John hadn’t permitted her to come with him to Maine, saying only that he had gotten a letter from her father instructing him to come north to discuss some business matters. John had insisted that she needed to stay and prepare for a dinner party they were having that weekend. He must have known her father was ill and kept the knowledge from her until it was too late.
The telegram said that all the funeral arrangements had been made and her father was to be buried that afternoon at three. Annie had stupidly looked up at the hall clock, as if it would tell her there was time for her to get all the way from New York City to the small New England town cemetery in which her father was already interred.
The next thing she remembered was lying on the floor of that same hallway, in the gathering shadows of evening, the pains dulled to a fierce ache, her nostrils filled with the strong smell of fresh blood. Nancy, her young maid, was sitting next to her on the floor, holding a tiny bundle and crying. Annie finally understood that she was saying, “It was a girl, poor mite, a girl, but she’s gone to sleep with the angels.”
Somehow, Nancy had gotten her upstairs and cleaned up, and she had forced her to drink cup after cup of some strong-tasting tea. She had also washed all of Annie’s clothes, although Annie never saw that particular outfit again, never having the nerve to ask the young maid what happened to it. She lay on her bed, riding wave after wave of cramping agony while in the dead of night the young servant went out and buried the poor mite who was sleeping with the angels. Annie had planted forget-me-knots in the small patch in the far end of the back garden. Just one more grave in my life that I will never see again.
Annie felt chilled when she thought about how competently that sixteen-year-old servant had handled everything and what it revealed about Nancy’s own experiences before she came to work for Annie. But she had handled everything, and Annie had only to play the role of grieving daughter, because John never knew he had lost a child. He had never even known she was pregnant, never registered her physical changes, he was that uninterested in her.
Already in despair about this loveless marriage, Annie had wanted to save this precious news until she could tell the one man in her life she knew would truly rejoice, her father. Consequently, although she was nearly four months along, she hadn’t told anyone, not even her doctor, waiting for her father to come home from that long business trip. But her father never came home, and Annie never told anyone, not even Beatrice O’Rourke, that she had miscarried a child six years ago, a girl who had gone to sleep with the angels.
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday afternoon, October 18, 1879
“The many friends of the late “Charley” Williams, who was killed in the balloon accident last Sunday, have decided to tender his family a benefit on next Sunday afternoon at Woodward’s Gardens.”
—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
As Nate walked towards the imposing entrance to Woodward’s Gardens, with its classical figures and California Grizzlies looking down at him, he checked his pocket watch again, as if this would change the fact that he was ten minutes late. He had started to leave the law offices early enough, but his uncle had delayed him with some damn fool question just as he was putting on his coat, so he missed the #14 car that would have gotten him there with time to spare. In her letter, Annie had said she would meet him at the bottom of the long flight of stairs that led to the main museum, which had originally been R. B. Woodward’s residence. He had hoped that if he got there early he would be able to pay her admission, but his uncle had foiled that plan as well. As he paid his own twenty-five cents and was going through the turnstile, he could see Annie across the small plaza, sitting on a bench.
When she saw him she stood up and waved, and he felt relieve that she didn’t seem upset with his lateness. As he strode over to her, Nate couldn’t help but notice with approval that Annie was wearing a navy wool coat that fit snuggly over the soft curves of her body and that the cool air had left her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkling. Monday night her eyes were so dark you could barely distinguish the iris from the pupil, but today they were the shade of autumn leaves. As he apologized for his lateness, he observed she seemed distracted, so he dispensed with further niceties and asked if she wanted to enter the main grounds.
She agreed and, taking his arm as they made their way up the stairs, she said, “Shall we go on through to the conservatories? I had thought to stroll the gardens, but it is too cold today.”
“Whatever you wish,” Nate replied and guided her to the left where he knew the entrance to the first conservatory lay. “I believe that there is a quiet alcove in the fern conservatory.”
Annie’s light laughter was her answer, but as they came to the small cast iron bench between two gigantic specimens of polystichum setiferum and sat down, she looked more serious and said, “Much as I would like to pursue just how you know about this little hideaway, we really must get to the business at hand. Were you able to meet with Mr. Pierce, the Chronicle reporter, and have you been able to find out anything about Judge Babcock?”
Nate, taken aback by her abruptness, said, “Unfortunately, Anthony Pierce was out of town when I checked on Thursday, but I left a message at the new Chronicle offices. Evidently, he is back in town now because I got a note from him this morning arranging to meet for lunch on Monday. But Annie, it would help if you were to give me a better idea about what you hope I will learn from him.”
Annie explained in some detail the basis for Miss Pinehurst’s concerns and her own hope that, if she could discover the tricks behind the séances, this would disillusion Sukie Vetch and convince her that they were frauds. Nate noticed, as he listened to her, that all of her light-heartedness had disappeared, replaced by clear signs of distress. He had seen those signs before, the hunched shoulders, the slight frown, the way her eyes darkened, and he began to worry that she was becoming too involved with solving Miss Pinehurst’s problem. From experience, however, he knew any opposition from him would only spur her on.
Annie continued, “Last evening, I attended my first séance. Arabella Frampton is the main medium, and she is an exceptionally fine actress. She was able to throw her voice so convincingly it didn’t seem to be coming from her, and she spoke first as a refined wife of a banker, then a gruff older man, and finally as an old woman, all in various regional American accents. Quite remarkable. I suspect she must have had some sort of training in theater. The article Pierce wrote about them was vague about her background.”
“So, you want me to ask Pierce if he knows any more details about her training?”
“In part. I am hoping he knows something more concrete about their methods, or any scandal attached to them back in England that he didn’t put in his article for the Chronicle. Compared to most of the other mediums in town he reported on, the Framptons got off lightly. However, there may be rumors he heard and didn’t follow up on or didn’t feel were safe to print. I must say they put on a pretty sophisticated show last night. Someone, and I don’t think it was either Arabella or her husband, did an amazing job of setting up the proper atmosphere.”
In spite of himself, Nate found his interest stirring. He’d never attended a séance, but from her description, this one seemed particularly well produced. “You make it sound like a stage act,” he said.
“I guess that is what it felt like,” Annie replied. “There was a piano, drum, and what was probably a tambourine, that would play softly, or loudly, or not at all, depending what was going on around the séance table. Kathleen, who was sitting out in the hall, said that the music was coming from the second floor, and it seemed to me to be coming from above. But the timing was so perfect that either the Framptons had some way of signaling whoever was making the music, or that person or persons had a way of observing and hearing what was going on down below, and they played with the lights and sound accordingly. Oh, and the table moved.”
“What! You aren’t serious. The table turned? I always thought that was a joke when I rea
d about Spiritualism in the papers,” Nate exclaimed. He was glad to see that Annie seemed less distressed than she had been at the beginning of this discussion.
“Rocked was more like it. What I wouldn’t give to have a chance to examine that room. I expect we would find that the table legs are controlled in some fashion. I have read about mediums using iron rods attached to their knees to lift up tables that look heavy but are actually made from very light materials. There maybe holes in the ceiling, and even wires, like the sort used to connect the upper rooms to the kitchen to call servants. Only these would connect the séance room to the room above.”
“You want me to find out what sorts of tricks they were up to in England, if there was any scandal, and what kind of training Arabella had, perhaps as an actress,” Nate summarized.
Annie nodded and then added, “Also ask Pierce about Simon Frampton’s background. He doesn’t claim to be a medium, but Pierce described him as a mesmerist, and that intrigues me. He has a commanding presence.”
Just then a troop of women turned onto the path in front of them, arguing over which of three species of ferns were most nearly related. Nate looked a question at Annie as he rose and doffed his hat to the women. She nodded in response and rose in turn so they could make their way down the path and out of the conservatory into the rest of the grounds. The cool air was a shock after the humid warmth of the conservatory, and while some of the clouds had begun to break up, letting the sun break through here and there, the wind still was quite brisk. They found themselves overlooking two ponds holding a number of sea gulls and pelicans, in addition to a dozen or more sea lions and seals, raucously barking. The air smelled strongly of fish.
“My goodness, they are noisy, but it is fun to see them up close like this. Is that a seal pup?” Annie raised her voice. “Look, there are two. How cunning, see how they splash each other.”
Without thinking, Nate said, “Do you remember our picnic at the Cliff House?”
Annie’s demeanor changed, and she seemed to hunch up as she said flatly, “Oh, yes. The seals . . . I . . . well, that was certainly a warmer day than this.” She tugged at the top buttons of her coat, which she had opened while they were inside.
What an idiot I am, Nate thought, remembering how that day last summer had ended. Trying to change the subject, he replied, “See here, you must be cold, let’s move on. Is there any particular place on the grounds you want to see? We could go through the tunnel to the zoo, or stop at the pavilion . . .”
Annie didn’t reply right away as they walked around the ponds. They had just entered a path surrounded by tall hedges, with a sign that said Marine Aquarium, when she shook her head and said, “I haven’t been to the Aquarium yet; I hear it is very impressive. I have only managed to make it to the Gardens a few times this past year. Did you go all the time when you were in the city for high school?”
Conscious of the continued stress in her voice, he tried to lighten her mood, saying, “Yes, it was one of my favorite treats when my parents came to town to visit me while I was boarding with Uncle Frank. I have been here a few times since then with my sister Laura, and that is why I knew about that alcove, I might add. Surely you went here when you were a child?”
“Actually, it had just opened the last summer I came up from the ranch to visit my aunt and uncle. We were scheduled to go the day we received the telegram . . . I . . . it came just as we were leaving the house. I remember we were in the hallway . . . I had a new dress for the occasion. The servant answered the door . . . gave the telegram to my uncle. He . . .”
Nate, who had been listening with puzzlement to Annie’s increasingly disjointed words, saw the start of her tears and instinctively pulled her close to his chest. At the same time he turned his back, so she would be screened from the prying eyes of anyone who might pass them on the path. He leaned his head down close to hers, wishing her hat wasn’t in the way, and said, “Annie, love, what is it, what telegram?”
“My mother . . . it said . . . it said she had died.”
“Annie, I am so sorry.” Nate pulled her tighter. “I never would have asked . . . do you want to leave?” Noticing that she was struggling to free her purse, which had lodged between them, Nate leaned away from her far enough to fetch his own handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and gave it to her. She made delicate use of it and then turned back into his arms, where he could feel her taking deep breaths, trying to stop crying.
From his perspective, in all too short a time, Annie had regained enough composure to pull away from him. He tucked her arm in his, and they began to walk silently down the path to the Marine Aquarium, both absorbed in their own thoughts.
Chapter Sixteen
“A feature of great interest to the visitor is the Marine Aquarium. This is not as complete as a few of the more magnificent European ones, but, nevertheless, is noted as being, at the present time, the largest aquarium in this country.”
—California Notes, 1876
That was embarrassing, Annie thought, as she walked beside Nate. It’s been thirteen years since mother died; you would think I would be reconciled by now. That wretched séance stirred up my emotions. Yet it’s not like I really thought I was speaking with my mother when I was in the cabinet with Evie May last night.
Evie May’s performance as her mother wasn’t what had shaken Annie to her core. It was Evie May climbing into her lap and announcing that she was her daughter that had upset her so. Annie had expected the Framptons to produce a small, two-year-old boy named Johnny, not a six-year-old girl; a girl the age her own daughter would have been if she hadn’t miscarried. A girl who seemed so real that Annie had momentarily accepted her as the spirit of her own, lost child. She must have cried out, because the next thing she knew the curtain was being thrown open, and Simon Frampton stood there, looking decidedly angry. She remembered him saying something sharp to Evie May, who then scooted away from Annie. He then helped Annie to her feet and brought her back to the circle. The séance must have been about to end, because, after a short hymn, the door to the parlor was thrown open by Albert, and the lights were turned on.
Annie had immediately left the room, rebuffing an attempt by Simon to engage her in conversation by saying something about a letter she needed to get home and write. She had put on her coat, and she and Kathleen were on the way to the horse car seconds later. Thank goodness Kathleen had been willing to do most of the talking; telling her about the music from upstairs, Albert’s coming and going, and a strange conversation between Evie May’s mother and Mrs. Hapgood. When Kathleen had asked Annie about the séance, she had fobbed her off by saying that she knew Beatrice would want to hear everything, so it would be better to tell her tale later to both of them, which she had done this morning. Only she hadn’t told them about Maybelle.
Maybelle. It was that name that had eventually brought Annie to her senses. Sitting in her room alone, late last night, she’d found herself imagining what her life might have been like if she hadn’t miscarried and her daughter had lived, wondering if a living child would have saved the marriage or kept John from committing suicide. Most of all, she struggled with what it would mean if Maybelle was the spirit of her daughter. However, every time she’d said the name Maybelle in her mind, she’d thought, No child of mine would be called Maybelle!
And, of course, she couldn’t dismiss the unlikely coincidence of Maybelle being a variant of Evie May’s middle name. Gradually, Annie’s good sense had returned. Remembering how Mrs. Mott and Miss Herron each claimed the spirit of the old woman as their own, she had even been able to laugh at herself for being so taken in. But today’s waterworks told her she was still unsettled by the whole experience.
Nate must think me a ninny, falling apart like that over a simple question about where I wanted to go in the Gardens. But, oh, it was good to feel his arms around me again.
These thoughts were interrupted when they reached the entrance to the aquarium, and Nate indicated that she should precede him
down a short flight of stairs. She felt like she was entering a cave, deep underground. The light, dim and dancing from the large glass tanks set in rock walls, and the artificial stalactites hanging from the roof, added to this impression.
“Nate, look, sea turtles. And what is that frightening fish, such teeth. Look here, there are little notices that help identify each species.” Annie ran up to the glass wall and peered in, enchanted when a school of tiny yellow fish flashed by, inches from her nose. She looked back at Nate and saw he was smiling at her. She said, “Now, don’t you laugh at me. I didn’t know what to expect, but this is wonderful. See, this tank is sea water and the tank over there has freshwater fish.”
Nate followed her over, but as he stood next to her, watching two large trout swim majestically past, she got up her nerve and said, “I must apologize for that outburst. I guess I have been thinking more about my mother than usual this past week. As I told you, Simon Frampton interviewed me on Wednesday, and of course he wanted to know details about her. Then, last night, it was the supposed spirit of my mother that the Framptons produced for me. I guess it has stirred up . . .”
“Do you mean to tell me Arabella Frampton pretended to be your mother? That is outrageous. No wonder you were upset.” Nate glowered down at her.
“Actually it wasn’t Arabella, but a second medium, a young girl, Evie May Nickerson. Quite extraordinary . . . but unsettling. She sits in this cabinet, and you go in and sit beside her.” Annie found her voice beginning to shake and realized she wasn’t ready to tell him about her experiences with Evie May, and so she said, “Nate, do you mind if we don’t talk about this any more just now. I would like to enjoy the aquarium and forget about Miss Pinehurst and her sister’s problems for a bit.”
Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 11
