by D K Girl
‘Well then. I suppose I might have done this before.’ He brought the bandalore closer to his face, as though fine inspection might stir some memory. Silas sighed at the blankness that came. Really, anyone might have toyed with such a device. It was hardly remarkable. This was likely just a thoughtful, though odd gesture, from the Lady Satine to provide him with some distraction. Setting the bandalore back into its nest of straw, Silas paid heed to the demands of his empty stomach, and determined to make the most of the fresh bread and kippers that the newly-revealed chef, Gilmore had delivered.
Chapter 5
Five days passed somewhat pleasantly, with no word about when Silas might be expected to attend the Baron Feversham. Which suited Silas just fine. But also with no hint from Mr Ahari, or the Lady Satine, that his sighting of the apparition was significant. With such silence, he assumed perhaps it was not as wonderful as Jane had claimed, and he was not sure if that made him feel better about the whole incident, or rather worse.
At times, with so little to occupy his days, he amused himself with pretending he lived as a nobleman, free of responsibility, albeit one without any social commitments. Silas filled his time with taking walks in the grounds, his most enjoyed of pastimes. Spending time in the gardens never grew dull, and he’d begun to indulge in a spot of birdwatching. Jane had offered him a canvas and brush and oils, and Silas had tried his hand at painting the roses by his cottage. Discovering that he was as adept at it as he was reading, and the unfinished canvas was now hidden beneath his bed.
To his great relief he had not been requested to join Jane again at any dastardly balls, nor was he invited to accompany her on her appointments. She was regularly absent from the village, her services in much demand apparently. This morning, with the sun alone in a cloudless sky and just strong enough to chase back some of the November chill, Silas set off on his mid-morning walk. He slipped the bandalore into the pocket of a superbly comfortable coat he’d found in the cupboard beneath the stairs. Royal blue in colour, with a black lapel. It had a small cape over the shoulders, and reached down to his knees. He was quite sure it was called an Inverness coat, and wondered, as he did with most things familiar, if he had owned such an item once. Silas grasped the door handle, and caught sight of a grey bruise upon his knuckle. Luckily, he seemed to heal rather rapidly, for some of his more extravagant flourishes of the bandalore did not always proceed according to plan, and more than once the wood had wrapped sharply at his fingers as the disc fairly flew through the air. But he was quite mesmerised by the hum of the string as it moved, and the challenge of mastering it was a pleasant distraction.
Moving across the green, Silas passed by Jane’s residence, though he was all but certain he’d heard her leaving in the early hours. Sure enough the curtains were drawn on all the downstairs rooms, a habit of hers that denoted her absence. He was mildly disappointed, he’d admit he found her company pleasant enough, and he still marvelled at her manipulation of the air. Just yesterday they’d enjoyed the pull of the wind to tug a pair of kites high into the air. A wind that did not touch upon the row of aspen just beyond the back wall of Holly Village, but instead came upon the village green only, at a whispered summons from Jane. It was a rather marvellous new pastime that Silas was eager to repeat.
He continued to stroll in an easterly direction, as he was so often drawn to do. Even with his intentions set elsewhere, Silas often found himself meandering towards the eastern wall of the Village boundary. Perhaps it was the pleasing cluster of willows there, huddled around a small pond, or the stunning layout of rose hedges, set against the backdrop of the curious stone wall, the only section of the Village’s exterior wall that was constructed of rocks rather than red brick. Whatever it was, the walk through this section was pleasing, soothing even. When he reached the wall, Silas turned right, instead of the left he’d chosen earlier in the week, and walked some distance along the boundary before he came across an intricate gate of iron set within the brickwork. Ivy hung heavy over most of the archway and draped into the opening itself. Silas pushed aside the foliage, wishing to see what lurked beyond. A wide expanse of meadow lay ahead, with long grass and wildflowers bobbing in a gentle breeze. A beautiful sight indeed, but it was not what drew Silas’s eye. Beyond the open expanse he could just make out the jut of stonework rising from the ground. Slabs of chiselled stone that marked a graveyard. Silas breathed in deeply. The air coming in from the meadow tasted almost as sweet as the view, and seemed to find the very bottom of his lungs. He desired nothing more than to move beyond the gate, his feet itching to take another step. Silas rattled at the gate’s latch but it was locked fast. He curled his hands around the bars, surly with disappointment. It was not the coldness of iron he wished to feel, rather the smoothness of the stones marking the resting places of the dead.
‘To be where death’s shadow falls,’ he whispered.
Silas pressed his face to the bars, and at once the sharp cold of the metal snapped him free of the strange melancholy overwhelming him. He pulled away, frowning at fingers that were as cold as though made of ice. He shoved them into his pockets, where his right hand landed upon the bandalore. His hands must have been more cold then he imagined for it seemed to him that the wood itself had warmed. Silas nudged the gate once more with his foot. There would be no passing through without a key here. Perhaps that was just as well. What had come over him in that moment? Whispering of death’s shadow like some madman. Shrugging his shoulders to ward off the briskness of the air, Silas turned his back on the gate, deciding that his need for fresh air had expired. He continued on along the perimeter of the village boundary until he found himself once more returned to the comfort of the cottage. The journey was not a long one, a mere twenty minutes no more, and he returned to find his lunch basket awaiting him. Silas had just settled at the table to enjoy the beef broth when a knock came at the door.
‘Gilmore,’ Silas smiled down at the grim-faced man. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. The broth is quite wondrous.’
The man dismissed Silas’s attempt at pleasantries with a grunt. ‘Don’t have time for natter. I’m instructed to tell you that you will be attending the Baron Faversham’s residence this evening, at eight, for the purpose of holding a seance. You’re to be ready for collection at seven. Wait outside the gates and Isaac will collect you.’
Silas stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ain’t your ears working?’
‘Well, yes, of course.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
‘No problem as such,’ Silas returned. ‘It’s just this seems very short notice. And I haven’t the slightest clue about holding a seance.’
‘Nothing to it. You sit round a table holding hands and talking utter rot,’ Gilmore sniffed. ‘Shall I tell Mr Ahari you are refusing?’
‘I’m not refusing—’
‘Sounds like it to me.’
‘Well, you are hearing wrongly.’ Silas fought to keep from slamming the door in the impertinent man’s face. ‘When is Miss Handel due back? She’ll be attending with me, I presume.’
‘And now you presume wrongly, Mr Mercer.’ Gilmore’s smirk told of a man who was rather enjoying himself. ‘She’s busy.’
Wide-eyed, Silas struggled to find a response. ‘Is that so? Who is to attend with me?’
‘No one.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ A twirl of temper played at his gut.
Gilmore’s nose lifted as though Silas had expelled gas. ‘That all you can say?’
‘Gilmore, are you certain I’m to go alone?’
‘What’s wrong? You scared?’
Certainly, but he’d admit no such thing to this man.
‘Uncomfortable, I should say.’
‘Well, best you get comfortable with it, because that’s what’s happening. But don’t worry your over-sized head over it too much,’ Gilmore said. ‘Isaac will be about.’
‘The man who has barely said three words to me since I arrived?�
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‘That one. Me point is, you ain’t alone. And there ain’t no big deal in what you’ll be doing. Pandering to a bunch of dandies, who’ve drunk themselves stupid and jump at their own shadows most likely. Like I said, get ‘em to hold hands, while you talk all mysterious like, maybe roll your eyes back in your ‘ead a bit. They’ll lap it up. You still fall over your own feet, not likely Mr Ahari will give you a proper job to do just yet. Now, repeat the orders back to me.’
Gilmore was not, Silas decided, a fine communicator. But rather numbed with shock, Silas repeated as instructed, ‘Be ready outside the gate at seven for collection. Appointment is at Baron Feversham’s at eight.’ He frowned. ‘That’s a fair journey, where does the Baron reside?’
‘Grosvenor Square. Make sure you dress fine, don’t give em reason to look down their bloody noses at you.’ And with that sound advice he trundled off.
‘Right then,’ Silas wrung his hands. ‘I have been abandoned again. How bloody wonderful.’
By the time he stood outside the main gates just before seven, on a road that never seemed to have any traffic upon it, he was quite ill with worry. No drink to blame this time though. Nerves alone were making him a shuddering mess. And he’d run out of possible adjustments he could make to his Inverness coat which he chosen to wear as a sort of self-appointed good luck charm. Silas had kept watch on Jane’s home, jumping at every sound that might have been the gates allowing her entry. But no one came, and no one went. As was usually the case, he was alone in the Village, and never had he felt if more keenly. At precisely seven, with a church clock chiming the hour in the distance, Isaac drew the bay to a halt before the gates. The man was seated in the driver’s seat of a dark brown hansom, and was swathed in his usual layers of dark fabric. With the night descending quickly, and the lack of gas lamps even here on the main road, Isaac might as well have been a storm cloud perched in the driver’s seat.
‘Is there any word from Miss Handel,’ Silas enquired. The short cape of his coat lifted with the breeze which had quickened considerably since his walk through the grounds. He set aside thoughts of the odd moment at the gate. Now was not the time to think of such things.
‘What word were you expecting?’ Isaac seemed to use his voice so rarely his vocal cords were quite rusted.
‘Information about how I am supposed to conduct myself this evening. I know nothing of what a spiritualist does.’
‘You’ll know it soon enough, if that’s the way it’s to be.’
Silas’s grip on the leather seat tightened. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Could no one in this new life give him a straight answer? ‘I have no idea what the Order wants me to do, surely there should be someone there to watch me?’
Isaac laughed, short and sharp and hard. ‘Who says there’s not? Calm yourself, and follow your instinct, if you have one. If not, enjoy the wine. Now, I’d ask you to get in the carriage, Mr Mercer. The Order doesn’t take kindly to their members being late to an appointment.’
And that was all he’d say on the matter, leaving Silas no option but to settle into his seat and be led to his own private nightmare. An entire night at the centre of attention. And with not a clue as to how to conduct himself.
Chapter 6
Grosvenor Square was a discomforting distance away, leading them deep into the looming, bustling London boroughs that quite overwhelmed Silas’s senses. Had he ever laid eyes on such number of carriages, or clutter of houses? If he had lived in this city once, he recalled nothing of it and quite suspected he would have disliked it immensely. The noise alone would drive a man insane. People shouted upon the street for any number of reason. Coachman in sharp rebuke of those who impeded their journey, hawkers forcing their wares upon unsuspecting strollers, and at one point a fair gaggle of children, all clad in tattered rags, screeching and hollering their way across the road. They caught the sharp edge of Isaac’s tongue, crossing dangerously close to the carriage. He spied more than one rag-and-bone man lugging enormous sacks upon his back, their material stained dark with what lurked beneath. Gas lamps threw their light against the infringing darkness, several being attended to by men on tall ladders, the passing crowd sweeping around them like a flock of birds avoiding the turrets of a chimney. The traffic came from all directions and Silas sank deeper into his coat, trying to edge back from the frantic nature of the world around him. It was only when they travelled alongside a great sweeping expanse of open space, a wonderously large garden whose name might have been revealed upon of the many signs passing him by, that Silas could regather any semblance of calm. He resolved to speak to Jane of the location, for he much desired to stroll the paths that wound through that peaceful haven.
At long last, though in truth perhaps a half hour or so, Isaac drew up the brougham with a jolt so violent Silas was thrust against his seat. The Baron’s residence was a magnificent townhouse, reaching up three levels, with Corinthian pillars standing to attention either side of the rich mahogany door. Chandelier were visible through the front windows, candlelight illuminating an interior with a deep burgundy and gold wallpaper. The room on the right was occupied by an alarming number of people. Silas perched at his own small window, worrying at his dry bottom lip, reticent to alight from the carriage. Isaac offered no alternative when he pulled open the carriage door.
‘Go on then,’ he mumbled.
With no enthusiasm, Silas alighted, eyeing the street. After all the business of the journey, this street was empty of foot traffic, putting a fast end to his notion of vanishing into the crowd.
‘How do I send for you when this is done?’ he asked.
‘You don’t. I’ll be back when I’m needed.’ Isaac pulled himself back onto his seat, clucking at the bay and jiggling the reins. Setting off as rapidly as he had arrived.
Silas wrapped his arms about himself, staring after the brougham. So very close to hollering for the driver to return. Even Isaac’s miserable company would be preferable to this evening.
A swathe of light blanketed him, and the muttering of voices grew loud as the front door opened. A stern voice ruined any plans for escape.
‘Mr Mercer, this way please. They are waiting on you.’
The man’s quipped tone suggested lateness, but Silas doubted very much that Isaac had been anything but exactly on time.
‘Yes, of course.’
The Baron’s butler was a severe man in both tone and appearance, with his ruddy hair thin on the crown and slicked back severely at the sides. His nose veered towards beakish, and his dull brown eyes considered Silas with caustic disapproval. His mood sinking further still, Silas followed the butler inside. Despite a desperate attempt to appear suave, his bothersome feet betrayed him once more, toes clipping the thick wood at the base of the doorway and he barely fell into the foyer. The space at least, was comfortably warm and bright, the floor laid with rich cherry wood.
‘Your coat, Mr Mercer.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry.’ Silas hurried to undress, cursing his thick fingers for their inability to negotiate the buttons. He was quite sure he heard the man utter a sigh.
At last undone, Silas handed over the coat. The air was thick with the scent of candle wax despite the gas lighting in the corridor, and the waft of cigars mingled with a floral perfume far headier than the jasmine Jane wore. Silas’s apprehension rose anew at the thought of his absent companion. Her abandonment at this crucial moment was really quite distressing.
The butler announced Silas, the words apparently bitter on his tongue. The surly man stepped back to allow him entry. Silas must have taken too long to move, because the man’s scowl deepened. Quick stepping into the room, Silas drew in a breath. Apparently the Baron was a popular man, for the parlour was filled to bursting with an array of brightly clothed patrons. Two couples lounged upon a large blood red chaise, while a trio of men conversed at the window with the street lighting silhouetting them. Another tinkled the ivories of an astonishing Erard grand piano, ebony veneered with ela
borate ivory marquetry. Leaning on the exquisite instrument was a voluptuous woman whose layers of sky blue silk spilled across the plum coloured rug with its gold damask like some enchanting waterfall. The scene was made all the more ethereal by the overuse of candles, there was barely a flat surface that did not provide a home to pillars of wax. Gas lights dotted the walls, both here and in the entry foyer—an obtrusive nod to the Baron’s wealth—but the glass cages in this room were dark.
It took all of a heartbeat for the eyes of the room to fall upon him, and Silas could barely breath for the wave of panic it set rising within him. If he had been a self-assured man in life, capable of entertaining such a crowd, he felt no inkling of it now.
‘We are so excited to have you here, Mr Mercer. I am the Baron Feversham.’ The Baron rushed up to him, a full glass of champagne on offer, bushy eyebrows lifted. ‘And aren’t you just delightful? What a mammoth of a man. I don’t suppose any spirit would dare tarry with you.’ The Baron’s love for indulgence was evident. His cheeks full, his belly protruding every so slightly beneath his vest of bottle green, but his light brown eyes were welcoming, his smile wide upon thick lips. At his chin there was a pronounced marking, a bulge of deep brown that Silas struggled not to stare at.
‘Thank you, your lordship.’ He accepted the champagne most readily. ‘I am honoured to be of service.’ The lie would need the champagne to wash it down.
‘My dearest ladies and gentlemen.’ The Baron raised his own glass to the room. ‘As promised our guest of honour has arrived, a thoughtful gift from that most impish Lieutenant Charters. My friend seeks to assist me in gaining a full night’s rest at long last. He believes the Order can settle the nefarious spirit that plagues my beautiful home. Sadly, the dear Lieutenant is unwell and cannot attend.’ There was a suitable amount of sympathetic muttering.
‘Poor chap is unwell again?’ Someone asked.
‘He has suffered for some months now, has he not?’ Came another concerned call.
