whisper Bertha had ever heard about Marian’s father, her tone just the same as Bertha’s had been so often in her youth. “I’ve just heard from Gladys, and she told such a funny story about one of her recent trips around the estate, which I’m sure I’ve already told both of you.”
“How kind of you to share it again with Mr Russell,” said Bertha, taking Larry’s arm and leading him into the study, letting the doors close behind them.
“Mother, I don’t think this is really the time for mail,” began Larry.
“Neither do I,” said Bertha, careful to keep her voice hushed. “How could you let him get into such a state? He looks like a corpse. I had thought, when Marian said you were looking after him that you might have-”
Larry put a hand over his face, making a choked sound as he lowered himself down into one of the padded couches and Bertha realised with a sickening jolt that he was crying. She rushed to his side, putting her arms around him.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Larry.
“It isn’t your fault,” said Bertha. “I didn’t mean- I’m sure you’ve been doing all you could.”
“I’ve tried- I just don’t know what to do,” said Larry. “He won’t listen to me, he won’t listen to anyone, he seems to barely- I can hardly even get him to come to the office, let alone meet with people, but then when he insists on meeting with people it’s almost always a disaster and then I have to do double the work to make things right again, and I- I-”
He pressed his face against her shoulder, as though he were a child again. He always would be, really, her son to protect in the world no matter how old or worldly he became.
“I’m sure you have,” said Bertha.
“I tried to tell you so many times,” said Larry. “But Father- I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to say anything. He won’t even admit there’s anything wrong, but I- These past months I have begun to see why you fell out, if he was like this with you, and I- I should never have-”
“That wasn’t why we fell out,” said Bertha gently, “and even if it was, it would not be anyone’s fault but our own.” She paused. “But I wish you had told me. I might have… There might have been some way I could have helped.”
Larry lifted his head, disbelief and hope warring on his face. “Is there?”
“Let me think about it,” said Bertha. “In the meantime- I hope you’ll tell me if he changes further, or worsens?” She clasped his hands. “You have to talk to me. I can't help unless you talk to me.”
Larry nodded, swallowing. Bertha took out her handkerchief, both of them laughing a little as he wiped at his eyes.
“The whole business of it has made me feel very foolish,” said Larry.
“You needn’t feel so,” said Bertha. “Now, we ought to go back in to your Father and Miss Brook, so that we can properly celebrate your good news.”
Larry and Marian announced their engagement again, and Bertha pretended to hear the news as though it were the first time. Clearly George seemed as though he had not been told anything about it, beaming at both Marian and Larry, the change in his expression bringing light back to his eyes.
So he was still in there, then, her George, buried under layers of bitterness and laudanum. It would just be a matter of finding him and dragging him back out into the light of the world. Such a thing would have to be managed carefully. Larry had done very well to keep news of George’s current state out of the papers and it would do no good for him to recover only to fall straight into scandal. It would have to be managed carefully, by people she could trust.
People, perhaps, like the doctor who had saved George’s life and had proven he wasn’t the sort to run to the press about a notable patient. She wouldn’t be able to write directly, that would raise eyebrows for her to begin such a correspondence from seemingly nowhere. It was Marian’s connection through that friend of hers, wasn’t it? The friend of hers was to marry Dr Kirkland, if what the papers and Marian said was true. It would be perfectly natural for Marian to arrange some meeting with them that she could pass by. Even if Kirkland could not suggest a cure, he might have some idea about how to begin.
There. That was George’s body sorted, at least. His mind and heart would be a matter for another day.
Marian, proving herself more and more suited to the weight of the title Mrs Russell placed upon one’s shoulders all the time, easily set up a meeting, Dr Kirkland and the soon-to-be Mrs Kirkland stopping by the Van Rhijn residence at a time when both Marian’s aunts were conveniently occupied. Bertha waited ten minutes after she saw them arrive, as she and Marian had discussed, and then crossed the street, bracing herself for the worst.
Reintroductions were swiftly made and congratulations given to the happy couple before Bertha moved on to her real mission, worry twisting in her stomach. Kirkland’s face grew grave as she laid out George’s condition as best as she understood it.
“It is serious then?” said Bertha.
“It can be,” said Kirkland, his voice careful. “The longer it goes on…”
Bertha could see Marian and Peggy exchange looks out of the corner of her eye. It was easy to imagine the end of it. She’d seen it herself in her youth often enough, men slouched in bar room corners or in alleyways, the sum total of their world located at the bottom of a bottle. She took a deep breath in. Focus. That would not be George. She would not allow that to be George.
“My son is working on getting him to… That is, he has been staying at the Union Club, which we believe has not helped the situation,” said Bertha.
“It might be best if he did return home,” said Kirkland. “Getting people back to their usual routines can help at least manage their symptoms while we reduce the dosage.”
“He cannot simply…” Bertha pressed her lips together. “But I suppose one cannot simply stop a thing like that.”
She might not have seen many of those with laudanum, but she knew well enough what some men could be like when kept from liquor for too long after they'd spent years soaking in it. It did not look particularly pleasant.
“No,” said Kirkland. “Even a gradual reduction could take weeks, perhaps even months. If he were to be at home, we could perhaps monitor the dosage a little more strictly.”
He said it with such gravity, when months seemed to her to be merely the blink of an eye compared to their years together. But then, she supposed, she would not be the one who’s body would be turning inside out from the need of it.
“I understand,” said Bertha. “I… I am to go to England for a few months, to be with my daughter. After that, I may… Would it be alright, to call on your counsel for such matters?”
“Of course,” said Kirkland. “But isn’t there… I am sure your doctor- Dr Logan? He must have his own expertise.”
“It is Dr Logan who has been supplying him,” said Bertha. “Between that and his late arrival when he was needed I find that I do not think much of his opinion.”
Marian had said the man had been dismissive of Larry’s concerns, too, waving them away as though Larry were a child suffering from silly nightmares instead of a grown man watching his father unravel. She ought to have his licence revoked and his name blacklisted, but she would leave that matter for now. Perhaps, after all this had passed, George would like to do so himself.
Though, if others of her circle ever asked for a recommendation for a physician, his name would certainly not be on the list.
“Then I would be glad to assist where I can,” said Kirkland.
“Thank you,” said Bertha. “And we- Our family would be very grateful for your discretion. And for your’s, Miss Scott.”
“I’m not a reporter at present, Ma’am,” said Peggy, “and even when I was, I never wrote for the society section.”
Bertha smiled. “Yes, Marian tells me you are an authoress. I look forward to reading your finished work.”
“So do I,” said Peggy, laughing a little. “But it is almost there. I hope to have it completed before the wedding.”
“As fine a wedding gift as any man could ask for,” said Kirkland warmly, smiling across at her.
Bertha smiled, ignoring the pang of longing she felt in her chest. George used to say such things to her, so long ago to her now it felt as if she must have dreamt it. There were times, late at night, where she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t imagined it all, their grand romance only in her mind, something George had acted at but never felt.
It certainly seemed that way, when she came to visit him on the morning she was to leave for England. She had only been going to leave a note, a short message to say that George should feel free to move back home and make himself comfortable while she was away. Larry had insisted on her going in, following in behind her.
George’s office was dark, lit only by the fireplace behind George’s slumped body. For a single, sickening moment Bertha might have thought he was injured but then he lifted his head, his glassy eyes taking a moment to find her and another, longer, moment to focus on her.
“What are you doing here?” said George. “I thought I told you to get out.”
Bertha frowned, glancing at Larry. Her son’s expression was grim, his jaw clenching. Still his father’s son, then - George did the same thing when he was biting his tongue.
“I only came to make sure you knew that you are free to move home while I’m away,” said Bertha carefully.
“I don’t need your permission,” snapped George.
“I know that, I only-”
“Then why bother to tell me?” said George.
Bertha paused. Focus. This had to be managed carefully. Push too hard in the wrong direction and he’d lock himself in the Union or some other less hospitable place until it became his tomb.
“Well, only to say that I will be back soon,” said Bertha, “so you shouldn’t feel the need to wait for me to move back.”
“I’m not moving back,” said George. “How many times do I have to tell you-”
“No?” said Bertha, affecting an air of confusion. “But the Union sent me a letter saying your time there had come to an end. Something about time limitations, or room availability, or club by-laws.”
George might have had the money to sway the Union into overlooking the length of his stay, but he had forgotten whose influence had gotten his and Larry's membership in the first place. A lapse in memory caused by his current overindulgence, or perhaps simply further proof that he had never truly thought much of her contributions.
Still, it worked in her favour now. George paused, seeming to take a moment. Listening to her, perhaps, for the first time in months. She almost felt bad that it was a lie.
“What?” said George. “No one’s said so to me.”
“That’s my fault, Father,” said Larry. “They mentioned it to me the other day and it slipped my mind. I’ll have to move out too.”
George paused. “I suppose with your being away it will be simple enough to move back for a short time,” said George. “Larry and I can always find a hotel once you return.”
“No need,” said Bertha. “It will only be a few months until I can depart for Newport and leave you to have run of the house again. I’m so busy these days I’m scarcely at home anyway.”
Not strictly true, but she could make it be so, if the ploy of it worked.
“Fine, fine,” said George. “You leave today?”
“In a few hours,” said Bertha. “Everything is already aboard the ship.”
George frowned. “The ship?”
“To… England?” said Bertha, her stomach twisting. “To see Gladys.”
It was a mistake to mention their daughter’s name, George’s frown of confusion turning to a scowl. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to put up with you.”
It meant nothing to him that Gladys had been delighted by the idea, just as it meant nothing to him that she had found fondness of her husband or thrilled at the work of managing the estate or was overjoyed at the idea of a baby. Bertha let out a breath. She would make him see it, when she returned, but that was a task for later. Focus. Do not cry in front of your husband. Certainly do not cry in front of your son.
“As you say,” said Bertha. “I have left instructions for Church to expect you for dinner, with Larry and Marian tonight.”
George let out an annoyed huff. “You-”
“It was Miss Brook’s idea, Father,” said Larry quickly. “A kind of welcome back to 61st Street.”
“Very well,” said George. He looked back down to the papers on his desk, though Bertha would have been surprised if they’d been anything like work given that he'd practically been asleep on them only a few moments ago. “Good day to you both.”
Bertha stepped out of the room, taking Larry’s arm as he walked her back downstairs. He helped her into the carriage, neither of them speaking for a long moment.
Larry's face was very pale. “I'm sorry, Mother. I really thought he might- I mean, I didn't think he'd be like that.”
Bertha swallowed. It felt easier to push her focus away from the hurt of it, now that there were other things that needed her attention. She clasped Larry's hand through the open window.
“I don't hold his words against you,” said Bertha. “I never will. Just as I hope you do not hold his words against me.”
“No,” said Larry. “Not anymore.” His expression wavered. “Mother, I- Marian has-” He let out a breath. “Talking with her has made things clear to me as they have never been before.”
Her throat felt tight. How funny, that she and her son both sounded them same when giving rehearsed apologies.
“You don't have to say it,” said Bertha.
“But I ought to,” said Larry. “I have not- I haven't been the kind of man I would like to be. I haven't been a proper son to you.”
“Of course you have,” said Bertha.
Larry shook his head. “You did so much to protect me-” He huffed a cold-sounding laugh. “Perhaps if you hadn't been so good at it, I might have been better at dealing with Father.”
“I think you have done an admirable job,” said Bertha.
“If I had, I doubt he would be in there, not in that state,” said Larry.
“That is his doing, not yours,” said Bertha. “I am only sorry to leave you alone with him so soon.”
“And not go to Gladys?” said Larry. “But you must. I'd go myself if I didn't need to-” He pressed his lips together. “Well. You know. The business. And Father.”
Bertha squeezed his hands. “I know. And your sister understands. She'll visit as soon as she can, I'm sure.”
“I hope so,” said Larry. “Though I hope… I don't know what she might make of him now. The shock of it… I'm sure he would seem so changed to her.”
“I'll try to soften the blow of it a little,” said Bertha. “But you never know, he might turn things around for himself before I even return. Perhaps being back at 61st Street will be enough.”
“Perhaps,” said Larry.
They both smiled at one another. Bertha wondered if hers looked as false as Larry's did, as though neither of them believed what they were saying even as they both hoped to see it.
Still, the fact that both her children had come to, if not forgive her, then at least wish to see her did a great deal to bolster Bertha’s spirits on the journey over. Larry cabled the ship en route to inform her that their move back to 61st Street had gone ahead, though he said no more about George’s condition. Perhaps there was simply nothing new to say.
She tried to put it out of her mind for the first few days of her visit with Gladys. She hardly wanted her whole visit to be clouded by it, and certainly she didn’t with for Gladys to worry about George at a time when any worries she did have should be focussed on herself, but time as the mistress of Sidmouth had made Gladys a great deal more perceptive than she had been as a girl.
She was still, however, not the most subtle, giving Hector a very frivolous reason to leave her side. Bertha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, pride and fondness for her daughter welling up inside her chest.
“I know there is something troubling you,” said Gladys. She paused. “I also know that Father has barely written to me and, when he does, it is not much more than a page.”
Bertha felt a flash of anger. To abandon her, to punish her, that was one thing, but to do so to their daughter was another thing entirely. Gladys’s face creased with concern, and Bertha carefully untensed her muscles, letting out a breath.
Her anger over this was her own to deal with, and not at all helpful to Gladys. Focus.
“I assume Larry has told you…” Bertha paused. “Has Larry said anything to you?”
“Only to say Father is unwell,” said Gladys. “But he’s so vague- and I have never known Father to be unwell, other than-”
Gladys pressed her lips together. Bertha reached over, taking her hands.
“It is nothing like that,” said Bertha. “And certainly his lack of correspondence is not your fault.”
“I know that he was still unhappy with it all, when Hector and I came for the ball at Newport,” said Gladys.
“It was not you he was unhappy with,” said Bertha.
“What do you-” Gladys inhaled sharply. “Oh, Mother, he’s not asking for-”
“No,” said Bertha. “Or, not yet.”
Perhaps he was just waiting until the business with the railways was more steady. Perhaps in his dazed state he had forgotten the idea of it, or her, entirely. It hardly seemed as though he was keeping them tied to one another out of any thought his fond feelings for her might return.
“But surely… Surely now that I'm- Now that he can see things are not as terrible as he might have feared, surely now he…”
Bertha shook her head. “I'm afraid your father cannot see your current happiness. He is forever by your side on your wedding day, and he blames me for that.”
“But that’s so unfair,” said Gladys.
Suddenly Gladys was her child again, sulking about bedtimes or being denied sweets or upset that Larry could do something she wasn’t allowed to do. And then she blinked, and there was a Duchess in front of her, all grown up.
“Perhaps,” said Bertha. “But I am managing it.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Gladys. “I hope- Larry said he had been seeing you more frequently, so I hope at least he’s being more sensible about it all.”
“You can thank Miss Brook for that, I believe,” said Bertha.
“And for more than that, soon,” said Gladys. “You know, I have always wanted a sister.”
She meant it kindly, she meant it almost as a joke, but Bertha felt the old sting of it. She’d wanted a sister for Gladys too, or another brother, but none had taken hold in her. Something George added to her list of failures, no doubt.
“And she will be an exemplary one,” said Bertha.
“She has been helping you, then?” said Gladys.
“Yes,” said Bertha. “Just as I’m sure she will be of help to you when you visit New York.”
“I thought perhaps we would go straight to Newport,” said Gladys.
“I don’t know that you’ll want to do more travelling than necessary,” said Bertha.
“Oh, you’re as bad as Hector," said Gladys, fondness colouring her tone. “But I want the baby to meet everyone as soon as possible, Larry and Father especially.”
Bertha smiled, pressing down against the cold feeling creeping into the pit of her stomach. The George she had left was not a man she would trust to hold something as fragile and precious as a baby. A fact she would have to break to Gladys sooner rather than later, for all she would have preferred not to shatter Gladys’ illusion of the man.
But not today. Today, thoughts of George could be left as far away as his body was, further even than his heart. Today was not for George to fill with misery, nor for her to fill with sorrow. Today, she could sit with her titled daughter in the sunroom of a castle, and speak only of the joy in her daughter’s future.
One day of it, before she let reality back in. But what a beautiful day it would be, and more scattered through her future. A more pleasant thought than she’d had for a while. Bertha smiled.