Speaking of the other side, on my other side at the table was a small, dapper man, probably a clerk or businessman, to judge by his celluloid collar and cuffs. His manners were impeccable and his hands clean, so I did not especially mind holding hands with him.
“Speak to us, Hulagu,” the medium chanted. Her eyes were closed, and her head swayed slightly. She wore her dark hair in a thick coil high at the back of her head. It was so large that her hair must have come down to her knees when unbound.
An idle thought, and here I was supposed to be concentrating on summoning the spirit guide. With a sense of futility, I tried to focus my thoughts.
“Grant us wisdom, generous spirit! Vouchsafe to us the knowledge that you have gained beyond the veil!”
The jingle of a tambourine sounded behind me, making me start. The widow, the bureaucrat, and I all stared at the instrument that had seemingly materialized out of thin air, levitating about six feet from the floor and shaking wildly.
Then there came a muffled cry from the widow: “Ectoplasm!”
I turned back toward the table to see a strange white substance apparently streaming from the medium’s mouth. It glowed faintly in the candlelight as it oozed forth onto the table. The widow whispered a prayer under her breath, and the little clerk’s eyes lit up with wonder.
My disappointment was keen. I had hoped for better than cheap theatrical effects. I was opening my mouth to voice a protest when a clear, soundless voice in my head spoke.
Patience, Miss Sybil Ingram.
Startled, I shut my lips and remained silent.
I shall not detail the rest of the performance. Suffice it to say that when “Hulagu” consented to join us, he was very pedestrian in his views. He reassured the widow that her husband was free from pain and looking after her from beyond. He informed the clerk that his infant daughter was with the angels now and would be reunited with him when his time came. For “Madame Blanchard” there was an account of an estranged father who had forgiven her on his deathbed—a perfunctory tale, which together with that peculiar silent admonition confirmed that my disguise had been penetrated.
After the theatrics, the housekeeper came in to open the curtains as the medium, giving her best impression of someone wearied through her honest labors, accepted the thanks offered her. I hung back, waiting for whatever had been implied as my reward for having patience. I had never before had the experience of hearing a thought form in my head that was not my own. It was unsettling, but exceedingly interesting.
At last the door closed behind the other two clients, and La Clarté turned to me with a brisk clap of her hands. “Eh bien!” she said in matter-of-fact French, far removed from the theatrical tones she had used in the séance. “Well now. Shall we have tea?”
I never turned down tea, and said as much. The housekeeper soon brought in a tray and suggested that Mrs. Vise—who had remained in the foyer throughout the proceedings—join her in the kitchen for their own refreshment. Mrs. Vise was part of my disguise as a respectable Frenchwoman, for I usually went about in public unchaperoned, which a proper unmarried Parisienne would not have done. After she had left us, looking much relieved to depart from the medium’s presence, my hostess poured the steaming beverage, holding back the long sleeve of her robe so that it would not fall into the cup.
“How did you know my name?” I asked, accepting my cup and turning back my veil so that I could drink—and so that I could get a clearer view of the woman sitting opposite me. “And how did you get inside my mind?”
She chuckled comfortably and sat back with her tea. Despite her outlandish garments, she now appeared as ordinary and benign as a baker’s wife. “I am psychic,” she said, as she might have said, “I am fond of biscuits.” But I did not find the statement so straightforward, and, seeing my confusion, she elaborated. “I have the ability to see into people’s thoughts and to sense their emotions. When I first discovered my gift, I took a position assisting a traveling magician, but that wandering life grew tiresome. There is more stability as a medium.”
“So you don’t have any actual abilities when it comes to contacting spirits.”
Hearing my disappointment, she reached across to pat my hand. “I fear not, ma chère. I merely look into my clients’ minds to learn what comfort they seek, and then I provide it. All the other props—the musical instruments, the levitating table, the ectoplasm—are meaningless, but necessary to convince my visitors that I am bona fide.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “How peculiar that the very phenomena you manufacture are the things that they believe to be most authentic. May I ask how you managed the ectoplasm?” When she hesitated I added, “I won’t give away the secret.”
“Mind you don’t use it yourself, now.”
Snorting with derision would have been rude, so I confined myself to merely giving her the required assurance. She showed me a small hook stitched to the left shoulder of her robe. When she moved her head close enough to it, it seemed as if it would snag the magnificent coil of hair—but instead it drew out a length of white cheesecloth, hidden in her hair and treated with phosphorescent paint. From a certain angle, she could make it look as if the ectoplasm was unfurling from her nose or mouth.
“It’s very clever,” I said. “But... doesn’t your conscience trouble you? You are taking these people’s money under false pretences.”
Her shrug reminded me of Roderick’s assessment of French women as highly practical—or had he said pragmatic? “They will spend the money one way or another,” she said, “and better on me than on drink, non? I give them peace of mind without any damage to the liver. In any case, a woman must live, Miss Ingram. Without sufficient dowry or beauty to win a husband, I had to find a way to support myself.”
I could hardly argue with that. There were all too few ways a single woman could earn a living while keeping her self-respect, and this solution was, I was forced to admit, rather ingenious. And at least she did not use her thought-reading powers to rob people or blackmail them.
“But I want to hear about you, Miss Ingram,” she said now. “You are the first person I have ever spoken to who could truly be considered a spirit medium.”
“I am?” My heart sank.
She nodded gravely, though the solemn effect was spoiled when she then popped a petit four into her mouth. “Mind you, I have spoken to several people over the years who have had an isolated experience with the spirit world. They had enough sensitivity to be receptive when a spirit with some connection to them—a family member, a sweetheart—was trying to break through and communicate. Or a spirit tormented by some dreadful circumstance. When they are anguished enough, they can sometimes manifest themselves even to someone who isn’t sensitive.”
“As in a house haunted by a murderer or his victim.”
“Exactly. But someone who can see and make contact with spirits completely alien to her—! This is new and fascinating.”
“I had hoped that you would be able to teach me,” I said wistfully. “I want guidance, and I’ve found none so far.”
She laced her fingers together comfortably over her plump stomach. “Give it time,” she said. “Genuine mediums will probably be private people, slow to come forward lest they expose themselves to ridicule or exploitation. But I suspect you will find each other nonetheless.”
“What should I do in the meantime?” I asked. “I feel I’m blundering about in darkness, only guessing at what to do.”
Her eyes twinkled, and she ate another petit four before replying. “I shall be happy to share what I have learned from my research into the subject. On the other hand, guesswork and confidence have served you well so far.”
“But what if I should need to protect myself—and those around me? How do I do that?”
That gave her pause. “Have you really seen instances in which the dead can harm the living?”
“I have. And they’re most unsettling.” The petits fours looked inviting, iced in an array of pastel colo
rs, and I helped myself to a pink one. The thought occurred to me that it was peculiar to be discussing the spirit world in such a homely domestic setting. “I don’t even know what rules these entities are governed by,” I admitted. “I’ve heard it said that prayer can banish them, but I don’t know if it works on the spirits of people who weren’t devout in life. In my last séance, I broke the connection with those who formed the circle with me, and perhaps that reduced the strength of the connection to the spirit. But that was all I had—that and bravado and a few verses of Shakespeare.”
She looked pensive. Blotting her mouth with a lace-trimmed serviette, she thought a few more minutes before suggesting, “Folklore tells us that there are protective properties in iron and salt, so you might keep those at hand in the future—as long as they are not near enough to you to prevent the spirit from materializing. Breaking the circle was wise, as it probably reduced the amount of energy that the visitant could draw upon.”
“That is all?”
“All that I have managed to glean. Beyond that, though, you might try doing what I do.”
“Instead of contacting spirits, do you mean? I rather think that choice has been made for me.”
“No, ma chère, I mean listen. Reach out with your mind and your inner ear and see what you can learn from them. As with my clients, you may find that they will tell you what you need to know.”
I paused with my teacup poised at my lips, then lowered it. “That makes a great deal of sense,” I said. “Thank you, La Clarté. I will try it.”
“Call me Clarette, my dear.”
“Do you ever find, though, that you’re exhausted after using your gift? Increasingly I feel as if... well, perhaps it’s morbid, but almost as if the dead are using some of my own life in order to manifest themselves. My own life force, I mean.”
“Ma foi, that is alarming.” She set down her teacup. “Does this happen only when you are alone, or when others are with you?”
“Both. It does not happen every time, mind you, but more often than not.”
“I cannot say I have ever felt such a thing. I would have thought that if you were with a circle, you would be drawing on the energies of those with you.”
“It doesn’t seem to work that way for me,” I said, and she fell silent for a time, tapping one finger against her chin. The nail was painted in red varnish and looked rather alarming.
“Perhaps, then,” she said eventually, “as you practice the skill of reaching out you should also practice the opposite—drawing in, building an armored shell around your inner self.”
“That seems rather contradictory, doesn’t it?”
She shrugged. “But that is how we are with the living, n’est-ce pas? Sometimes we extend our hand to them, encourage them to tell us their troubles, offer them aid. But if they come to lean on us too heavily, to rely too much on us instead of using their own strength, we need to draw back, yes? Self-preservation demands it. Otherwise we ourselves become depleted.”
I ate another petit four. “I don’t understand how it could work.”
“See here.” She seized a vase from the sideboard and plunked it down on the table before me, pushing aside the teapot to make room. “You are the vessel, like the vase, yes? And a spirit comes along and pours into you like water. But there is a way to leave room for the spirit in the vase without letting the water ever come into contact with it, do you see?”
“If the vase had a lining,” I mused, “a sort of inner shield, like sheet metal, that would prevent the water from touching it even as it filled it.”
“Precisely.”
“So I have to learn how to create such a barrier.” I supposed there was a certain logic to it. It seemed worth making the attempt, at any rate—or both attempts—if I could only determine how.
“You have the intelligence and the determination,” she said. “Practice is all you need now.”
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was later than I had realized. “Thank you for all your help,” I said. “I should probably go now; I know you must have other clients arriving soon. Do you have any last suggestions for me?”
To my surprise, she reached out for my hand. When I placed it in hers, she looked into my eyes earnestly.
“Yes,” she said. “Although my gift does not permit me to look into the future, from what I have seen in your thoughts I can nonetheless make some educated guesses about what your future contains, my dear. And I advise you and your Mr. Brooke to leave Paris without delay.”
“What? Why?”
“This Julia woman. No good will come of having dealings with her.” Her eyes seemed to bore into mine. “She brings nothing but destruction and misery. You and the man you love should go far, far away from her—and as quickly as you can.”
After that I went shopping.
Lest you think that this was a frivolous response to the psychic’s warning, may I reiterate that all of my English clothes had either been disposed of upon my move to America or burnt in the fire that destroyed Brooke House. Granted, I had secured an appointment with the House of Worth on the Rue de la Paix, the finest couturier on the continent, but that was not for another week—and who knew if Roderick and I would even be in Paris that long?
Fortunately, more immediate gratification was at hand. I had learned from the concierge of a remarkable shopping establishment called Au Bon Marché, where the entire third floor was given over to dressmaking and the sale of ready-made dresses. I had to see for myself whether this paradise truly existed.
And by the shade of Sarah Siddons, it did.
I felt I was in a kind of Ali Baba’s cavern of riches. Never before had I stood in so huge a space devoted to dresses. Not just any dresses, mind you. Parisian dresses, with all that implied. Flirtatious little clusters of velvet flowers accenting the overskirt of an evening dress; spirited zigzag borders on a tablier overskirt; jaunty bias-cut tartan insets in a serge walking dress; chenille passementerie trim shaped like ivy leaves. And the fabrics! Shot silk that iridesced from robin’s-egg blue to butter yellow; cut velvet in cerise with a peacock-blue pile; tulle as light and airy as a cloud for evening dresses; myrtle-green satin embroidered with ivory roses; violet foulard as soft as the petal of a rose...
What some people, principally men, seem not to understand about clothing is that it can have a tremendous effect on one’s well-being. It is easy to scoff at fine fabrics and bright colors and painstaking fitting as frivolities. But when a woman puts on a dress that has been made with precisely her tastes and form in mind, one that presents her to the world in her best possible way, the enhancement to her confidence is difficult to overestimate.
Part of this is, no doubt, because we are taught as women that a great deal of our value is ornamental. Thus, flattering dresses that draw admiring glances confirm that we are meeting this standard—a shallow one, assuredly—in the world’s eyes. We are, in a sense, succeeding at our profession of being women. And this can hardly help but be satisfying, even though we are capable of far greater achievements.
On a more fundamental level, when one is to be trussed up in ten or fifteen yards of fabric on top of the uncompromising foundation of corset and bustle, every bit of comfort to be had is a mercy. This, again, is something of which men—happily for them—have little experience. Soft fabrics against the wrists and throat instead of stiff or scratchy ones; a just-right fit that will not pinch the upper arms or chafe at the neck; an overskirt that does not drag one down like an anchor but is engineered to feel as close to weightless as is possible in this sublunary world... believe me, over the course of a few hours these factors can make all the difference in one’s attitude toward one’s fellow human being. I had often seen ill-tempered women whose entire personalities might have changed for the better had they had access to a better wardrobe.
In what seemed no time at all I had chosen half a dozen ready-made dresses and was being fitted for half a dozen tailor-made ones. When I saw that some of the ball gown bodices wo
uld be made with fan seaming from up to twelve separate pieces in order to fit me as closely as my corset, I breathed a sigh of ecstasy. The buzz of questions and instructions, the delightful activity of women busy with pins, measuring tapes, and scissors, all contrived to make me feel as I imagined a high priestess must when attended by her handmaidens. This, truly, was the temple of woman.
And Monsieur Boucicaut, the brilliant gentleman behind this extraordinary place, had even seen fit to install a reading room for husbands waiting for their wives! Though it was disloyal of me, there were times when I thought the French had a degree of imagination not yet known in my home country.
Afterward I ventured into other areas of the store to select dainty new underthings, colorful stockings and gloves, shoes, hats, and a new wire-hooped bustle to replace the horsehair one I currently wore. I would have liked to purchase fine things for Roderick, but not knowing what would fit him I had to content myself with cravats and neckties. By this time a small army of delivery men had been dispatched to my hotel.
When at last I staggered forth into the waning daylight, exhausted but exhilarated, there was scarcely enough time to return to the hotel and dress for supper with Roderick. We were informal when we supped in private, but all the same I had Mrs. Vise help me change into one of my fetching new dresses. When I joined him in the sitting room of my suite, where the table had been laid, he gave an admiring whistle.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
