“Not everyone considers the spiritualist movement to be populated by dunderheads,” Alan said.
“Horace didn’t mean to say that,” the woman beside Horace quickly interjected. “Did you, dear?”
“Of course not, Charity.” He patted his companion’s hand. “I take it you have such an interest?” he asked Alan.
Alan squirmed slightly in his chair. Lucy wondered if he was uncomfortable because if he said no, he’d be insulting Lucy, and if he said yes, Horace might think he was a fool.
“Many people have come to see me,” Lucy said. “They have seemed to me to be of quite high intelligence.”
Horace smirked. “I’m sure they were.”
Colonel Phillips picked up his knife and tapped it on the table absentmindedly. “The list of visitors is quite impressive.”
“A number of my colleagues and scientists in many fields are all interested in exploring the spiritual realm,” Alan said. “I myself have become quite curious about how much of our identities are retained after we die.”
“That’s natural, in your work,” Mr. Holden said. “Being so close to death as a doctor…”
Mrs. Holden leaned toward Lucy. “What is it like? When you make contact, I mean.”
Lucy took a moment to gaze around the table. A good performer knew how to prolong a moment, to wait until the audience was hooked. Each face shone with expectation, eager to hear what she had to say. Even Horace’s superior expression had melted into a careful neutrality. Inwardly Lucy smirked. He had been beaten, and he knew that she knew it. Her father beamed, then gave a tiny nod, giving her the go-ahead to rope them in.
“Well,” Lucy began, basking in the shining eyes, the glitter surrounding her. She glowed as brightly as the crystal chandeliers. “I go very still inside….”
Eight
By the time the dessert plates were cleared, Lucy had won over even Horace Schmidt. He might not have become a believer, but it was clear that Lucy had charmed them all. Horace and his companion got up to dance. Miss Carlyle and Mrs. Van Wyck had left the table to visit with a friend on the other side of the room. Now that Lucy’s audience was dispersing, she began fretting over Bryce’s lack of attention, until she saw that he and his parents were strolling through the tables, greeting their guests.
Three tables away.
Lucy smoothed her skirt.
Two tables away.
Lucy patted her hair ornaments, straightened her necklace.
One table away.
Lucy took in a deep breath and released it just as she heard Bryce’s voice behind her. I will not look at him until he speaks to me, she ordered herself.
“Father, Mother, I believe you know everyone here,” Bryce said. “Oh, except for Colonel Phillips and his daughter, Lucy.”
Lucy swiveled slightly so that she could face Bryce and his parents.
“Very kind of you to include Lucy and me in your party,” Colonel Phillips said as he stood and tipped his head in a modified bow.
“Bryce was rather insistent,” Mrs. Cavanagh said with a breathy laugh. Lucy could feel the woman appraising her, evaluating her father. “But he was terribly unclear as to how he knows you.”
“Colonel Phillips and Lucy are staying with Mrs. Van Wyck. Alan and I had called on her and met them there,” Bryce explained.
“And it was most generous of you to include me as well,” Alan said.
“You’re at Riverview Hospital now, isn’t that right?” Mr. Cavanagh asked. “The charity wards?”
Alan nodded. “An intern.”
Mr. Cavanagh barked a laugh. “Well, then the least we can do is feed you, dear boy. That place is notorious for its long hours and meager pay.”
“And what brings you to New York?” Mrs. Cavanagh asked Colonel Phillips.
“A multitude of interests,” Colonel Phillips replied. “But I don’t care much for discussing business in the presence of such loveliness.”
Lucy sat in silence, wondering why Bryce wasn’t speaking directly to her and why he didn’t explain that she was the Lucy Phillips, the medium everyone was talking about. The celebrity who had impressed this tableful of snobs.
“Have you been enjoying your stay?” Mrs. Cavanagh asked, her voice no less chilly despite Colonel Phillips’s attempt to charm.
“Oh, very much,” Lucy said, before her father could respond. “Mrs. Van Wyck is too kind. But I’ve been kept so busy I’ve barely been able to see anything of New York. Or go to parties like this. Or anything.”
“If you’re not going to parties, then what is keeping a young girl like you so busy?” Mr. Cavanagh asked.
“Dancing with me, I’m afraid.” Alan stood and pulled out Lucy’s chair. “The orchestra is playing the dance you promised me.”
Everyone at the table looked at Lucy. She had no choice but to stand and allow Alan to escort her to the dance floor.
Lucy fumed, but she couldn’t refuse him; it would have been far too rude. Who does he think he is? Bryce will get the wrong idea!
“That was rather abrupt, don’t you think?” Lucy said indignantly. “I barely had a chance to speak with Bryce’s parents.”
Alan put his hand on Lucy’s waist and took her hand. He began to move her through the dancing couples.
“I was helping you,” Alan said quietly. “You were about to tell them about your special abilities, weren’t you?”
“Of course. It would impress them to know that I’m famous!”
“If you want to make an impression on Bryce’s family, you won’t mention such things,” Alan warned. “Proper young ladies don’t charge fees to people eager to speak to the dead. It would be considered terribly inappropriate. In the same category as being an actress. Worse, actually.”
“Oh.” Lucy allowed herself to be guided around the floor. She kept her eyes on the top button of Alan’s shirt. Finally she looked up at his face. “I suppose I should thank you, then.”
“The Cavanaghs are part of a society that takes itself, and its members, very seriously. Rules, unspoken and otherwise, guide them at all times. One of those rules is that young women do not call attention to themselves.”
“But—” Lucy stopped herself. If what Alan was saying was true, had she ruined her chances at entering this world by all the bragging she had just done at the table? Her shoulders slumped. She had thought she’d been doing so well at fitting in.
The song ended, and Alan returned her to the table. Bryce and his parents were now across the room. As everyone else at the table chatted, Lucy sat staring into her lap, wondering how soon they could leave.
“You look as bored as I feel,” Bryce whispered into her ear, his hands on the seat back, his lips in her hair.
Lucy’s eyes closed. His warm breath very gently fluttered her curls, and his smooth voice enveloped her. Before she could think of a response, he pulled out her chair. “Dance with me,” he commanded.
Lucy was aware that their progress onto the dance floor was being watched, that people were trying to figure out who she was. She had studied the other couples all night long, so she was fairly confident she would be able to dance as if a society ballroom were her natural habitat.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t rescue you earlier,” Bryce said, his hand on her waist, his mouth near her cheek. “Parents, you know.”
“I understand,” Lucy replied.
“I hope you didn’t find your company too tedious,” he continued, easily moving her between couples. “My mother was rather irked at having to add you and your father to the guest list on such short notice. So I added Alan and the others too. I told them that this way, we could simply add another full table rather than try to squeeze you and your father in somewhere.”
“But Mrs. Van Wyck had already been invited,” Lucy said.
“Yes,” Bryce said, “but Mother hadn’t yet decided where to put her. Or Miss Carlyle. She feels an obligation because of their family lineages, but they are both a bit bohemian for the Cavanaghs.”
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Lucy tried to think of something to say, something to hold his attention. Luckily Bryce seemed eager to talk, so she let herself simply enjoy what it felt like to be held close to this handsome man, to listen to his velvety voice, to hear about the places he’d been, the places he intended to go.
As he twirled her around the dance floor, she imagined herself dancing with him in Vienna, accompanying his mother to Paris to order new gowns each season. To be part of a family that determined who was in and who was out.
Lucy felt as if the world were holding its breath, every creature, plant, and tree waiting for Bryce to kiss her.
She perched on her seat, alert in all her senses, as Bryce’s carriage took a plodding pace around Central Park. The clip-clop of the horse’s rhythmic, rocking walk was far slower than the racing in Lucy’s veins.
It was a week since the dance, and Bryce had called for her several times. This was the first time they had been alone in his carriage. Bryce had slipped his arm across her shoulders, and so far both were pretending that neither noticed this contact. He continued pointing out the various statues dotting the landscape, and she continued to murmur, “How lovely” and, “How interesting.”
The carriage took a winding turn, and Bryce used it as an opportunity to press closer to her. Lucy didn’t move away. Seeming to take this as permission, Bryce clutched her waist and yanked Lucy even closer, his lips suddenly firm on hers, his hands strong and certain.
Lucy let the kiss overwhelm her, trying to ignore the question in the back of her mind: would a “proper young lady” allow him to touch her so freely?
Her satin skirts rustled as his hands caressed her. She caught his faint scent: far more delicate than that of any of the boys who’d flung themselves in her direction in the boardinghouses and saloons she’d traipsed through on her way to Greenwich Village and society.
Society. Lucy remembered herself, her goals. She pushed Bryce away, wiped her mouth, and very effectively feigned socially acceptable indignation. “Please take me home now.”
Anger flashed on Bryce’s face, but it quickly vanished. He gave the order to the coachman, then sat gazing out the window. For a moment Lucy worried that she had gone too far, but when he slid his hand to cover hers on the seat, she knew she had played it just right. When they arrived at Mrs. Van Wyck’s, Lucy let her goodbye kiss linger just a bit, a promise of what might come if he behaved himself. He was smiling when he drove away.
“Mr. Grasser is waiting for you with your father in the front parlor,” the housemaid told Lucy when she stepped inside.
“Thank you, Bridget.” Lucy untied the ribbons of her new bonnet. She smiled at the hat that Bryce had called “fetching” before handing it to Bridget. She wished Mr. Grasser hadn’t arrived so early; she had hoped for time alone to relive her afternoon with Bryce and to plan the next.
“You’re repeating yourself,” Mr. Grasser stated coldly, without so much as a hello. “You’re losing your audience. If things don’t improve, I will cancel these performances. I, too, have a reputation.”
Lucy was so startled by Mr. Grasser’s hostility she was speechless. She had noticed that there were fewer people attending her nightly séances this past week, but she hadn’t realized Mr. Grasser was ready to drop her. She called to the spirit every opportunity she had—morning, afternoon, evening, even late at night—but there was still no response.
“I—I’ll do better,” Lucy stammered.
“See that you do,” Mr. Grasser said. “I’m staying for tonight’s performance.”
“Give us time to get ready,” Colonel Phillips said, his tone making it clear that Mr. Grasser was dismissed and that Lucy was about to get a talking-to.
“You’ve been spending a great deal of time with that Cavanagh boy,” Colonel Phillips said after Mr. Grasser left the room.
“Yes,” Lucy replied warily. Why would that bother her father? He was as pleased as Mrs. Van Wyck about this potential match with a wealthy family.
“Don’t let your fancies get in the way of the game,” he warned. He looked at her sharply. “Or are you losing heart? I understand your performances don’t meet his high-and-mighty approval.” He took a few steps toward her, his expression hard. “As your father, I could forbid the attachment. Find a more pliable mark.”
“Bryce isn’t the problem!” Lucy exclaimed.
“Then what is?” Colonel Phillips asked.
Lucy shrugged. “Perhaps the spirit doesn’t enjoy being turned into a parlor game.”
Colonel Phillips grabbed Lucy’s shoulders so roughly one of her hair bobs flew to the ground. “Don’t take that tone with me, dearie dear. Don’t try to kid the kidder. Why aren’t you playing the game right?”
Lucy shrank inside her dress. “She won’t speak to me anymore,” she blurted. “I don’t know why.”
Colonel Phillips’s blue eyes searched Lucy’s face. She felt as if she were being probed for lies, peeled for the truth. His grip loosened, but he still didn’t let go as surprise crossed his face. “You really believe this.”
“It happened,” Lucy insisted. “I can’t explain it. But she spoke to me. Everything I told you, she told me. She’s real. I’m real. I mean, I was real. She just won’t respond. Not anymore.”
The Colonel released her. He backed up a few steps, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he turned and gazed out the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
Lucy waited, uncertain. She couldn’t tell which angered him more—that the spirit was real or that she could no longer make contact.
“Well, well, well.” Colonel Phillips turned slowly. “I did wonder at that imagination of yours. Some of those things you were saying…”
“Everything I said was something she told me.”
He nodded. “She knew about the election!”
“I don’t know how—but yes.”
He leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, studying her. “Let’s say you really did make contact with the great beyond. The question is now—how do we continue to draw the suckers in?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy whispered.
Colonel Phillips stroked his chin. “It is a more satisfying show the way you do it now—speaking the girl’s words as if you’re repeating them.”
“Why can’t I keep doing that?” Lucy asked.
“Because this is a small community. People talk. And if you don’t keep wowing ’em, they’ll move on to something else.”
“So what should I do?” Lucy asked.
“Keep doing what you’ve been doing for now and I’ll talk to Peabody. We’ll need to resort to flashier tricks to keep those seats full and our pockets heavy. And keep trying with that spirit.” He looked at Lucy again. “Go get yourself ready. You look…I don’t know what, but you don’t look right.”
Lucy nodded. She hurried out of the room and up the stairs. Did her father suspect how she and Bryce had spent their time in the carriage? She made straight for the looking glass when she stepped into her suite and examined herself carefully. No, as exhilarating as the kisses had been, they had left no permanent mark on her.
She fingered the expensive satin walking dress. Ever since she and her father went into partnership with Mr. Grasser, Lucy had dresses for every time of day, every possible event. She would not go back to her tattered, made-over frocks.
What if Mr. Grasser made good on his threats and stopped presenting her? What then? Back to the boardinghouse. Back to scrounging. Back to hunger, and anger, and fear.
Lucy gazed at her reflection, her lips pressing together, her jaw tightening. She had come so far. If the spirit truly had deserted her, she would have to find another way.
Nine
“Where is it?” Lindsay fumed, grabbing a pile of sweaters and tossing them aside. Kneeling in the middle of the mess in her room, she shoved papers, jeans, shoes away from her as she crawled across the floor. She slumped against the wall, then, realizing that she was leaning against her closet door,
stumbled to her feet and charged to her bed.
She flung herself down, covered her face with her hands. She was so tired. For the last two weeks she had slept with the lights on. Well, tried to. It was hard to fall asleep with three one-hundred-watt bulbs glaring down at you.
She usually left the TV on too. That way, any voices she might hear she could dismiss as coming from the television. Just an actor, just an infomercial, just normal stuff.
Normal.
Her door opened and she sat up quickly. She relaxed slightly when she saw it was her mom in the doorway. Not the Husband.
“What the hell…?” Melanie picked up her feet high and carefully placed them in the few patches of floor still visible. “What is going on in here?”
Lindsay scanned her room. Two weeks ago, after she’d spoken to the voice again, she’d emptied out her closet and left the door shut. Sometimes she couldn’t help opening the closet door just to check, and most times the voice called out.
“Lindz?” Melanie said, swiveling her head to take in all the crap strewn around the room. “I thought you were the neat freak and I was the slob.”
Lindsay focused on a stack of books half buried under her winter coat. There it is. She got up and carefully made her way across the mess, the piles of T-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts, shoes, sneakers, and books. She picked up her coat and dumped it in the corner, then grabbed the textbook she’d been searching for.
“Lindsay, I mean it. What is up with you?”
Tears stung Lindsay’s eyes. Can I tell her?
“Don’t let Carl see your room like this,” Melanie scolded. “He’ll be seriously pissed. Jeez.”
Hearing the Husband’s name froze the tears that had welled up. “I’m reorganizing,” Lindsay said. “I didn’t like how my closet was set up.” She turned and faced her mom. She quickly looked away again.
I had a plan, she thought. I was going to pry her away from Carl and get her back to meetings. But the beer in her mother’s hand at this hour of the morning told her that the window of opportunity had passed. She’d been so caught up in her freak-out over hearing the voice, she’d missed her chance. Her mom had always managed to make it till lunch before hitting the booze—until now.
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