I felt a rush of excitement. Alessandra had uttered those exact same words at Rossi’s house in Naples, the night I took my famous photograph. Show us more! Right after that, the table had levitated into the air. It was going to happen again.
“SHOW US MORE!” she shouted.
“Watch the table,” I told Elsa. I held my breath.
Nothing happened.
The table remained on the floor.
We stood there, all of us, looking stupid, for fifteen or twenty seconds, until Huxley finally turned to Alessandra.
“Perhaps we should all sit down now?” he sneered.
Alessandra stared at the table, a look of disbelief on her face. We all sat back down and Alessandra resumed her pleadings – Spirits come! Spirits come! – but there was an edge of panic in her voice now. The minutes continued to slip away – five, ten, fifteen – until we finally heard the soft bong of the clock on the mantel.
9:30 P.M. Time up.
Across the table, Huxley smiled smugly.
Chapter 59
Alessandra was nervous. I could tell.
At breakfast the next morning, she ate little and said less and wanted to retreat to her room afterwards, but I convinced her to take a walk in the garden. It was a glorious, sunny August morning.
“You’ll do better tonight,” I assured her, as we made our way through a trellised archway into Maxine Tyndall’s magnificent, formal rose garden which flanked the east side of Farnam House. Maxine bred her roses for competition, and showed them at the Royal National Rose Society’s annual exhibition. Red and white tea roses bordered the brick walk, and a bright orange butterfly flitted across our path, but Alessandra didn’t seem to notice. She plodded along, head down, ignoring my attempts to cheer her up, until we reached an iron bench next to a sundial and I made her sit down.
“What is the matter with you?” I demanded. “You’ve still got two more chances. You’ll do fine.” In truth, I wasn’t thinking about Alessandra – my mind was on Elsa. She was coming over after lunch and I was excited.
Alessandra stared at the gravel at her feet.
“The spirits, Tommaso – I could feel them at first. Not strongly, but they were there. Then they faded away. I couldn’t feel them anymore.” She nervously fingered the corno around her neck. “Everything feels wrong here.”
She turned to me. “Maybe I made a mistake coming here.”
“It’s a little late to do anything about it now,” I shot back.
She reached out for my hand. “Tommaso, please, don’t be hard on me.”
I felt ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But why didn’t you call on Fra Girolamo?”
“I…I was afraid to.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. “Maybe he won’t come.” She wrung her hands. “Maybe he hates this place, like I do.”
“But he’s always come when you’ve called before.”
Alessandra stared straight ahead. “Maybe he won’t hear me. We’re so far from home.”
“Well, it’s not the end of the world if he fails to show up. You go home without Huxley’s hundred pounds, that’s all.”
She jumped to her feet. “And let Huxley win? Never!”
“Well, do it or don’t,” I finally said, annoyed. “I don’t care.”
We continued down the path past the Tyndall’s glasshouse where rakes and hoes and pruning shears were neatly hung in a wooden cabinet, and a gardener was filling a basket with white roses. When he saw us, he smiled, stepped outside, tipped his hat and handed Alessandra one of the roses.
“See,” I teased as we set off again, “not everyone in England is against you.”
She stuck her tongue out at me.
We finally reached the river and plopped down on the grass under a tree. A convoy of ducks paddled up to the bank hoping for a handout before giving up and drifting off. Alessandra finally spoke up.
“Do you think I could live in Paris?”
I looked at her. “Paris?”
“Camillo says it’s cold there in the winter. He says it even snows sometimes, and there’s ice on the sidewalks.” She laughed. “Imagine me slipping and falling on my big backside.”
“You’re reconsidering his offer?” I was surprised. She had sounded so sure back in Warsaw. She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, watching the ripples run away.
“I don’t know. Everything is so confusing…”
Chapter 60
“Andiamo, Tommaso!” Let’s go!
I looked out the drawing room window and there was Elsa on a bicycle, laughing and pedaling around the gravel driveway alongside the house, her long dress flying out, one hand holding on to her white straw hat. She looked fantastic.
“Coming!” I yelled.
On my way out, I passed by the billiard room and Mallory waved to me. Huxley had just lined up a long shot, and with a crack sent the ball straight across the green felt, potting it in the far pocket. Mallory raised his cue. “I don’t stand a chance, Tommaso,” he laughed. Huxley ignored me, moving on to the next shot.
When I got outside, a servant stood next to Elsa, holding two bicycles.
Elsa gave me a big grin. “Where’s Alessandra?”
“She had something to do,” I said. In truth, I hadn’t mentioned the bicycle ride to her. I wanted it to be just me and Elsa.
“Do you know how to ride a bicycle?” Alessandra asked.
“Me? Of course!” I lied, grabbing the handlebars.
It was my first time on a bicycle. I pushed off and wobbled around in a crazy circle fighting to keep my balance, nearly running over the terrified maid before flipping over the handlebars and falling on my culone. Elsa started laughing. Red-faced, I jumped up and shoved off again, this time doing better – I’m not an acrobat but I’ve got good balance. As she applauded, I even managed a quick “no hands” to show off for her before skidding to a stop next to her bicycle.
“Ready!” I grinned, and we set off together towards Cambridge town.
The weather was humid and sticky, and soon my shirt was soaked in sweat, but Elsa pedaled at a strong pace. The road into town was busy – lots of carts and carriages and people trudging along with bundles and bags, which we had to dodge as Elsa and I chatted away. At one point, a small dog raced out of a yard and tried to bite Elsa’s boot, but I cut him off with my bike and Elsa flashed me a grateful smile. I felt like I was making progress.
When we reached the university, we hopped off the bicycles and I bought us ice creams from a street vendor and we sat together on a bench under a tall tree enjoying our “penny licks” as the English call them.
“Alessandra is missing a treat,” Elsa said, running her pretty pink tongue around the glass, determined not to waste a smidgen of her vanilla ice.
She handed me her empty glass. “Is she alright, Tommaso? She seems so unhappy.”
“She’ll be alright,” I said. “She’s just not used to England.”
Elsa hesitated. “I’m ashamed no one from the Society was there to meet her in London. I’m sure that didn’t make her feel very welcome. Mr. Huxley sent the Cook agent to the wrong station – to the Waterloo Station. My father told me he can’t understand how Mr. Huxley could have gotten it wrong.”
“Alessandra is convinced he did it on purpose. She doesn’t like him.”
“Good! I don’t like him either,” Elsa replied. The anger in her voice took me by surprise.
“I agree he’s not very pleasant,” I said.
“It’s more than that.”
I waited for her to continue. Finally she spoke.
“He…he’s always …touching me, Tommaso.” She shivered. “My father won’t believe me….everybody thinks he’s such a nice man…” She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “I hope Alessandra humiliates him! Then maybe he’ll quit, and go away, and leave me alone.” She turned away but I could see tears in her eyes.
I didn’t know what to say. The whole thing was so unexpec
ted.
We rode back to Tyndall’s house in silence. On the way back, dark clouds gathered, the air became heavy and sultry, and the rumble of thunder announced a coming storm. Before we could reach home, the downpour caught us, drenching us to the bone. When we finally arrived at Farnam House, servants ran out of the house with umbrellas to take our bicycles, and a maid stood inside the door with towels to dry ourselves off. As we walked down the hall, Elsa turned to me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have told you. I didn’t mean to spoil your afternoon.”
I wanted to reach out and take her in my arms, but I was too embarrassed.
“Will you be all right?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Thank you.”
The upstairs hall was dark and gloomy, except when a flash of lightning momentarily lit the hall. When I got to Alessandra’s room, I knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” came a startled voice from inside the room.
“Alessandra, it’s me – Tommaso.”
I heard feet hurrying across the floor, a key was turned in the lock, the door was opened a crack, and Alessandra peered out.
“Tommaso! Where were you?” she cried. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”
I stepped into the room. “Elsa took me for a bicycle ride.” I could see the disappointment on her face. “We would have invited you,” I added hastily, “but it looked like rain. I didn’t want you to get a cold. You’re lucky you didn’t come. We got soaked.”
Alessandra shut the door and locked it.
“I’m scared, Tommaso!” she said as she dragged me towards her bed.
Tarot cards were spread out on the sheet, illuminated by the flickering of a bedside candle.
“Put the cards away,” I said. “You’ll do fine tonight.” Whenever Alessandra got really nervous about something, she always pulled them out. That’s the problem with Italians. We’re too superstitious.
“No!” she exclaimed. “Look!” She sat down on the bed, clinching her fists, tears in her eyes.
Six cards were laid out in a half circle, Neapolitan style. In the center, face up, sat the seventh card – a burning tower, with a woman falling to her death. Everybody in Naples knew what that meant.
Catastrophe.
Chapter 61
I could tell she was scared.
Alessandra made the sign of the cross when we entered the séance room – something I never saw her do before.
The plan was simple. She would call Savonarola. Babbo Giro would hear her, and come, and possess his beloved, and produce an astonishment to humiliate Huxley, just like he did at Ile Ribaud.
As soon as we were seated in the library, and Mallory took his position under the table with the oil lamp, Alessandra immediately bent her head, and closed her eyes, and began mumbling the disturbing incantation she used in Naples.
“Babbo… Babbo!…Per favore! Per favore!”
Please, Father, please!
Henry Tyndall looked amused. Huxley had told him about Savonarola but, like Lombardi, he didn’t buy the absurd idea of spirit possession by a mad monk from the medieval ages. But Huxley, controlling Alessandra’s other hand, bit his lip nervously.
“Babbo… Babbo!…Per favore! Per favore!”
Over and over.
“Babbo… Babbo!…Per favore! Per favore!”
As the minutes ticked away and nothing happened, Huxley relaxed.
Alessandra readjusted her position in her chair, then scrunched her eyes even tighter. Her plaintive begging resumed. Louder. More insistent.
Suddenly, her shoulders slumped, and her head fell forward and rested on the table.
I felt a rush of relief. I knew what would happen next – I had seen it in Naples, and at Ile Ribaud. She would remain there motionless for a minute, then there would be violent shudders as Savonarola’s spirit took possession of her body, then…
Alessandra slowly lifted her head and turned towards Huxley. He shrank back into his chair, hand raised to shield himself from the chilling look of the discarnate monstrosity we both expected.
But I was the one who let out a gasp.
Instead of Savonarola’s menacing gaze, the eyes were Alessandra’s, and they were filled with tears.
“He can’t hear me,” she whispered.
Then she stood up and walked out of the room.
For a second, Huxley looked bewildered, then a leer of triumph spread across his face.
Mallory poked his head out from under the table. “What’s going on?”
Henry turned to me. “The sitting is over?”
I looked towards the door.
“I…I think so,” I replied.
Henry pulled out his gold pocket watch, glanced at it, then turned to Maxine. “Please record that Signora Poverelli voluntarily terminated the second sitting at 8:15 PM…” He snapped the case shut and slipped it back into his vest pocket. “…and that during the second sitting, there occurred nothing worthy of note.”
When I got upstairs, I saw a maid fleeing down the hall. I knocked on Alessandra’s door and opened it. Alessandra was angrily pacing the room.
“I found the maid rummaging through my closet when I came up,” she declared.
“Maybe she was doing some cleaning,” I suggested.
“At eight o’clock at night?”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was changing the pillows. The hell she was!” Alessandra walked over and slammed the door. “She was looking through my bag.” I steered her back to the bed and made her sit down.
“Look,” I said. “You’re tired. You had a rough night. But you’ve still got one more sitting. Get some sleep. Savonarola will show up tomorrow night. You’ll see.”
Alessandra stared out the window.
“No he won’t,” she finally said.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away. “He’s abandoned me, Tommaso. I don’t know why, but he has.”
Chapter 62
You have to understand – she was desperate.
She was going to lose to Huxley, and she couldn’t endure the humiliation. What had he written? She’s a fraud. An extremely talented one, but a fraud nonetheless. Alessandra had come to England seeking revenge, to prove him wrong. Instead, she had produced nothing.
I had gone to bed at eleven, and her knock woke me from a deep sleep. I sat up in bed, confused. Moonlight filled the room as I slipped out of bed and stumbled over to the door. When I opened it a crack, Alessandra was standing there, fully dressed. In her hand, she clutched her leather hatbox.
“What’s going on?” I said, bewildered.
She slipped inside and closed the door. “I need your help.”
I pointed at the hatbox. “What’s that for?”
“Come with me.”
“I don’t like this,” I said. She was up to something crazy, and I didn’t want any part of it.
“You have to trust me, Tommaso.” She hurried over to the closet, pulled out my coat, and thrust it in my hand. “Please!” What could I do?
“Where are we going?” I grumbled, slipping on my boots. She went over, put her ear to the door, listened for a second, then opened it.
“Follow me,” she whispered.
The hall was dark and deserted, and we slipped down the staircase, past the library, and out the side door into the garden. We halted there for a second to let our eyes get used to the dark. I still had no idea where we were going. It was chilly outside, and the moon was riding high in the sky above our heads, the grass on the lawn still glistening wet from the afternoon thunderstorm. Behind us, the mansion rose up in the dark. It must have been after midnight.
“What are we doing out here?” I hissed.
Just then we heard what sounded like the click of a door, and Alessandra quickly dragged me into the shadow of the house. We crouched there in the dark, holding our breath, our ears straining for the sound of footsteps or a voice – anything – but it was silent again.
After a few minutes, Alessandra grabbed my arm and we hurried across the lawn until we reached the glasshouse. The iron door creaked loudly as we opened it, and from the mansion I heard the warning bark of Hercules, Tyndall’s Rhodesian Ridgeback. I prayed nobody got up and let the beast out to investigate.
Once inside, Alessandra grabbed a pair of pruning shears and slipped them into her skirt pocket. I tried to stop her and demand an explanation, but she was out the door again. We hurried back across the lawn, then turned down a narrow path that ran deeper into the garden. Finally she stopped, opened the hatbox, and pulled out a small oil lamp – which I had seen at her bedside earlier that night.
“Light it,” she ordered. “But keep the wick low.” I did as I was told.
She quickly started cutting roses and tossing them into the hatbox. She was careful to take only one from each bush, and always from the back, where the missing bloom wouldn’t be noticed. I stood there, holding the lamp, my mind racing – what was she going to do with the roses? I knew it had to do somehow with the final sitting, but how? Then it hit me. Flower apports were common in séances. The Spiritualist newspapers were filled with stories about them.
The “spirits” were going to leave behind rose petals which we’d find scattered on the table when the sitting finished and the lights were finally turned on.
“You’re going to fake an apport,” I said. “Aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer me.
“Don’t do this,” I said. “You’ll get caught. Please. I’m begging you.”
“I won’t let him win!”
“You’re crazy. You’re risking everything!”
“I have to!”
I should have grabbed the shears and flung them into the bush, but in the end I didn’t. She was going to do it – with me or without me. We snuck back to the house and I slipped into my room, my stomach in knots.
Alessandra’s first husband had been a magician.
I could only pray he trained her well.
Chapter 63
“Mr. Huxley will not be joining us tonight.”
We were standing in the hallway of Farnam House the next morning, Henry in his wading boots, a fly fishing rod in his hand. Maxine handed him his tweed fishing hat, and he plopped it on his head. She raised prize roses. He was president of the local angler’s club, and his prize pike hung over the fireplace in the library.
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