by Hester Fox
The woman beside her was perched on the edge of her seat as Mrs. Bellefonte began. “To make this a welcoming place for spirits, I must have absolute quiet.” She made a show of arranging herself on her seat and holding her hands out, palms up.
A preternatural calm fell over the drawing room, and it was so still and quiet that Tabby could hear the rise and fall of a dozen taffeta bodices around her.
Then, all of a sudden, Mrs. Bellefonte let out an eldritch groan and swayed back in her seat. “There is a spirit near,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
The women gave little cries and fanned themselves with their black lace fans. Even though Tabby knew that it was all a sham, she couldn’t help the chill that ran down her spine.
“It’s a male spirit...a grown man.” Her aunt squinted into the air, as if he was standing right before her. “He has a mustache and a very distinguished air about him.”
“My Henry!” A woman shot out of her chair. “Oh, but it must be my Henry.”
Mrs. Bellefonte nodded solemnly. “Yes, he says his name is Henry, and that he is here to speak with his wife.”
The woman’s black veil quivered as she spoke. “Tell him that I am sorry, that my...transgression...meant nothing. He was the only one that I ever truly loved.”
“He says that he forgives you, that he knows that his illness was difficult for you in the last months. He looks forward to having you at his side in the kingdom of heaven someday.”
With a little gasp, the woman slumped back into her chair, her friends swarming around her like butterflies to a black-petaled flower, as they administered salts and fanned at her with lace handkerchiefs.
More husbands were contacted, as well as mothers, fathers, children. Mrs. Bellefonte had a neat little message for nearly everyone before she finally came to Mrs. Bishop.
Tabby held her breath, waiting for her aunt to claim that she had reached the late Mr. Bishop. But to her horror it was not him whom she claimed to find.
“I see a young man, quite handsome. Light hair and brown eyes.”
Mrs. Bishop let out a strangled gasp. “My...my Caleb,” she choked out in between labored sobs. “He’s dead?”
Frantically, Tabby opened her mind. If there were truly spirits here as her aunt claimed, then she would find them. Please no please no, she chanted to herself as she let the ether envelope her like a cloud bank. But no spirits came, Caleb or otherwise.
Her aunt was a fraud, and thank God for that. There was a daguerreotype of Caleb on one of the tables in the parlor that her aunt had probably seen and used to describe him.
She might have been a fraud, but she was convincing. She knew when to wait for her client to offer more details before continuing, and when to gamble and offer a snippet of information. It was clear that she had done some research on Mrs. Bishop before accepting her invitation to hold a séance. When she claimed that Caleb had died running afoul of scofflaws, Mrs. Bishop gave another cry. It broke Tabby’s heart to see Mrs. Bishop reduced to tears, believing that her only son was truly dead.
“He’s gone,” Mrs. Bellefonte said quietly, and a pregnant hush fell back over the room. “I believe all the spirits have left us today and—”
Tabby’s cheeks had grown hot, and every little sound in the room was amplified. Before she knew what she was doing, she shot up and raised her hand. “My aunt,” she said in a choked voice. “I lost my dear aunt when I was but a child. Please, you must find her for me.”
There was a moment of hesitation from Mrs. Bellefonte, surprised as she was by the passionate outburst. But then she was nodding and gesturing for Tabby to come to the front of the room. “Come here, young lady. I will need to join hands with you to reestablish a connection and create a conduit by which the spirits may speak through me.”
Swallowing, Tabby slowly walked to the table and sat across from her aunt. With her bonnet still pulled low on her face, she placed her hands in the older woman’s. She hadn’t known what she was going to do when she’d raised her hand, but now a plan formed rapidly in her mind. For all the years that the threat of her aunt had hung over Tabby like a specter, now that she was finally in front of her, Tabby felt only determination. In the last twelve years, Tabby had grown callous, yes, but also strong. She had survived the streets of Boston as a child. She had escaped Mr. Whitby. The small woman in front of her held no power over her anymore.
Her aunt began humming, a low, tremulous sound that would have been laughable if not for the gravity of the situation. Then her hands went stiff and she broke off in her humming. “A spirit has shown itself to me.”
The audience whispered and shifted in their seats, craning their heads as if they too might see it. Tabby feigned surprise. “Oh, is it my aunt?”
“I believe so. The spirit is a woman.”
Tabby’s courage grew and so too did her confidence in her acting. “What is her name? What does she look like? Oh, it must be her! I can feel her near!”
From behind her veil, Mrs. Bellefonte’s eyes flashed, and Tabby could tell that she was surprised her young customer was so fervent. But she played along, using Tabby’s enthusiasm.
“Her name... Spirit, what is your name?” There was silence for a moment before Mrs. Bellefonte shook her head. “I can’t make it out. Perhaps if you were to provide her initials...”
Tabby persisted. “What does she look like?”
There was a flash of irritation behind her aunt’s gauzy veil. “The connection is not strong enough to see her. But I am sure that she is your aunt. She says that you were always a good girl, and that she loves you very much.”
This was Tabby’s moment. If she wanted to reveal her aunt for the fraud she was, then she was going to have to risk exposing herself, as well. It gave her no pleasure to dash the hopes of the women here, but at least she could put poor Mrs. Bishop’s fears to rest. She had not come here with the intention of divulging her abilities, but she at least took some small satisfaction that she was turning the very ability that her aunt had so coveted back on her. When word got out that there was a true clairvoyant in Boston, it would be in every paper, but by then, Tabby would have made enough money to go somewhere far away.
“Does she really? How very odd. I never knew my aunt to speak in such kind terms. But you are right about one thing: she is very near indeed. I can feel her hands in my own, almost as if she were flesh and blood.”
“It is not uncommon that you might feel such sensation—the dead are often desperate to be seen, heard, and even felt.”
“I never said my aunt was dead, though.”
Mrs. Bellefonte’s hands went limp in hers. “What do you mean?”
“In fact, I see her right before me. Her name is Minerva Bellefonte, and she is wearing black satin gloves and an embroidered veil.”
“Child, I don’t know what kind of nonsense you think you’re about, but—”
Before her aunt could finish, Tabby was pulling off her bonnet and, for the first time in twelve years, facing down the woman who had instilled such fear, anger, and hatred in her.
Her aunt’s body went completely still, and the disbelief in her voice was delicious. “Tabitha?” she said in a breath.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Bishop was standing, her gaze snapping back and forth between Tabby and her aunt. “Miss Cooke, do you know this woman?”
“I know her very well. She is my aunt. And...” She hesitated, aware that she was about to dash many of the fragile consolations the ladies there had found that day. “She is a fraud. She cannot speak with the dead.”
A collective murmur of outrage went up from the audience.
“And why should we believe you?” said the woman whose husband Mrs. Bellefonte had contacted earlier in the séance.
Tabby took a long, unsteady breath, drawing in all the shame, fear, and anxiety of a lifetime, and exhaling the truth.
“Because I can.”
18
IN WHICH A POINT IS PROVEN.
CHAIRS UPTURNED AS ladies sprang to their feet, and more than one delicate glass of sherry went shattering on the floor. A man in plaid trousers and matching waistcoat materialized from behind one of the heavy drapes, fretting at his mustache and watching the chaos unfold. Her uncle. He had never terrified her the way that her aunt had. He was short and slight, and while her aunt had been the architect of Tabby’s misery, he had been the one to simply follow along. He looked around in a daze until he met Tabby’s eye. “Tabby? Is that you?”
Her aunt’s shrill voice cut through the rabble. “You ungrateful chit! We have been out of our minds with worry about you and your sister for the past twelve years!” She threw a look around the room, as if only just now wondering if Alice might be among them.
“If you have been out of your mind with worry, it has only been for the money you have surely lost when we left.”
The room had grown unnaturally still, as the women watched this unexpected drama play out in front of them.
It was Mrs. Bishop who cut the silence. She turned to Tabby’s aunt. “Is what she says true? Have you no true clairvoyant powers?”
Her aunt made a nervous gesture. “Of course not, madame. I do confess that the child is my niece, but there is no truth in what she says. She always was touched in the head, and that’s why we have been so worried about her since she ran away. It is a cruel world for an unprotected young woman, never mind one that is so ignorant.” An artificial smile stretched across her aunt’s mouth. “Isn’t that so, Harold?”
Her uncle, who had been fiddling with his watch chain, snapped back to attention. “Oh yes. Quite right, my dear. An unprotected simpleton, just as you say.”
“They lie,” Tabby ground out.
Mrs. Bishop looked between them. “I don’t pretend to be well acquainted with Miss Cooke, but from the time we have spent together I can say that she is one of the most levelheaded young women I have met. She might be a little unpolished, but she is no simpleton.”
“And how do we know you aren’t just another charlatan?” the same woman asked again as she looked Tabby up and down. “Can you offer us any proof that Mrs. Bellefonte is a fraud? Or that you are not?”
She had known that this was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. “I can, on both counts.” Turning to one of the women, she said: “Your husband, Henry, was a banker. He worked long hours and was often away from home. But he loved you dearly, and he says that you broke his heart when you carried on with his brother.”
The woman gasped, but Tabby was already moving on. “Mrs. Orson, your son was killed after taking too much drink and trying to rob a bank with nothing more than a pocket knife.”
Mrs. Orson sniffed. “Anyone could know that. It was in the papers. It doesn’t prove anything.”
Tabby bit back a retort. How easy it was for everyone to believe her aunt’s smooth and palatable lies, but when faced with the truth, they balked. “He says that it was your idea to rob the bank, that you wanted the money to start a new life in California, and that he will never forgive you.”
At this, Mrs. Orson went very pale, and slumped down into her seat. Tabby turned to a quiet older woman who was still seated, her hands demurely crossed on the head of her cane.
“Mrs. Sprague,” she said softly, coming and kneeling at the woman’s feet. “Jenny wants you to know that there was no pain at the end, that she knows you did everything you could for her. Though she was only a babe, she loved you so much, and was so glad that you were her mother.”
A dry sob broke from Mrs. Sprague’s throat. “It’s been forty years since I lost my Jenny, and I think of her every day. I always wondered if there was something I could have done differently, something that would have saved her from that fever.”
Tabby shook her head, trying to contain her own welling emotion. “Nothing,” she said. “There was nothing you could have done differently. You loved her and she says that was enough.”
There was taut silence as the other women watched Tabby and Mrs. Sprague, and then an explosion of clamoring voices.
“Me next!”
“No, me!”
Throughout all this, Tabby was only vaguely aware of her aunt and uncle taking their leave, slinking away like the snakes they were. She had no doubt that they would be back, now that they knew where she was, but for now, they couldn’t show their faces here again.
When at last everyone who had clamored for a message had been satisfied, Tabby turned to Mrs. Bishop. Sustained contact with so many on the other side had left her exhausted and weak, but she was determined to put Mrs. Bishop’s fears to rest. “Caleb is not dead.”
Mrs. Bishop let out a gasp and would have collapsed if not for the lady next to her catching her by the arm. “Where is he? I would give anything to see him again, to hold him. I know in my heart that he is innocent.”
Tabby looked at her feet and shook her head. “I wish I knew, I’m sorry. I only know that he is alive. He is a clever man, though, and I’m sure wherever he is, he’s thriving.” She did not have to lie or sweeten her words; they were the truth.
“I miss him so much,” Mrs. Bishop said softly.
“I miss him, too.” She hadn’t even realized it until the words slipped out. For as much as the young man had confounded her, she found herself missing him with an intensity that rivaled the loss she felt for her sister. She hated that she missed him, especially after he had accused her of lying, but she did. She missed the appreciative glimmer in his eye when she said something clever. She missed his quick smile that was no less special for its frequency. She even missed his cocky banter.
But now was not the time to mine the depths of her heart. No sooner had she given her message to Mrs. Bishop than the parlor door was opening and Larson was clearing his throat expectantly.
“Madame, Mr. Whitby is here. Should I tell him you’re busy?”
Tabby froze. She shot a pleading look to Mrs. Bishop, but of course the older woman had no clue what had transpired between Tabby and him, and so the urgency of the situation was lost on her.
Mrs. Bishop gave a heavy sigh. “No, that won’t be necessary. The séance is concluded, I suppose, and he may be here with news about Caleb.”
Panicked, Tabby darted her gaze around the room, looking for a way out. If she moved fast, she might be able to slip out the servant’s entrance and into the back hall.
“I—I have to go,” Tabby mumbled. But as she started for the door, she was waylaid by the gaggle of women.
“Miss Cooke, I’m hosting a party Tuesday next, and I simply must have you there to perform a séance.”
“How much do you charge for a sitting?”
“Do you offer private sittings? I have a question for a spirit, but it is of a delicate nature.”
Bombazine skirts pressed in around Tabby, feathered fans snapping open and shut as the women all pleaded for her attention.
When at last she had broken free, mumbling vague promises of appointments, Tabby threw a glance over her shoulder at the other door just as a well-pressed suit stepped inside. For one brief, terrible moment, her eyes locked on his, and then she was gone.
19
IN WHICH THERE IS A GRUESOME REVELATION.
THERE WAS A clock on the mantel and with every heavy movement of the minute hand, it let out an awful, grinding tick, tick, tick.
After being admitted by a distracted adult son and daughter-in-law, Tabby had been left in the stately bedroom with the dying man, her first patient as a watcher. Robert Graham had obviously lived a comfortable life as a dean of Harvard, his chamber well appointed and tastefully peppered with mementos of a career spent in academia. The doctors had come and gone, done what they could for Mr. Graham’s chronic chest complaint, and told his family that all was left now was to make him
comfortable in his final hours.
Tabby sat up in the armchair by Mr. Graham’s bed, stretching her aching legs and willing her scratchy eyes to stay open. She was not just being paid, after all, to keep him company; she was responsible for making sure that if and when he stopped breathing that he was well and truly dead.
All she wanted to do was sleep, and put the chaos of the séance that afternoon behind her, but she had promised Mary-Ruth, and she needed the money. Besides, she would be safe here, a roof over her head for so long as the sick man lingered. And when he took his last breath, she would find another dying patient, and so it would continue.
Mr. Graham’s chamber was oppressively hot, but Tabby was mindless of the sweat that beaded down her back. The image of Mr. Whitby’s cold eyes finding hers across the room had seared itself into her mind. They had held a threat, a promise. She knew that he had killed Rose, and he knew that she knew. He would find her.
A hoarse voice pulled Tabby from her thoughts. “Shh,” she said, rising and placing her hand on Mr. Graham’s clammy forehead. “You mustn’t exert yourself. Here.” She poured out a glass of water from the china decanter and held it to his lips.
He drank but a short time and then feebly turned his head away, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Then he was trying to speak again.
Tabby leaned down close, trying to catch the broken and raspy words. She had thought he was past the time for speech, but he seemed agitated, desperate to get words out.
“They must not... Do not let them take me...” His glazed eyes were wide with panic, his chest rising and falling much too quickly.
Tabby dabbed at his perspiring temples. It was not uncommon for the dying to express last fears or terror of the unknown. “Let me fetch your son and his wife.”
Even as she made the offer, she knew that it would bring him little comfort; she had seen the way his family disdained him, had no desire to sit with him in his final hours and leaving him in the care of a stranger.
“No,” he rasped. “I have done wicked, wicked things. But I beg of you, do not let them take me when my time is come. Do not let them do to my body what I allowed to happen to so many.”
