Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  Stepping inside was like stepping into a world within a world. There were those who sauntered – the ladies and gentlemen of course – and those in uniform whose gait was more determined as they dashed to and fro, carrying silver platters upon which stood elaborate silverware. Without further ado we were shown to our table by one of the waiting staff, Constance having to guide me all the way as my eyes were not just ahead of me but darting all over. The magnificence of it! So many round tables but all a discreet distance apart; the starched white tablecloths; the sumptuousness of the cakes and sandwiches spread upon them in tiered platters; the chatter and polite laughter that filled such a beautiful room; the room itself with its beautiful tiled floor, the art-adorned walls, the Corinthian columns, towering green ferns and oval windows. But more impressive than all of those things – something I had been aware of but had taken an amount of time to fully comprehend – was the light.

  As we were seated, all I could do was stare upwards at a chandelier centred in the middle of the ceiling.

  “What is that?” I whispered, my heart honestly feeling fit to burst.

  “Oh, Rosamund, Rosamund, just as buses, trams and indeed the trains that run beneath our streets are powered by electricity, so too is that.”

  I turned to her. “Trains that run beneath our streets?”

  “Remember you enquired about a rumbling noise earlier? You said you felt as if the ground was shaking. It was then that I told you about the underground train.”

  She was quite right, she had; but there had been so much to take in, clearly too much. “The light,” I said again, preoccupied with that.

  “Most of the big hotels in London have electrical light nowadays, some shops also. Father has also mentioned that it will be coming to individual homes too at some point. Can you imagine? It will revolutionise the way in which we live.”

  As she spoke I continued to gaze at the chandelier. The light… it was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen; warm and inviting; pure, with the ability to obliterate all shadows. I wished to reach up and touch it; somehow capture it in my hands as well as my heart. It was magic of the most wonderful kind and I was truly awestruck.

  “Rosamund…?”

  I shook myself out of the trance I had fallen into. “I am sorry, Constance, so sorry.”

  Again she laughed, such a wonderful sound, like the tinkling of bells. “I cannot scold you for being so enraptured, I was at first too, but…” She shrugged. “Living here, one really does become used to such things. Indeed, should one happen to grace an establishment that relies on the old ways, one can become quite aggrieved!”

  Filled with gratitude suddenly, I reached across the table to take her hand in mine. “Thank you, for bringing me here; for being my friend.”

  “Of course I am your friend. And I shall insist we spend more time together in the future.” Gently retrieving her hand, she raised it to her chest, just above her beating heart. “Oh,” she breathed. “Here he is.”

  I turned my head to discover who she could possibly mean. There was a waiter coming towards us; a young man in a black waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers, with a long white apron tucked into his waistband. Was it this man to which she referred?

  I panicked – how was one supposed to order in such a place?

  Before I could raise any concerns with Constance, the waiter had come to a halt by the side of our table. He was dashing I supposed, with his hair greased back and blue eyes that were rather piercing, but I thought no more of him than that – he was a waiter. Just a waiter. But if I was guilty of such lofty thoughts, it seemed Constance was not. To her, he appeared to be something more, her eyes able to compete with, if not outshine, the electrical light.

  “May I take your order, ma’am?” It was a formal enough request from the waiter, were it not for the curve of his mouth.

  “Of course…” Constance replied, playfulness in her too. “James, is it?”

  “It is, ma’am.”

  My head swung from side to side witnessing this curious exchange. Did they know each other and not just in this setting?

  “We shall have high tea,” Constance continued, taking it upon herself to order for us both. “Darjeeling, if you please.”

  Not only did James’ smile widen, he winked at Constance. I may be naïve in the ways of society, but surely a waiter would not dare to wink at his customer?

  “Very good, ma’am.” He took a step backwards and I thought he was going to turn and leave us, but he was not quite done. His voice low, so as only the two of us could hear amid the general chatter, he added, “I have something else for you, Lady Constance; would it be agreeable to bring that to you, too?”

  As my mouth fell open, Constance could only purr. “A gift you mean?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Oh, the intrigue,” she teased. “I shall leave instructions as to when and where.”

  When he had left us alone, I turned to Constance, my eyes begging for an answer.

  “As I have told you, Rosamund,” was her sole reply, “it’s a good time to be alive.”

  Rosamund Chapter Seven

  I loathed the thought of returning to Mears House, but return I must. I sat in the carriage with Father, whom I had barely seen these past two days, dressed not in the clothes in which I had arrived, but in white linen and bows. This was not the only change about me, however. I had seen things; I had heard things. Through my encounter with Constance I had been immersed, if only for a short while, in an alternative reality far removed from that to which I was accustomed. Constance and James: I was still amazed by their tryst and how daring she was; how different to anything I had expected.

  Of course I insisted that she told me all about it when we were out of earshot.

  “We are in love,” she had declared.

  “You and the waiter?”

  “James, his name is James and he is from suitable stock; not the elite, no, I shall grant you that, but a decent family nonetheless.” As I stared at her open-mouthed, she continued. “Money cannot make you a good person, Rosamund. It does not make one noble. And some of these families,” she gestured about her, although we were alone in our carriage, returning to the townhouse, “who parade themselves, who assume station above others; who imagine themselves to be so high and mighty, they have no money. Do you realise that? It’s all theatre. Scratch beneath the surface and you shall find some will not have as much spare change in their pocket as James has. James is very much into politics, into a wide range of subjects; he is so clever, so… informed. So much so that he inspires me. Society is changing, Rosamund. The world is changing. The old ways are disappearing and rather than be afraid, we must embrace it.” She had hugged herself at this point; had closed her eyes. “Embrace everything, for everything is new and fascinating.”

  It was hard not to believe her; I wanted to believe her; experience it alongside her. But something did not sit right with me.

  “Your Father has no idea about you and James, has he?”

  “Of course not.” She found the idea that he might, amusing rather than terrifying.

  “If he discovers—”

  “But I have told you, Rosamund, I can manipulate Father. You must not worry.”

  That also amazed me. If Father knew I was fraternising with someone from a lower class, I could just imagine the consequences that would befall me. Not that I would do such a thing. Not because I was concerned about anybody’s station in life, not after what Constance had said. I felt she was right; people did put on such airs and graces. It was simply because I could not picture myself fraternising with anyone. Besides, her observation applied very much to me too. As refined as I might look thanks to my transformation at her hands, I was on my way back home and home was a place I should be ashamed to invite Constance. Not for her the dusty surfaces of Mears House – the sheer isolation of it, the terrible neglect. When I got home, I would change back into my own clothes and no doubt slip back into my old way of life too. A
thought that was now hard to bear.

  “Father, when shall we return to London?”

  Surely such an investment in my clothing could not be for one occasion? Also I had really only been seen by Constance, not by ‘society’ as such. As I have mentioned, I barely saw Father and Arthur; I had listened out for them but I never overheard the low whisper of conversation travelling towards me from another room. Where had they gone during the time I was there? What had they been doing?

  Father was reading some papers, handwritten notes, with not just words upon them but drawings too, or rather symbols.

  “Father,” I dared to prompt.

  “Soon, Rosamund, soon,” he answered; not bothering to glance up he was so engrossed in what he held.

  I should have loved more detail, but I was no Constance; I would not press further. What I had learnt was good enough – at some point I was going back, I would see Constance again, I would hear all about her liaison with James. She was bursting to tell someone and had declared how glad she was to have me in her life; a confidante, a position I felt extraordinarily proud to hold. But as much as I looked forward to our next meeting, I also found myself longing to see Josie too – and found it peculiar that this was the case. In a world far lonelier than London, she had become something of an anchor. She was the only factor that made Mears House seem like home rather than a place in which to exist. Not Father certainly, and as for Miss Tiggs… I sighed, longing again for a dog; a faithful companion – someone to stand by me; to look out for me; to love me. No, I had not the boldness of Constance. I could never ask Father to fulfil my yearning in that respect. But I had Josie, and her smile, as bright as Constance’s smile, offered relief as well as a degree of solace.

  Despite that, my heart plummeted when we turned onto the path that led to Mears House. It was home. And yet I felt homeless, as if I did not belong anywhere. Like Harry.

  Harry? How odd that he should spring to mind – the urchin boy. But it seemed the correct comparison to make – Harry had appeared homeless too. I recalled all those I had seen on the streets of London; the colourful and the less colourful, those who were decidedly more grey, who had stared at me as I passed them by; whose faces had expressed so many emotions – bewilderment even, on occasions. Constance had seemed oblivious to them, but then Constance had her mind on other matters!

  It was Miss Tiggs that opened the door to us, her rotund figure such a contrast to the Lawtons’ butler, and, although she deferred to my Father, who swept past her and on towards his study, those notes still clutched in his hand, she all but sneered at me. Immediately my hackles rose. Such disdain! Such disrespect! I should have liked to take a piece of her sour cheese and shove it down her throat, a thought that amused me – the sheer wickedness of it – Constance and her wild ways had clearly had more of an influence than I had bargained for.

  But where was Josie?

  Leaving my suitcase at the foot of the stairs, I called out for her. Father had not yet reached his study but he turned and looked at me, a scowl on his face. I expected him to reprimand me, perhaps for being so loud, but he shook his head, narrowed those eyes and entered his study at last, slamming the door behind him.

  Yet again, Josie was nowhere to be found on the ground floor, and so I made my way upstairs. To my surprise, I found her in the corridor that led to the attic.

  “I have been calling for you.” I deliberately refrained from saying ‘again’. “Have you…” I could feel a frown developing, however, “…been into the attic?”

  It was not my imagination; her green eyes lit up on seeing me, but their expression was also guarded as if she was suddenly wary. “The attic, miss? No, why ever would I?”

  “Then why are you in this corridor?”

  “I’m dusting.”

  Sure enough, in her hand was the feather duster – an almost permanent feature.

  She stretched her hand upwards and waved the duster around. “See? There are cobwebs everywhere.” When still I did not say a further word, she added, “It’s my job, miss, to keep everything clean.”

  “But you have not been into the attic?” Why I felt the need to check this again was beyond me.

  “No need. It’s clean enough in there.”

  “Josie—”

  “Your suitcase, where is it?”

  “I left it at the foot of the stairs.”

  “I should fetch it?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll bring it to your bedroom.”

  “Thank you,” I said again as she squeezed past me.

  Before I turned to follow her, I stared at the attic door, a longing deep within me to go inside; to hide suddenly – but from what? The urge was so strong that I actually took several steps towards the door, my hand reaching out to touch the handle; to turn it; twist it. A haven. It still represented that to me and was perhaps the only room, apart from the library, that made this house bearable. But clean inside? What could Josie possibly mean by that? It was cluttered; it was dust-ridden.

  Clean.

  I continued to ponder as I turned and made my way back to my bedroom.

  * * *

  Life resumed at Mears House. Father returned to London on his own and when he came back, he barely called for me; barely had anything to do with me in fact. He would eat and drink in his study; might even have slept in there, who knew? His bedroom was quite a distance from mine and I had no reason to keep a constant watch on it. I could hear him well enough on occasion, though. There would come a crash, and then a series of curses as he careered down corridors and into the walls and furniture; whatever alcohol he had poured into himself rendering it impossible to walk in a straight line.

  Father’s drinking was getting worse. Was he unhappy? Agitated? Did he regret the money spent on bedecking me? Would Miss Tiggs leave if he could no longer pay her wage; would Josie? And if so, then what would become of us all?

  Such thoughts and more would tumble into my mind, until I fancied I should like a drink too – something to calm my nerves. Father would notice, however, if any of his precious liquor was gone; he would come chasing after me for certain then. And so I did as I always did: filled the endless hours reading and drawing, creating picture after picture – of London and its busy streets; the townhouse; my mother; Constance and her beau James, and… Harry. Often I would draw Harry and those eyes in which I had momentarily drowned. Sometimes, if my legs grew restless, I would leave the sketches in the drawing room, fetch my coat and let myself out for a walk. Soon it would be December, and I wondered if we might have snow. I was always glad to see it, as it dressed everything so prettily, although I was not so glad at night when the rooms became so cold that even my teeth would ache! It was not snowing on this day, however, but damp and grey; a typical winter’s day with nothing to relieve the gloom. Once again I thought of the tearoom that Constance and I had visited, with its electric lights. Soon they would light up London in its entirety, so Constance had said. Having begun my walk, I glanced over my shoulder as I hurried towards the woods. Mears House might be quite different if it was lit up. It could be cheerful rather than dour, a vision that would not quite bear fruit.

  As I neared the edge of the woods, I shivered. I had returned from London with a new coat, but I was saving it, as I was my new collection of dresses. I was back in my old threadbares and regretted at least not adorning my head with my new hat, and my hands with some velvet gloves. A mist had begun to develop – the ‘Sussex Particular’ I rather jokingly called it. It was hovering just above the trees as I approached but gradually it descended in a series of wispy tendrils that held me quite enthralled. Continuing to walk, I watched as these tendrils broke from the mass to weave their way in and around so many naked branches, curling like smoke, as a lover might curl his fingers around the wrists of the lady he adored – a possessive gesture, a possessive lover.

  My imagination had been ignited – not only because of my books but also due to Constance and James. Was he her lov
er? Certainly she had hinted as much. Constance who was brave, bold and beautiful – everything I wished to be; who had her father wrapped around her little finger: if only I could do that with my father.

  If only he loved me.

  Realising once again that he did not, that no one did, I began to feel quite miserable. There existed someone who liked me well enough; Constance, or at least I fancied she did, but there were times when I longed for more than that. Tears had begun to fill my eyes and soon they would spill onto my cheeks. I was not given to self-pity ordinarily, but on occasion what I lacked overwhelmed me. As I was contemplating this, something odd happened. The tendrils of mist changed. If there had been anything enchanting about them before – the fey quality of their wispiness perhaps – there certainly was not now. They had darkened considerably; were blacker than a rain cloud waiting to burst. Like fingers pointing at me.

  As well as confusion, I felt colder than ever – as if those tendrils were not in the distance but were in fact swooping towards me; piercing my clothes; my flesh; diving into the heart of me to find there a fragile thing that could so easily be crushed.

  With numb hands I began to bat at my sleeves. “What is this? What is happening?” So quickly rational thought deserted me. “Leave me alone! Please. Leave me be!”

  But I knew I would not be able to halt them in their approach. They would be as slippery as eels.

  “Stop!” My voice was a screech. “Keep away!”

  Although my feet felt as if they had taken root, I forced myself to turn; to attempt an escape. It was with deep shock I realised how far into the woods I had roamed; to the very edge of it, and therefore escape back to the house seemed an impossible distance to cover.