Silent Echoes

by Carla Jablonski

  “There’s nothing like that now?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, there’s the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,” he responded. “But for girls over thirteen or fourteen, there is very little to protect them.”

  “And what would you do for Katie in this world? The one you’re not in charge of?”

  “I can offer her no real alternative,” he said glumly. “The economics are against it.”

  “So there is no solution?” Lucy asked.

  “I already lectured her on the dangers. I would teach her ways to protect herself, though her compatriots have more knowledge than I do, most likely. I suppose the most helpful thing I could do would be to wean her off laudanum and steer her away from the more poisonous of her washes and tonics. Actually,” he added, his eyes narrowing as an idea occurred to him, “I’d introduce her to Harriet Embers.”

  “Who?”

  “She does good works. She’s on all kinds of charitable boards. But she’s not afraid to really get involved. Probably more involved than is good for her—and her reputation.”

  He spoke of Harriet with such admiration, Lucy wondered if he and Harriet were sweethearts and what she might look like. She found herself imagining Alan in a romantic setting and was surprised at how easy it was. His lips were not as soft and enticing as Bryce’s, but they had a nice shape, and his high cheekbones were dramatic in the gaslight.

  “…It’s her frankness about understanding their own health and systems that has people so offended. Well.” He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s mostly why they’re offended.”

  Is Harriet as pretty as I am? Lucy wondered, surprising herself with her curiosity.

  “She is always in need of volunteers,” Alan said. “If you’d like to help, I can make the introduction.”

  Still looking at Alan, wondering what kind of girl he found most attractive, she reached out to spear another piece of cake, only to look down and realize she’d eaten the piece already.

  “Would you like another?” Alan asked with a teasing grin.

  Now it was Lucy’s turn to blush. “No. No, really.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you out much later,” Alan said reluctantly.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  After much fuss by Antonio, they left the café and walked the short, twisting streets to Mrs. Van Wyck’s, where they said good night.

  Lucy opened the door and glanced at the silver tray where callers left their cards. It was empty. Bryce had never been there.

  Twenty-one

  Lucy dressed and went down to the dining room, hoping Mrs. Van Wyck wouldn’t scold her for being so late for breakfast. The older woman sat at the long, highly polished table, still in her dressing gown. Lucy couldn’t leave her suite without being fully dressed for the day, a habit instilled in her from years of boardinghouses and shared lodgings.

  Mrs. Van Wyck glanced up from her newspaper and smiled, her heart-shaped face lighting up. “Oh, my dear, you were a marvel last night!”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said, settling into a chair beside her.

  “You must be famished.” Mrs. Van Wyck rang a bell for Bridget.

  Lucy observed the maid curiously as she took the order for breakfast and then returned with a tray. I wonder what she’s paid? She didn’t think Bridget was one of those girls Alan described, forced to find additional income on the side. After all, she boarded with Mrs. Van Wyck; how high could her expenses be? Then, angrily, she remembered that had been the reason Mr. Grasser and her father felt justified in not paying her.

  “I’m so pleased I waited to buy tickets for the Lily Langtry performance,” Mrs. Van Wyck said. “What a disaster it would have been if I’d purchased them only to have the debut canceled.” She leaned in conspiratorially, her face pinched with the expectation of gossip. “So, my dear, what is the reason? Does she—”

  A commotion outside the dining room startled them both. The door suddenly swung open, revealing an extraordinary man. He was stout but gave Lucy the impression of fragility, his perfectly round stomach emphasizing how thin his arms and legs were. His face was dwarfed by an enormous pair of white muttonchops, a bushy white beard, and a wild mustache. Other than that he was entirely bald. Well, not entirely. He had several white wisps above his ears.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Van Wyck,” Bridget said.

  “Who on earth are you?” Mrs. Van Wyck demanded, her hands grasping the collar of her dressing gown, pulling it closed.

  “Oh!” The man froze the moment he laid his bright, sparkling eyes on Lucy. “Oh, to be in your presence,” he gushed, clasping his tiny gloved hands together.

  Lucy stared at him, fascinated by his strangeness.

  “I ask you again, sir,” Mrs. Van Wyck said, rising. “State your business. Or shall I ring for the police?”

  The mesmerized man seemed to shake off whatever spell Lucy had cast over him and looked at Mrs. Van Wyck. “Why, Coraline,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you remember me?”

  Mrs. Van Wyck stared at him, her brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

  The man looked stunned. “The lecture on mesmerism? And then again the tea at Sara Schyler’s? We discussed ectoplasm and manifestations. I told you several remedies for ridding yourself of unwanted ghosts!”

  Mrs. Van Wyck slowly began to nod. “Why, of course! Hugh, isn’t it? Hugh…Smithton.”

  The man’s eyes smiled. What his lips were doing under that bushy beard and mustache, Lucy had no idea.

  “After your extraordinary demonstration last night,” Mr. Smithton said to Lucy, “I made inquiries. When I discovered you had been taken under the wing of this lovely patroness, I could not believe my luck! But of course, it wasn’t luck—it was divinity guiding my path. For here you are!”

  “Yes, here I am.” He was odd, but he was certainly enthusiastic. There was something sweet about him and his funny round form. He reminded Lucy of Humpty Dumpty.

  “We must have a very serious conversation,” Mr. Smithton told Lucy. “But it must happen before eleven o’clock, for after that the sun’s aspect will be far less favorable.”

  “Would you like to have this serious conversation now?” Lucy offered, knowing the answer.

  Mr. Smithton beamed. “Oh, you see! All signs are aligned.” He wheeled to face Mrs. Van Wyck, who was still standing protectively at the head of the table. “Is there someplace, er, private where this young prodigy and I might converse?”

  “I suppose you could use the study,” Mrs. Van Wyck said reluctantly. Lucy could tell the woman was dying to be part of this conversation.

  “Excellent! Oh, excellent. Lead on, fair lady!”

  Lucy led Mr. Smithton into the study, wondering what he wanted. To contact his dear departed wife? Peer into his future and see if he would have a long and prosperous life? From the looks of him, food wasn’t scarce, and obviously he could afford to encase his tubby little body in expensive finery.

  “I have a very serious business proposal for you. Very serious.” He took off his silk hat and yellow calfskin gloves and dropped them on the desk. He pulled a lace handkerchief from inside his cuff and mopped his pasty forehead. “I’ve eternally been eclipsed by the Vanderbilts, the Fisks, and the like.” He looked down at the handkerchief as if this were a situation that shamed as well as frustrated him. He sighed and looked back up at Lucy. “You see, I always arrive just a moment too late. It’s been a sad truth all my life.” He made an elaborate shrug. “I was even late to my own birth, or so my mother told me. I didn’t marry the girl I loved because I asked her too late. I have good ideas, but someone always beats me to it.”

  “And you’d like me to help you.”

  He smiled broadly. “How quickly you comprehend my meaning!” He dashed to her with far more agility than she’d expected of a man of his size, gripped her hand, and yanked her down beside him on the settee. He glanced over his shoulder as if to assure himself that they were alone and no one would o
verhear them. When he leaned toward her, for one awful moment Lucy feared he’d attempt to kiss her, but instead he whispered, “My dear, if Commodore Vanderbilt consulted the spirits, then why shouldn’t I?”

  He straightened up again and released his grip on Lucy’s hand. “And as you seem to be able to actually see the future, what better business partner can I have? I shall never be late to the table again!” He looked sheepish again and gazed down at his fine leather shoes. “Well, I probably shall still be late to dinner, and Cook will be angry with me, but you know what I mean.”

  There was something endearing about the silly, round old man. “I do,” Lucy said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  He squeezed her cheeks with both hands as if she were a very young child, then leapt off the settee. “Oh, I just knew you would understand!” He tapped his fingertips excitedly. “Now, I confess, I am extremely well off, but why shouldn’t I be truly wealthy? Screamingly, fantastically wealthy?”

  “Why not indeed?” Lucy replied.

  “Oh, don’t mistake me for one of our greedy robber barons.” Mr. Smithton flung himself back onto the settee and gazed at her imploringly. “I give to charity, and I do have many dependents.”

  “You have children?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh, dear lord, no!” He shuddered. “Can’t abide children. But I have fourteen cats, and I donate regularly to the ASPCA.”

  Lucy wondered how on earth such an eccentric could survive in the world of business and if he were really as well off as he claimed. She’d have to make inquiries of her own; Mrs. Van Wyck would certainly have that information.

  “What do you propose, Mr. Smithton?” Lucy asked.

  “I have a good deal of money I’d like to invest, and I’d like you to tell me what to invest in. That’s how old Vanderbilt did it! I’m so tired of my dull, steady, and reliable investments. I’d like to make a splash! And then another! Splash, splash, splash!”

  Lucy stood and gazed out the window, not wanting him to see her calculations. If he was willing to pay for her advice, wouldn’t there be others? She turned to face him. “And what will you pay for this information?”

  He waggled a stubby finger at her. “Smart girl! Very shrewd! Business is business. I will pay you one hundred dollars a week.”

  Hearing this extraordinary sum—easily ten times what Bridget or a factory girl earned—Lucy forced herself to keep her expression neutral. “And what if one of your colleagues would also like such advice?”

  Mr. Smithton’s little eyes grew huge and his round cheeks reddened. “No! That will not do. That will not do at all!”

  Lucy shrugged. “Perhaps if you are willing to offer an incentive for an exclusive relationship…?”

  Now his eyes narrowed, and Lucy hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far.

  “I feel an…affinity between us,” Lucy said, using the syrupy sweet voice she affected during the shows. “One believer to another.”

  He mopped his forehead again. “Yes, yes. You’re right. That’s smart business. Exclusive arrangements are always more costly, and this must be information for me and me alone.” He whacked the handkerchief against his palm. “Done! Did you have a sum in mind?”

  “Two hundred dollars a week,” she replied quickly, before she lost her nerve.

  Mr. Smithton’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as if he were a fish trying to breathe. “All right,” he said in a meek voice. Lucy bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from whooping in triumph.

  “Well, then,” she said, her voice loud and bright. “When would you like to get started, and how often shall we consult?” After agreeing to such a sum, she figured he had a right to make some decisions about this arrangement.

  “I shall come to you every day. I may also want you to contact some of my old friends.”

  Oh, dear. Lucy didn’t want her father to know anything about this new deal, and she wasn’t really in a position to do any research on Mr. Smithton or his friends. “I think it’s best if we stick to seeing the future. I don’t want my spirit guides confused as to what we’re asking them.”

  He looked disappointed but nodded. “Quite right, I suppose. Perhaps that’s why Esmeralda was so useless at guiding my investments.”

  “Esmeralda?”

  He rolled his eyes. “She was quite successful in ridding me of two troublesome spirits who had been haunting my home. But she gave the worst advice. She vanished after I invested in a dancing chair.”

  “A what?” Lucy asked, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

  “It allows Methodists to dance,” he explained. “No mingling of the sexes, you see. It gives support to the dancer and acts as a partner. Of course, now I see how clumsy it must have been to strap the thing on….” He trailed off, distracted.

  “So when shall we meet?” Lucy asked, steering the conversation back to the far more important subject of their deal.

  “What’s wrong with now?” Mr. Smithton asked. “It’s still before eleven a.m.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not—”

  “This afternoon?”

  Lucy bit her lip to prevent smiling. “Mr. Smithton, I appreciate your eagerness, but I do have other commitments.” And she needed to have a consultation of her own with her special source. “I cannot see you before Monday at the very earliest.”

  Mr. Smithton pouted like a petulant, whiskered child. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “I’m afraid so. Perhaps I can come to your offices?”

  “Certainly! Far more convenient for me. I’ll give you the address.”

  “And you’ll have the first payment at that time.”

  “Oh, by all means. Shrewd girl. Smart girl.” He pulled a pearl-encrusted case from his vest pocket and held out a heavy, cream-colored card.

  He gave her a little formal bow. “Till Monday. I am delighted.”

  Lucy led him out of the study and to the front door. She hurried him out before he could tell Mrs. Van Wyck about this new arrangement.

  “Oh, did Mr. Smithton leave?” Mrs. Van Wyck asked as she came down the stairs in a burgundy-and-rose-striped walking suit and pulling on her gloves.

  “Yes,” Lucy answered, slipping the card quickly into her pocket.

  “What did you talk about?” Mrs. Van Wyck asked.

  “The future, of course.”

  Twenty-two

  What am I going to do all day? Lindsay stared out the window at the dismal scene; the gray weather perfectly reflected her mood. Tanya was out of town until late Sunday night, and she couldn’t risk contacting any of her other friends. What am I going to do for the rest of my life? She flopped onto the lumpy bed and pulled the pillow over her head.

  “Are you there, Lindsay?”

  Lindsay sat up. Lucy’s voice came loud and clear, cutting through her gloom. “What happened last night?”

  “Oh, Lindsay, I wish you’d been there. It was a triumph!”

  “I wish I’d been there too.” She snorted. “You have no idea.”

  “I have a new patron,” Lucy continued. “He wants me to advise him on his investments. So I think I may need papers farther into the future.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “And…do you think you can tell me what’s in them so that I can relay the information?” Lucy asked. “Until I have really perfected my reading I’ll—I’ll need help.”

  “I thought your father did that,” Lindsay said.

  There was a pause. “He can’t with this particular person.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay found herself growing curious about this patron. Maybe Lucy’s father had offended him. Maybe this patron was a secret lover, and if Lucy still had designs on that rich dude, Bryce, the patron had to be kept secret. Lindsay grinned. I’m so starved for TV I’m making up my own soap operas!

  “I can only come here when my father is out,” Lucy warned. “I believe he’ll be gone most of today and tonight. Tomorrow, too, I think. He has some scheme going dealing faro on Saturdays and Sun
days at a nearby tavern.”

  “What’s faro?” Lindsay asked, wondering if it was a kind of drug.

  “A card game,” Lucy explained. “Mostly, though, it’s just a way to cheat people.”

  “There are lots of those, I guess.”

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “Hey, listen,” Lindsay said. “The library won’t open till noon today, so do you want to try some more reading?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Lindsay got her copy of Oliver Twist. “Do you have your book?” she asked.

  “What’s it like?” Lucy asked. “Where you are?”

  “You mean when I am,” Lindsay corrected with a laugh. She sat on the bed and leaned her back against the wall. How could she describe the twenty-first century to a girl who had never watched a movie? Used a computer? Spoken on a telephone, much less a cell? “What do you want to know?”

  “Girls do many more things in your time, don’t they?”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay admitted. “I guess we do.”

  “And if you work, do you get to keep your own money?”

  “Mostly, I guess. Not all the time.”

  “And when you marry, does your husband control your property?”

  “That’s what prenups are for.” Lindsay laughed. “Why all these questions about money? Are you getting married? Aren’t you awfully young?”

  “I’m sixteen,” Lucy replied. “Old enough.”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Well, I may be wrong, but I don’t think that’s even legal these days.”

  “Truly?” Lucy sounded stunned. “So girls are much more…protected in your time. Till they’re older.”

  Lindsay snorted. “Not even. If girls were protected,” she said, the words coming out as a rushing stream, “I wouldn’t be hiding in this stupid hotel.” She shut her eyes and sighed, thinking of Blair and Haley too. “It’s not like the laws take care of everything. Bad stuff happens all the time.”