An Inconvenient Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

brushstrokes of any artist. When I finally saw Rome,
     it was through William’s impatience, his longing to be farther on, in Paris and London, to finish business there, to have
     my hands modeled in clay, to see me dressed in Worth finery, to live up to my social obligations, which decreed that we should
     spend two months on our tour, and that it should include the places everyone went. There was no lingering at outdoor tables,
     breathing the scents of olives and oregano. There was no time to walk through the Piazza. The days were spent calling on friends
     of my father’s, the nights dining at their tables. For me, Rome was just New York with different accents.
    As William led me up the stairs to the Baldwins’, I thought of Rome again, the Rome of my dreams, and how it had turned out
     nothing at all like I had imagined or wanted. It was impossible to believe that this life—the life of a wife, of a woman—had
     once been as intriguing to me as Rome.
    The door was opened by a solemn-faced butler, and we went inside.
    James Baldwin was a man who loved trees and forests, and the entrance hall was covered with pictures of landscapes, some by
     old masters and one by Millet that was greatly admired. Much was said of Ella Baldwin’s decor, which was styled to match her
     naturalist husband’s tastes, with pressed leaves imprisoned in glass, forever gold and red, and botanical studies kept immutable
     in tapestry and upholstery. I found it oppressive—nature forever inside, crushed by the massive weight of feathers and shells,
     stuffed birds preening on peeling branches beneath glass domes, wax flowers and paintings that echoed of what these things
     had forever left behind: the blessed course of life and death, nature at its cruelest and most sublime.
    Dutifully, I admired a new painting, a landscape in the golds and browns of the Hudson River School, though to me it looked
     as if everything in the scene were dying.
    “It is Father’s new favorite,” said Antoinette Baldwin—the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter—as she led us to the dining room,
     which was laid end to end with china and glassware that sparkled and twinkled in the light from a lily-globed gasolier. Candles
     had been lit as well, and the scents of wax and smoke and gas were heavy in the small room.
    “There you are, Antoinette, darling!” Daisy Hadden was coming toward us, fluttering in deep rose lace, her new diamonds glittering
     blindingly in the candlelight. She touched Antoinette’s arm and said in a low voice, “Your mama’s asking for you, my dear.”
    Antoinette gave us a pretty smile and hurried off. When she was gone, Daisy said to William and me, “How nice to see you both.
     Lucy, how deliciously pale you look this evening. That gown is so bold against your skin.”
    William gripped my arm. “She has the headache. The opera was a trial.”
    “Well, yes. This season . . .” Daisy waved her hand languidly and lowered her voice. “This dinner should be just as wretched,
     of course. A pity Ella has such a lamentable cook. Although I suppose the good doctor might save us. Did you know he was here
     tonight? I thought Harry Everett might call him out last week. I quite imagined pistols at dawn.”
    “Doctor?” William asked. “What are you talking about? What doctor?”
    Daisy looked surprised. “Why, Dr. Victor Seth. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him? I would have thought after all dear
     Lucy’s trials . . .”
    “I’m afraid not,” William said.
    “Oh.” She seemed nonplussed. “But then I suppose the two of you have been in the country these last few months. Seth has become
     quite notorious recently. The guest du jour.” She laughed. “They say he’s a Jew, but you would hardly know it to look at him.
     He’s very controversial, you know. He quite gives one the chills. Something about his eyes. But Ella swears by him. He’s just
     over there.”
    I had barely heard her words, but there was