How a Wife Should Be

S. R. Gabriels

She should never recognize or appreciate his deeds in any way that a lady should not. That a wife should never scorn her husband's rewards even as they teetered upon the wobbly pedestals of fortune and bankruptcy was a concept she should never grasp. His love was laid in a shallow grave that echoed like from a deep pit; he hated her. He whispered to the looking glass through thin lips that he should never have married such a villain. These secrets were scribbled on moldy pages in moldy books and stored in the creased shelves of his brow which grew deeper each time he thought, dreamt, spoke, and flickered his eyes from her to the nearest door or window. These secrets, she thought, were as black and white as the evening paper he pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He cleared his throat, an idiosyncratic convulsion he maintained as of late. Once after entering the library, twice after sitting, another after swallowing his tea; he made his presence known through rapid and decrepit barks. Rosamond was not concerned; this was Tertius—this was her husband, the physician. The physician who successfully diagnosed three cases of gout and four cases of cholera last month in London alone, and, in the process, maintained old patients and safely secured two new ones, including an agreeable old gentleman who claimed to be the third cousin to that of Mr. Brooke. She should think of Tertius as the town's liaison between breath and bed, and thus, the night began the same as others.

Lydgate sat with her tête-à-tête and began in a fit of coughing. He told her himself she should let him clear his throat; for it was an irritation; a mild, late-onset asthmatic ailment primed yet surely soon surmounted in age.

"Tertius," sighed Rosamond, bothered more with the disturbance in the quiet than with the source of the interruption himself. "Tertius," she began again, but he did not cease.

She turned to speak his name again but noticed something quite odd about her husband. Gently pressing the palm of her hand along the fleshy part of his neck beneath his ear, she attempted to examine the strange forms resting beneath her touch. He winced under the soft caress.

"Tertius," she started once more. She looked to his face, wondering why his eyes seemed so glassy. His profile was warped and discolored—he was a bloated pink salmon, floating in the shallows, the sun roasting his scales and swelling his gills. And as the orange light lapped behind them in the fireplace, strange shadows flickered over his jawline as ghastly silhouettes of past acquaintances which neither should dare to name aloud. She touched the warm lumps under his ear again and followed the path of raised skin to his chin, making him cough and rebuke her more.

"Mr. Hargreave must be called," she spoke simply. She folded her hands in her lap.

"No," he coughed. "I am...a physician."

"An ailing one," she muttered.

"Do not rebuke my state. The cough will clear itself soon, I have no doubt, and Mr. Farebrother asks of my assistance tomorrow morning. He tells me his Meredith seems lethargic and feverish."

"This is the third time this month he has called for you, and nothing has been the matter with little Meredith—you have said so yourself. He is a father; fathers worry for their children. Perhaps Mr. Farebrother can call for another. There is that new child's physician—oh, but what is his name? It does not matter. I am sure Mr. Farebrother can afford a different pair of eyes."

"My eyes are quite adequate enough," said Lydgate in a deep voice. "My perspective does not waver because of a small case of catarrh."

Rosamond did not know if she favored her husband's health or rank more—a lively physician procured a lasting societal grin upon both himself and his woman, but a long reign also called for a woman's extended stint as a physician's wife. Though, she was determined to prevent his authority from overshadowing her own. This, as always, she accomplished through clear words and a calm façade.