The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  This morning, he sat by his cage full of tiny, beautiful finches, beside Mama at a little table set for breakfast, trying to catch his breath. “He-hello there darling. Just a bit winded this morning.”

  “Papa.”

  His rubbed his favorite bird, perched on his hand, with a blunt finger. Papa had always been a gentle soul. Now, he was free of the worries of feeding his family and running a business, he was truly happy.

  Mama motioned for me to join them. Since the maids were busy, I poured. “How are things, my darling?”

  “Fine. We are planning a harvest festival celebration for later this month. It is tradition.” For a moment, I worried they would make me explain how we could successfully pull off a harvest festival when harvests had been so meager.

  Mama sipped her tea. “That’s a wonderful idea. A celebration will remind people to be grateful for the blessings in their lives, even in these hard times. You will be inviting your social friends and your tenants, I hope?”

  “Of course.” I smiled. What was I worried about? Mama always understood. She tipped the crumbs off her plate into the finch cage. The little birds happily picked the bits up and gulped them down. I had half a mind to offer them tea as well. They were British, after all.

  “It will be quite warm today.” I finished my cup and set it down. “Would you both like to go for a short walk?”

  “I would love to, darling.” Papa put his favorite finch back into its cage. “But I cannot seem to walk very far nowadays.”

  “How is your cough, Papa?”

  “Better.”

  I nodded, though we both knew he was lying. “Papa, I made a fresh tincture, will you take some?”

  “I am fine, Vivian, it is merely this damp air.”

  “Papa, I believe I heard that cough before the air grew so damp.” When I was a girl, he would use this exact tone with me, reminding me that he saw more than I wished he did and inviting my honesty. He had never accused me, out loud, of being dishonest with him.

  “Perhaps you are right.” He turned back to his birds.

  I searched for words of comfort for Mama. She looked over to where her husband of the past three decades sat gently stroking a fern, murmuring its name in Latin. She allowed an indulgent smile. He had a certain love affair with plants; Papa admired their ability to hurt and heal and avidly kept the secrets the plants held. Mama’s smile faded. She turned ashen. “I don’t need foresight to know what his future holds.”

  I stood. Though the mistress of my home, I felt out of place here, too. My vision felt spotty and, for a moment, I feared I had stood too quickly. Then I recognized the feeling for what it was, a Tarot vision. My readings could come when I commanded them or they could come on their own, too strong to ignore. This one was a warning. It was akin to being suffocated with a velvet cord. Gentle at first, but it would strangle the life from me just the same. A Tarot vision could not be ignored.

  I grabbed the frame of the French doors. The conservatory was beautiful, nearly overgrown like a jungle painting. The flowers cast uneven shadows in the room, and the red-brown tiles were nearly lost in the shadows. All the windows had fogged over from the long weeks of rain and the sunlight that came through the windows was distorted and wavy, making the shadows dance.

  They swirled and moved and the plants formed into a large ring of beautiful, vibrant green that crept around the room. The large branches became spokes of a wheel, slowly rotating as the sun danced in and out of the gathered moisture. My mouth went dry. It was a wheel, and I knew exactly which one it was. The Wheel of Fortune. But it had been constructed incorrectly. When oriented properly, the serpent is always on the left. The conservatory had a rare snake flower from the Himalayas that only bloomed in very wet weather; it was on the wrong side, the right one. On the right side of the wheel should be Anubis, the Egyptian jackal god of death but, in this room, a small belladonna plant I kept for pain medicine and when I needed a powerful muscle relaxant was on the left. Instead of eagles, we had a cage of birds and, though we lacked a bull and a sphinx, we did have a small clock topped with an angelic figure.

  Despite the missing animals, there was no mistaking the symbols. The sun and the moisture on the windows cast the symbols onto the tile floor. It was The Wheel of Fortune reversed; great upheaval, disruption, an unwelcome turn of fortune was coming. More things were about to spin out of our control.

  The only trouble was that our fortunes had not been good lately. I dreaded thinking that they were going to take a turn for the worse.

  In the weeks that came, I did my best for forget the reversed Wheel of Fortune in order to focus on the upcoming autumnal celebration.

  We decided that it would be more cheerful to hold the celebration in September, before the harvest at the end of October, and Nate would meet with each of the tenants in turn, in his study, to inform them we would not be collecting rents this quarter. The tenants would be encouraged to spend their income on food and coal, taking advantage of the lower prices of both grain and coal before the weather turned even colder.

  The cook’s nephew, Rory Simms, returned from posting the invitations and I sent him to the kitchen for a glass of warm cider and a plate of bread and cheese. I found Nate muttering over the ledgers and the week’s post in the study like a cranky hound.

  I recognized the look on my husband’s face. He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that made him look chronically untidy, a habit uniquely his and charming in its own way. His fingers absently found the scarred and torn ear and he worried at the torn flesh before pulling his hand away. Poor man, adventuring had been so hard on him, but fulfilling the daily responsibilities of being an esquire seemed to elude him.

  A nagging feeling that I was missing something consumed me. There was something drastically wrong, more so than my husband’s frustration. I took a breath, centered myself and, when I breathed out, I pushed energy out into the world around me like little seeking spirit tendrils. The readings were becoming easier. I hardly had to concentrate anymore to invoke the Tarot. And the ruby in my pocket, the one from the Chinese dragon’s key, suddenly felt very much alive. It weighed me down, pulling me toward the earth, from my hip to my breast bone. I shivered at the pull, but as long as I had the ruby, the dragon was locked away forever. I had taken it to protect it, so it had become my responsibility. I took a deep breath to try to clear away the dizziness, but it was no good. I grabbed the back of the chair for support.

  Another Tarot vision. This time, it was the Ten of Pentacles, inverted. When upright, it is a happy event: a father sits in his home attended by his sons and his dogs, enjoying his grey years, surrounded by ten pentacles, or coins, symbolizing his wealth, providing comfort in his autumn years. It symbolizes a happy, comfortable life with no financial worries. I shuddered, because nothing was as it should be. The pile of mail on Nate’s desk would contain bad news for our finances, such as a horrid bill, or more likely bad news about our investments in America.

  I forced myself to swallow what felt like a nest of snakes worming its way through my insides. “Whatever is wrong, my love?”

  He said nothing, instead handing me a letter. It was the statement of our investment in the Pennsylvania Railroad. There was to be no investment income, again, this quarter. Something had gone wrong with their latest project, involving westward expansion and their anticipated earnings had become, instead, a crippling loss. Every investor had lost money and several of their backers were demanding payment upon the loss. There was no request for additional funding to expand west of St. Louis, Missouri but, should the losses continue, they would have no choice but to request additional funds. The alternative would be to abandon the project entirely.

  I blinked hard.

  No income from the tenants. That was our own doing, of course. The tenants were stretched to the point of breaking. If we took their rental payments, they would be unable to feed their families and heat their homes this coming winter. Now, there would be no income fr
om our carefully chosen investments either.

  I looked over Nate’s shoulder. It was too late to cancel the celebration. The grocer was coming tomorrow with items to fill the larder. We had both fish and fowl ready to cook. The menu was planned. We had arranged for temporary help and the families of those servants were counting on the income. The vintner was due within the hour to bring us more wine and sherry for the party. Our cash on hand could support the party, and we could doubtlessly survive the next few years, as long as we avoided any unforeseen expenses, but without incomes from either the investment or our tenants, we could not last indefinitely.

  The thought of running out of coal and food, no matter how far down the road it might be, made me shiver. How would I feed my parents without money?

  “I am sure this is only temporary,” Nate said, more to himself than to me. “The harvest celebration will continue as planned.” He patted my hand. “Don’t fret. I will keep you fed, even if I have to battle more dragons.”

  He was joking, but my mouth went dry. A dragon? “No dragons. Promise me.”

  “Viv, your hands are like ice, and you’ve gone pale.” Nate stood and plunked me down into his chair. “No dragons. I promise.” He knelt beside me. “Don’t worry. There will be money. We can always pull the investment from the railroad and place it somewhere else. I know you’re no fan of airships, but as a mode of travel they do show great promise and have proven to be safe. An airship can go anywhere.”

  “An airship can also fall from the sky,” I said, pointedly.

  “And there we go. Now I know you are feeling better, since you’re griping about airships.” Nate laughed. “It is a ship in the sky. It’s freedom, like a ship on the water. It’s sailing into the horizon.”

  “You miss it.” I laughed. He had hunted lightning once on the decks of one of those great airships, though it seemed a lifetime ago.

  “I do,” he admitted. “But I would not trade this life for that one.” He caught my look, “Most days, anyway.” He rang for Helen.

  She appeared in moments.

  “A stiff drink for Mrs. Valentine. She is feeling indisposed.”

  “Is Mrs. Valentine expecting?” she asked.

  I could not ignore the look of elation that crossed Nate’s face before he masked it. He longed for a baby nearly as much as I did. “A stiff drink, please.” It was Nate’s lord voice. None of the servants dared disobey him when he used it.

  Helen gave a quick curtsy and rushed off.

  I bit my lip. “Nate.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Nate, there is no baby this month.” I went numb all over. Saying it aloud made it all too real.

  He nodded. “Perhaps next time.” He swallowed and looked away. His shoulders sagged. He combed his fingers through his hair again. I smiled. I could dress him in a gentleman’s finery, but his quirky habits never changed.

  What a feast lay before us! It was no wonder the wealthy tended to grow heavier in their later years. It was far from a bountiful harvest but, in honor of the season, we served several courses to our guests, including a rich game soup made with venison and red wine, braised ham, grouse pies, hare with mushrooms, and roasted vegetables. Pudding was Mrs. Simms’s marvelous apple tarts.

  My dress was nearly new, a silvery-mauve, silk poplin number with bows and muted gray buttons, finished off with a soft delaine wrap draped across my shoulders. I would wear it until the bodies gathered in the great room made it too warm and toasty for a wrap.

  Hiram welcomed everyone, and Helen, Jane, and Olive floated like shadows between our guests and tenants, delivering small cups of warmed cider, sherry, and wine to stave off the chill. I watched Nate subtly invite the heads of each of our tenant families into his study for a quiet discussion. They entered stiffly, like men awaiting execution, expecting to be thrown out of their homes, damning their families to starvation and beggary, or even worse, death.

  It was my role to be the hostess and ensure that all our guests felt welcome and entertained with good conversation. I made polite talk, inquired of families and farms, and expressed my delight at their attendance. I handed out sweets to the children. Eventually, Nate led us into the dining room; it was his responsibility, as the head of the household, to lead the transitions.

  Nate stood at the head of the table and ran a hand through his hair to steady himself. “It is in the sight of God, our family, and friends that we gather here to remember we are blessed. Heading into the harvest is a time of hard work.” There were murmurs of agreement. “And this has been a hard year indeed.” There were more murmurs. “But this is also a time to count our blessings. A time to remember that seasons come and seasons pass, and we should be grateful for the blessings in our lives.” Nate raised his glass. A flush had risen to his collar. “Let us raise a glass to honor our family and our friends. We remember our late, great Queen Victoria, and toast King Edward, long may he reign.”

  “Long may he reign,” our guests echoed. Everyone drank deeply. The festival seemed to be the harbinger of a reversal of our fortunes, a promise of good times ahead.

  But, like all good things, it didn’t last. Over the next few weeks, Papa’s cough grew steadily worse, his edema swelled greater and, on yet another rainy night of many I kissed him goodnight.

  I sent him to bed with a warm fire and a dose of laudanum syrup to ease his cough and help him rest.

  The next morning, Papa didn’t wake up.

  Chapter Three

  THE RAIN CONTINUED turning the country into a keening land of sorrow where the tears of the nation flooded the land, making the crops weak and soft as a black fungus caused them to rot in the fields. The coal mines filled with water, making coal expensive, leaving houses dark and cold. That was nothing compared to the misery in our home.

  We placed Papa’s casket in the conservatory, his favorite place in the house. The mourners would arrive soon for the funeral. Ironically, with all the clocks stopped, the mirrors turned away and the house wreathed in black, only the conservatory showed signs of life. Papa’s birds twittered and the plants continued to grow lush and green amidst all the rain.

  In my pocket, I had put the dragon’s tooth I brought back from China. I had reclaimed it from the possession of a mystical creature that had traveled with us for a time. I took the dragon’s tooth and placed it in Papa’s vest pocket, where his watch had always been. A gentleman always carried a fine watch, but Papa had willed his watch to Nate. It was only fitting, since he had bequeathed Nate with something precious, that I return the honor.

  “Papa, I am grateful I was able to have you spend your last months here in peace and comfort. I wish it had been longer.” My throat was hot and tight. I sniffed, wiping my nose on the back of my hand in a most unlady-like fashion. “Papa, I love you. I miss you. I wish”—I swallowed hard—“I wish I’d had the time to ask you how else to have a baby.”

  “The traditional way is usually best,” Mama said from behind me.

  I smiled, and turned. She had been keeping her vigil over Papa.

  Jane attempted to improve the quality of the air in the grand room by adding potpourri to the wood fire, for the sake of aesthetics, as it burned off the chill. Mama’s mourning gown helped her blend in with the shadows. The black damask, fabric-covered buttons, and the loss of Papa had worn her down into a shade of herself.

  Despite how numb I felt, I had to smile, for her sake. “Yes, I know.” That would have been Papa’s answer as well: practical and honest.

  She patted the chaise beside her. “Come, sit with me.” She pulled me close, letting me lay my head on her shoulder. She stared at Papa, lying in his casket. We sat in silence for a long moment. Then finally she spoke. “Do not despair. Children will come.”

  The finches chirped, flitting from one perch to another. They sipped water from their bowl and cocked their heads back and forth. They could see Papa, but he would not come over and offer them treats or let them out to fly about the conservatory and land on his fing
ers. They sang and he would not whistle back. Poor things.

  Guests began to arrive in the parlor for the memorial. All our remaining tenants would arrive in their Sunday best, and his apprentice that took over his apothecary ship in London would too, along with many of the people whose lives he had touched with a gentle, healing hand. I closed my eyes. They would be given warm cider as they shared their condolences. I could not hide here forever, but I would, at that moment, have traded my entire estate to have Papa back for one more day.

  Madame Theodora Bowden, and her husband Isaac, arrived dressed in the finest black velvet I had seen in a long time. Theodora immediately went to my mother to console her. I had to tend to our guests. It was what was expected of me.

  They said kind things that fell upon my deaf ears. I was numb and alone, in a roaring sea of well-wishers, people who pressed my hand and told me Papa had gone to a better place. They were wrong. He belonged with a daughter that needed him and a wife that welcomed his love.

  Would it be that way for me, some day, when Nate was gone? I shivered and searched the room for him. He stood, dressed in black mourning attire, talking to a friend. I could not hear what they were saying.

  I made my way over to Nate and took his hand. He did not look at me, but gave me a gentle squeeze. I glanced at my husband. It would come to this for us. One day, we, too, would be separated by death.

  I was so distracted, I did not feel the pull of the Tarot symbol where it was located on my body until I was consumed by it. There was a chill on the back of my neck, like an icy hand pressing me forward. The symbol beneath my skin there was The Hermit.

  The room was thrown into darkness; the world shrank to a small point of light. The chill of it made me gasp. All the light, all the warmth of the world had been sucked from the room in an instant. I blinked hard, but the light didn’t return. All I had, everything I was, had been reduced to a pinprick of light. I shuddered. The back of the chaise longue had been next to me a moment ago. I fumbled in the dark. My hand brushed the polished wooden frame. I latched onto it, my stiff fingers digging into it.