Chapter Text
Bertha wouldn’t say she always expected the worst outcomes, but she was certainly aware of them and the steps needed to avoid them.
But this one? This one she saw coming from miles away.
No one else seemed to. Oh, the Russells? Yes, I heard they are fighting. Of course not. Divorce? They would never stoop so low. The mighty Bertha Russell? She would never allow such a disgrace. And George Russell? Admitting defeat or failure, be it a marital one? You must be mad to even consider such a thing! No, no, never.
But Bertha Russell saw it coming. And knew there was not much to do about it.
Because George left Newport in such a hurry, he never got to hear Gladys’ happy news. Bertha was terrified of being asked to relay the news to him herself, so she asked Gladys to write him a letter instead, assuring her she would see to its safe delivery. Bertha talked around her reasoning for not telling George herself until Gladys seemed to lose interest. She appeared to quickly lose interest in everything that wasn't Hector and the baby. Bertha was glad for it, and her daughter's joy was the one thing that soothed her broken heart as she waved goodbye to her daughter once again from the Newport deck.
It took George two weeks to even read it. Bertha knew this because it was two whole weeks after their footman had handed him the letter that George stormed into their house on 61st Street, demanded to see Bertha, and proceeded to scream at her like he never had before.
“Four months? She is four months pregnant? That’s- The wedding was in June! She was crying throughout the ceremony, and he couldn’t… wait? Give her some time? Did he have to force her right away?” he screamed at Bertha, disregarding the house full of servants, disregarding Bertha’s at first cold retorts and then, as he kept on, desperate pleas.
“She is happy, George! She is delighted! You should have seen her,” Bertha managed when he finally stopped to draw breath, but it was no use. He didn’t care. He raged on until there was nothing more to say, no more names to call her, no more misfortunes to blame her for or evils to accuse her of, and then he left.
Bertha allowed herself enough dignity to burst into tears only then.
That was the only truly terrible fight they had.
From then on, he simply ignored her existence. And when they were forced to meet, he calmly, casually abhorred her.
At Larry and Marian’s wedding the next January, there was really no other place for George to sit than by his wife. Gladys couldn’t attend as she was too far along to travel by then. It was during the newlyweds’ first kiss that George leaned closer to Bertha and whispered: “Had you not sold her like cattle, Larry could have had his sister here to celebrate with.”
Bertha made sure not to despair for the rest of the day, or at least not to show it, but George gloomed through it all, putting the length of the room between them the first chance he got, and leaving soon after.
Larry and Marian decided to stay at the 61st Street for the time being. Larry was designing a small mansion for them a few streets over, but it wouldn’t be finished for many months. Once Bertha was sure Marian felt welcome and settled at the house and had a reasonable grasp of its inner workings, she left for England.
The ship encountered a bit of delay due to stormy seas, and Bertha missed the birth of her granddaughter by just a few days. Still, holding the tiny life in her arms brought her a spark of joy she hadn’t felt in months, and Gladys was grateful for the help. It felt good to be needed. That was what she’d have to strive to be now – needed, for she doubted she’d ever be loved.
She hadn't written to George since their last fight, many months ago. She knew him well enough to know that there was no point. But seeing her daughter beaming with delight and pride, she decided to try, just this once. She described the picture as faithfully as words could. Their brave, capable daughter, all grown up, and their beautiful, perfect new granddaughter. How just right things seemed here in England, what a loving family their granddaughter was born into and how bright the future at Sidmouth looked.
Bertha did not expect to hear from him, but she stayed at Sidmouth Castle long enough for a reply to arrive to one Gladys’ many letters. George congratulated her and Hector curtly, and expressed relief that both Gladys and baby Rachel were healthy and doing well. He politely declined Gladys’ invitation to travel to England and meet his granddaughter, citing work obligations.
The letter read like a stock reply, though Gladys, too busy with the baby and her own new life, didn’t seem to take it as much to heart as Bertha did. She was simply so happy.
But Bertha recognised the cruelty of his words. Couldn’t he muster even a tiny bit of excitement for the sake of their daughter? He could, had he wanted. But why would he, when he wholeheartedly believed that any happy words Gladys might have put to paper were orchestrated by her scheming mother?
All that is to say that Bertha Russell saw it coming.
She wasn’t even surprised when a few days after her return to New York, Church informed her that a letter had arrived from Mr Russell. She had no doubts as to the topic George Russell wanted to discuss with her in private on the earliest date of her convenience.
He sounded almost gentle that day. He appeared to have some sort of speech prepared, with words carefully chosen to appease her. But his misguided need to delay the inevitable was tearing Bertha apart. Every breath he took without intention of coming to the point, every moment of silence, every word, every look of his eyes was another blow to her chest, so heavy she was certain she’d die of the trauma. She’d bleed to death before he said it.
“George,” she interrupted him quietly. “It’s no use.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to fight,” he said carefully.
“Well,” Bertha said, the resigned acceptance her body was at once gripped with and fighting against colouring her voice, “that is what the divorce is for, isn’t it?”
They both employed a lawyer, some of the best in the city. Because that was the thing one did when one was getting a divorce. But they didn’t need them, not really. Those poor men spent the three days it took to go through the Russells’ vast assets deeply frustrated with their clients.
Because the truth of the matter was that neither George nor Bertha had any fight left in them. They didn’t care.
Did George want any of the paintings? What paintings? He could hardly recall if any hung in the house at all. Besides Bertha’s portrait, of course, and he certainly did not want that. He wanted nothing, except for his freedom and to be as far from her as possible.
And Bertha? Mere existing felt like a struggle. Did she want anything? The Newport mention? The place where George took her beating heart and crushed it into dust, did she want that place? No, she didn’t. No. Yes, she was sure. Yes, really. Oh, for God’s sake! What did it matter! What did anything matter anymore if George didn’t love her, didn’t want her anymore?
It was excruciating three days, but at least the humiliation was private. It was only the two of them and an increasingly exasperated group of lawyers who, by the end of the ordeal, resorted to all but forcing assets on their clients, who begrudgingly accepted them. At least they were far away from the world that was running wild with the sensation of the Russells’ divorce, but could not quite reach them, yet.
But the court hearing was a goddamn spectacle. Bertha thought the reporters might start a riot, storm the building in search of a place from which they could hear them best, have the best view of Bertha Russell’s face. Their readers will want to know, after all, did she tremble, did she cry?!
She did not. Despite the public’s interest, the packed courtroom, and the constant, unavoidable turmoil, at its core it was rather a dull, if entirely undignified, affair.
Mr Russell and Mrs Russell spoke briefly, the papers would report the next day. They both proclaimed their desire to dissolve their marriage. They cited a previously agreed-upon settlement of their assets, details of which were not made public. No underage children needed to be considered. The judge granted the divorce decree just before noon.
George moved the last of his things to the Union. Bertha would remain at 61st Street for the time being, but ownership of the house itself was transferred to Larry per his parents’ agreement. Neither of them wanted it.
Bertha liked living with the young couple, not the least because it seemed to commute the sentence of character death the society of New York issued her with to mere severe, repeated beating of her reputation.
Larry and Marian were, after all, held dear by the perfect trifecta of patrons – the grand Agnes van Rhein, the feared George Russell, and the adored Duchess of Buckingham. Not even Lina Astor dared to hold the live-in divorcée of a mother against them.
And when Marian fell pregnant and became reluctant to attend the more tiresome events, Larry did manage to secure Bertha an invitation or two, though she could hardly expect to be welcomed in the parlours of Lina Astor and the like in the near future. She accompanied him gladly, ignoring the pointed remarks and conducting herself with as much dignity as one could when people so obviously detested your proximity.
Bertha found that she minded less than she had thought she would. She fell far from the heights she had climbed to and was nestling at not even a year ago, but at least she was still clinging on. She had Larry and Marian, and she somehow - mostly by donating truly absurd amounts of money - managed to retain her box at the Met, and she had Aurora, and the irritating pity of Ada Brook and the begrudged mercy of Agnes van Rhijn, and she was still far above the gutter she and George had dragged themselves out of those years ago. All of that was better than becoming a recluse, a Miss Havisham sort of ghostly figure, haunting the edges of society, known by all but seen by few.
But there were moments, rare moments, when she wished the divorce had done her in completely. Then, at least, she’d be dead – or her reputation would be – instead of having to smile through the oh-so-heartfelt invitation to Oscar van Rhijn and Turner’s wedding. Goddamned woman, she’ll never be rid of her now.
“We’d so love to have you there,” Turner mused, no doubt taking pleasure in the whole situation.
“And you needn’t worry,” Turner twisted the knife, “we already invited Mr Russell. That is,” she nodded apologetically to Larry, who did his best to hide behind his cup of tea, “Mr Russell the elder, your former husband, but he will be unable to attend. So you won’t have to feel uncomfortable there.”
Bertha forced a smile. “How kind of you to let me know, Mrs Winterton.”
The wedding was taking place at an estate that Oscar apparently inherited from a dear friend who had passed. Bertha would be perfectly happy staying in some hotel nearby, but Marian, pregnant and unwell more often than not, convinced her to join them at the main house.
“There are more than enough rooms,” she told Bertha almost pleadingly. “Many of the guests are staying there over the weekend.”
And so, Bertha relented.
The wedding was fine. It was not as unbearable as Bertha thought it would be. At the festivities, Turner managed a few more pointed quips about some marriages beginning, others ending, but not much more. It was fine, Bertha thought. She was doing just fine. She wasn’t thinking back to her own wedding. Why would she do that? That would be silly, her wedding was nothing like this. It was a hasty, nerve-wracking affair. She didn’t even have a proper wedding dress, just her Sunday best she put on in a hurry. Oh, but George looked so handsome, and despite everything, they were so thrilled- Yes, she hardly remembered it at all.
Alfred Merrick pulled her out of her gloomy thoughts, asking her for a dance.
“I wasn’t aware you know the happy couple,” Bertha said idly, just to say something.
“Mr Van Rhijn and I do some business together. I was kind of him to invite me,” he answered.
When the orchestra stopped, he asked her for another dance, and Bertha invented some half-hearted excuse of needing to talk to her son. She was far too aware of Mr Merricks lingering eyes, of his hand that sat just a bit lower on her ribs than it should have when they danced. No, it wouldn’t do to taunt him, even by something as mundane as a waltz.
She felt his gaze on her for the remainder of the evening. She chose to keep close to Marian, who noticed as well.
“You are an attractive woman,” her daughter-in-law told her when she saw Bertha move slightly behind a pillar, hiding herself from Merrick’s view. “Perhaps it would do you good. A new start.”
Bertha loved her, but it was just so clear how in love with Larry Marian was. She was blinded by her own happiness, by the excitement of the life that awaited her. Loving husband, a child – first of many, no doubt. She was too elated to understand how numb and tired Bertha felt. How anything close to a new start terrified her.
“Maybe,” Bertha forced a smile. “Not with Mr Merrick, though.”
Not the man who contributed to the ruin of her marriage more than anyone, besides Bertha herself, had. If nothing else, George would never forgive her.
Just before midnight, Bertha thought it prudent to retreat to her room. She was well aware of the disdain her presence caused among the other guests, as if her attendance in itself somehow lowered the prestige of the event.
And truth be told, she was exhausted. She was exhausted of pretending all was well, of ignoring mocking remarks of others, of dodging Mr Merrick's advances, of holding herself together through it all.
She had her new maid, Collins, help unfasten the dress and unlace her corset, and dismissed her for the night. She could manage the rest, and she longed for the silence, the calm in which she could let her misery settle heavily upon her without the nuisance of a company.
Sitting behind the dressing table, she was brushing her hair and studying the lines in her face. She was not even 45 yet, and she was still… well maintained. Perhaps Marian was right. She wouldn’t give another man children, and the best she could offer in terms of affection would be practised shadows of love she used to have for George, but it was something to think about. If a marriage could bring her goddamn lady’s maid into high circles, high enough to have Lina Astor attend her parties, surely it could do the same for her. At least she’d have something to occupy herself with.
If anyone would have her, that is.
She would hardly be a sought-after bride, her most attractive quality being the assets her lawyer insisted she accept as settlement. But what man would want to entangle himself with the scandal of the divorce of the century? What man would dare to risk his fortune and business on the off chance that George Russell, the great and feared robber baron that he was, wouldn’t have any strong feelings about another man usurping not only the former Mrs Russell, but also her money - his money?
She heard the door click.
“Did you forget something, Collins?” she asked without thinking, a bit annoyed by the interruption of her gloom.
And then she met Alfred Merrick’s eyes in the mirror.
She jumped up, very aware of the thin fabric of the nightgown. She grabbed the duvet from the bed, pressing it to her chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet, but firm. He was dressed in his night clothes, robe hanging off his shoulders. A terrible thought occurred to her, and she looked around for something sharp or heavy, just in case he came to force her into something she was sternly against.
He closed the door before noticing the look in her eyes. “You needn’t be afraid of me,” he said quietly, raising his hands in a docile gesture.
Bertha looked at him, stunned. A new feeling of intense irritation, or perhaps a slowly brewing anger, began to bubble in her chest. “You come into my bedroom unannounced, without invitation, at this hour and barely dressed. I do think my reaction is warranted.”
He took a few slow steps towards her. “I apologise, but-”
“Stop,” she ordered. “Whatever you wish to tell me, there is no need to do so now, or here. Leave now, or I shall start to scream bloody murder.”
He stopped, looking at her intently, and she shuddered under his gaze.
“God, you are-”
Ungrateful, Bertha’s mind supplied.
Who would have you? Not even the man who swore he loved you and would love you for the rest of your life could bear you now.
You should be thankful that anyone is willing to endure your presence, willing to enter your bedroom in this hour of night.
“You are magnificent,” Merrick breathed, with awe in his voice as though some great master’s painting was just revealed in front of him.
The statement caught Bertha completely off guard. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts again. “What were you expecting me to do with such a statement?”
“It's just the truth, Bertha,” he said, and she grimaced at the sound of her own name. She couldn’t remember the last time any man who wasn’t George called her that.
“You are wonderful and too grand to… be so broken,” he continued.
Bertha inhaled sharply. “I do not think you have the right to consider me anything - magnificent, broken or anything else.”
He nodded. “I don’t. But I can’t-” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “I know what the others think of you. Everyone can see that, but they are all wrong. Their prejudice or malice prevents them from seeing you truly. They can’t see you for who you are, but I can.”
“What makes you think you have some secret insight into my life?” she huffed. The audacity of men. Always fancying themselves so wise, so astute, when in her experience they were only arrogant.
“I think I know you. I think I understand you. I don’t know if Mr Russell ever had-”
She felt her chest tighten at the mention of George’s name.
If only he were here. He’d rescue her from this scene. He’d throw Merrick out. Perhaps he’d kill Merrick. Perhaps he’d kill her right after that. Either way, this would be over.
“But I know, anyone with any sense could see that he doesn’t deserve you. No one who could stand before greatness and turn his back on you deserves you. He is not worth your broken heart.”
“And you are?” she spat.
“No, no…” he shook his head solemnly. “I doubt anyone is. You are too grand for earthly men. But I would spend my every living hour striving to become someone you could consider… if not worthy, then at least helpful, comforting. However long it takes. Whatever it takes.”
“And what would it take, Mr Merrick?” she asked with contempt. Was he just after her body, or her fortune too?
“I have no desire to take anything from you. I only wish to give,” he said, spreading his arms as if he were bidding her to examine his hearth. “I’d take what you’d give willingly, but all I am asking you is… to let me help you. Let me provide comfort, affection, support, anything else you’d need. Or want.”
“Your offer is kind, but surely you see that my reputation, or indeed my life, would not survive the scandal of an affair.”
“No, of course not. And I would never ask you to stoop so low as to become my mistress, when there is nothing stopping you now from becoming… more.”
From the pocket of his robe, he took out a ring box, and Bertha nearly toppled. He can’t be serious, surely.
“I have thought about it a lot, thought about you a lot, I confess,” he said, revealing the diamond ring inside the box. At that moment, Bertha became very aware of her bare finger, of the absence of the band she wore for two and a half decades but never would again.
“I hadn’t planned this. I didn’t mean to ask you today, of all days. But seeing you like this…”
Bertha stared at the ring. The situation was almost incomprehensible, like the end of an absurd dream, the moment you become aware of the cracks in its reality just before you wake.
Oh, how she wished all of this was just a terrible dream.
“Please, go,” she managed when her voice finally returned to her.
Merrick sighed, closing the ring box again. “I understand. I am sorry for my impertinence. I will go. But please, know my offer is true and will stand for…” he chuckled softly, “however long I live, I suspect.”
And then he left.
Finally, Bertha let out the breath she had been holding the whole time, letting the duvet slip to the ground. She noticed she was shaking, but wasn’t sure whether it was out of anger, fear, or something else entirely.
She didn’t sleep that night, turning in the bed and bidding the hour hand of the clock to move faster. Just before six, she summoned her maid. She left a note to the happy newlyweds as well as Larry and Marian, and by seven o’clock, she was on her way back home. Alone, and admittedly lonely, but there were worse things to be.
///
She goddamn saw it coming.
The possibility occurred to her the day after she returned to New York. It was not as if she thought it likely at first. But the chance of it kept gnawing at her insistingly, so much so that when she opened the papers some week after the wedding had taken place and glanced through the blind items, she was not at all surprised to find it there:
Which newly unattached matron of society was visited by one of the city’s most prominent bachelors in her room just after midnight, while the wedding party outside still raged on? Perhaps the joyous occasion might prompt our lady to take another crack at marriage.
Bertha crumpled the page into a ball, throwing it the way of the fireplace.
It must have been Turner’s doing. Bertha was all but sure of it. Some maid who has seen Merrick on his way to her room or heard their conversation, as quiet as Bertha tried to keep it, must have told her. And of course, the woman could not resist the chance to kick her one more time.
As if she wasn’t already lying on the society’s proverbial ground, bleeding out, taking another blow each time an invite arrived to the 61st Street, addressed expressly to Mr and Mrs Lawrence Russell and to Mr and Mrs Lawrence Russell only.
Bertha sighed, closing her eyes for a minute.
Oh well. What was there to do? It was not like this worsened her situation. Truth be told, there was only one thing that could make her life more miserable than it already was.
She expected that thing to happen before noon, or at the latest early afternoon, but George must have had an exceptionally busy day.
It was only when she was sitting in the drawing room that evening, long past eight, that she heard loud noises in the entry hall, and sighed.
The door opened, and she could just make out a part of the argument that was taking place in the hall.
“I do not care about the hour, I just want to-”
“Mr Russell, please, the mistress-”
“Do not try me right now-”
Bertha turned in her chair to find Church, looking very apologetic, standing in the doorway. “Mr Russell is here, and he demands-”
“Bertha!” she heard George yell.
Church cleared his throat. “I can tell him you are busy, if you wish.”
“It’s alright, show him in,” said Bertha dryly.
He looked as though he were drinking. Perhaps that was why it took him all day to come.
He barely waited for the door to shut behind him before he snarled, “Did you sleep with Alfred Merrick?”
Bertha stuck her chin out in a defiant gesture. “I believe that is none of your business anymore.”
Even in the dim light of the lamp, she saw George pale. “None of my- Of course it is! You are my…”
Bertha arched her eyebrows, waiting for him to finish the sentence.
“The mother of my children,” he growled eventually.
“Well then, if it were either of our children that went to bed with Alfred Merrick, this reaction would be warranted, but since I doubt that is the case-”
George took a few quick steps towards her, but she refused to dignify him by rising to her feet. “Then it is true what they say, you did- of all the people you could have- Alfred Merrick?!” he yelled again.
“Calm yourself, for Christ’s sake,” Bertha hissed.
“Calm myself? I was right!” he continued, ignoring her request. “I was right that evening, at the dinner. The only thing that kept you from spreading your legs for goddamned Alfred Merrick was my presence, after all!”
Bertha rose at that, and she’d barely know what she did, had it not been for the pain shooting through her palm as she struck George across his face.
“The only reason I am allowing your presence in this house is that I know you too well to hope you wouldn’t cause a scene. And I’d rather you caused it here than in front of Mr Merrick’s residence or in some club or brothel or wherever single men go to blow off steam. But if you insist on being crass, I will have you thrown out either way.”
“Crass?” George laughed, rubbing his cheek. “What would you call your conduct, then? Polite? Civil? Just another societal interaction?”
“I will say this one last time,” Bertha reiterated. “You do not have the right-”
“How did he do it?” George interrupted her, stalking closer to her again. “Did he get you drunk first, or were you already? Or did you go willingly? Is silly flattery really all it takes to bed the great Bertha Russell? To make her lose the last remnants of her dignity? For one lousy night of fucking?”
“You are disgusting,” she snarled. “And if you must know, it was not just the night. Alfred and I are getting married.”
God.
She regretted saying it before the last word had even passed her lips.
But there was nothing to do about it now, nothing but dig her heels in.
“You are what?” George asked, freezing in place.
He was drunk enough. Perhaps she could still convince him he heard her wrong the first time. But god, she had barely any control over her actions as it was, her body shaking with anger, her skin prickling with need to hurt him as much as he had insisted on hurting her.
“Alfred Merrick proposed to me, and I said yes. We are getting married,” she repeated, and welcomed the tingle of pleasure at the horrified look on George’s face.
“You are- That idiot?! What happened to-” he paused for a moment before he found the right words again: “Your standards?”
The question knocked the wind out of Bertha. How dare he? How dare he question her judgment, her standards, when for twenty-five years he was the only one who met them? Her standards. They sure as hell did nothing to save their marriage. So what use were they anyway?
“You keep your opinion on my standards to yourself, and show yourself out of my house,” she ordered.
George appeared to chew on words that were ultimately left better unsaid before he straightened himself, giving her a mocking bow. “Of course, wouldn’t want to scandalise you, Mrs Merrick,” he said, poison dripping from his words.
“Get out,” she rasped, stepping towards him, trying to push him out of the room by her proximity alone.
He obeyed her instructions, only stopping in the doorway. “Alfred Merrick,” he repeated before glancing back at her. “I just thought I knew you better. I thought you were above whoring yourself out to the first man who smiles at you. And before the wedding too-”
Bertha saw red at that, all but shoving him out of the door. “Can’t remember you caring all that much about my virtue before we were wed!” she screamed at him, and then he was gone.
Another sleepless night followed. At first, she couldn’t even lie down for the rage her whole body was pulsing with, and when she finally managed to tear her clothes off and forced herself into bed, she couldn’t help but play the whole interaction in her mind, over and over, until it finally focused on one thing.
I am going to marry Alfred Marrick.
Let George see he has no hold on my life. Let him see I don’t care anymore.
The next morning, she took a carriage to Merrick’s residence so early she thought she would catch him at breakfast, but he was already starting his day when his butler showed her into his study, eagerness clear in his face.
When she emerged from the house some forty minutes later, her finger was heavy with the ring and her lips swollen from kisses. They weren’t bad, she thought, just… different. Yes, just different, not worse in any way. She could get used to them. She will get used to them. And to the taste of him, to his touch… she will. Women do it all the time, women with less incentive than her.
When she returned home, she told Larry and Marian, who had enough sense to pretend that they were happy for her. In the afternoon she wired Gladys.
A week later the announcement of her and Alfred’s engagement made its way to the front pages of New York’s most prominent magazines.
The day after that, the newspapers informed their readers that Mr George Russell has left for an extended inspection of the slowly progressing transcontinental railroad and is not expected to return for many months.
The wedding preparations were going slowly and had to be halted altogether when, in November, Marian gave birth to a baby boy, David. It was then agreed that Gladys, Hector and little Rachel would travel to America after the New Year’s, meet their newest relative, and stay for the wedding, date of which was then set for February 19, 1886.
George was still expected to be far west by then.
Good. Good.
Bertha was surprised to find she didn’t care much about the wedding nor its preparations. Alfred seemed to have it firmly under his control, and the years they spent together as part of the board at the Met meant he had a reasonable grasp on Bertha’s whims, tastes and expectations.
George could never manage such things, she thought to herself. He just never cared, never understood the importance of these things and became cross with her each time she tried to explain. Were it up to him, they’d never entertain, except for the occasional business dinner. But Alfred was well aware of the society games and well-versed in them, too.
It was not as if Bertha were idle, of course. She did her part. She had the wedding dress made, white and flowing and beautiful.
She approved the final look of the invitations and the guest list. She adjusted the final design of the cake and chose the types of roses to decorate the house and the church.
Church, well, cathedral more like. Far cry from the old, slightly tilting excuse of a church she and George said their vows at twenty-five years ago. This was better, grander. Alfred cared for her tastes. He cared about her dreams, and he did want nothing more than to cater to them. Surely, that was devotion, that was love.
Gladys and her little family arrived at the end of January, and Bertha was delighted. Finally, she had all her children, and both her grandchildren, under one roof again. It was wonderful, truly. There was nothing missing, no one was absent, and she couldn’t be happier.
It was just that… sometimes, just before she went to sleep, or deep in the night, when she woke up from a restless sleep, she felt herself being overcome with grief. It was silly, of course. Everything was going perfectly, and she knew she’d feel better the next day, when she'd see her daughter cooing little Rachel or hear her son telling her about how fast a learner baby David was – why, Larry was sure that at this rate, he’d be talking by Christmas!
So she just shut her eyes and willed herself to sleep again, waiting – and hoping – for an early morning full of distraction and excitement to numb this irritating part of her.
But as the wedding date neared, she found it harder and harder to disregard it, to think of it as something abstract, something in a distant future that needn’t be talked nor thought about that much. For some reason, that irritated her. Perhaps she was just tired. Perhaps she just needed a good night’s sleep.
“Are you sure that’s it?” Gladys asked her one evening after Bertha quipped just that.
“Of course,” Bertha forced a smile. “Surely you remember what hard work wedding preparations are. There is a lot to attend to.”
Gladys looked at her unconvinced. “It’s just… You barely see Mr Merrick or talk about him much. I fear-”
“Nonsense,” Bertha waved her hand. “I talk about him all the time. But he is busy as I am. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know him once we’re married.”
Gladys sighed, chewing on her words as if she were unsure whether to say what was on her mind. “You don’t seem happy, mother.”
“Any bride rarely is before the wedding. Remember how you felt? And look at you now. And not even before I married your father-” She felt her heart sink.
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. She was terribly, mind-numbingly sad before she married George. But not because of the wedding. Rather because until the day of it, it seemed so unlikely to take place.
Quickly she banished the memories.
“I am happy, I promise,” she said eventually, squeezing her daughter’s hands reassuringly.
Gladys gave her a soft smile. “If you say so, mother.”
The day before the wedding was hectic. She rose with the sun, then had her final final fitting. After that, she had to adjust the seating arrangements, since some acquaintances had wired her last night that they couldn’t make it.
While she was at it, she had a fight with Alfred’s chef who, for some baffling reason, decided at the last minute to replace the strawberries in the dessert with peaches of all things – without consulting her – and who, simply, could not hold a candle to Borden. Her heart ached each time she remembered she’d be leaving him behind.
Instead of lunch Alfred all but begged her to have with him, she returned to the 61st Street to inspect the progress of the packing. She needed to be ready to disembark for the honeymoon the day after the wedding, and surely there would be no time to deal with all that tomorrow. Alfred was taking her to the Mediterranean, thank God. George had taken her to Brooklyn. For two days in total before he had to leave again.
Those of her possessions she wasn’t bringing with her to Europe were being moved to Alfred’s house, her new home. Thankfully, there was no need to rush that. Larry and Marian had promised her they’d handle it once she’s gone abroad.
“Surely that can wait,” Larry told her when he saw her instructing Church as to which paintings were to stay, per her agreement with Larry and Marian, and which she was to bring with her.
Bertha shook her head, “I just wanted to be sure.”
“Everything is under control, mother.”
Bertha bit her lip, unable to help herself: “The carriage will be here at quarter past ten, and we won’t make it on time unless we leave half an hour before eleven at the latest.”
“You told me like forty times already,” he said softly. “We’ll be on time, though I doubt the wedding would start without you there either way.”
“A telegram, Sir,” said a footman, handing Larry a piece of paper.
Larry frowned.
“Is it the wedding?” Bertha asked, worry in her voice.
“No,” Larry shook his head. “It is business, nothing to concern yourself with.”
Any other day, Bertha would pry. Any other day, her son would know that that is entirely insufficient explanation, but today? “Well, good,” is all she said before she set out to deal with a million other things that needed to be dealt with.
She spent the rest of the day finalising, deciding, remedying or absolutely forbidding things from happening, and by the time Gladys, on edge by Bertha’s fussing more than the wedding itself, all but ordered her to go get some sleep, it was past ten.
“I will, I just need to check with Mrs Bruce-”
“I will check with Mrs Bruce,” Gladys cut her off, chasing her up the stairs.
Bertha let out an annoyed huff. “You don’t know what I wanted to talk to her about.”
“No, but I know Mrs Bruce. She has everything handled, and if she hadn’t, she’d tell you, or me. Everything is going perfectly.”
Stepping into her bedroom, Bertha gave a grateful smile to Gladys. She was so grown up. “Thank you,” she said. For coming here. For being here for me. For the support. For your lack of judgment.
Gladys gave her a soft smile in return. “Mother, I love you. All will be well,” she paused, turning to leave. “I’ll send Collins in. But… this is your last night here. Do try to get a good rest.”
Once alone, the reality of the situation settled upon her. The last night here. Well, not really. Surely, she’d visit from time to time, even staying overnight when Alfred was out of town. The room was not going anywhere.
And the bedroom that waited for her in her new home was as pretty as this one, the bed as comfortable, the gilding as sparkling. It would take a minute to get used to it, but she’d manage.
With that knowledge, she tried for hours to fall asleep. She knew she had to – she couldn’t be drowsy on her wedding day, what would people think? But the more she tried, the harder she shut her eyes and the slower she tried to breathe, the more the sleep escaped her, her heart beating as if she were to be led to the gallows, not the altar.
By the time the clock in the hallway struck two in the morning, she knew she needed help, something to knock her out cold for the precious few hours of sleep she could still get.
She wrapped herself in her robe, deciding against wearing shoes so as not to make noise in the hallway, and descended the stairs.
There was no one about. An hour ago, there’d still be maids fussing about, polishing the railings and sweeping the last remnants of dust, and in about an hour, the preparations would start, the final decorations, fresh flowers and such, would arrive, and the staff would take great care to arrange them as quietly as possible. But right now, she was alone. The only restless soul in the house.
Without thinking, she made her way to George’s old study. She knew there was still some of his old whisky left, whisky she knew no one would notice had disappeared, unlike the liquor in the kitchen or Larry’s office.
Pushing the door open, she was met by the bright light of an oil lamp, and after blinking a few times to adjust, she saw the surprised face of her son.
And George Russell.
She had not expected that.
“Mother,” Larry rose to his feet. “Is everything alright?”
Decidedly not.
It took her a few seconds to steady herself and find her voice again. “What is he doing here?” Bertha hissed, hiding the shock as well as she could. She refused to look at her former husband yet was very aware of his eyes on her. She wrapped her robe tightly around herself.
“There was some urgent matter father wished to discuss, and his train was delayed. I apologise. We would have met elsewhere, but at this hour…”
“Well then, has the discussion finished? Are you just getting drunk now?” She waved her hand to the glasses in their hands, putting on a haughty look as if she hadn’t come here with the intention of pouring herself one.
“Didn’t I tell you we need to leave at 10:30 sharp? And instead of resting, you have a little party with your father,” she continued, able to control the tone of her voice still, though not the words that were spilling out of her.
Larry pressed his lips but seemed to take pity on her and not give in to her attempts at starting a quarrel. “You are right, mother,” he nodded. “I will go up. And we’ll be ready to leave on time, I promise.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“He is sitting right here,” George said dryly. “Feel free to address your questions to him.”
Only then did she turn her eyes to him, feeling her chest rise with anger at the mere sight. Some of her feelings must have shown in her face, because Larry stepped slightly in between them.
“It would be silly to try to find a hotel room at this hour, and father had given up his room at the Union when he left months ago,” Larry began explaining.
“Has he?” Bertha all but growled.
“It is just for the night,” Larry said, and meeting Bertha’s furious glance, he added: “This is my house now, mother. And he is my father.”
“Larry?” Bertha heard a voice behind her and turned to see Marian, squinting into the room's light. “What is- George?”
“Hello, Marian,” George smiled at her.
“What is going on here?” she asked, her voice still a bit sleepy. Oh, how Bertha envied her. She’d love to be sleepy, or indeed sleeping, right now, instead of feeling more awake and alert than she had in months.
“Nothing, darling,” said Larry, pushing through the doorway past Bertha and taking his wife’s hand in his. “Father will stay here tonight.”
“He will?” Marian asked, her eyes growing wide, flicking to Bertha. “Is that-”
“Is David fussing?” Larry asked her quickly.
“A little bit,” she answered tentatively. “But nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Let’s go settle him down,” Larry said, “before he wakes Rachel as well and then none of us will get any more sleep tonight.”
With that, he pulled Marian away from the study and, with quick “Mother, father, good night”, led her up the stairs. Bertha watched them as they disappeared in the darkness and waited till even the sound of their steps faded before turning to George.
At that moment, she realised she was fuming. The fact that he looked so entirely relaxed just added to her irritation.
“I ought to congratulate you on your nuptials,” he said, downing the rest of the whiskey.
“Yes, you ought to,” said Bertha.
George gave her a condescending look, making a point of staying quiet for a few moments.
“Won’t you join me?” he asked eventually, gesturing to the settee opposite him.
“Why would I do that?” she grimaced at George as if he had just invited her to roll down a muddy hill.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why have you come here?”
Bertha glanced at the half-empty decanter on the table. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to read for a bit.”
George looked around the room. “In my office? There are no books that could interest you here.”
“Obviously,” Bertha said with clear disdain. “I was on my way to the library when I heard voices. I wanted to see what was going on here.”
George frowned. “We had been quiet for a while when you came in.”
“And there was a light shining under the door as well,” she added perhaps too quickly.
“Was there really?” George asked, amusement curling around the words.
Amused. How dare he be amused in her house, in her presence? When she was barely holding herself together?
“I won’t let you, of all people, interrogate me in my own house,” she hissed.
“Your house?” George chuckled. “You mean Larry’s house. You are as much a guest here as I am.”
Bertha clenched her fists. “Go to hell, George.” She turned on her heel and was about to leave again, when-
“Wait, Bertha. I am… I am sorry.” The sudden softness of his voice made her halt. For the brief moment, he sounded like he used to, like she remembered him.
Almost involuntarily, she looked back at him. He had half risen from the sofa, seemingly ready to run after her.
“Won’t you have a drink with me?” he asked then, nodding to the decanter.
Bertha huffed a bitter laugh. “A bit presumptuous, don’t you think? One guest offering the master-of-the-house’s whiskey to another?”
George smiled at that, warmly, sincerely. “Larry won’t mind, as I am pretty sure this is my old whiskey, granted to me in the divorce along with the rest of the contents of this room.”
“Have at it, then. No one is stopping you,” she said.
“I’d be willing to share,” he said, pouring himself another drink and then taking a clean glass and filling that one as well.
Bertha pressed her lips together. There was nothing she wanted to do this night less than spend it quarrelling with George Russell.
So why was she still standing there?
“Please,” George added, extending his arm and offering her the glass. “Please, I want us to part as friends.”
“We have parted our ways a while ago. You must have noticed. It was all over the papers,” she retorted.
“Yes, but…” he stepped a bit closer to her. “This is probably the last time we’d be allowed to talk privately, just the two of us. Please. Just a quick talk. You won’t fall asleep tonight anyway. I know you won’t.”
Bertha sighed deeply. This was such a bad idea.
“Alright then,” she said, taking the glass and sitting on the settee. A few years ago, he would have settled right next to her, pulling her against her chest and letting her head fall on his shoulder.
Today he sat opposite her, his back straight and his posture a bit stiff.
A strange sort of ache prickled in her chest at that, so she lifted the glass to her lips and emptied it in a single swallow. George mirrored her movement.
“I read a great number of things about the wedding. It is shaping up to be the event of the year,” he remarked after a while.
“That is the plan,” Bertha confirmed, looking at him defiantly, challenging him to say something admonishing, against the pomp, the cost, the celebrity of it.
But he simply poured them both another drink, tilting his head before asking: “Are you looking forward to it?”
“Why would you ask me like that?”
He gave her a knowing, irritating look. “I won’t ask you whether you are happy or if you love him. I already know the answer to those questions. So asking you whether you are looking forward to the wedding is the best I can do.”
“I am,” she bit back. “It is going to be a beautiful ceremony; everyone who matters is coming. And after that… well, whether you asked me or not, I believe Alfred and I will be very happy together.”
“Well,” he nodded solemnly. “That is at last something I congratulate you on. Cheers,” he said, and downed the drink.
Not to be outdone, Bertha did the same. She didn’t like whisky, not really, and she drank it so rarely. But she liked what it was doing to her right now, relaxing her despite everything, smoothing the rough edges of the burning irritation.
“I’ll have a real wedding this time. Flowers and a wedding dress and all that,” she said. She didn’t know why she said it.
“I heard,” George said gently. “I look forward to seeing the pictures in the papers.”
For some reason, the ache along her heart spiked at that. She was, obviously, very aware that George was not invited to the wedding. And yet- some small, stupid, stupid part of her somehow assumed he’d be there. This was an important event. She’s been planning it for months, everyone will be there… he’d always supported her on days like these. He always showed up, no matter how much work he had, what business dealings he had to put on hold. She just assumed-
What a lot of nonsense. Alfred will be there with her. That’s the point of it. He will be the one singing her praises. Not George. George doesn’t care anymore. She doesn’t care about him anymore.
“Right,” she managed eventually, reaching for the decanter and pouring herself another drink, perhaps a bit larger than George had previously. Just one more, and then she’d go up to rest. She felt herself getting tipsy already.
George cleared his throat. “I want to apologise,” he said. “About the way I acted the last time we talked.”
Bertha waited a few seconds before prompting him: “Apologise then.”
He set his glass on the table, straightening his shoulders before he spoke: “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“For meddling in your business, for ambushing you the way I did. I was drunk.”
She laughed at that, bitter, mean sound. “You were drunk? That is your excuse? You called me a whore, George.”
“I- I don’t know what came over me,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have said that. It just that- Alfred Merrick-”
Bertha braced herself. “Be very, very careful what you say next.”
George grimaced, seemingly looking for the right words. “I do not like him in the least,” he said slowly, his tone measured. “But I suppose there are men more wretched than him you could have chosen.”
Well, that was as close as Alfred was ever going to get to a compliment from George Russell. “Look on the bright side,” she said, sipping her whiskey. “Per the settlement, once I marry, you will no longer be obliged to provide me with the allowance.”
“That is not something I base my judgment on,” he said.
“It will lessen the burden of… me around, though,” she persisted. “And I don’t need it much as is. Alfred doesn’t let me use the money for my personal expenses anyway.”
George frowned, “he doesn’t let you?”
Bertha noticed the slight alarm in his voice. “It’s not-” She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but the room appeared to twist a bit around her. “I didn’t mean it like that. He just prefers to bear my expenses himself,” and after a pause: “Don’t look at me like you feel sorry for me,” she hissed.
“I am not,” George said, though the tone of his voice suggested otherwise. “I just hope he knows what he has in you.”
“You mean does he know what he’s getting himself into?” Bertha asked, emptying the last few drops of whisky from her glass.
George took a deep breath, giving her a look Bertha’ s mind grew far too hazy to comprehend. “No, that is not what I mean at all.”
A silence fell between them, and Bertha was just about to excuse herself for the night, when George spoke again.
“I hope he is kind to you. I hope he appreciates you,” he almost whispered.
“Like you have?” Bertha asked, rolling her eyes.
“No, I- no,” George said. “The way you deserve, I mean.”
Deserve? What she deserves? He must be joking. “I think you made it very clear what you think I deserve,” she said, rubbing her eyes and willing the darkness to stop spinning around her, for the pain in her chest to dull under the weight of the liquor.
“I was wrong- Bertha,” George caught her wrist as she reached for the decanter again. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“Well, I think it is none of your business how much I drink the day before my wedding to another man.” She slipped out of his grip and filled her glass again, ignoring his worried look.
“You’re right, I suppose,” he said. “Though I’d hope you yourself have enough sense to realise that you will have to be at least somewhat mobile to walk down the aisle.”
“Oh, I’ll be mobile,” she chuckled, sipping the drink before laying the glass back on the table. “I’ll be flying down the aisle. They’ll be trying to halt me, how excited I will be.”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said tentatively, reaching for her glass and moving it just slightly out of her reach. “I am glad he gives you… what I couldn’t.”
“Oh, shut up, George,” Bertha exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. Why did he have to be so impossible to deal with? Why couldn’t he just… act normal? “As if the problem in our marriage had ever been my dissatisfaction with the way you provided for me, with what you gave me.”
“I am glad to hear that I was a competent partner to you at least in some areas,” George matched her tone. “I hope he will be- is, as well.”
Really, was that what was bothering him? Still? After all these months, was it still on his mind? How pathetic.
How gratifying.
“I haven’t slept with him, you know,” she said before she could stop herself, sinking deep into the settee and crossing her arms on her chest. “At the van Rhijn wedding. I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?” he asked, and the almost hopeful tone was making Bertha angry again.
“I am going to, obviously,” she spat. “We are getting married tomorrow.”
“Of course you are,” he said with a grimace. “But… why did you tell me you have, then?”
She jumped to her feet at that, looming over him. “Like hell I did! That was you. You came in here, and you started screaming at me for the whole house to hear, and you accused me of things that-” She drew a sharp breath, trying to calm herself, but it was no use. “I know what people call me behind my back, what they had always called me, what they always assumed I was. But to hear you say it, after everything I did for you, for us, after knowing me for most of my life, after Turner… to call me a whore after all of that? I will never forgive you for that, never.”
She made a move for the door, but he grabbed her arm, making her sway a bit, and the room around with her.
“Bertha, please. I am so sorry. I do not know what I was thinking. Or- no. That is a lie. I know exactly what I was thinking, though I know I had no right to. I was furious and jealous, and I couldn’t help it. I don’t know how to make it right, but I know I need to, before the wedding, before I lose you forever.”
“You’ve lost me, George!” she half-shouted, trying to pull herself out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. Truth be told, he wasn’t holding onto her that tightly, but she was long past the point of any true resistance. Too angry, too tired, too drunk.
“I know I have to live without you, I know that”, he said. “But I can’t live knowing you hate me.”
Bertha let out an angry growl. “I don’t hate you. God, I want to, but…” She swayed too heavily at that, and George only just managed to catch he by her waist.
“Careful,” he breathed, before letting he settle back on the sofa.
“Goddamn it,” she cursed, leaning her face against her palms, trying to get a hold of her senses, her wobbly muscles.
“I hope you are right about him,” George said then, still standing in front of her, watching her intently. “I hope he never causes you the pain that I had, that he never treats you the way I had.”
Bertha glanced at him before looking away again. “It wasn’t all bad,” she said quietly, the words sour in her mouth.
“No, it wasn’t,” George admitted. “It… Well, most of it had been wonderful, hadn’t it? Everything, really, except the end.”
“The end… yes,” Bertha murmured, waiting for a moment more before standing up again. The room remained still this time. It was time to go, before another wave of disorienting haze took hold of her. “Though, as you said,” she continued, meeting George’s eyes. He stood very close to her now. Too close for her liking. But it will be over soon anyway. “This is the end. Let’s part as friends. Let’s say our goodbyes now, before things go awry again.”
He offered her his hand, and she shook it.
“Goodbye, Bertha.”
“Goodbye, George.”
At that, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
And goddamnit, why did he need to do that?
His lips lingered on her skin, their eyes locked on each other. Then he turned her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Does he kiss you like this?” he asked, barely loud enough for her to hear.
“George…” she warned him, her voice dark.
“Does he smile when you enter the room?” His lips moved to her wrist, kissing her pulsing veins there.
“He does,” Bertha said, but why did it have to sound so defensive?
“And do you? Smile when he enters.”
She swallowed, the adamant confirmation dying on her lips. Of course, she wanted to say. So why couldn’t she?
“Does he know what pleases you?” George continued, reaching his other hand to brush against her cheek.
“Yes,” Bertha rasped.
George shook his head. “How could he? You barely know each other,” he said, bitterness returning to his voice, though his lips still brushed against the skin of her hand as he spoke.
“We knew each other for as long as I could remember when we wed,” Bertha noted, feeling herself seeping into his eyes, his lips as if scorching her wrist. “And what good did it do to us?”
“Plenty of good. Everything good I have in my life is because we-”
She surged forward. She couldn’t take it anymore. She pressed herself against him, burying his fingers in his hair and crashing her lips against his. She felt his arms embrace her, his hands settle on her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his tongue against hers and God, it was just right, wasn’t it? It was the same as it always was. Just perfect.
And then she pulled back, wriggling herself out of his embrace and taking a careful step away from him. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back, waiting for her breath to even out.
“Goodbye, George,” she repeated and, without meeting his gaze, stepped towards the door.
“Wait,” he said, taking her hand again. “You can’t do this to me,” he said. “You can’t- You can’t just… oh God,” he exclaimed and took her into his arms again, his hands settling on the back of her neck, pulling her into another kiss.
And Bertha let him, for just a moment longer, just a few precious seconds, before she pushed him away.
“How dare you?” she screeched, slapping him across his face, though there was barely any force behind it. “I am getting married tomorrow!”
“I know, I know,” he said, desperation and a million other feelings warring in his face. He reached for her again. “Tomorrow, yes. But tonight…”
And she kissed him again, the force of it enough to make him step back and fall into the sofa behind him. She settled herself in his lap, pressing against him, pulling at his hair, trying desperately to be as close to him as possible.
She heard him moan against her throat, the sensation of it driving her mad.
“What is wrong with us? What is wrong with me?” she asked softly before burying her face in the crook of his neck.
“Nothing,” he said breathlessly, pulling at the hem of her robe and pressing kisses to her bare shoulder. “Nothing, you are perfect.”
She pulled back at that. “George, please,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “Perhaps… maybe just this one last time. Please, I need-”
“Anything, anything,” he assured her, driving his fingers along her spine and through her hair.
“I need you,” she all but moaned.
“God, I need you too.”