Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “He has become my shadow,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she referred to the latter. “He believes himself to be so clever, but guess what?”

  “What?” I loved how enthusiastic she was.

  “I am wilier! I managed to lose him in the crowds and that is when I met with James.”

  It was such a daring thing to do, so… improper. My face must have betrayed my thoughts for she laughed uproariously.

  “Oh Rosamund,” she declared. “Dear, innocent Rosamund. A woman must take the reins of her life as if it is a tune; she must conduct it.”

  “Even though society demands something different?”

  “It is men who say otherwise, but not all; not James; he is enlightened, a radical. That is how he describes himself. I want to be radical too.”

  Whereas all I wanted was to be normal.

  “Constance, I worry for you. Your father…”

  “Worrywart! You are not to, especially about him.”

  Her smile became coquettish as she sprung to her feet, a movement that caused her to stagger slightly.

  “Constance,” I enquired, “are you quite well?”

  “I…I’m quite well, thank you,” she replied, brushing yet another of my concerns aside. “I am going to call for the maid, she can help you to dress. Now listen here, be as quick as you can, for we have another exciting day ahead.”

  “Have we?” I asked, excitement beginning to grow in me too, outweighing everything else I was feeling. “What are we to do?”

  “Take in more of London life, of course,” she answered, heading for the door. “Oh, and pay a visit to a certain tearoom.”

  As her laughter again filled the air, I tried to smile also.

  * * *

  We had endless funds at our disposal, or at least according to Constance we did. She insisted that my father had sanctioned such extravagant spending – the commissioning of yet more dresses, more gloves, more hats. As for Constance’s father, she had declared him ‘the richest man in the world’, something I could not help but wonder at. Indeed, if my strange visions had any accuracy, the house in which they lived had not originally belonged to him but to her mother, therefore wasn’t it Helena’s riches that Constance alluded to? But now Helena was a prisoner at the townhouse, a very sick one. Just what was her illness exactly? Did Arthur have independent funds?

  How could I begin to ask my friend these kinds of questions? Even to hint at them would surely dent her happiness in some way; it would steal the shine from her. What a thing to be responsible for! Enjoy the day, Rosamund, stop thinking!

  I strove to do just that. With the carriage driver – a burly man in a long coat and a tall hat – keeping a respectable distance, we joined others in parading the busy thoroughfare, Regent Street being the name of it, and it was apparently the very hub of fashion. This was not difficult to believe as it was filled from end to end with gentlemen and ladies’ outfitters, but in amongst them were also jewellery shops and perfumers, as well as one or two bakeries selling a range of delicious cakes and biscuits that you could take home with you in fancy boxes, each of them adorned with a festive ribbon. It had been a bright morning but during the afternoon the light was quick to fade. No matter in a city such as this; gas lamps came on swiftly, joined by the yellow glow of electrical light from a few of the more luxurious shops and hotels. It was breathtaking, all quite breathtaking. I felt giddy with delight.

  The roads were crammed with black carriages such as the one the Lawton family owned and on the streets people jostled past, their faces red with cold and excitement. Soon it would be Christmas. An event I was not much given to, for why would I be? It was barely acknowledged at Mears House, Father sometimes being at home for the occasion, but in more recent years, not. Even should he be home, there would be little time spent with me – joyful time that is, rather than time spent interrogating. I shook my head at such a thought. Had there ever been such a thing as joyful time between us? Not that I could recall. And so Christmas Day had always been just like any other – one on which I passed the time reading or drawing, paying no heed to it. But here – in London – the atmosphere fizzed with anticipation.

  Having walked the length of Regent Street, we came to a large open thoroughfare named Piccadilly Circus, escaping the crowds momentarily by taking a quiet, mainly residential, side road, before turning left and arriving at a garden square. There, another vision stopped me in my tracks.

  “It is a tree,” I breathed.

  “Correct,” Constance replied. “A Christmas tree.”

  A thing of splendour, it stood as tall as any of London’s townhouses and was festooned with ribbons – red and green and gold in colour.

  A Christmas tree – I repeated the words to myself. I had never seen such a thing, only having read of its history in one of the broadsheets that Father occasionally brought home, which included a description of the tree that Prince Albert had installed at Windsor Castle; and yet here one stood, before my eyes, even more magical than electrical light.

  I could not say a word. I could barely breathe. But I could listen, and so I did, to the sweet voices of a huddled group who stood at the foot of the tree with pamphlets in their hands, from which they sang – “carols”, Constance informed me, as I had not heard them before either, their voices swooping from note to note.

  “What is this place?” I asked at last.

  “This is Berkeley Square,” she answered, “one of London’s finest. And see over there, the fountain, how pretty it is?”

  It was indeed, with its sparkling beads of water, but I could not bear to avert my gaze for too long from the tree. “May we go a little closer?”

  “Of course!” she replied, taking my arm and practically pulling me along.

  We stood close to the singers, who by now had begun another carol, one that referenced a ‘good king’ with an unusual name, Wenceslas, perhaps? I could almost reach out and touch the tree, we were so close, but I was a little afraid that if I did it might ruin the magic; might make it disappear. What do you see? Such wonders! Such magic! How could I have not known that this existed?

  There and then I decided: I never wanted to return to Mears House, ever, despite Josie being there.

  “We must go for tea soon,” Constance said, giving me a moment to contemplate the prospect of detaching myself from such a marvellous sight.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I returned, doing my utmost to commit every detail to memory lest the worst happened and I should never see its like again.

  “Before that, though, I…I’ll get us some roasted chestnuts.”

  Her voice sounded slightly odd, a little slurred as Father’s was sometimes slurred, so I turned my head slightly to look at her. “Roasted chestnuts?”

  She looked perfectly fine, if anything she was more beautiful than ever.

  “There is a seller, just over there,” she said, “by the fountain. I shall buy us some. You really must try them; it is quite the thing to do at this time of year. Although not too many, I cannot have you spoiling your appetite for later. Stay here, won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I will.”

  Left to my own devices, time seemed to stand still as I gazed about me, listened, and breathed in the smells that wafted on the air – smells quite unknown to me – the roasted chestnuts perhaps, earthy and pungent. When someone began tugging at my sleeve, I was surprised. Who would do such a thing? I looked down, it was Harry, I was sure of it – an urchin boy with a beautiful face and worldly eyes.

  “Harry?” I said, to which he nodded. “Oh my,” I exclaimed. “It is you!” I had wondered if I should see him again but had doubted it, London being such a huge place. “How are you? Are you well?”

  When he declined to answer, I nodded towards the tree. “Is it not wonderful? I can barely believe my eyes. Living in London you must have seen a Christmas tree before, but this is my first time. I know, it is hard to believe, but I assure you, it is so. I just… It truly is wonderful. Har
ry, Harry, talk to me, why will you not speak?”

  Still he refused. He simply continued to stare at me, but his face was beginning to change; it was becoming more shadowed. What with? Concern? He let go of my coat and pointed at my purse instead. I was confused at first and then I remembered, my necklace was in there, but how could he know?

  Now, not just pointing, he began to jab at my purse, the action becoming decidedly more frenzied. A little afraid, I tried to seek Constance in the distance. There she was, by the fountain as she had said, in a queue for the roasted chestnuts. It looked as if she would be some time yet. What did this boy want – to steal the necklace from me? I had read of pickpockets, London was notorious for them. Was he one? Was such beauty, such innocence, deceiving?

  “You cannot have it, Harry,” I said sternly. “It is my necklace.”

  He shook his head. Wildly, he shook his head.

  In the background the carol singers had started yet another song, one more sombre than the last: Silent night, Holy night. My unease was growing. No one knew what was in my pocket. Not even my friend, not yet.

  Constance had instructed me to stay on the spot, but I began to back away from Harry. He followed me, matching me step for step, his eyes round, pleading almost. I picked up pace, determined to escape him, my hand covering my purse protectively. I could not lose the necklace; I had so little of my mother’s, which made it all the more precious. I turned from Harry, hoping yet again to sight Constance, but failing miserably. Where was she? Where was I? I could not see the outline of the square anymore; all I could see were people, so many of them and more than before; far more. I was certain of it.

  And some are just shadows.

  The more I stared, the more I realised how true that statement was. And yet we had been lucky with the weather, it was a clear night with no mist to obscure the wonders we had seen. The people milled to and fro, the shadows too, but not all of them. Some had come to a standstill, were turning their heads towards me, their eyes widening with something akin to recognition. Why that should be so, I did not know. They were all strangers to me, every last one of them. One broke away from a group that were standing together, a man, his age quite indeterminable, but if I were to guess, I should say around thirty or so. He was a grizzled man with a long beard, his hat at an angle as if someone had accidently knocked it; his clothes not the clothes of a gentleman. Although his outline was hazy, his eyes were not; they reminded me of someone else’s eyes – someone much closer to home; Father’s! I did not know the word back then to describe the look in them, but I know it well enough now – malevolence – that was what they contained.

  Like Harry, he did not need to open his mouth to speak. Who are you? What are you? Vividly, such words imprinted themselves on my mind.

  Helena Lawton had asked the same thing. I am normal, I wanted again to say it, to scream it. And you are not. You are far from normal.

  Harry had resumed tugging at my sleeve.

  Although I could barely tear my gaze from this man advancing towards me, I felt I must. What Harry had to say was important.

  He started jabbing at my purse again. Without questioning further, I reached in to retrieve the necklace – a talisman, a barrier – an heirloom.

  Protection.

  That was the message Harry wanted to impart – a timely reminder.

  The man was now almost upon me. Although a shadow, he was darker than nightfall; darker than any of the corridors in Mears House.

  I held up the necklace and thrust it out before me, as if a shield, but it was all too much.

  I began to sway on my feet.

  Had it worked, had it stopped him?

  That was all I could think as my body crumpled to the ground.

  Rosamund Chapter Eleven

  “But, Father, I do not think she is well enough.”

  “She has to be, everything is set for tonight.”

  “She cannot be moved. Not yet.”

  “It has all been so carefully planned.”

  “What has?”

  “She is to be presented.”

  “Presented where? Father, what is it you are trying to say?”

  There was a silence and I found myself relishing it, drifting backwards, seeking solace somewhere deep in the back of my mind. It did not last long, however. The man was speaking again, not the female, and his voice was troubled.

  “If… if she is not to be presented… when so much effort… It would be a disaster. There may be repercussions.”

  “Is it something I can help you with, Father?”

  I wanted to shake my head at this, to shout No! Although why I wanted to do so quite so passionately, I could not fathom. Moreover, it would have been impossible. My head felt rigid, as though it were caught in a vice, and my mouth was woolly.

  “You… You are not the same as Rosamund, Constance.”

  So it was Constance that was talking, although her voice sounded different, having a distant quality, as if she was at one end of a tunnel and I at the other. The man she was conversing with was Arthur.

  “We are not so different,” she contradicted.

  “Do you have any idea why she fainted?”

  “None at all. I was queuing to buy some roasted chestnuts, I heard a commotion, looked over my shoulder and she was on the ground. Although… there was something… For a moment I thought I saw…”

  When she faltered, Arthur prompted. “You were saying?”

  “Oh nothing, nothing. A ruffian, I thought I saw a ruffian close to her, but in the blink of an eye he was gone. Perhaps I imagined it.”

  “London is full of ruffians.”

  “It is, Father, it can be. Do you think we should ask the doctor to visit? Her skin seems to be even more devoid of colour.”

  “We have everything she needs here. She will recover soon, but sadly not soon enough. Damn this accident! Why did you not keep a closer watch?”

  “Father,” Constance’s voice held such indignation. “I was steps away!”

  “But how can someone just faint?”

  “It was cold, there were lots of people. All this is new to her – the city, the crowds, the sheer noise and excitement. Clearly she was overcome. I could not have foreseen it and I don’t suppose she could have either. Father, wait! I think she may be stirring.”

  There was indeed the sound of someone moaning – was it me? Again, I seemed so detached from the situation – a spectator rather than a part of it.

  Someone was by my side. They had taken my hand and proceeded to stroke it. The touch was light, reassuring. It must be Constance; his touch – Arthur’s – would not engender such feelings, not after what his wife had said.

  Mad… worse, evil.

  Arthur, Father too, that man in the crowds… The latter in particular I could not bring myself to think of, not just now, I was not strong enough. I felt weak, longing for another touch, that of Josie’s hand, or that of the mother I had never known. The necklace, where was my necklace…

  Constance was speaking again.

  “Should her father be here to see to her?”

  “I have told you, he is otherwise engaged.”

  “He is drunk, you mean.”

  She was so bold! Evidently, her father thought so too.

  “You are a fine one to talk regarding vices,” he growled.

  “Me?” The innocence in her voice was far from convincing. “What tales has the driver been telling you now?”

  “You think you are so clever.”

  “If I am, I take after you, surely?”

  “Constance—”

  “You are afraid of him, aren’t you?”

  Afraid of whom? Were they still talking about my father?

  “I am curious. What hold does Mr Howard have over you?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “Like Mother? What a relief it must be for you then, that now she asks for one thing and one thing only.”

  “CONSTANCE!”

  Arthur�
��s raised voice startled me, almost bringing me fully back to consciousness, but before it did, I found myself slipping again. Even so, part of me silently pleaded with Constance: do not goad him. Please, do not.

  Constance was her father’s girl, she had told me herself on several occasions; she could wrap him around her little finger. But did she know him; truly know him, the way that her mother knew him? Did she realise what he was capable of – destruction in other words, of the human spirit. And was my father capable of that too? My spirit?

  To my surprise, I sensed no cowering from Constance at Arthur’s roar, rather she laughed, that lovely tinkling sound. If she was afraid of her father, she did not allow it to show and my heart swelled with love for her because of it. How brave she was, how plucky – everything I aspired to be. This was a woman who would change the world in a trice if she could; who would break free of all convention; who would bend the rules without hesitation to suit her own wishes.

  But then a niggling remembrance – what did Arthur mean when Constance accused Father of being a drunk? He had said ‘You are a fine one to talk regarding vices.’ I remembered her staggering briefly, the morning she had come to fetch me for our outing, and then when we were out… Dig deep, Rosamund, try and remember more… In the queue for the roasted chestnuts, she had taken something from her purse, something secreted as my necklace had been secreted – a bottle it looked like – and, unscrewing the top, had popped a few drops of something onto her tongue. Although captivated by the Christmas tree I had wondered at it – was it a tincture of some sort, to treat the onset of a cold perhaps? Although she had not been snuffling or blowing her nose beforehand. Readily, I had dismissed it. It would not be anything harmful, not if she was taking it in public; she would not be so brazen.

  But this was the thing with Constance – she believed she could do anything without consequence, not just bend the rules but live beyond them too.

  “Father,” she had long since stopped stroking my hand and I think had risen to meet her father eye to eye. “I want to be the one to be presented.”