Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “What kind of people, miss?”

  I stumbled at this – what a strange question!

  “Erm… well… Father’s friends I should imagine; society people. One of Father’s friends has a daughter. Her name is Constance. I shall be meeting with her.”

  “London,” she said again, but her amusement had faded, instead she looked perplexed. Or was that sorrow on her face? It was hard to tell.

  I drew closer. “Josie? Are you quite well?”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  Her declaration both surprised and touched me. Had I ever been missed by anyone before? Not that I could remember. “I doubt I shall be gone long.” And then I remembered that I had wanted to take her too. “I could ask Father if he would permit you to accompany me. It is only fitting that a lady should travel with her maid.”

  At this, one hand flew to her chest. “Me, travel to London? What a notion!”

  What a notion… Those were the words I had thought when she had offered to walk with me in the grounds of Mears House. That she should be using them in reference to accompanying me to London, at my behest, seemed an irony.

  As I stood there, attempting to understand that she had just turned me down, if not yet the reason for it, she smiled again, but this time it failed to reach her eyes.

  “I can’t go, miss,” she muttered at last. “I… There’s so much work to be done here.”

  Work that could not wait? Indeed, who was there to notice if it was left undone? But for some reason I did not want to argue, not with Josie, not today. When I think back, perhaps the reason I declined to press the matter further with either her or Father was simply that I wanted her to miss me; perhaps I craved the novelty that someone should. All I could do was nod my head in agreement.

  “But you shall help me pack, surely?”

  Yes, she would do that.

  And so it came to be that I left Mears House in a horse and carriage, accompanied only by my father, with my suitcase stowed beneath the seat.

  The journey was an arduous one – Father alternating his gaze between the passing countryside and me, but never saying a word. Often I declined to meet his eyes, but instead focused on the grass-covered hills that were still wet with morning dew and an abundance of trees, some evergreen, some bearing no leaves at all. There was such a strange mixture of emotions in my chest that day – a tight ball that I had to strive to keep from unravelling lest they swamp me. Strangely, I began to miss Mears House. It was my entire world, all I had ever known.

  When at last the countryside gave way to villages and towns I was further astounded. There were houses! So many of them! Not standing alone as Mears House stood alone but side by side or a few feet apart, and so much smaller. In them there would be mothers, fathers, daughters and sons. What would it be like to live in such a way; to be part of something; a family? I could only wonder. The closer we drew to London, the more congested the area became. But it was not only my eyes that were filled with so much new to behold; my nostrils began to flare too, from the smell. Where I lived the air was clean, it was pure – outside at least; it filled your lungs; it rejuvenated you. Here, I feared my lungs might collapse should I inhale too deeply. It was the odour of so many people gathered close together – an animal stench.

  About my neck I had a scarf and so I arranged it higher to mask my nose as I leant further forward.

  I had imagined the ladies and gentlemen that paraded these streets so often, and the sophistication that being city dwellers – and therefore so much more a part of the modern world – lent them. But it was not only such characters that greeted me. Here was also a lower class of person; the street urchins Mr Dickens was so fond of portraying, scampering this way and that, with clothes that, contrary to what Father had said, made mine appear to be the height of luxury. Businessmen were also in evidence, suited and booted; but rather than grand they seemed weary, as with heads down, they too hurried along. There were women in skirts and aprons, some as gaunt as Josie, others more rotund and rosy-cheeked. They were walking at a more leisurely pace or standing at the street side, selling wares from their baskets –fruit and vegetables, and matches too, boxes and boxes of them. People were gathering around them, poking and prodding at the merchandise, bartering I think it is called, striving to obtain the best price possible. Aside from street vendors, there were shops, a huge variety of them – butchers, bakers and haberdashers, some with their doors open, inviting you in; others that you could enter by appointment only. And there were buses – marvellous things – not pulled along by horses, not all of them, but able to propel themselves, the people inside either sitting or clinging to overhead straps and looking entirely at ease with this mode of transport.

  Exciting, repellent, frightening, and enticing – London was all of these to me, and more. It was bursting with life, with the cries and banter of these townsfolk, and part of me wanted to hurl myself from the carriage into the thick of it; ride on one of the buses – although whether that would befit someone of my station I had no clue. The other part wished to return to the comfort and security of Mears House. Comfort? Security? That it should suddenly seem to offer both those things was another irony.

  I was about to turn towards Father, to ask him where in this vast metropolis we were heading, when a figure caught my eye. It was a little boy, a beautiful child with dark hair and eyes and pale skin.

  We had come to a temporary halt – the driver cursing whatever obstruction lay in his path and my father practically hanging out of the opposite window to also learn the cause of our delay. There was most definitely a commotion going on, some rowdiness, but my main focus was on this boy, who was standing as still as a statue.

  “What the deuce is happening? We shall be late!”

  “A street fight, I think, sir. The police are trying to break it up.”

  “Can you not go around it, for pity’s sake?”

  “No, sir. Shouldn’t be long, sir.”

  Although I could hear my father and the driver, their voices were muffled, as if distant. The world around this boy seemed to fade too, becoming little more than a series of grey images. Why should he be capturing my attention so, this boy who was standing rigid without uttering a word? His eyes, though, those glorious eyes! He appeared to be about ten years of age, although of course I was no expert at assessing ages. Did his expression hold wonder? I was certain that mine did.

  What’s your name?

  I mouthed the words, feeling suddenly – inexplicably – quite desperate to know.

  Eventually, his lips moved to form a smile.

  I smiled too. Hello, I mouthed again.

  He lifted one hand, slowly, tentatively.

  I repeated his action, my smile becoming something of a grin. As young as he was, he seemed experienced, as if his life had spanned a thousand years or more.

  Your name?

  Harry.

  As if I had been struck by lightning, I sat back in my seat.

  No, he had not opened his mouth. He had not said a word, but still I knew it to be truth. His name was Harry. There it was. There was no doubting the matter.

  Father could not have missed my reaction. He stopped berating the driver and resumed alternating his gaze between what lay outside the carriage and myself. Much given to frowning as his usual expression, his countenance was dark, confused, odd to think it, but it was excited too. Those narrow eyes of his – so different to the boy’s – glittered.

  Because I had shrunk back; because it took me some moments to summon the courage to look outside again, and only when Father was occupied with doing the same, Harry had in that time disappeared, presumably running through the streets from whence he came.

  The carriage began to move, the moment of suspension over.

  “We are on our way,” I said, feeling the need to say something, even if it was to declare the obvious.

  Father settled back into his seat, but his breathing was slightly heavier. As for enquiring of him our destination in L
ondon, I thought the better of it. I gazed instead at my hands, clasped together in my lap, and held my tongue.

  The miles fell away. I was desperate to look outside once again; to take in the grandeur and the absolute headiness of it all, but I also found myself strangely reluctant – Harry had left quite an impression on me. There was something so very different about him, a little sad too, in spite of his smile. How could it be that one so young could have lived a life beyond his years?

  Finally the driver came to a halt. Now the streets were largely empty of people, and instead of shops and vendors, there were houses five stories high, their masonry white; their doors black. No land separated them, but rather they joined shoulder to shoulder, to form a graceful curve.

  “We have arrived,” Father announced.

  “This is Arthur’s address?”

  “It is.”

  “This is Hammersmith?”

  “Yes,” he said, clearly surprised. “How did you know?”

  “I saw a sign,” I lied.

  “Did you, now?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “Did you indeed?”

  The driver held the carriage door and extended a hand in order to help me alight. Father followed close behind and together we stood on the pavement outside the house I presumed to be Arthur’s, whilst the driver turned his attention towards our luggage. I gazed skywards, marvelling at an abode that was not my own and committing to memory the sight of it so that I could sketch it at a later date, adding to my already copious amounts of drawings. Father had begun striding ahead and I was about to follow obediently when I spied something else – a figure at a window on the second floor, waving at me just as Josie had waved at me, as Harry had also. She appeared to be wearing a white dress, a nightgown perhaps, but most notably her fair hair was flowing free rather than restrained.

  I raised my hand yet again to return the gesture, pleasantly surprised at having received the latter two greetings in such a short space of time – how friendly the people in London were turning out to be! Full of hope, I eventually stepped forwards and that is when I noticed Father. Once again he had caught me, his narrow eyes as wide as they could possibly be. He said not a word as he continued to hold me in his sight, but as with Harry, I could read his mind well enough.

  What do you see?

  Rosamund Chapter Six

  “Oh, look at you! You are adorable! Father, I shall take Rosamund to the drawing room immediately so that we can get to know each other better.”

  It had been something of a whirlwind since we had entered the townhouse, the door having been opened to us by a tall man in uniform – a butler, I believe – Arthur had come into the hall to greet us, shaking my father’s hand whilst eyeing me closely, then another person had come flying down the stairs – Constance.

  Reaching me, she thrust her hands outwards, grabbing at my arms as she studied me, much like her father had studied me and like my own father tended to do. I felt like a specimen in a jar, unnerved by the attention, but also intrigued as to what they found so interesting about someone so inexperienced and drab in comparison to themselves. However, I was guilty of studying them too. This girl that had hold of me was not wearing a white dress, nor did she have fair hair. Whoever had been waving at me at the window, it could not have been her. Constance was a beauty – Constance Athena Lawton to name her in full, such a grand name compared to plain old Rosamund. From the moment I had laid eyes on her, I was in awe. She was not much older than me, a year or two perhaps, and she had hair that was almost raven in colour, creamy skin and the bluest of eyes – Irish colouring she later told me, courtesy of her mother, who was given to illness apparently and spent her days in bed, being tended. Not that Constance seemed at all disturbed or upset by her mother’s poor health, she was another like Josie, seemingly content with what she had; with the world around her. Unlike Josie, however, she had a streak in her that was wild, but wild in a way I envied. She was akin to an exotic creature and yet however fascinated I was by her, she was in turn fascinated by me!

  Father and Arthur retired, to where I had no clue, but our destination was the drawing room, located at the front of the house and as grand a room as I had ever seen. It was simply vast, and contained within it so much furniture: two sofas, chairs, rugs, tables, a sideboard and a pianoforte upon which stood a golden candelabrum. There were trinkets on every surface – Constance’s mother had a penchant for cherubs apparently – and every wall displayed several paintings. There were portraits, of ancestors perhaps, though none of Constance, and landscapes, two of which were much darker than the others, the figures in them barely distinguishable. As I passed by to sit beside Constance on one of the sofas, a sumptuous affair covered in red velvet, I peered closer. The figures in the paintings were somehow entwined with one another; their limbs flailing; their mouths twisted, some with pleasure, others with something that I would liken more to horror. Quickly I turned my head away, having to swallow hard. They were gruesome pictures, so out of place amongst the other, more commonplace ones. How could one possibly want to sit and admire them?

  “So,” Constance declared, “tell me about yourself. I want to know everything!”

  Again I was stunned. What could I tell? Nothing interesting, that was for certain. “I… well… I live in the countryside, in Sussex, just Father and I, plus our housekeeper and a maid. My mother… my mother is dead—”

  “Dead? Oh, I am sorry!”

  “Thank you,” I replied. What else could I say? “The house in which we live is Mears House and…” already I had begun to falter. “I enjoy reading and sketching.”

  “Do you go to school?”

  “I have a governess… Had,” I corrected myself. “Do you go to school?”

  She laughed as if the question amused her. “I used to, of course. A boarding school here in London, but no longer.” She straightened her back in a proud gesture. “I am too old for school. I am now a lady, ready to tackle society.”

  Tackle society? What an unusual way to put it!

  “Do you… do you have a suitor?” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them. How could I be so bold as to ask such a question?

  “A suitor?” There passed a few moments in which I silently berated myself, and then Constance burst again into laughter. “I have several suitors, dear Rosamund, all vying for my hand. Sadly, none of them do suit me, so I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint them.” Dramatically, she clasped her hands to her chest. “I believe in true love and until I find it I shall refuse to marry.”

  I leant forward, relieved and surprised that she had answered me so readily but also desperate to know more. “And what does your Father have to say about it?”

  “He says that in great families there are great sacrifices, that life does not revolve around love. But, Rosamund,” she leaned forward too, “it does, it actually does.”

  “But your Father…?”

  “You must not worry about him,” still she was laughing. “He roars like a lion but underneath is as soft as a kitten. He wants me to be happy, I know it.”

  “And your mother?”

  Only slightly did her eyes darken at the mention of her mother. “Mother is given to illness not opinions.”

  “And you mean to be different?”

  “Oh, I do, Rosamund. I do.”

  I had not realised that Constance had rung for tea, but clearly she had as there was a knock on the door and a maid entered. Not the girl I had seen at the window, she also had dark hair, although there was evidence of white in it. Although not an old, old woman, she was bird-like, her back stooped and her hands quite wizened.

  When she had poured the tea and left, I turned to my new friend – for that is what I truly felt she was. A friend. One with whom I had shared confidences.

  And so I shared another.

  “On arriving here, I saw a girl at one of the bedroom windows. At first I thought it might be you, but then discovered you have dark hair, whereas this girl was fair and was waving to me. I
wondered who she might be.”

  “A girl with fair hair?” Constance checked, her dainty little nose wrinkling.

  “Yes.”

  “How old?”

  “Young, quite young, about your age, I would say.”

  “And she was waving at you?”

  “Yes, and she was dressed in white.”

  She did not respond straightaway, but when she did, her words were curious.

  “Why,” she said. “It appears you’re quite different too.”

  * * *

  My next few hours, indeed my next two days at the Lawton’s townhouse, passed in the blink of an eye. Constance was quite giddy with being charged with the task of outfitting me, declaring that we were going to have ‘the time of our lives.’

  At our disposal was her family’s driver and in their horse and carriage we ventured deep into the streets of London, leaving our fathers busy in whatever activities it was that engaged them, certainly, I presumed, nothing as frivolous as tailoring.

  Frivolous? No, it was arduous! I was trussed up like a doll at times; my waist pinched with corsets that stole my breath away, dress after dress being buttoned up, whilst my feet were stuffed into boots that also pinched. Constance adored this rigmarole, it was plain to see she was well used to it, but it was making my head spin, so much so I had to beg for mercy; ask that we take a break, perhaps visit a tearoom, which secretly I had been longing to do, having read about such pastimes. Although immersed in my transformation, she finally acquiesced and took me to one of her favourite haunts apparently; a hotel in London’s West End called The Gaiety.

  As we made our way there, arm in arm, she informed me that women were most welcome in tearooms nowadays. “Society is becoming more enlightened,” she insisted, happily chattering in my ear. “As it should.” Her voice lowered an octave or two. “Rosamund, people are evolving. This is a good time to be alive.”

  Who was I to disagree? I simply nodded my head and smiled back at her, finding her enthusiasm, her sheer zest for life, quite infectious. When we arrived at the doors of The Gaiety – having passed several more buses en route, which, to Constance’s amusement, I stopped to stare at every time – I was sure we were going to be turned away, in spite of the fact that I was wearing grander clothes than I ever had before. I had to remind myself that we were two young ladies and, although unaccompanied, we were welcome in such establishments; we would be waited on hand and foot.