Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “Josie?” I prompted.

  Her hands left my hair as she sighed. “It’s just there are so many people, and some of them, miss, are not who they seem to be.”

  “My father is one who is not as he seems,” I said, in spite of myself. A gentleman? In the eyes of society perhaps, but never again in my eyes.

  “There are plenty like him. Their goal is the same.”

  I was astounded. Josie was a simple country girl, but sometimes you would not think it. “How can you know all this? Have you been to London before, and if so, why have you not spoken of it until now? Has a member of your family been to London?”

  She shook her head, those red wisps of hair flicking from side to side.

  “I wish I could go with you, that’s all.”

  “You were aghast when that very thing was suggested before now,” I reminded her. “You said you had too much work to do here.”

  “There’s much work to be done everywhere.”

  At this, I grew impatient with her. “You are talking in riddles!”

  “Take care, miss, that’s all I meant to say. Be who you are. And…”

  “Yes, Josie?”

  “Remember what you’re capable of.”

  Again, she was talking nonsense… or was she? Indeed, look at what I had achieved just a few short hours previously; I had saved myself in spite of my terror. I had stood there in defiance against my father with a poker in my hands, for goodness sake! Although in actuality, my salvation had been the banging and crashing at the door. Had that been its purpose, to save me? Or was it more akin to what I had witnessed in the woods and was something that wanted only to devour me? Questions, questions! My head was full with them. “All will be well,” I heard myself saying. “Do not fuss so.”

  Although I registered the hurt on Josie’s face, she did as I bade her. I was about to leave this cold, tainted room for the splendour of Constance’s family home once again; there I would have another bedroom to myself, one with fine sheets on the bed in contrast to those that had worn thin on the rickety frame of mine. How long this time? More than two nights? I had no idea. Would I ever come back to Mears House? I shook my head to rid it of such thoughts. Of course I would. I had to.

  Tired of thinking, tired of talking too, I had to go downstairs to the hall in order to be ready the moment that Father wanted to leave.

  “If you will bring my case, Josie…”

  “Yes, miss. Of course, miss.”

  I had almost reached the door when Josie caught up with me. My suitcase, however, was not in her hands. Something else was.

  “I found it,” she offered by way of explanation.

  “Where?” I asked, taking the object from her, feeling compelled to. It was a necklace, its green coloured stones resplendent on a fine golden chain. Immediately, I clasped it to my breast, feeling a faint vibration from it, a slight pulsing that instead of causing alarm, only brought comfort. “Where did you find it?” I asked again.

  “I was dusting in one of the bedrooms, the smallest one. There was a vase and I knocked it over; it was an accident of course. This was in it.”

  I did not want to give it back. I wanted to place it around my neck, but if Father saw it, he would ask a dozen questions about it, no doubt. Furthermore, he might rip it from me and trade it – for this was no common trinket; it looked expensive.

  “Keep it about you,” Josie said, reading my mind for the second time, “but hidden, perhaps in a purse or something.” She paused. “Think of it as a…” it seemed she had to search for the right word “… a talisman, that’s it.”

  “A talisman?” I repeated, only half amused. “It shall protect me?”

  “It will.” In contrast to me, she remained solemn. “Help comes in many different forms.”

  She was once again implying that I would need help. I let this go, aware that time was racing by and that Father must not be kept waiting. Obeying her instruction, I secreted the necklace in my purse. In the hall, Father was indeed pacing to and fro. He looked wretched, his eyes bloodshot, tremors coursing through him still.

  “Come on,” he said, avoiding all eye contact.

  Miss Tiggs was at the door. She dropped her usual ungainly curtsey to Father as he passed her, but simply glared at me. No matter. I clutched my purse in my hands, my fingers cupping those stones, feeling the warmth of them penetrate both material and skin, continuing upwards towards my torso, banishing any chill that lingered.

  I climbed into the carriage and took my seat opposite Father. He took some notes from a leather case beside him and began reading, once more refusing to look at me or indeed speak to me, this lasting the entire journey. I did not care; I welcomed it. I sought no explanation from him. There was nothing he could say that would explain.

  We were just a few miles from the Lawton household and I was gazing out of the window, half wondering if I should see Harry, that beautiful little urchin boy, when realisation suddenly struck me; the necklace – I had seen it before. It had been draped across a high-collared dress in a photograph that was hidden. It was the very same! I could see it in my mind’s eye as clear as a summer’s day.

  Surreptitiously, I reached into my purse, as if to retrieve a handkerchief, once again touching the stones but briefly this time, not wishing to alert Father; to have him challenge me on what I might be doing. Oh, the thrill of them; the sense of wellbeing I acquired from them – the protection.

  Clumsy Josie. Clever Josie. She had found Mother’s necklace.

  Which now raised another question: What had Mother needed protection from?

  Or rather whom?

  * * *

  This time, when we arrived at the townhouse, there was no mysterious figure at the window waving, and no Constance either, flying down the stairs ready to embrace me. Had she not known I was coming? If she had, I felt certain she would be here.

  As the butler ushered us into the hallway, and the maid – the one with the wizened hands – who had brought us tea directed me upstairs towards my bedroom, leaving Father to seek out Arthur, I kept alert for any sign of Constance.

  My bedroom at the townhouse was on the first floor and Constance’s on the third, not that I had paid a visit to it; I had not, but she had imparted this information on the previous occasion that we had visited. When the maid had finished unpacking my suitcase – so slowly it seemed, fussing and tutting to herself, about what I could not tell you – and left me alone at last, I hurriedly retrieved the necklace. What were these stones, I wondered, which were as green as Josie’s eyes? Constance would know. She knew everything.

  And so I resolved to find her. Leaving my room, checking that the passage was clear, I returned to the staircase and ascended quietly past the second floor and up to the third where the stairs carried onwards to the servant quarters above.

  There were several rooms on this floor, and all doors were closed. Which one was Constance’s room? Taking a deep breath; remembering no harm could befall me whilst I had the necklace about my person, I knocked timidly on the first door and called Constance’s name. There was no reply. This happened a second and a third time, but at the fourth door I heard movement inside, if not an acknowledgement.

  Filled with hope, I gently pushed the door open.

  “It is I,” I whispered. “Rosamund.”

  Because the curtains were closed it was dark, but what characterised this room was the smell – sweet and sickly, it made me screw my eyes shut temporarily as an urge to retch came upon me. Quickly, I reprimanded myself. Think of your friend, Rosamund, not yourself, clearly she is ill. Stepping further into the room, I noticed movement on the bed. There was someone lying beneath a thick coverlet. There was a fire roaring too, which only served to intensify the awful stench.

  “Nell, is that you?”

  Nell?

  The voice that had asked was low and croaky. If this was Constance, she must be feeling wretched.

  If?

  Panic seized me. What if it were not?
Constance’s mother was much given to illness apparently, spending much of her time in her room. What if her bedroom was also on the third floor? How foolish I had been to go exploring. Why had I behaved so recklessly? I should have waited patiently for Constance to come and find me.

  In an attempt to rectify my terrible mistake, I began to back from the room, but I was too late. The figure was now squirming on the bed, craning its neck to see me.

  “Nell, is it you? Have you got it?”

  “I… I am not Nell,” I stammered.

  I could see the rudiments of a face but nothing further, the darkness obscuring my vision.

  “But have you got it?” The person – a woman, Constance’s mother, it had to be – asked again.

  “Got what?”

  “Did she send you?”

  “Nell?”

  “Tell me whether you have it!” This time her voice was much higher, and filled with a desperation that made me feel quite desperate too.

  “I am sorry,” I said, still intent on retreating, my hand on the door ready to close it behind me; to end this escapade.

  “Do not go!” the woman commanded. “Come closer.”

  Although I was desperate to flee, I could not. If she was indeed Constance’s mother, she was the Lady of this house and therefore to be obeyed.

  As I began to tentatively make my way closer, the door swung shut behind me and I jumped upon hearing it. Nonetheless I continued towards the bed, my only solace knowing that I had my talisman with me. That Josie had even called it so was comfort enough. To know that Mother had owned it, more comfort still.

  The woman shuffled and groaned, pushing herself semi-upright.

  I noticed a jug of water on the table. “Would you like some?” I said, pointing to it.

  The laughter she emitted was harsh. “No. That is not what I want. Who are you?”

  “I am Rosamund. I am here with my father, my father being a friend of Mr Lawton’s.”

  “My husband?” she repeated, shuddering, I was certain of it. “What is your father’s business with him?”

  Before I could answer she was seized by a violent coughing fit, one hand flailing towards me as she managed to utter in between, “My handkerchief, fetch it.”

  Next to the jug of water was a handkerchief, such a delicate thing, made of lace and so at odds for the purpose for which it was about to be used. When I offered it to her, she grabbed it, our fingers briefly touching and as they did, a series of images flashed through my mind, each and every one of them tortured. It lasted moments, mere moments, but what I saw scarred me. A woman, so like Constance and certainly as beautiful, as exuberant, as full of life and energy, quickly becoming a wretched, weakened thing; a mere shadow of her former self. But why? Because she was terrified, that was why.

  “Madam…” I uttered, wanting now only to embrace this stinking, sweating creature before me who was filling such a delicate handkerchief with blood – for the visions had prompted such an extent of sympathy. Instead I watched as she threw the handkerchief aside; as she beckoned for the water she had only recently refused.

  After taking a few laboured sips, she sank back against her pillow.

  “I need it you see,” she said. “This cough…”

  “Are you referring to your medicine?” I asked, wondering where it was and whether I could administer that too.

  “It… It helps… With everything.”

  “Where is it?” I looked about me, searching for a bottle of some sort.

  “Need more… Nell… but he, he controls it… controls me.”

  He? Who did she mean?

  “Mr Lawton?” I queried.

  She nodded, a brief gesture. “Mad,” she said. “Worse… Evil.”

  “Evil?” My eyes felt as if they would burst from my head. Was she implying Arthur was evil?

  “Shall I… open the curtains?” I was desperate to have some light in this room, an open window too, to let some of the stench out. I was sure that if I continued breathing it in I would become as sick as her.

  When she did not answer, I took it upon myself to prise the curtains apart, but as I made my way towards them, she cried out ‘NO!’ My blood curdled to hear such a terrible sound. I swung round to look at her, half in fear, half in surprise.

  “It hurts, damn you!” Spittle flew from her mouth. “The light hurts.”

  Sobbing now, she appeared to collapse in on herself.

  I continued to stand there, frozen with indecision. What was I to do? Go to her or call someone?

  “Madam…” How like Josie I sounded. “If you will tell me where to find Nell… Or Constance, I can fetch Constance.”

  “Constance is lost.”

  “Lost?” I shook my head. “If she is not at home, then perhaps she is out, taking tea?”

  “She is lost,” again she insisted. “I am lost.”

  I had been uneasy until now, but when Constance’s mother began keening and to rock to and fro, I was horrified. If someone should hear her – Nell, or worse, Arthur – and found me here, upsetting her, I would be in trouble beyond imagining.

  “Madam, please, I apologise for coming here, I should not have done so.”

  I reached out to her again, meaning only to offer comfort, but, as had previously happened, the moment our hands touched, visions filled my mind. I had no power to stop them or withdraw my hands for she had brought hers over mine, both now clutching at me as desperately as if she were drowning and I her only saviour.

  Rather than look into her reddened eyes, I shut my own and the images became even clearer. A young woman waiting anxiously at the window for her beau to appear and gasping with delight when she saw him; such a dapper young gentleman, clad head to toe in finery. It was this house he was visiting – not Arthur’s then, as I had presumed, but belonging to this woman in the bed in front of me. A charmer, yes, he was certainly that, and handsome too in a slightly austere way. This girl, this woman – Helena was her name – was very much in love with Arthur. Another image: an argument, not between Helena and Arthur but between Helena and an older woman. Her mother? A wedding, such a joyful occasion ordinarily, but there was sadness on Helena’s face and no mother in attendance. There were hardly any people at all. This house again, Arthur now the master of it. What had happened to Helena’s mother? Or to her father, of whom I have seen no sign? Now she is alone in her bedroom, holding a picture of her mother in her hands as I have done so often myself. She is weeping, and she is confused. The accident, Mother, the fall… were you pushed? Did Arthur push you? One hand falls to her belly, her rounded belly – she is with child. A daughter will soon be born – Constance. Helena despairs. Trapped. Both of us are trapped, in my house, MY house, not his. Do not be fooled, little one. Do not be taken in as I was.

  Having seen more than I could bear, I snatched my hand back, the sheer force of my action taking us both by surprise.

  The woman – Helena – was staring at me.

  “Who are you?” she croaked at last. “What are you?”

  “I have told you that my name is Rosamund. I am your daughter’s friend, nothing more. I… I need to continue looking for her.”

  This time I did back away. Resolutely. Nothing she could say, no command she could issue, would stop me. I reached the door, grabbed the handle and yanked at it.

  “I must find her,” I said again, an attempt at least to explain my swift departure.

  “And I have told you,” she returned, just as I closed the door, “Constance is lost.”

  Rosamund Chapter Ten

  “Constance! Thank the Lord! There you are.”

  Having fled from Helena Lawton’s room, reeling from what had transpired there and how my imagination had run amok, filling my head with such nonsense about a woman of whom I knew nothing, I had dashed the length of the corridor, descended several flights of steps, and somehow found my way back to my room, praying all the while that I would not meet a soul en route, not even my friend.

  Safe in
my bedroom, I began to pace up and down, feeling both terrified and mystified. Finally, I sank onto my bed and fell into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep, my fevered brain as much in need of respite as my body. When I awoke it was to find not the pitch black of night but the bright sunlight of morning. Nearby sat a person – not Father this time, and again I was extremely grateful. It was Constance.

  Rubbing at my eyes, marvelling that I had slept for so long, I sat up, my arms immediately reaching out for her. Readily she entered my embrace.

  She smelt so sweet, so clean, such a contrast to her mother.

  “You are not lost, as I had feared,” I murmured. “You are not lost.”

  Clearly confused by my words, she pulled away slightly.

  “Why should I be lost?” she asked, her eyes even brighter than before; her skin so flawless – she was perfect, this girl in front of me. To think of any harm coming to her…

  Panic set in, though I tried to stem its flow.

  “Soon after I arrived I searched for you, but you were nowhere to be found. I… I…” Should I tell her who I had found instead and what she had said? I was about to, remembering that we were confidantes, but then I stopped myself – what could I say? That I stumbled in upon your mother; that she is not only ill, she is a ruined thing; that I touched her hand, and when I did, it was as if I were a part of her? It would sound like nonsense. It was nonsense, my mind clearly overwrought due to recent events.

  “I am so glad you are safe,” I said, hugging her again.

  How she humoured me that day, rushing to tell me all that had happened since our last meeting, and all that was planned for us during this one. Much of her chatter centred around James, as I knew it would, although she had only managed to rendezvous with him on one occasion since our visit to the tearoom, when she had been able to give her carriage driver, who doubled as her chaperone, the slip.