“Oh.”
“I always thought girls were protected when you lived,” Lindsay said. “There were so many rules back then. I mean, a girl could hardly do anything at all.”
“Rich girls,” Lucy replied. “For poor girls, well, there are few options, and no one seems to really care.”
“That’s still true.” Lindsay sighed a long, slow sigh. “I guess it will always be true.”
“That’s why it’s so important that I please this patron,” Lucy said. “I will not go back to being so dreadfully poor. If only I could count on Bryce.”
“The suitor? The one your father doesn’t really go for? He’s the reason you’re asking all the questions about marriage?”
“Yes.”
“That’s so romantic! You must really love each other if you’re both going against your parents.”
There was a pause.
“You do love him, right?” Lindsay pressed.
“I…Well, I haven’t really thought about it.”
Lindsay laughed. “It must be really different back then. When it comes to guys, all anyone my age ever talks about is who they’re hot for or who they’re in love with. But no one talks about getting married!”
“How do you know if you’re in love?” Lucy asked.
“That’s a biggie,” Lindsay said. “I’m not the person to ask. I’ve never had a real boyfriend. Tanya says that love is what you feel when you’re with a guy who totally gets you, who makes you tingle but also makes you feel safe, all at the same time.”
“Who’s Tanya?”
“My best friend. We tell each other everything. We used to, anyway. Now it’s a lot harder to do that….”
“That’s what girls in your time do?” Lucy asked. “Tell each other everything?”
“Don’t you have best friends in 1882?” Lindsay asked. “In novels and movies about your time, there are usually really close girlfriends. Though I guess sometimes it’s actually sisters and cousins who are so close. I’ve always wished I had more relatives. But it’s just me and Mom.”
“Me too,” Lucy said. “I had cousins on the farm, but they were older and boys. And because of my life with my father, I’ve never stayed anywhere for very long. We always have to keep to ourselves.”
“Wow. That must be lonely. I mean, my life totally sucks, but I’ve always had my best buds. Someone to turn to.”
“That sounds nice,” Lucy said.
“Yeah…it is.”
They sat silently, each in her own time, each with her own thoughts, not needing words, but glad to have the other there.
Monday morning, Lucy and Mrs. Van Wyck sat in the parlor, each with an embroidery hoop. Mrs. Van Wyck kept up a steady stream of chatter while deftly piercing the fabric with her little needle while Lucy struggled and poked herself. This ladylike activity was making Lucy want to unleash some very unladylike curse words.
“Mr. Smithton seems a very interesting gentleman,” Mrs. Van Wyck said.
“Yeow!” Lucy dropped the embroidery hoop and stuck her pricked finger in her mouth.
Mrs. Van Wyck glanced up and smiled sympathetically. “It just takes time, dear.”
Lucy nodded and frowned, her finger still in her mouth.
“It was odd that at first I didn’t remember Mr. Smithton,” Mrs. Van Wyck said, returning to her embroidery. “Then I realized when I last saw him, he hadn’t all those whiskers. He was far more attractive without them.”
Lucy’s eyebrows rose. Could Mrs. Van Wyck have an interest in Mr. Smithton? Is she lonely? Lucy wondered, looking at Mrs. Van Wyck, whose gray head was bent over her sewing. Is that why she welcomes the idea of spirits?
“Perhaps my spirit guides can suggest that he shave,” Lucy teased.
Mrs. Van Wyck glanced up, startled, then laughed. “Oh, you’re joking,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Your spirits would never be so trivial.”
“Is Mr. Smithton as wealthy as he seems?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, dear, yes,” Mrs. Van Wyck assured her. “He was left a good estate when his father died, and then he invested wisely. I believe he spent quite a bit building that monstrosity on upper Fifth Avenue, but he should be able to make it all back again.”
“Ah.” Lucy put her embroidery hoop aside and crossed to the table where the morning’s newspaper lay. He’ll have the proof today of how easily he can make it all back again—with my help. She fingered the pages and realized that thanks to the lengthy reading lesson with Lindsay over the weekend, many of the words made themselves known to her. They weren’t just strange marks on a page; she recognized the letters, built them into words.
She picked up the paper and sat by the window, eager to test her new skill. There was the announcement of the successful stock transaction that would bring Mr. Smithton a threefold return on his investment, and there was the patent approval of a new kind of lighting implement that would also make enormous profits. She turned the pages, scanning headlines, marveling that it was no longer a jumble of letters, but facts and opinions.
She came to a society page and smiled. Now she could read gossip about Mrs. Van Wyck and her friends. She also might be able to glean information to help her with Bryce and his parents.
“‘A benefit dance was held Saturday night to raise funds for the endowment of the American Museum of Natural History,’” Lucy read under her breath. That topic sounded familiar. She ran her finger along the line of names listed as the committee and found the name Cavanagh. Of course—the museum was one of Bryce’s family’s pet causes.
Her eye was drawn past the description of the ballroom, the music, the food, and the gowns to the list of attendees.
Bryce Cavanagh attended with his charming companion Katherine Kingston, of the Chicago Kingstons.
Lucy stared at the page. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped that when she opened them again, the letters would have rearranged themselves.
They hadn’t.
She carefully put the newspaper down on the side table and sat staring into space for a moment. He hadn’t come to the performance on Friday, and he hadn’t called on her all weekend. Now she knew why.
She stood. “I’m going out.”
Mrs. Van Wyck glanced up. “To see Mr. Smithton?”
Lucy studied the older woman’s face. Did she know about the charity ball and Bryce? Lucy decided she wasn’t up to discussing it. “Yes,” she said. “To see Mr. Smithton.”
“Do send him my regards, dear,” Mrs. Van Wyck said. “Perhaps you can invite him to tea.”
“Perhaps,” Lucy muttered as she left the room.
A short carriage ride later she arrived at the imposing Cavanagh mansion in Washington Square. Only after waiting in the chilly marble entry hall did it occur to her that perhaps it was unwise to simply appear. She hadn’t set foot in the extraordinary house since the dance; Bryce always met her at Mrs. Van Wyck’s. She had forgotten how the statues in their niches all seemed to look at her; that her footsteps echoed ominously in the cavernous space.
What is taking so long? she fretted. If Bryce wasn’t at home, the houseman would have told her and not asked her to wait.
The houseman finally reappeared. “This way, please, miss.”
“Thank you.” She followed the uniformed man down a hallway, and then another, and finally into a dark green room. Cases filled with trophies lined the walls, several stuffed animal heads hung above her, and in the center was a billiards table. Bryce aimed and hit one of the balls with the stick with a sharp crack.
“Miss Phillips, sir,” the houseman announced.
Bryce moved gracefully around the table and hit another ball. Thwack. Still bent over the table holding the stick, he glanced up. “Thank you, Howe. That will be all.”
The houseman left, and Lucy stepped deeper into the room.
“So what brings you here, Lucy?” Bryce asked. He hit another ball. It rolled across the table and dropped into a corner hole.
How to start? Lucy took another st
ep closer to the table, reached out, and tapped it lightly with her fingertips.
Bryce glanced at her, then straightened up. “Well? You must have a reason for dropping by.”
His handsome face didn’t look angry; in fact, he seemed slightly bored.
“I…Well, I was sorry that you weren’t able to attend my evening at the Lyceum,” Lucy said. “I was concerned that perhaps you were ill?”
Her voice sounded unnaturally high.
“I’m fine.” He held out his arms. “You see? Perfectly fit.”
“Oh.”
He leaned against the wall and crossed one leg over the other, twirling the billiard cue. “Lucy, I didn’t go to the Lyceum because I didn’t think I’d enjoy watching you making a spectacle of yourself.”
Why had she mentioned the Lyceum? She knew he disapproved.
“There were many respectable ladies and gentlemen in attendance,” she pointed out.
“I’m sure there were. I just wasn’t among them.”
His airy tone irritated her. “I suppose Katherine Kingston would be too good to attend as well?” she snapped.
He looked startled for the briefest moment but quickly turned his surprise into a superior smile. “Why, you’re right. I believe that sort of thing doesn’t interest her.”
“But a charity ball does.”
“That ball was organized by my mother and her friends. My behavior reflects upon the family. I cannot be seen escorting a woman who does tricks onstage as if she were a trained monkey.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “Th-that is not what I am doing!”
“Lucy.” He shook his head. “Think about it. You prance around onstage communing with the dead. Taking money from people so misguided they actually believe you. Even worse, I think perhaps you believe it.”
“But—but it…But I…” Lucy stammered.
Bryce shrugged. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but as much as my parents are an annoyance, I do have some obligations.”
Lucy’s shoulders slumped, and she gazed down at her hands. Her father had taught her to walk away from a fight she couldn’t win. Was this one of those moments?
“Lucy.” Bryce’s voice was gentler now. He sighed and crossed to her. He lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her lightly on the lips. “This is a disagreement we have. You must understand that.”
Lucy nodded mutely. He hugged her close and then released her. “Let me walk you out,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist. He ushered her down the hallways and to the door. It was only once she was outside, standing on the pavement staring up at the door, that she realized that he had very kindly, and with several kisses, thrown her out.
“Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear!” Mr. Smithton practically jigged as he pulled Lucy into his office. “My prodigy! My providential prodigy!”
Lucy couldn’t help smiling despite her foul mood. “I take it our spirit friends were correct?”
“Brilliantly! That stock you suggested I purchase, why, this morning it went through the roof! The very roof!”
Lucy untied the ribbons of her hat and smoothed her hair. “I’m pleased.”
“You and your spirits have just made me several thousand dollars overnight!”
She cocked her head. “Did we?” Perhaps Mr. Smithton could provide a solution to her Bryce problem. If she could earn a great deal of money through her connection with Mr. Smithton, maybe she’d be willing to give up being a medium. Of course, her father would be furious.
“Now, do you think your spirits would be so kind as to offer some suggestions for the long term? You know, things to carry me into my old age?”
How much older does he plan to get? Lucy wondered. He seemed fairly ancient to her as it was. Still…
“I’m sure I can ask. But remember, sometimes these things take time. Shall we get to work?”
“Oh yes, yes, yes!” Mr. Smithton said. He whirled around, sending his coattails flying, and grabbed a stack of papers from the soft leather chair near the little stove in the corner. Dropping them onto the desk, he then pulled over the ottoman. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “Sit.”
Lucy sat in the chair and Mr. Smithton perched on the ottoman, leaning toward her, his elbows on his knees, his whiskers quivering with anticipation.
Lucy quickly went into her “trance.” “Are you there, spirits? Will you speak to me?”
“Are they?” Mr. Smithton whispered. “Will they?”
Rolling her head, letting out tiny moans, Lucy went over all the predictions she was to make. She had to be careful not to confuse them with the predictions she planned for the Lyceum; Mr. Smithton was paying mightily for this exclusive information.
“Oh, spirits,” Lucy said in a breathy voice. “Do you have knowledge of politics? You do? Can you help Mr. Smithton decide who to back in the upcoming elections? He’d truly like to back a winner. How do you feel about this gentleman who has an eye for the governership—a Grover Cleveland? Ahhh, I see.” She nodded. “You like him. He’d be very popular and perhaps even president someday. Thank you.”
She rattled off a few more stock tips and patents and then moved into more-dangerous territory. “What is that you say? No, no, that’s not possible. Oh no, I couldn’t.” She let out a large, dramatic sigh. “Do you really mean to say that Mr. Smithton must open an account in my name? And as I am the vehicle, the vessel through which you speak, I deserve a percentage of his profits?”
Mr. Smithton recoiled. Had she gone too far?
“It is too much,” she protested. She cocked her head as if she were listening. “What’s that you say? No, you can’t!”
“What! What’s happening?” Mr. Smithton was growing frantic.
“If you insist, I will tell him that you will give no more advice unless he agrees.”
“My word!” Mr. Smithton rose from the ottoman.
“I don’t like to do this,” Lucy said. “But I will ask him.”
“On top of the fee?” Mr. Smithton muttered. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “A portion of everything I earn from the investments? My word.”
“If that’s how you feel,” Lucy said to the unseen spirits. “I can’t force you to reveal what you know….”
“Oh, all right.” Mr. Smithton sank onto the ottoman.
“Oh, spirit!” Lucy called. “He has agreed. How much, you ask?”
“Ten percent,” Mr. Smithton said glumly. “For every dollar you earn me, I shall invest ten percent in the name of Lucy Phillips.”
Lucy collapsed in the chair. A moment later she blinked. “Were they here?” she asked.
“Oh, they were here, all right,” Mr. Smithton replied. “They drove a very hard bargain.”
“Did they?” Lucy asked. “What could they possibly want? They have long left this world.”
Mr. Smithton gripped Lucy’s hands. “Now I understand!” he exclaimed. “Of course! They have no needs of their own, but they love you! They want to make sure that you are well cared for. How could I not have seen it? They are quite right.”
“Whatever you think is best. I know nothing about finance.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mr. Smithton cupped her face in his hands. “I’m glad your spirits are looking out for you.”
“Yes, well…” She stood. “When would you like me to come again?”
Mr. Smithton stood more slowly. “Tomorrow?” He smacked himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand. “I completely forgot to ask your spirits if this Caleb Alonso would make a good assistant.”
“That’s all right,” Lucy said. “We can ask them tomorrow.”
She said goodbye and went out to the street. She’d accomplished one thing—means to an independent fortune. But she still wanted to create the impression of being a truly respectable society woman. Bryce’s reference to her as a “trained monkey” smarted.
What would win his approval? Lucy wondered.
Charity work. Bryce’s mother did charity work�
�in fact, that was what the stupid ball was for. Lucy knew exactly who to talk to about that!
Twenty-three
Lindsay didn’t like the worried look on Tanya’s face.
“What’s up?” she asked as she climbed the steps of the library Monday afternoon. “Is it my mom? Did she call you again?”
Tanya shook her head. “Nothing like that. I, well…” Her mouth twisted as if it didn’t want to allow the next words out. “It’s just, if I keep skipping debate club, I’m off the team. Same with yearbook.”
“Oh.”
“You can come with me to the meetings,” Tanya offered.
“No, I can’t.” Lindsay shoved her hands into her pockets.
“Why not?” Tanya asked. “Your mom hasn’t called again. No one at school knows what happened.”
“I can’t risk it,” Lindsay argued. “I have no idea who might be looking for me. I ran away from a hospital. I think cops get involved in things like that.”
Tanya looked down at the steps. “I guess….”
“Go,” Lindsay said. “You’re probably late already.”
Tanya shifted her weight, shifted it back.
“Go,” Lindsay ordered.
Tanya flinched. Lindsay hadn’t meant to bark at her; it had just come out that way.
“I have to do some research for Lucy.” Lindsay pushed past Tanya and went into the library. When she glanced back, Tanya was gone.
Lindsay paced the small hotel room. Lucy still hadn’t responded—they had planned to meet over an hour ago. Wasn’t she coming?
“Lucy?” she tried again. Nothing.
“I hate this!” She kicked her backpack and it toppled over, spilling the books, papers, and clothes all over the floor. She slumped against the wall, her greasy hair falling in front of her eyes; she shuddered as she tucked it behind her ears. It had been days since she’d showered.
She shut her eyes, debating. She’d gotten used to using the toilet by pressing her feet against the door. But standing in that shower totally naked…
If only she could shed her skin like a snake. But that was not an option. She opened her eyes and noticed the chair. That’s it! She picked it up and hurried to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She shoved the chair under the doorknob.
Silent Echoes Page 19
