ELIZABETH LOOKED AT HER HANDS and knew they weren’t hers. Not young, not old, yet calloused and burned by something other than the work of a tradesmen or miner. The hands searched the trouser pockets and she saw the clothes she wore were Middle District and well made. The nose wrinkled. Something stank. She soon realized it was rotting fish and seaweed. This time her vision had taken her to Boston Harbor and into the body of a man.
Massive steam-powered ships anchored nearby lurched as the tide came in. Several fishing boats were heading out to sea. Their gear units labored as they hoisted the nets up over the stern. The breeze was just cool enough to be refreshing.
The seagulls nesting in the upper reaches of the warehouses confirmed her suspicions. It was spring in this vision. A waning moon hung low in the sky. It had turned a light brown, which meant that the wind had shifted and smoke from the Southside was drifting over the city. It was a rare occurrence, but she knew the Great Houses of Beacon Hill would still be upset to have their sky sullied. But the wind was the wind and not even her father could control it.
Her own body was buried under quilts in a soft feather bed in the past. It was an odd sensation. What was even stranger was being here, yet not. She often wondered if she would still exist in this time if something ever happened to her body. Would she be imprisoned in the person she inhabited? Could they co-exist or would she die? Those thoughts always disturbed her.
The man leaned against the wall of a warehouse to steady himself. The nausea faded as she got a sense of this body that was hers, yet wasn’t. Not that she could control it. That never happened. Elizabeth was along for the ride, though she felt everything the body she visited did. She wondered if this was what other Mediums experienced. Did they see only the future? If so, how far into it? Could they look into the past as well? She had heard talk among the servants that Mediums saw ghosts and could conjure up the spirits of the dead. She wasn’t sure she believed it. But then again, what would she know? All she knew was that her visions had started when she was nine and they took her anywhere from a few hours to a few months and even a few years into the future. She would love to learn more about her “gift,” but it wasn’t as if she could take one of their steam-powered buggies to the Southside and have tea with the local psychic.
The man shook his head as though he had water in his ear he couldn’t shake out. It was as though he knew she was there, but that was impossible. No one she had inhabited had ever sensed her before. Yet there he was examining his hands, then touching his face, searching for something odd or out of place. Elizabeth could only imagine that it felt like an itch you couldn’t scratch.
The man heard the muffled sound of leather shoes on wooden floor boards. It was a soft, shuffling noise, as if someone was trying to move quietly. But who was it? And why were they trying to sneak up on him? She surmised that once again her “gift” had drawn her into the body of some poor soul who was about to die sometime in the near or not-so-distant future. It wasn’t fair. No matter how much she wanted to, Elizabeth could not help them. Even if she knew who the person was, she could never warn them for doing so would require her to reveal her abilities to her father. And that was something Elizabeth was not prepared to do.
Crack. He stopped. The other footsteps halted for a moment then continued to track him.
The man fled around the corner of the warehouse and noticed an office door. In a practiced manner, he walked up the wooden stairs without making a sound. His hand grasped the doorknob to turn it, but it was locked. He glanced up to see the name Fredrick’s and Sons and a movement caught his eye. It was his reflection in the office window. Elizabeth saw her bearer for the first time and was surprised to discover he was just a few years older than herself. She thought he might be handsome if not for the scar across his left eye. He stared at himself for a moment, then moved away.
The footsteps came closer. This time there were voices. Low and angry.
The man jumped off the stairs and broke out into a sprint. Elizabeth relished the movement and speed. Not since she had been a little girl was she allowed to run. It would have been fun if she had been doing the actual running.
Large wooden crates and containers loomed in the darkness. He slipped on something oily and came crashing down in a heap. He dragged himself up and found himself staring at an old-style sword-pistol. The man behind it looked as old as the weapon.
He had a sparse gray beard, a torn ear and pock-marked face. His frayed black trench coat was stained and ripped while his free hand was missing two fingers. She hoped never to find out how he’d lost them.
“Stand up straight, boy,” the older man rasped. “I want you to see who’s killing you.”
“You better hope that piece of crap you’re pointing at me still works,” Elizabeth’s bearer spat at the older man. “Or else you’re going to end up as fish bait.”
Graybeard licked his lips, then grinned. His brown and broken teeth opened into a maw from which an obscene chuckle emerged. He nodded to his left and then his right.
From the darkness appeared two younger men. They were as ragged as the old man and had his look about their eyes and mouth. The older one was stooped as if he still carried a burden while the younger one had a spark of rage in his eyes.
“Kill him and be done with it, Pa,” the younger one barked.
“Don’t be giving me orders, boy,” the old man retorted. “I want him to know why he’s dying tonight.”
From inside the man, Elizabeth saw him glance into the sky to see the hulking form of a dirigible moored on its tether looming over them. He looked back at his would-be killer.
“I’ve done a number of things I’m not proud of yet needed to be done. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, old man? Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions.”
The older man thrust the sword-pistol into the man’s face. “Was it hard to shoot my boy like some gutter rat?”
Elizabeth felt her bearer stop himself from flinching. He took a deep breath, then spoke with the deepest sincerity. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Graybeard hesitated for a moment and lowered the sword-pistol just a fraction.
“Pa, he’s stalling. Do it and let’s go,” the younger son insisted.
“The boy be right. Sorry’s not going to save your life.” The older man pulled back on the trigger as the dirigible’s propellers revved up. Graybeard glanced up as the sound shifted from a chugging to a whine.
Elizabeth’s bearer used that split second to launch himself at the old man and shoved the pistol into the air. Graybeard head-butted him as the two struggled over the pistol, which was now between them. They twisted and grappled for the weapon while the old man’s sons looked for an opportunity to jump in. The sharp pop of the pistol firing rang through the air.
Elizabeth woke up.
She was back in her bed, twisted in layers of quilts and torn sheets that were suffocating her. Sweat streamed down her throat as she kicked the blankets away and sat up. Her turquoise silk nightgown stuck to her like the sticky paper the kitchen maids used to trap the rats. Elizabeth shoved her hair back out of her face and took a deep breath. She would have to air out the bed before the servants came in. It would not do to have them gossiping about how the master’s daughter had night terrors and besmirch the family’s reputation for steadiness and unflinching resolve.
The night air chilled the sweat on her body, so she grabbed her light silk robe and flung it on. Frustrated, Elizabeth yanked the covers off, wondering when and if these visions would ever stop. What was the point of having them if she could nothing about what she saw? Sometimes when she strolled through the park she glanced at strangers and wondered if one of them would be the next one to die in her visions. It sometimes felt like more than she could bear.
She heard several booms and felt a slight tremor. Elizabeth ran over to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. A couple blocks away a fire burst out of a building covered in snow. The concu
ssion rattled the windows. She saw another house had caught on fire.
Her father, Jonathan Weldsmore III, burst into the room. “Elizabeth, get away from the window.” He rushed over and drew the drapes shut. “Have you lost your mind? You could have been hurt.” His usually perfect hair was askew and his silk robe flapped behind him with the belt twisted in a knot. He was tall, and his dark brown hair had begun to turn gray. Elizabeth wondered when that happened.
“The explosions were too far away to be any danger, Father. You needn’t fuss.”
He turned to her, his face creased with worry, which was soon replaced with a forced smile. “My brave naive girl. You could not possibly understand the minds of men.” Jonathan leaned over and kissed her forehead. “That is why I’ve made a decision.”
Elizabeth backed away, her gut writhing in turmoil over what she knew he was going to say. “Father….”
He sighed. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not marrying you off to Bridgeworth’s toady of a son.” Elizabeth looked suspicious. “And don’t give me that look, either. I will not marry you to anyone you do not care for. That’s a promise.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth sighed in relief.
“All I ask is that you continue to be a daughter I can be proud of in every way.” He grasped her shoulders. “You are my pride and my joy, and I hope that one day you will marry a man worthy of you and this House. And soon, I should hope. You are twenty-three.”
Elizabeth stared at the floor for a moment to compose herself. When she looked back up at her father, she had on what she called her “show” face. The face she showed everyone: confident and regal. It was a lie, but it was what they expected. “Of course, father.”
“That’s my girl. Your mother would have been so proud.” He marched toward the door. “Might as well get dressed for breakfast. The whole house will be awake with Sampson scuttling about ordering the maids to the cellars and arming the butlers.”
“Father, you forgot to tell me what you’ve decided.”
Jonathan paused by the door. “Oh, yes. Please don’t be alarmed, but the times being what they are, I’ve employed a body guard.”
Worried, Elizabeth hurried over to him and took his arm. “Do you really think you need one? Have things gotten that serious?”
“It’s not for me, Elizabeth. It’s for you.”
ELIZABETH SAT ON HER DRESSING-TABLE chair and stared into the mirror while Mary fussed over her hair. A plump girl with auburn hair and a mass of freckles, Mary wove slender gold filaments through Elizabeth’s dark hair. Like all of their female servants, she wore a plain black- and-tan dress with the sailing-ship crest of House Weldsmore embossed on the collar “It doesn’t need to be perfect. I’m just meeting my bodyguard, not the Dowager Empress.”
“Now, miss I know you know better, but I’m thinking you must be prepared for the unexpected.” She continued to braid Elizabeth’s hair, then twisted it up in an elegant chignon. “There you go. All pretty for your Pa.” Elizabeth gave her a stern look. “I mean for Mr. Weldsmore, miss.”
Elizabeth winked at her. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I don’t know what that word means, Miss Elizabeth, but I do like it.” Mary giggled. “In… cor… rrr… ig… bull.”
“You’re done.” Elizabeth waved her away and stood up. She walked across a Persian wool rug that muffled the sound of her fine leather boots to stand in front of a large mirror with multiple sides. One only had to press a lever for it to turn and you could see yourself magnified more after each rotation. Her father had bought it for her when she was a self-absorbed and silly teenager. She never felt the need to examine herself out of proportion anymore.
Elizabeth sashayed from side to side inspecting the dress and her accessories.
The lavender silk brocade fell to the floor in back, but was hitched up in the front to show off her black leather boots, which were embossed with bronze plating. She wore a black corset outside the dress with a large brooch clipped to the front that depicted a sailing ship—the emblem of the Great House of Weldsmore. The bodice dipped above her cleavage for modesty’s sake while around her neck was a thin braided copper-and-silver choker. The entire ensemble was finished off with a small Derby hat attached to the side of her chignon.
She was the embodiment of a lady from a Great House. Elizabeth thought it shameful that no Middle District woman dared to dress above her class lest she be shunned by her peers and her betters. Beautiful things should be worn by whoever could afford them, she thought.
Elizabeth nodded with approval at her visage. “Father will approve.”
Mary sighed. “You’ve grown up so fine, miss. I’m surprised no fella has snapped you up.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to be snapped, Mary,” Elizabeth responded with a little more force than she intended.
“Yes, miss.” Mary bobbed a curtsy and headed for the door. “I’ll tell Mr. Weldsmore that you’ll be down shortly.” She exited the room.
Elizabeth waited until she left, then plopped back into the chair. She leaned against the dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror. No matter how hard her father encouraged her to find a husband, Elizabeth knew she could never marry. For to do so meant her husband would discover her “gift” and bring shame to the family by divorcing her. “Better to not marry,” Elizabeth said. Now her main concern was keeping this “bodyguard” from discovering her secret.
She stood up and smoothed out her dress. “I will behave as I’ve always done. By being the perfect daughter.” With her head held high, Elizabeth waltzed out of the room.
ELIZABETH STOOD OUTSIDE THE MASSIVE oak doors to her father’s study. Two small boys stood at attention, waiting for her to give the signal to turn the crank that rotated the gears on the other side of the doors. Though most common doors worked on hinges, her great-grandfather had wanted this room to double as a sanctuary. During the House Wars, the Great Houses of the North and South had gone to war over profit and slavery. Though the war was long over, her father liked the historical significance and the room. So he kept it that way.
Elizabeth nodded to the boys.
They jumped to action and turned the crank over and over. She could hear the teeth of the gears catching, then their low rumble. As the sunlight from the other room peeked through, she heard two men talking. One was her father. The other had to be her new bodyguard.
As the doors labored to open, Elizabeth saw her father hunched over a compound bow with a man shorter but broader than himself. His clothes were well-made but not fashionable for the time. The cuffs of his suit were lightly embossed with copper, which told Elizabeth he was a Middle District man. Both were engrossed in the weapon’s workings and did not notice her entrance. She smiled to herself as she took in her father’s favorite room.
From his ornate mahogany desk to the models of sailing ships sitting in the large bay windows, these were the things he loved. Light flooded the room, which bore a nautical theme accented by modern and ancient weaponry and the stuffed heads of bison, elk, and a tiger.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Father, perhaps you could introduce us?”
Jonathan turned to face her. “Elizabeth, you look lovely. This is Samuel Hunter, your bodyguard.”
The man put the weapon back on the table as he turned around. He smiled as he gave her a small bow. “How do you do, Miss Weldsmore?”
Elizabeth felt as though the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Her vision wavered; she tried to steady herself, but she collapsed.
Samuel Hunter was the man from her vision.
“Elizabeth!” her father cried out as Samuel caught her. She could do nothing but stare at the scar across his left eye. Elizabeth reached out to touch it, but drew it back as if touching it made him more real.
“Sampson!” Jonathan yelled. The house supervisor rushed in. Only ten years older than Mr. Weldsmore, he gasped when he saw Elizabeth, and reached for the water pitcher. He poured a glass, then hurried over t
o her
“Please, Miss Elizabeth, drink this,” Sampson insisted as Elizabeth tried to catch her breath. “You didn’t eat breakfast again this morning, did you, miss?” he chided.
Samuel swept her into his arms and carried her over to a chaise lounge as though she was an afterthought. He placed her on the cushions and took the glass from the worried house supervisor.
“Please, Miss Weldsmore, you should drink this,” Samuel insisted.
Elizabeth sat and stared at him as she sipped the water.
“Is it true, Elizabeth? Did you forget to eat breakfast?” Jonathan barked.
Elizabeth tore her eyes away from Samuel and mumbled, “Yes, Father. I did. I’m so sorry to cause such a fuss.” When she glanced back up again, Samuel was giving her an odd look.
“Women. So concerned about their figures, they have no sense.” Jonathan threw up his hands in frustration.
“I will bring toast and juice, Mr. Weldsmore,” Sampson announced, then turned to Samuel. “Would you care for anything, sir?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The house supervisor bobbed his head as he left the room.
“If we’re done with this little drama, can we get on with the introductions?” Jonathan asked, not expecting a reply.
Embarrassed, Elizabeth nodded.
“Good.” Her father gave her a stern look, then put on his best professional smile. “Mr. Hunter has come highly recommended from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. In fact, he was quite the hero during the unlawful demonstration at the steel mill. I understand you saved the lives of the board of directors.”
“It wasn’t just me, sir,” Samuel responded.
“But it was your plan that got them out alive,” Jonathan insisted. “You’re being too modest.”
“My plan was for everyone to live.”
Boston Metaphysical Society Page 5
