His frown deepened, but he stepped aside and opened the door wide. Once inside the foyer, the scent of incense and herbs was cloying.
“I will need to speak with Madame Zula,” the servant said. His tone revealed his agitation far more so than his words did. But his demeanor remained stiff and somewhat uncertain.
“Certainly. We shall wait here,” Lady Vale said. “Naturally, Madame Zula will be compensated for the inconvenience.”
He disappeared behind a heavily-lacquered pocket door. Stepping closer to it, Elizabeth peered through, heedless of Lady Vale’s hissed protest.
She couldn’t see Madame Zula as the settee she occupied faced away from the door, but she could see the servant bent low, whispering into the woman’s ear. It was a strangely intimate conversation and Elizabeth found herself shying away from it. The man was clearly more than just a servant to Madame Zula.
“That was impossibly rude,” Lady Vale whispered. She followed up her momentary censure with the question, “What did you think of her?”
“I couldn’t see her. But I think she is very familiar with her servant,” Elizabeth answered.
Lady Vale’s lips parted in surprise. “Oh, I see. Well… that is neither here nor there, is it?”
Nothing more was said as the servant returned. He eyed them both suspiciously but stated, “Madame Zula has agreed to the change in scheduling… though typically, she would refuse a client for such an abuse of her goodwill. I assume that you have an item for her to use during your reading, madame?”
“I have brought something,” Lady Vale said.
The servant nodded again and stepped aside, opening the pocket door for them and letting them pass into the parlor.
The room was bathed in dim light, the lamps shuttered to prevent their glow from penetrating the deep shadows of the room. As they entered, making their way toward the small settee that faced the fireplace, they were both somewhat shocked at the appearance of Madame Zula. She was younger than anticipated though still significantly older than her servant and lover. None of that detracted from her dark beauty, however. Dusky-skinned, with almond-shaped eyes set off by thick lashes and winged brows, she looked every inch the gypsy she claimed to be.
Madame Zula remained seated, her hands folded in her lap, her turbaned head bowed, and a serene expression marked her countenance. Her manservant had entered behind them. The improbably handsome servant began rearranging the room to suit a gathering of three rather than two. She wondered that he seemed to do all the tasks of footman, butler, assistant and secretary as he walked over to a small table and wound the mechanism on a clockwork music box. The tinny notes filled the room, eerie and even somewhat discordant.
“Madame Zula is in a trance-like state… calming the mind before she breeches the spirit world. When the music stops, she will awaken,” he explained in a pleasantly deep voice filled with just a hint of an Irish accent. “You may speak to one another, but do so softly and please do not attempt to engage her until she acknowledges you.”
“Certainly, sir,” Lady Vale answered in a cool but not clipped tone.
Like so many things about Lady Vale, her reply was all that was ladylike and dispassionate. Most of the time, it was a facade that she carefully maintained. There were moments when it slipped, when Elizabeth could glimpse the carefree and beautiful girl that her employer had once been but, more often than not, those slips only revealed a woman who lived daily with grief and uncertainty.
It was not the first time they had visited a mystic, fortune teller, soothsayer or other variety of charlatan. They were so commonplace that Lady Vale could manage to approach even such metaphysical attempts to locate her lost son with an outwardly objective aplomb that was both admirable and worrisome. But Elizabeth knew the truth. She often heard her mistress weeping at night, sobbing into the darkness. The loss of her son haunted her.
“Have you the item?” Lady Vale asked after the manservant left the room.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, your ladyship. I have it with me.” She was well acquainted with the routine, of course. This was not the first mystic that Lady Vale had employed in the search for her missing child. Unlike many of them, Madame Zula came highly recommended. But then, when a psychic told people precisely what they wished to hear and proved herself by revealing sensitive information that could be easily ascertained by greasing the palm of a disgruntled servant, it wasn’t difficult to gain recommendations, Elizabeth thought bitterly. She had no belief at all in the nonsense such performers, for that is what they were surely, spouted.
For herself, Elizabeth put no store in such things. But if it brought Lady Vale some measure of comfort to do those things, it was certainly not her place to object. Employed by Lady Vale’s brother-in-law, the Honorable Branson Middlethorp, Esquire, it was not her job to prevent such activities, only to accompany Lady Vale and report back should any of her endeavors become too costly, either emotionally or financially.
Madame Zula opened her eyes. Her gaze traveled from Elizabeth’s face to Lady Vale’s. It was obvious that she recognized Lady Vale immediately. Everyone did, after all. People whispered about her everywhere they went.
“I understood that the appointment was for a Miss Masters. I was not aware there would be other guests,” Madame Zula said with a hint a censure in her voice.
“I scheduled the appointment for my employer,” Elizabeth said. “In order to avoid gossip and speculation, I felt it best not to have her ladyship’s name associated with such activities. I’m certain you understand.” It had also been a calculated effort on her part to reduce the amount of foreknowledge the psychic might gain about Lady Vale’s situation.
Madame Zula inclined her head. “Certainly, Miss Masters. You are most welcome, Lady Vale. Might I ask what position Miss Masters occupies for you? Maid, secretary?”
“Companion,” Lady Vale corrected.
Her tone implied the truth of it. Keeper. That was how she viewed Elizabeth, and that was unlikely to alter.
“Of course,” Madame Zula said, her voice pitched low and nonetheless dramatic for it. “Forgive my misunderstanding.” She reached for a small bell on the table beside her. It tinkled lightly and the young, obscenely pretty servant entered again. They whispered to one another for just a moment before he nodded and left. Only a moment later, he returned with another chair which he placed at the table that occupied pride of place in the room.
“Please, we will sit at the table, no? It is much easier to do what must be done there,” Madame Zula continued, gesturing toward the elaborately-draped table that now housed three heavy chairs.
Or easier to conceal a person or a mechanism beneath the elaborate tablecloth in order to further her charade, Elizabeth thought. As the wisest course of action was to keep her opinions to herself, Elizabeth simply followed Lady Vale and Madame Zula to the table. After both had seated themselves, she followed suit. She had a moment of envy for the lovely cloth that covered the table. Alternating panels of rose velvet and silk, it would have made a lovely gown.
It had not escaped her that she was the most poorly dressed person in the room. In another life, long before her circumstances had been so irrevocably altered, she had danced and laughed and worn pretty gowns. There had been color and gaiety but, through her own idiocy, it had all gone away.
Now, her brown, dowdy dress was a sort of armor that she had donned. An outward symbol to others of her lowered status and a reminder to herself not to allow her own vanity to sway her.
Working first as a governess, then as a companion, she had quickly realized that she was trapped in an in-between world, not unlike the spirits Madame Zula claimed to commune with.
Neither servant nor gentry, the rules of society prompted her to be present at functions without ever participating. But that put her in the field of vision of unscrupulous men whose attention she did not want. Dressing in drab colors, scraping her hair back into tight and hideous chignons that left her head aching, as did the unnecessary
spectacles perched on her nose, provided the only form of protection available to her. They were also a constant reminder to her of just what her own vanity and recklessness had cost her. In order to survive her posts and her newly lowered position in the world, it had been imperative to make herself appear as unattractive as possible.
While protecting her virtue, or at least what remained of it, was certainly of vital importance, there were moments when she missed simply being pretty, when she missed laughing at a ball and slapping a man’s arm with a fan when he was too forward. She hadn’t been a raving beauty to attract all the beaus, but she’d had her share. It was rather telling that they’d all vanished when it became apparent she had no dowry or estate to bring with her into a marriage, all but one. His intentions, however, had proven to be much less than honorable.
Madame Zula placed her hands flat on the table and dropped her head forward onto it, moaning strange syllables under her breath. Forcing herself to pay attention, to focus on their surroundings and what might be happening, Elizabeth put away her moment of self-pity. She had a job at least, a position that paid fairly well and that allowed her to go to bed each night without placing a chair against the door for added security.
“Spirits, I ask for your guidance… give me your voices that I may provide answers to this poor woman… answers not held within this realm,” Madame Zula called out dramatically, her voice rising like any veteran of the stage. “Come to me. Fill me with your knowledge!”
Elizabeth did not roll her eyes. In point of fact, she was perfectly still, focusing solely on the woman speaking. There was something strangely compelling about the performance, about the way her voice rose and fell, the deft and yet delicate movements of her body as she swayed in her chair under the alleged influence of the spirit world. Mesmer, Elizabeth thought. She had studied information about his technique, about animal magnetism. Was it possible that Madame Zula was a practitioner?
“Give me the item you have brought with you,” Madame Zula instructed, holding out her hand, palm up. Her fingers moved in a rhythmic fashion, one that drew the eye and invited the observer’s focus.
Taking the small pouch from the pocket of her gown, Elizabeth opened it and poured the contents into the woman’s outstretched hand. The simple pocket watch made her pause. Why on earth would Lady Vale’s son, a lad of only four when he vanished, have a watch?
Madame Zula, lifted the item, examined it closely. Her face seemed to pale in the candlelight. “This item belongs to the person you wish to contact.”
Lady Vale smiled but it was not a friendly expression. “That item belongs to someone I very much wish to speak with.”
Madame Zula rubbed her thumb across the initials etched rather crudely on the casing. She gave a jerky nod and closed her hand tightly around the watch. Her head dropped forward, moving side to side almost like a dance. “Yes, yes! The spirits are whispering, talking amongst themselves… deciding if we are worthy of their assistance.”
Elizabeth looked to Lady Vale, curious. The woman was again impassive, but there was a gleam in her eye. What was she about, Elizabeth wondered? Had she known all along that the woman was a charlatan, and the fob was simply a way to prove that? Whatever was happening, it seemed that Lady Vale was playing a game of her own with the mystic.
Not for the first time, Elizabeth reflected that there was no reason for Mr. Middlethorp to employ her to ensure that Lady Vale would be safe from those who would exploit her. The woman was as cunning as any of those attempting to make her a mark in their confidence games.
“Your son is not with them, my lady,” Madame Zula said. “He is not part of the spirit realm, but there are others there who know of him, of his fate.” A soft whispering sound filled the room, low and inaudible, it could have been the buzzing of insects on a summer day, but it felt infinitely more sinister than that.
Elizabeth felt a chill run through her, but she forced it away. The hair on her arms rose and she felt a strange urge to flee. Reasoning it out, Elizabeth reminded herself that the woman could easily have found that out via news sheets or through simple gossip. It was common knowledge, after all, that Lady Vale’s son had vanished after a trio of assailants entered their London home and made off with him. It was equally common knowledge that, despite all evidence and logic pointing to the contrary, Lady Vale still believed him to be alive.
“Go on,” Lady Vale said softly, bowing her head ever so slightly. A breath shuddered from her, another visible crack in her otherwise cool facade.
“They took him into the darkness, and then panic set in.” She paused dramatically and lifted her gaze to Lady Vale. “How he cried for you!”
Cold fury washed through Elizabeth. It was blatant manipulation and nothing more. She parted her lips to speak, but Lady Vale gave her a sharp look and a shake of her head.
“Go on,” Lady Vale said to Madame Zula. “I never imagined that my sweet boy did not mourn after he was taken or that he was not afraid, even if he was too young to fully understand what was occurring. Continue, Madame. I will steel myself to hear it!”
Madame Zula eyed Lady Vale for a moment, her expression displaying a grudging respect before she dropped her head and continued. “What were they to do with a small boy? A trio of bandits and a towheaded child would draw too much attention,” the woman said. She looked up sharply, “An adventure he promised.”
Lady Vale’s hand stiffened in hers and her breath rushed out in a low hiss.
“He was so brave, to go with them… to save you,” Madame Zula continued.
Her voice was different, distant it seemed, Elizabeth noted. She’d cocked her head to the side as if listening, as if someone whispered in her ear. It made Elizabeth’s blood run cold. She glanced at Lady Vale and saw the woman’s face had paled considerably. Her posture had stiffened, her back completely straight, but that did not hide the tremors that wracked her.
“They gave him to a couple… a man and woman who had no children of their own,” she intoned dramatically.
“Where?” Lady Vale demanded.
“The couple was traveling—no… they were travelers. Not gypsies, but wanderers. There were in the north.”
“The north?” Elizabeth snapped. “As that leaves the entire countryside of England, all of Scotland and a portion of Wales to consider, do you think, perhaps, you could narrow it done somewhat?”
Madame Zula moaned loudly, her head dropping forward onto the table. When she spoke again, her voice sounded strange and even terrifying. “He has suffered, this boy! And he has done awful things to survive… terrible things. He is not the man you would have raised him to be, Lady Vale. If you continue your search, it will only break your heart!”
Lady Vale’s expression shuttered and she answered simply. “I have no heart left to break so it does not matter.”
The strange whispering sound grew louder and it felt as if the very air around them was charged somehow, like a summer’s day before a storm. Forcing herself to be rational, to disavow the theatrics and atmosphere to focus only on the facts, Elizabeth dissected what had been said. Anything that the woman said that was based in fact was largely recited conjecture from newspapers. Anything else was simply a guess or creative storytelling. How many articles, all collected over the years and stored in a large book in the library by Lady Vale, had posed that theory? It was ludicrous. Everything was blamed on gypsies, stolen children most of all.
“Is he well?” Lady Vale asked.
Madame Zula smiled but it was a sad and wistful expression. “He is healthy, but he is not happy, my lady. He’s haunted by ghosts of his past… faint memories of a life that was before, and from… they were not kindly people, those who raised him. He suffered at their hands,” Madame Zula said, seemingly reluctantly. “You should leave him to his fate. Some things, once separated, cannot be made whole again!”
Lady Vale drew in on herself, seeming to shrink in her chair under the weight of that cautionary statement. It mimicked an argu
ment Elizabeth had overheard between Lady Vale and Mr. Middlethorp. He’d said essentially the same thing, that if her son were still alive, to introduce him to a life so removed from what he knew would likely break him.
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. Her leg brushed against something that was not the table at all. Her suspicions confirmed, she rose to her feet.
“That is enough!” Elizabeth said. Without warning, she yanked the rose-colored silk free of the table, exposing the small-framed man who sat beneath it, blowing into a strange instrument that produced the whispering sound they had heard. “How dare you use this woman’s grief to exploit her for your own financial gain?”
“And is that not what you do, my dear?” Madame Zula demanded, all pretense of her vaguely but unidentifiable European accent gone. She sounded Cornish, in fact. “If the lady weren’t grief-stricken and likely to be taken in, you’d not have a job, now would you?”
Those words wounded her because they were true. Were Lady Vale not such a tragic figure, her own situation would be infinitely more dismal. “True enough… ah, but there’s the word. True. Truth. Honesty. Lack of pretense. Those, Madame Zula, are clearly concepts you struggle with! Consider yourself lucky that we will not call the watch… but you will leave Bath and never importune this fair city again with your lies, your schemes, and your charades.”
Lady Vale rose. “There is no need to take on so, Miss Masters. I was well aware that Madame Zula was a fraud. Your man should be more careful about brushing the skirts of ladies beneath the table.”
Madame Zula sat back, smug and strangely serene. “All that you see here is theater, mere trappings. People do not wish to believe that there are those like myself walking amongst them. These props, if you will, allow them a sense of security because they provide an illusion of separation, that I am far removed from their mundane lives. But mark me, Miss Masters, and you, Lady Vale, my skills are real, my visions are real.” She waved her arm around the room, highlighting the strange jars filled with macabre things that defied description and the shuttered lamps and dark, dreary fabrics. “All of this… it’s what people want, what they expect from someone who lives on the veil as I do. I spoke the truth to you, my lady, regardless of what your companion believes. And I will continue to speak it now. Your son is nearer than you think. He hovers on the edges of your world and will come to you in the most unlikely of ways. As for you, Miss Masters, I applaud your protectiveness toward your mistress. I hold no ill will toward you for your accusations.”
The Vanishing of Lord Vale (The Lost Lords Book 2) Page 3
