Violet puts one hand to her hipbone. In the morning after Walter’s proposal, she had found two large bruises, one on either side, from the repeated concussion against the hard wood. She remembers viewing them in the mirror with pride: the sacrifice she had made for Walter’s pleasure.
8 May. Morning at Tuileries. Feeling rather better about V as wife. She is an excellent companion, helpful at work, no ill humors in bed as most women, has never once refused me except when poorly. In afternoon, made first pot of tea for V according to receipt. Watched her for any reaction; none. Resolved not to have her tonight, just in case.
Violet’s head remains clear, so clear she can hear the deep thud of her heart as it smashes into her ribs.
11 May. Morning at Versailles, V very affectionate. Excellent dinner at hotel, tho V left twice to visit lavatory. V continued affectionate in evening, so managed short fuck before bed. Examined prick carefully afterward; nothing. Continuing tea with 2 additional grains.
Violet turns a few pages with her cold fingers, until she reaches Berlin.
18 May. Success!!!! V complained of pain in morning. Blood on sheets. Called doctor; confirmed miscarriage at five o’clock. V very low. Made her comfortable, poor thing. After dinner, went to Mme G—d’s, had two bottles of champagne and fucked dear little P—e until she could not stand!! By good chance met General von M—e there on way out, made appointment for tomorrow aftern . . .
Violet closes the book. This is all she needs to know; to read any more would be little better than common espionage.
She places the notebook in her pocket, closes the window, and leaves the office.
Vivian
I hadn’t set foot inside Lenox Hill Hospital since the day my nanny carried me out of it with my Baby Girl Schuyler tag still swinging from my ankle. I hadn’t missed much, it seemed.
The feel of the place was familiar enough. God knew I’d spent more time in hospital waiting rooms (well, one in particular) in the past few weeks than in the rest of my twenty-two years combined. I sniffed the Lysol and floor wax, the bouquet garni of overcooked food and effluvia, and I’ll be damned if my shameless glands didn’t start churning out a Welcome Doctor Paul cocktail of desire. All this while I was hurrying down corridors and scrubbed blind alleys in a frantic hunt for my comatose great-aunt.
“Coma. There’s Mums for you,” said Pepper, when I screeched to a huff-a-puff halt in front of the door marked HADLEY. (Half my trouble at the reception downstairs was remembering which ex-husband had come last.) “She knocked her head on the way down, and she hasn’t come out of it. The doctors are rather bored about it, really.” But Pepper’s face was long and grave. She looked like a different woman without her lipstick.
“Did she hurt anything else?” I tried to peer through the oblong window on the door.
“Ribs and things. They had to stitch up her forehead. She’s not going to be happy about that.”
“Nothing her plastic surgeon can’t handle, I’m sure.”
The door swung open, and my parents sallied forth. “Vivian! There you are at last!” Mums took me by the shoulders and burst into tears, as if Aunt Julie were her own mother instead of an in-law with whom she traded regular volleys across the DMZ of Madison Avenue.
I patted her back. “There, there. Everything will be all right.”
“At least your legs are covered,” said my father.
“Your concern for your aunt steals my breath. Speaking of which, how is she?”
“The same,” sobbed Mums. “Just lying there. With that bandage.”
A doctor detached himself from all the boys in white coats. He held a clipboard in one hand. Thanks to Doctor Paul, I knew how to read a chart (oh, you dirty thing, you thought we spent all our time in bed?) and I snatched it from him with professional aplomb.
“Hmm,” said I, clicking a ballpoint pen thoughtfully, next to my ear. “You must be a little concerned about that blood pressure.”
“I understand her blood pressure is normally elevated. We’re keeping an eye on it.” Was that amusement?
I pointed the pen at him. “Don’t get sassy with me, young man.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Other than that, her vitals seem stable.” I handed back the clipboard. “Why is she still unconscious?”
“It could be a number of things, but the most likely explanation is that the brain is simply healing itself. She sustained a concussion, a serious one, but we’ve found no sign of a depressed fracture or intracranial bleeding.”
“What about fluid pressure?”
“A bit above what we’d like to see. We’re monitoring it carefully.”
“How many sutures in her forehead?”
“Twelve. Quite a gash, really, but superficial. She also broke three ribs, as you may have heard. When she wakes up, she’ll be in a great deal of pain. I’ve prescribed something to help with that.”
“Have you, now? She’ll like that. Intravenous, of course?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When can I see her?”
He gestured to the door. “Now, if you like. We’ve just finished checking her. Back in half an hour for further assessment.”
I gave him the Vivian special. He’d earned it. “Excellent, Doctor . . .”