Society for Paranormals

by Vered Ehsani

  My skin was the least of my concerns. While I didn’t intend to voice that sentiment, apparently some comment escaped me, for Mrs. Steward shrilled, “Well, it should be your concern. Truly, I’m astonished. No one appreciates a disheveled, sour-looking bride. And poor skin quality ages a woman greatly. You’re already at a disadvantage there, Bee. You certainly can’t afford to add to it.”

  I wasn’t one to fret over advanced age, although twenty-five for a childless, unmarried woman was admittedly a disadvantage.

  “Mr. Timmons isn’t too fussed about his age,” I noted, again voicing what should’ve remained unvoiced. Lack of sleep was deteriorating my judgment and restraint.

  “Mr. Timmons is a man,” Mrs. Steward pointed out (as if I needed a reminder about that fact), “and thus isn’t subject to such concerns as we are. Don’t neglect to profit from sage advice, wherever it may originate from.”

  She sniffed and I could see in her countenance a quotation from Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Management forming. I was certain I couldn’t stomach a reminder of my inadequacies as a Household General, Mrs. Beeton’s terminology for a proper housewife, and I knew I wasn’t up to the task of wedding planning.

  Cilla noted my mood, for she interjected with, “Have you read the latest paper?” She held up a section of a London newspaper that was a few weeks out of date. A grainy sketch showed a woman astride a bicycle, wearing an altered skirt that could’ve passed for trousers. “I think I should like to try the new cycling costume for women. It would be far more practical for horse riding and walking, I should imagine.”

  I was amused; Mrs. Steward was appalled.

  “I should say not,” she said with a disparaging snort. “What next, you’ll walk about without shoes like the natives? Or perhaps you’ll campaign to enter Parliament? Such rubbish is the direct result of excessive imagination. Outrageous.”

  Cilla would not be so easily dissuaded. “According to the Rational Dress Society in London…”

  Mrs. Steward loomed out of her chair. “That Society? Bah! It promotes the sort of contemptible activity that Mrs. Beeton would not approve of.”

  Cilla smiled demurely and remained silent on the matter of appropriate dress. Meanwhile, I could discern in Mrs. Steward’s countenance an impending lecture regarding the suitable conduct of a proper Englishwoman.

  “We must be off,” I interrupted before she’d uttered a word. “Lilly wants to…”

  I struggled with an excuse. What did a normal bride fuss about as she prepared for her wedding?

  “Flowers,” I blurted out.

  “Lilly wants to flower?” Mrs. Steward asked, the slightest of frowns furrowing between her thin eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Cilla said. “She wants to discuss flower arrangements with us.”

  “Yes,” I continued. “And color schemes. Cakes. Linen.”

  Fortunately, Mrs. Steward spared me the agony of summoning a long list of foolish tasks by nodding her head approvingly. “Trust Lilly to focus on the important elements. You’d do well to follow her guidance.”

  “Indeed,” I muttered, and was tempted to remind my aunt that this was in fact my second wedding and thus I was the most experienced of the lot. I reconsidered and said nothing. Being an experienced bride wouldn’t improve my age, my skin tone or the bouquets.

  “We’re off then,” I said, forcing a smile while tugging at Cilla’s arm.

  I’d survived ghost lions, murderous giant insects, werewolves and all other manner of beasts, but I was seriously considering the notion that a wedding might yet be the cause of my demise.

  “Aren’t you eating breakfast?” Mrs. Steward asked, and well she should be astonished, for that was one meal I never skipped.

  “I’m decidedly not hungry,” I lied as my stomach clenched with loud ferocity.

  Another nod of approval greeted me. “It’s perfectly normal for a bride to lose her appetite so close to the wedding date,” Mrs. Steward said and waved me onward.

  Outside, Cilla and I parted ways with conspiratorial smiles. By the time I reached the barn, I felt I could eat a horse. Fortunately for Nelly, that wasn’t necessary as Drew hadn’t eaten the breakfast Jonas had brought down for him.

  “Drew, he’s not here,” Jonas informed me when I glanced up at the loft where my brother normally slept.

  “Oh? That’s odd,” I said but with less concern than I’d normally have expressed, given that I was polishing off his tea and toast.

  After that, I was in a much restored frame of mind and decided I might actually be able to make it through the day without murdering anyone.

  “No flying,” I informed Nelly as I led her outside. “I’ve just eaten.”

  My paranormally enhanced horse snorted and stamped a hoof, her eyes glowing. I trusted that indicated her acceptance of my request, hauled myself up into the saddle, and held on tightly. In short order, we arrived at the estate of the Hardinge family in a cloud of dust and churned-up vegetation.

  “Perhaps we should’ve flown,” I said as I brushed debris off my hat and pulled a leaf out of my mouth.

  Nelly nickered, her horsey version of a laugh, and set to eating the flowers of a lovely hibiscus bush. I hoped Lady Hardinge wasn’t too attached to the plant.

  I skirted the main house — an impressive structure of stone walls and tiled roof — and arrived at the cottage door. I barely had to knock before Lilly opened it to my face.

  “Thank heavens you’re finally here,” Lilly said as she yanked me inside and led me to a small study. “Goodness, your dress is a mess. How do you manage to untidy yourself so early in the day? It’s a good thing that women’s riding pants are coming into fashion. We’ll have to get you a set.”

  I inhaled deeply as we entered the study. The room could only be hers. Pressed flowers in frames filled part of one wall, while vases of dried flowers graced her writing table. Lingering in the air was the perfume of flowers before they were dried out.

  A tome of a book dominated a side table, with a few other weighty books stacked on top. Bits of flower parts were just visible amongst the pages of the bottom book, as the plants had their living juices squeezed out of them.

  Pressing and drying flowers is a brutal business.

  “I’ve something urgent to tell you,” Lilly continued as she steered me to a two-seater.

  “And I you,” I said, studying her flushed face. “But it can wait. Are you ill?”

  She wasn’t listening to me but gazing out the window and onto a scene I wasn’t privy to. After a moment of silence, she shifted to face me but stared at her hands, clutched loosely on her lap. Assuming she was apprehensive about our shared dream and what it might mean, I placed my hands on hers.

  “Don’t fret,” I said. “We’ll handle this together, come what may.”

  At that, she smiled, lifted her chin so that her robin-blue eyes meet my gaze, and said, “I’m pregnant.”

  “Goodness,” I said and leaped up. “Well, that’s news. But let’s not panic now.”

  “What an outrageous idea,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not in a panic at all.”

  “Well, perhaps you should be,” I said, visualizing a baby flying around the room, its bat wings flapping.

  “Bee, you’re overreacting,” she chided me. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Oh.” Only slightly mollified, I resumed my seat. “Are you very sure? It’s rather early…”

  “I’m sure,” she said firmly.

  “Well then,” I said, realizing that I wasn’t behaving in the most appropriate way for such an announcement. “These things do happen, even in the best of families. I heard that this isn’t necessarily cause for alarm. The important thing is to keep your wits about you and borrow some money.”

  Lilly shook her head at me, her lips pursed. “Beatrice, I hardly think we’ll need to resort to such an action.”

  “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” I said. “In that case, I suppose congratulations are in order.�
�� I leaned in and hugged her.

  “Indeed they are,” she said with a giggle at my reluctance.

  Her smile and her dreamy expression left me uneasy. Lions and talking insects I could manage, but this was an entirely foreign situation. And the father was a Popobawa. What manner of paranormal humanoid would issue forth from such a union?

  And how could my young cousin be a mother already? How would she manage? The Lilly I’d grown up with didn’t have a maternal instinct to speak of. She hadn’t even liked kittens and puppies, and refused to have anything to do with them. I could only hope she’d improve with the human version.

  I cleared my throat. “I suppose these things do happen from time to time.”

  Lilly looked askance at me. “I suppose. You make it sound like a disaster has occurred, rather than a baby.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose it could be a disaster if the little creature comes out flapping a set of wings,” I muttered.

  “Beatrice,” Lilly said in a tone much like her mother’s.

  “Then again, that wouldn’t alarm Dr. Ribeiro in the least,” I said. “He talks to zebras, after all.”

  Lilly sighed in great contentment.

  “I do hope you won’t be one of those women who speaks incessantly about their offspring,” I said, not unkindly but with some concern. “I simply can’t abide by such excesses, and I wouldn’t want to feel the need to avoid you, given how few of us English-speaking women there are to socialize with.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself,” she said and patted my hand reassuringly. “Now what did you want to tell me?”

  I hesitated. Would a woman in such condition be able to withstand the effects of the indelicate matter I wished to present? After all, I hadn’t tested its veracity and if the shock of it disturbed Lilly, I would never forgive myself, despite my reservations about the nature of the baby.

  As I had little knowledge and even less experience with maternal issues, I decided to err on the side of caution.

  “It’s nothing really,” I said. “Are you sleeping well?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” she said, her gaze returning to the window.

  She was lying.

  That was a startling revelation, for Lilly had never lied to me before, even when I wished she would at times.

  “That’s… good,” I said.

  Why was she lying?

  We were saved from any awkwardness by the arrival of Mr. Elkhart.

  I rose. “Mr. Elkhart, I believe congratulations are in order.” I refrained from mentioning my imagery of a winged baby.

  “Yes, thank you, dear cousin,” he said and strode to his wife’s side.

  If I thought the two of them had been enchanted with each other at the wedding, that paled before the delight they exhibited now. It was overwhelming in its sweetness, nauseatingly so, leaving me with the sensation that I’d devoured far too much toffee in one sitting.

  Mr. Elkhart, clever bat that he was, perceived my discomfort at witnessing the tender exchange, for he released Lilly’s hands and bade me follow him into the garden.

  We walked in silence until we were some ways from the cottage. He stopped us under the shade of a thorn tree. The branches were filled with the hanging nests of the chirpy, yellow weaverbirds.

  He turned to me, his expression somber. “What I have to share with you is for your eyes only, to do with as discretion dictates,” he said. “It’s regarding a correspondence from my father. I’d written to him previously about your presence here, and my plans to rid my new home of you.”

  “A plan you were unsuccessful in carrying out,” I said, wondering why he mentioned it.

  “Fortunately so,” he said and held up a letter. “With the imminent arrival of Prof Runal, I fear my father’s words are even more urgent, their implications even graver.”

  I eyed the letter with some concern. The last occasion in which a letter had raised such vigorous emotions was the one in which a certain Advocate Horace Jones, Esquire had written to Mr. and Mrs. Steward in regard to an orphan. The letter obliged them to collect one Beatrice Anderson, orphaned daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, using a tone not to Mrs. Steward’s liking.

  “Whatever could your father have to say about me?” I asked.

  “Not about you,” Mr. Elkhart said, his eyes compassionate and as deliciously warm as a cup of dark tea. “It’s about your mother.”

  “And what would he know of my mother?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes.

  He hesitated and observed me with some care, as if I might at any moment knock him over the head with my walking stick. It wasn’t an unfounded fear, for I have been known to do just that with wayward paranormal creatures.

  “They were very close at one point,” he delicately explained.

  “Very close?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

  He sighed and glanced back at the cottage. “If things had turned out differently for my father, if he hadn’t fled England…” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Well, you would’ve had a vampire for a father.”

  “Ridiculous,” I said.

  Shaking his head, he wordlessly handed the thin collection of paper to me and swiftly departed. I remained fixed to the spot as he returned to the cottage, grass swishing in his wake. Above me, the flock of yellow weaverbirds inhabiting the tree chirped and whistled as they worked.

  I pride myself on my imagination; it is after all one of the most vital tools for any paranormal investigator. Yet I found in this case that imagination had its limits. What could Mr. Elkhart’s father know of my mother and what would he need to tell his son about her?

  The answer shook within my fingers, but even I couldn’t begin to imagine what that answer was.

  Chapter 6

  I glanced at the date of the letter. Mr. Elkhart must’ve received this piece of correspondence shortly after he’d imprisoned me in a cave; he had intended to fly me onto the next departing ship, as he’d been concerned about my connection with the Society.

  Of course, all that changed when he proposed to my cousin. At the time, he’d made mention of something else that stayed his hand, and now I knew what that had been: his father’s wishes.

  I glanced about; I was quite alone save the birds, yet I felt as if Mr. Elkhart Senior and my mother should be standing before me, explaining something of my past to me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Did these words provide insight into the tragedies of my family? Or would they merely add to the pain?

  Goodness, enough of this, I told myself, not pleased at all with my reluctance to pursue the truth wherever it may lead.

  Yet still I hesitated. Thus far, what I had of my mother were sweet memories and an embossed metal teapot she had prized. Until this moment, I’d always pictured my parents together, a happy image framed in childhood innocence and trust. Now in my hands was a third person who laid claim to my mother’s affections, or so his son asserted.

  Could it be true? Would these words betray my mother and my memories? And did I want such knowledge revealed?

  “Of course you do,” I snapped. “Knowing or not knowing, you’ll still be plagued by it.”

  But knowing will change everything, an insidious voice — sounding remarkably like Mrs. Steward’s — lectured me with some justification; after all, a little ignorance can go a long way.

  While I wholeheartedly agreed with that notion, I reluctantly admitted that the damage had already been done: that framed photo in my mind had the shadow of another on it.

  In addition, I detest hearing Mrs. Steward in my head.

  I unfolded the letter and began.

  My dear Tiberius

  I received your correspondence with my usual elation at receiving news from my son. My enjoyment further increased upon reading the description of the lovely lady you have a fondness for. I shall look forward to more cause for celebrations in the near future.

  Sadly, the tone of this letter will be more serious in nature. Upon reading the name ‘Beatrice’, my heart nearly cea
sed its beating, and soon you shall understand why.

  I do trust your efforts to rid your new home of Beatrice Knight either failed or haven’t been carried out yet. I beg you, for the sake of any love you may hold for this old man: cease any hostilities against her and I shall be much indebted to you.

  If the fates had directed my life along a different path, Beatrice might have been my daughter or perhaps my stepdaughter, and thus your sister. For I was in love with her mother before she became Mrs. Anderson, and even after. I shan’t provide the details in this missive, except to say that we once held the greatest of affection for each other, a sentiment that was unaltered despite our separate destinies.

  Some years ago, I received an urgent request from Mrs. Anderson. I’ve included that letter herein, for there is no longer any need for me to retain it.

  In summary, she had pleaded for my assistance, as she feared for the well being of her children, particularly Beatrice.

  I immediately dispatched my offer of assistance and directed her to my location, where I could offer her whatever protection and support she might be in need of.

  Alas, alas, I fear my message never reached her, for the next I heard, she and her husband had been killed under violent and, may I say, suspicious circumstances. This could only mean the Fourth Mandate had been enacted, and Mrs. Anderson’s suspicions justified.

  This is all to implore you to extend the assistance and protection to Beatrice that I was unable to provide her mother.

  With fondest fatherly greetings.

  Attached to that letter was a sheet of paper, the quality fine and the penmanship even finer. The date struck me as familiar, but I didn’t linger to analyze why. On that sheet were etched my mother’s words. I read and re-read every stroke of her pen, every word a confirmation of Mr. Elkhart’s letter.

  The shadow over the picture frame remained.

  Chapter 7

  After all the alarming news — a forthcoming offspring and a mother’s desperate plea to a former lover — I did what anyone would do in such a predicament: I went flying.