by Laura Briggs
Something about the look in her eyes seemed mysterious, and, for a moment, I actually believed she did know something of my past. The ghost hunter Kate's terrible and sad secret ... maybe it had been a psychic revelation instead of an uncanny guess.
"So how did your grandmother do it?" I asked. "The same way as you? Or were you and your mom different?"
"My grandmother was ... very skilled and very careful." An odd smile crossed Natalie's lips. "In that respect, I suppose you could say I did inherit her gift."
She laid aside a piece of pear. "You should avoid late night parties, Miss Kinnan," she said. And as surprise undoubtedly crossed my face, she added, "— they leave their traces behind for the next day." She smiled at me.
I realized then that my hair still had traces of glitter from my mask. My fingers felt a small smudge of it at the corner of my eye, where my eye shadow hadn't been completely wiped away. "Thanks," I said. I wiped it away on a tissue as I closed the door behind me.
I delivered Doctor Pitt and Bill their breakfast trays, then took a discreet break in the big linen closet marked 'staff only' to appease my curiosity about Madame Evenstar. My smart phone located an online bio for the stage medium, as well as an article on her much-documented psychic tests at the hands of experts, including an obscure article printed in the psychology journal of a major university. 'Psychic Sense: the Key Role of Psychology and Selective Human Perception in Creating the Psychic Vision.'
'Despite their best efforts, no scientist ever proved that Clara Iverly, or 'Madame Evenstar,' was not truly psychic. She presented above-average prediction ratio for hidden cards and images, and an uncanny ability to perceive both thoughts and experiences of apparent strangers when tested in a closed and supervised environment.
Nevertheless, the psychic herself was the one who admitted that her gifts were chicanery — on her deathbed, no less. To this day, the little-known fact remains that Clara Iverly confessed with satisfaction before multiple witnesses during her final days to having 'fooled both commoners and kings' onstage with her gifts.
In an excerpt from the private diary of her attending physician, discovered twenty years after his death, the following quote is recorded. 'She speaks much of how one easily reads humanity by seeing what others can't see in small details — much like being Sherlock Holmes, only reading subtle cues in the human eyes and body language to determine when a vague reference to their past can be embellished and stated as an absolute event.''
There was much more to this article which spoke of other stage magicians who had confessed to using similar tricks to make predictions about people's lives. If any of this was true, than Madame Evenstar's gift was fake, and so was Natalie's. The only 'psychic aura' involved was the uncanny gift of perception, combined with research, carefully-timed remarks, and creating predictions that felt surrounded by an aura of otherworldly mystery to make us shiver.
Did the earl know this part of the story? Unlikely. Madame Evenstar's Wiki biography didn't mention the little-known confession recorded by her doctor, only the public records of the prominent scientists who tried and failed to prove she wasn't psychic. And even if Kay or Phil had discovered it while investigating the psychic, the earl had clearly dismissed it as an academic rumor.
Those remarks about Natalie's 'gift' being learned and not inherited had been a clever confession. It was doublespeak, her remarks: she had been saying that she simply read the details about people's lives in everyday objects and in their own reactions. But if Natalie was a fake — and if she uncovered those secrets on purpose, including the strange story from Will's childhood — then what exactly was she planning to do with the earl's unwavering belief?
_________________
"Do you know anything about this?" Brigette asked me, as I emerged from the elevator with a basket of linens. She held up a paper mask with a jack-o'-lantern face glittered in gold — the one I had worn to the party last night. "I found it on the floor in the laundry room. I hope nobody has been keeping their personal things in that room — it's strictly for hotel use, you know."
"That's mine," I said. "I guess it must have gotten mixed up with some uniforms for the laundry." With this excuse, I folded it and stuffed it in my pocket.
"How was the party?" Brigette asked.
"You didn't go?"
"Well, it wouldn't be proper for me, would it? Not while I have Mrs. Charles's post on top of my own duties. I am the public face of the Penmarrow which greets guests, after all," she said. "Besides, I've heard so many people who go make proper idiots of themselves. I'm sure Gomez behaved dreadfully ... and don't even bother telling me what Riley probably did. I'm sure it can't be put into civilized words."
"In a manner of speaking," I said, cryptically.
Although Brigette looked curious, she couldn't bring herself to ask what I meant. "Dr. Blake has requested a cup of tea be brought to him on the patio," she said. "The kitchen should have his tray ready, so please take it to him."
"Could I be of service for this task, Ma'am?" This suggestion came from Riley, who was standing by in uniform, which, dare I say it, had been pressed to perfection, and not by my hand when I delivered it this morning. He actually assumed an attitude of attention, a servant in line for inspection, catching Brigette off guard as she turned to face him. Her eyes widened with a look of shock.
"Er ... well ... you could, of course," she stammered, as if Riley had metamorphosed into a different human being entirely. "But — not with a nose that red," she added, loftily, recovering her composure at the last. "I'm sure Dr. Blake would prefer staff who do not look like the long end of a stag night."
"Quite right. I'll find another way to make myself useful, Ma'am." Riley stood at attention again, then dismissed himself. Brigette glanced at me, and I shrugged my shoulders, as if I was equally clueless.
Budgy was sitting on the terrace, smoking a cigarette as he watched young Bill in the distance, practicing his golf swing in the front garden. It wasn't allowed, and each strike of the club was tearing up a small piece of Mr. Trelawney's precious green lawn, but it wasn't my place to stop the young heir as per this week's policy of indulgence.
Another ball sailed high in the direction of the sea, and I hoped none of Bill's relatives were on the beach below the cliffs.
"Thank you, my dear," said the professor. "Set it just there, please. Move aside that copy of Wordsworth. It's in Latin — beastly stuff, but I promised some of my students that I would impress them with a reading on Monday." He puffed smoke into the air.
"Will that be all, sir?" I asked. He glanced at me, briefly.
"What? Oh, yes. That'll be all. Unless you have a smidge of brandy with which to pepper my tea," he added. "I suspect the Mad Hatter's contained the same. One as mad as he can't be entirely influenced by Victorian toxins."
He gazed in the direction of the lawn again, as I poured his tea, sans the aforementioned ingredient, of course. "Sometimes," he said, "I rather think it would do young Bill some good to grow up a bit on his own. Make his own way in the world, so to speak."
He could be speaking to himself more than me, I had decided, only now the professor acknowledged my presence. "I speak purely in the hypothetical sense, of course. After all, it does pain one to watch his clumsy pursuit of his future inheritance. All the entitlements of a lord-to-be ... there are times I rather wish that Freddy would decide to disappoint him on this matter." On the lawn, young Bill was stubbing out a cigarette on the grass, leaving its burn — and stub — on the lawn.
"It's not my place to say, I'm sure, sir." This was the answer I was sure Mr. Trelawney would approve. "Though as a friend of the family, I'm sure you only have their best interests at heart. And we all think aloud sometimes about things we wish could come true — if only a little."
"Precisely," said Budgy, sipping his tea. "Still ... I suppose it would be rather hard on the young sod. Having to give up being one of the idle rich and put himself into service most of the year, like the rest of th
e world. He won't come into his father's trust for another fifteen years, you know."
No wonder it was so important to Kay that her son make a good impression on his grandfather — she was probably responsible for all her son's expenses, from university fees to the luxury car and the weekends at continental casinos.
I found Brigette applying air freshener in the foyer, with the pained look of someone who feels keenly the violation of public cigarette laws, so I knew young Bill must have burnt out a few in the potted ferns. In the parlor, Natalie Norridge had abandoned a hardback novel on the sofa, and was chatting with Molly and Katy, who were clearly supposed to be doing something else.
"I see a male influence. More important than the others," Natalie's eyes were closed, her fingers lifting ever so slightly, as if feeling the aura as well as focusing on it within her mind. "He's significant. Is he new to your life?" She opened her eyes. "I feel that he's new."
"He is," said Katy, impressed. "We just met in Padstow a week ago."
"You changed for him," said Natalie. "But don't change for others. You have to be yourself, on your own terms. Stop with the lipstick." Here, she touched Katy's arm, and I could see from the look in the maid's eyes that these words held uncanny meaning.
She had found tissues which blotted Katy's old color preference of berry — or seen the brand-new tube of pinky-orange the maid carefully applied after hours, or any number of clues. If Natalie had been telling the truth, that she read human faces the artful way her grandmother had done for her stage performances.
"But what about Cardiff?" asked Molly. "I still don't know what it means. I don't know anybody from Wales. I've never been there. There's guests, but they're mostly Londoners, or else parties from overseas."
"I can't tell you what it means, Molly," said Natalie, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I can only tell you what I read. You have to figure it out on your own."
Or assign a meaning to it because you believe she's real. That was the alternative explanation for any of Natalie's random predictions or references, of course. Molly would figure it out because she wanted to believe — just like the earl wanted to believe the psychic could channel the family members he lost.
And what are those souls on the other side going to tell him? To leave his money to a newly-formed charity for supporting retired psychics? That sounded as suspicious as Kay's accusations, not that it would be hard to imagine the earl cutting his unhappy family out of the will for the sake of a seemingly sweet and kind young girl who was probably very interested in hearing all the stories about his life at home and abroad.
But it wasn't my place to be suspicious, was it? Or to care if the medium had ulterior motives?
Against his usual policy, Norman the gardener entered the foyer, carrying a vase of flowers for the front desk. "Brought the flowers you wanted — roses is done for this year." The flowers looked halfhearted, which is why Brigette was frowning. With a grumble, the gardener placed them on the counter, leaving a water ring that earned a cry of protest from the concierge.
Natalie rose from the sofa. "You," she said to the gardener. "You have a secret." She was pointing at him, the intricate bracelets on her wrist clicking together in faint music. "A secret you think no one will ever find out ... because they would find out who you really are."
A strange drama had entered her voice. Norman's face turned fire red before the color vanished from his features.
"Don't know what you're talking about," he said, sternly, although his voice quavered just a little bit. "You're proper crazy, that's what you are." He fumbled with his gardening gloves and dropped one, stooping to collect it. A mumbled curse came sharply from under his breath as his spade fell out of his pocket.
"Norman?" Molly sounded concerned. "Are you quite certain you're all right?"
"No time for idle chatter — I'm very busy." He gathered up his things and beat a retreat through the nearest exit, the patio's hall instead of the service door near the staff room. He glanced back once at Natalie, a look both suspicious and — afraid? Not Norm, surely.
Molly looked at Natalie. "What secret?" she asked, anxiously. "Norman's not a criminal or something, is he?"
"Nothing like that," said Natalie, in a strange, almost dream-like voice. "But it's a very interesting secret." She shook her head as if shaking off a persistent thought, then returned to normal. "I think I would like a cup of tea, if it's not too much trouble," she said, sitting down again.
"I'll make it," said both maids at once.
Now I wondered what the gardener's secret could be. No chance that he had a false identity too, right?
_________________
I borrowed Riley's cycle again that afternoon, when the private dining room and the preparations for the séance in the gold parlor were finished, and pedaled to the vicar's shed. I found Sidney hollowing pumpkins and turnips, forming large mounds of seed and pulp in the garden. His dogs were asleep as usual, except for Kip, who was sampling raw pumpkin with an expression that suggested it tasted as terrible as it looked.
"Would you like me to give you a hand?" I asked. An array of large serving spoons and blunt-tipped spades lay on the ground, all employed, apparently, in the purpose of scraping out.
"Please do," he answered. "There's an apron in the shed, if you like — although you might fancy having your clothes covered in pumpkin flesh."
"No, thanks. It's not my laundry day." I retreated into the shed and found the apron in question, an old one of Mrs. Graves that bore stains of blackened soot, lying next to a pile of spanners and pliers. Next to them was the copy of the manuscript I had given Sidney. Its pages looked thumbed through, with marks on the corners from earth-stained fingers. I opened it near the middle and turned them at random, finding dog-eared corners on some, and stains of grease or oil on others. Sidney had read to the end — or turned to the last page, at least.
I emerged, slipping the apron over my head. Sidney glanced up from his pumpkin, and could see by my face that I had seen the manuscript. "Wondering if I've read it, aren't you?" he asked me, teasingly. "You're asking yourself, 'is he done? Is he going to keep me in suspense any longer?'"
"Are you?" I asked, crossing my arms.
He smiled. "No," he answered. "I finished last night, actually. Down to the very last word with a bedtime cup of tea — and a bit of repair on a dodgy lamp's switch."
I had given up feigning interest in scraping out a pumpkin. "Okay ... so I know it's a little rough," I began. "I know it's not great literature, but I was hoping to make a great concept from classic literature more contemporary. Obviously, I need something more in its middle, structurally speaking, and my heroine hasn't really come alive on the page, as you clearly would've noticed —"
"Maisie —"
"— and I'm not exactly sure yet what the ending will look like, or how to bring it together on the page —"
"Maisie." Sidney interrupted again. "I liked it. Honest."
My reaction? Silence — ramblings ceased, embarrassment and awkwardness entered working mode as I processed this statement. "Really?" I said. "You're not just saying that. Because I did warn you not to tell me what you thought I wanted to hear." I squared my chin as I searched his face for any evidence of hidden guilt, grimaces, or avoidance in Sidney's eyes.
"I told you that I would be honest, and that's my honest opinion," he answered, giving his pumpkin scoop an extended rest as he leaned on the crown of his jack-o'-lantern. "Of course, I'm not versed in the modern gothic and steampunk novels as you are ... but I think your style is quite good. I like Annabel Lee — and you've some very clever ideas for making her myth up from his other tales and poems as well. Foregoing too much of his raven for the sake of his bells, for instance —"
"I love "The Bells"," I said, unable to help myself. "For me, it's second only to "Annabel Lee" among Poe's poetry. 'How the danger sinks and swells' — " I quoted in a deep, mysterious voice.
"'—By the sinking or the swelling in the
anger of the bells,'" concluded Sidney, in equally dramatic tones. We both laughed a little. "It's a good beginning for a story. Annabel may need a bit of fleshing out, but I think she has the makings of a decent heroine." He caught my eye. "And that's 'decent' in the British sense, by the way."
"That's high praise indeed," I said — trying not to blush, and therefore ruin my lofty tone. "If I entertained you a little, at least, then I suppose my manuscript did what it's meant to do."
"Exactly," said Sidney. "That's the writer's spirit, isn't it?" He grinned at me, and it was a grin of teasing again more than of genuine advice. He flipped his pumpkin around and pulled out his pocketknife, beginning a small carved design on its front, where it was lightly penciled on the orange skin.
I turned the pumpkin in my hands around, gazing at its future face. "Now, if I only had the words of an eminent author backing me up so I could finally finish my goal." I was thinking of the elusive Ink and Inspiration prize, looming just out of my grasp. Something I intended to solve with a mentor, not that I could fully bring myself to believe that Alistair Davies had really meant his words in his letter.
Sidney had paused. "What makes you so sure you need the opinion of Alistair Davies?" he said. "Or any author's opinion, for that matter?"
The Ink and Inspiration prize, the Tucker Mentorship program — these were details I had left out of my explanation, of course, because it sounded a bit ridiculous when put into words. "It's just important to me," I said, lamely. "It's part of being a writer, being validated by someone professional."
Sidney shrugged. "It's your story, it's your voice," he said. "You should write it the way you believe it should be written. Who needs someone else looking over their shoulder, telling them how to write each bit, maybe? What if they don't have the faintest idea what the story is you're trying to tell?"
"I don't think I'm ready to write a book completely on my own. I don't trust myself as a storyteller yet," I said. "Not without someone more experienced to help me write something that an editor would be a little interested in reading, at least."
