The Winter Garden

by Kara Jorgensen

  “How did you know?”

  The young woman folded the paper with a flourish and tossed it across the table towards him. The front page headline read, Socialite Slain by Spring-heeled Jack, and was followed by an etching of the creature as seen by her maid. “All the racket you and my uncle made woke me up. He is the Coroner to the Queen, you know, and Katherine is from a noble family. It only makes sense that he would take her case.”

  “Did you know her?” he asked, shifting and tugging at his collar.

  She glared at him as she struck her soft boiled egg with her knife. “Yes, I know her— I knew her.”

  When she began to saw the head off the egg, he knew their conversation had come to an end. As Immanuel shuffled into the foyer, his eyes burned from the mid-morning sun as it blazed through the front windows of thirty-six Wimpole Street. He turned his back to morning and trudged towards the dim sanctuary of James’s study. Dropping into the wooden chair behind the typewriter, he sighed. Sleep would have to wait until he finished. Immanuel opened the ledger, loaded the paper into the machine, and stopped as his gaze fell on the skeleton wearing the derby on the other side of the room. The skeleton was petite, standing no more than five and a half feet, with a flared, wide pelvis. It was a she.

  Leaving the report behind, Immanuel laid his hand on the skull’s soft brow. His sightless eyes dilated as he was transported to the bleak, grey walls of a prison. He looked out from the gallows at the high walls and small crowd of wardens below as the frayed cord scratched his neck, waiting for the moment when— Immanuel drew back with a start. No, being female was not the problem.

  Chapter Twenty:

  Promise and Disappointment

  Adam Fenice straightened his tie and smoothed his teal vest under his coat before grasping the mandible of his cousin’s doorknocker. The smile refused to leave his lips, but when he caught his toothy reflection in the mirrored surface of the knocker’s forehead, he smothered his mirth back to an acceptable level. He was dying to tell Immanuel his news, but as he waited on the steps, he recalled how not so long ago Immanuel had been closer to death than he had ever seen another being. For over two weeks, he had watched him progress from an invalid to a prospective partner, and while he was still haunted by the ghost of his attacker, he admired him for his strength. It had taken a lot to admit he was afraid.

  He was about to push the doorbell when the front door creaked open, and a haggard Immanuel Winter leaned against the threshold for support. He rubbed his hooded eyes with his knuckles before feebly attempting to smooth down his curls and rumpled shirt, which had come unbuttoned at the top and hung on his thin frame without a vest or jacket. Upon seeing Adam, his tired eyes lit up.

  “Are you ill? You look positively dreadful!” Adam cried as he came into the foyer and quickly shut the door behind him to prevent the sleety chill from worsening his friend’s condition.

  “Ich habe nicht gut geschlafen,” he yawned but caught his slip back into German. “Sorry, I did not sleep well last night. Dr. Hawthorne was called out to a murder scene in the middle of the night, and he brought me along. I have only had about two hours sleep since.”

  “If I woke you up, Immanuel, I can come back later.”

  He caught Adam’s arm. “No, stay. I’m happy to see you. How have you been? I have not seen you in nearly a week.” Immanuel paused at the parlor door. “Would you like me to put on some tea?”

  “Thank you, but I cannot stay long.”

  His companion’s smile drooped to a lopsided frown as he whispered, “No one is home. Mrs. Hawthorne and Miss Jardine went to the Spiritualist society, and Dr. Hawthorne is at Scotland Yard.”

  Adam reached up and tugged Immanuel’s tie back into place before smoothing his collar. “It isn’t that.”

  Immanuel wanted to tell him not to bother with his clothing as he planned to return to bed, but the occasional brush of Adam’s fingertips against his neck arrested his protests.

  “I promised my sister that I would help her sort through some invitations and linens her future mother-in-law sent over for her to look at. I came over because my boss gave me two tickets to La Basoche at the Royal English Opera House since he cannot make it. I do not know if you like opera, but I was wondering if you would like to accompany me.”

  “I would love to,” he replied with the same grin that had appeared after they crashed on the ice.

  “Good.” Adam’s cheeks burned until they nearly matched his hair. “I will come by Friday evening at eight to collect you.”

  As his redheaded companion tried to escape with his answer, Immanuel laid his hand on his shoulder. “Could you stop by a little earlier? I want to take you out to dinner with the money I earned from typing up all those autopsy reports for Dr. Hawthorne. Then we could have some time to talk.” Immanuel laced his fingers through Adam’s loosening grasp and brought his hand to his lips. “How does one dress for the opera?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was at the door or window peering in and stammered, “Form— formally. If James has nothing suitable for you to use, I will let you borrow some of mine. My sister always jokes that my share of the profits is my clothing allowance.”

  Swallowing hard he raised his gaze to meet Immanuel’s bichrome eyes. His iceberg blue irises drew him in while the tinge of tragic brown urged him to stay. Hadley wouldn’t mind if he was late. She would just pick something at random if Lady Dorset pressed her for an answer that night. He knew she only wanted his opinion because her mother-in-law liked him and because he could tell the difference between cream and ivory. Ardor and panic from twenty-four years of hiding his proscribed desires sent his heart thundering up his throat. He could stay, but what if someone saw? Would anyone notice how long he was there alone with him? He wanted to. He really wanted to, but the voices of his long-dead parents, his boss, and the queen echoed through his mind, forbidding his thoughts. One day they will be dead, and I will still be here as unhappy as I ever was.

  He threw his arms around Immanuel’s back, drawing him closer until his companion’s body was flat against his own. A soft gasp escaped Immanuel’s lips but was quickly silenced by Adam’s mouth. Letting his weight fall against the front door, Adam barred the outside world from intruding upon his moment of freedom. His body hummed as his fingers trailed into Immanuel’s loose curls. Caught off guard by the sudden embrace, Immanuel stiffened before sagging into Adam’s grasp. His lungs strained beneath his still bruised ribs, but as he gently pulled away, a grin was etched into his features. He wrapped his arms around the dandy and rested his head against his neck.

  “I would love to stay, but I need to get home, Immanuel,” he whispered as he kissed the top of his head and helped his friend to his feet, “especially before the others get back.”

  “I know.”

  Immanuel sighed soundlessly as he watched Adam don his coat and gloves to fortify him against the snow that fell just beyond the panes. It was impossible, but he wished he could stay with him. Adam Fenice put his hand on the knob but turned back to see Immanuel’s eyes brighten once again with hope.

  “It slipped my mind before, but Hadley wanted me to invite you to spend Christmas at Lord Sorrell’s home. He knows you have no family in England and that you are close to me and Uncle Elijah. I hope you will come with us.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  Adam’s mustache curled into a grin as he stepped into the cold. “Until Friday, then.”

  “Until Friday.”

  ***

  “Oh, great spirits, come to us!” the frizzle-haired psychic called out in the darkness at Emmeline’s elbow. “Tell us your secrets. Spirits, if you are with us, send us a sign! Lift the table or knock on the walls. Please, let us know you are here.”

  Emmeline swallowed down a yawn as she waited for the theatrical pounding on the walls from the “spirits,” but nothing came. Apparently, the spirits are not talkative this evening, she thought as Madam Nostra swallowed hard, her ey
es meeting the expectant gazes of the others at the table. Emmeline had heard of the acclaimed medium and fortune teller, Madam Nostra, from her mother. She assumed the woman’s real name was probably something like Agatha Newman. Ever since the Fox sisters came out as frauds, these women who claimed to be gifted with second sight and the ability to commune with the spirits came out of the woodwork in droves. She pegged Madam Nostra to be a spinster from nowhere who had been praised one too many times for correctly predicting the weather or the sex of infants in her tiny hamlet and burst out of obscurity with a new and artificially exotic name. Woman after woman like her had come to the Oxford Spiritualist Society for admittance, but Lady Jardine had turned nearly all of them away after their first performance. Her mother could spot an imposter a mile away. Almost imperceptivity Madam Nostra’s skirt shifted and her foot jutted toward the base of the table. A collective gasp rose from the others at the table as the still air was disrupted by three solid knocks coming from the center of the table. Emmeline sighed. Another fraud. Apparently, it was true that anyone could go to London, but only the best could get into Oxford.

  “Spirit, are you a man or a woman? Knock once for male and twice for—”

  From behind the door, two male voices fought for dominance. The deeper one cried out while the other retaliated indecipherably, but his sharp tones still broke through the oaken door.

  The fraudulent medium’s eyes lit up. “Speak, spirits! Tell me what you want to us to know! Share your divine knowledge.”

  The six unassuming guests turned toward the door behind them as the knob turned but stopped as a scuffled erupted behind it. There were muffled grunts and cries followed by several bangs as something heavy hit the door. With the others distracted, Emmeline gave Madam Nostra a discreet kick in her knocking leg. Someone had to let her know she wasn’t fooling everyone. As the psychic’s bug-eyes met hers, the door burst open, slamming and embedding its knob into the wall. An older, brass-haired version of Alastair Rose stumbled in, nearly pulling an elderly gentleman from his chair as he grabbed him for support. Alastair whipped into the room, grasping his elder brother by the shoulders before wrenching the blubbering man toward the door.

  “You are making a spectacle of yourself, Alexander,” he hissed under his breath as his brother tried to shake free beneath his claw-like fingers. He looked over his shoulder at the table of guests staring at them. “Everyone, please excuse my brother. He is not in his right mind. Let’s go, Alexander.”

  “Why are you doing this? Please, Alastair! Please, I just want them to try to— I just want them to try,” the man sobbed as he sank to his knees in front of the table.

  Alastair’s face blanched before burning back to red as he struggled to pull his hysterical brother back to his feet. How dare he barge into his place of business and cause a scene. Now, he was sobbing in front of two of his best mediums and a handful of guests who had come for a séance but would only remember the lunatic who barged in. With a sharp twist, Lord Montagu shook off his brother and staggered forward until his hands came to rest on the tabletop. Reaching into his rumpled jacket, the marquess withdrew a delicate aquamarine and pearl necklace.

  He held it out in his trembling palm. “I need to know if she is at peace. Please. I need to know.”

  “I told you, brother, it is too soon for them to do that!” Alastair’s hand clamped down on his shoulder again, digging into his flesh. “Come now, Alexander. You are making a fool of yourself.”

  Emmeline stared up at the pitiable form of Alexander Rose. His eyes were sunken with fatigue and burned with tears. Grey and gold stubble dotted his chin and cheeks, and along with his creased suit and loosely knotted tie, he appeared closer to a beggar than a nobleman. As a stifled groan broke from his lips, the sour, sweet odor of stale alcohol wafted across the table. Eliza Hawthorne and the others sitting around Madam Nostra averted their gazes as if he were not even there. How could they ignore him? Lord Montagu was the lovesick knight she read about in so many books. He was the faithful man who gave up his existence for the love of another. In her seventeen years on earth, she had never seen someone feel anything so deeply.

  As Alexander closed his eyes in defeat and gave into the hand that forced his shoulder toward the door, Emmeline called out, “I would like to try.”

  Alastair’s eyes widened as his brother placed the necklace into her narrow palm. “This is ridiculous. Miss Jardine, Miss Waters has not even been buried. It is much too soon to do a reading. Do not give into the fancies of a troubled mind.”

  She stared up into Lord Montagu’s pained, amber eyes. How could Alastair be so cruel as to deny his brother closure? “I can at least try.”

  Swallowing hard, Lord Rose held his breath. He had seen her abilities with his own eyes, and now more than ever he regretted ever bringing her to the Spiritualist society. She was just like her mother.

  Emmeline shut her eyes and held the necklace between her palms. All thoughts cleared from her mind as the others remained silent, but nothing came. No thoughts or smells or visions passed through her mind’s eye. She clasped the piece of jewelry tighter, but it didn’t make a difference. Alexander looked at the dark-haired girl hopefully, but Emmeline shook her head and carefully trickled the chain into his hand before closing his fingers around it with her own.

  “I am so sorry, Lord Montagu. I am afraid it is too soon for me to see anything.”

  The older gentleman squeezed his hand against the stones in the pendant and nodded. His eyes and chest burned as he smiled bitterly but softened when he saw her large eyes film upon seeing his expression. “Thank you, miss. Thank you for trying. At least— at least I know now.”

  “Satisfied? Come, brother, let’s leave them to their séance now,” Alastair snapped as he finally led the inebriated man out the door.

  The others at the table sat in silence, unsure of what to do after all the hubbub. Could the spirits perform after such an interruption? Before Madam Nostra could continue her charade, Emmeline pushed away from the table and moved to her aunt’s side.

  “Can we go home now? I do not feel very well,” she whispered into her ear to keep the others from hearing or seeing the tears hanging in her eyes.

  All she ever wanted was to be like her mother, to use her powers to help people and give them the closure they so ardently sought, but these mediums were no better than fortune tellers at the fair. They were frauds, but was she one too? When there came a time for her to finally help someone, to make them feel better, and to share something only the spirits could know, she had nothing to offer. Maybe she, too, was just another spectacle.

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  Revelations

  Immanuel drew in a deep breath and smiled at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. There had never been a time when he had been dressed so well. With the trousers and dinner jacket borrowed from James and the accessories and white waistcoat from Adam’s expansive wardrobe, he looked like a man out of an advertisement. Turning in front of the mirror, he admired his narrow waist and long legs. He pushed a curled tendril of blonde hair out of his eye, but when he scrutinized his face in the glass, he saw only his old self. His life was finally going in the right direction. Patting his pocket, he confirmed he had the money for dinner with him. He was about to settle in near the window when a steamer cab pulled up to the pavement. Immanuel slid open the sash as the redhead stepped out.

  “I will be right down!” he called as Adam smiled up at him and ducked back into the cab.

  With a final check in the mirror, he grabbed his top hat and trotted down the two flights of stairs to the front rooms. He paused on the last set of steps as he listened to the voices in the parlor. The Hawthornes and Miss Jardine were supposed to be going to a party, and he thought they had left already.

  “Immanuel, please come here for a moment,” Dr. Hawthorne called from within. “I would like to introduce you to someone.”

  He glanced out the window. Even though he knew it would be quick, he
really did not want to keep Adam waiting, but when he crossed the threshold into the parlor, the breath caught in his throat. Immanuel froze as his eyes fell upon the demon in the dinner jacket standing at the hearth. Hardening himself to the invisible blows, he stared into Lord Rose’s steady gaze, but with each flicker of the fire, the nobleman’s shock disappeared as a flash of the baneful nature behind his eyes surfaced before sinking out of sight. He knew he was afraid. Alastair Rose could sense the momentary paralysis when prey realizes they are in the predator’s sights.

  “Lord Rose, this is my assistant, Immanuel Winter. Immanuel, this is Lord Rose, the head of the London Spiritualist Society.”

  As Alastair Rose proffered his hand, he locked eyes with Immanuel, narrowing them just enough that they flared orange in the light. The corner of his lip curled into a smirk as he eyed the young man’s ashen cheeks and deformed eye. Seeing the primal fear in his victim’s eyes set his blood racing. He had him in his power.

  But that was exactly what he wanted. The beast was smiling at him, at his terror. No one, not even Lord Rose, would ever make him feel powerless again. Immanuel gripped the man’s gloved hand and lingered with his thumbnail embedded in his palm.

  “We have already met,” he said as he held Lord Rose’s widening gaze. “Good day, Lord Rose, Dr. Hawthorne.”

  Without looking back, he donned his top hat and burst into the icy night air. Immanuel let out a constrained breath, the air rolling into the aether in a puff of white smoke. The knot that had been in his chest since he arrived at Wimpole Street finally unfurled as he took another lungful of cleansing air. He stood up to the man who had nearly destroyed his life, and maybe now he could move on.

  Settling in beside Adam, fear’s cloying grasp pulled at his heart and mind, but tonight, he refused to give in. He couldn’t be upset when Adam was beaming. As always, he was handsome with his crimson mustache and perfectly coiffed hair. His inky black tailcoat and white vest hugged his body, but his achromatic attire was enlivened by a pink rose tucked into his collar and his vibrant hair and eyes. Tonight Immanuel was determined to embrace life.