The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  “Tell me about the woman again,” he said. He bent over the basin, splashing water into his face, and grabbed a cloth to wash himself. Then I saw her come from the bed. She went up to him, pressing her naked breasts against his back, wrapping her arms around him.

  She kissed his shoulder. “Come back to bed. We can talk of her later.”

  He dropped the rag and turned, prying her hands loose, holding her from him. “Non. I want to be prepared. Tell me.”

  She tried to touch him. “We don’t need her, dear heart. She’s just an old woman. We could do six others in the time it would take to convince her.”

  He dropped her hands and stepped away from her with a sound of frustration, muttering, “C’est une charrette à trois roues.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looked at her, tapping his finger against his temple. “You think too small, chère. Why do six circles for pennies when we could do one for so much more? You said she was rich, oui?”

  “Yes. Yes, she’s rich. But it would take so much time. You said you wanted to leave this place.” She went to him, grabbing his arm. “He’ll find us here. The longer we stay—”

  “Why would he follow you if you were both as miserable as you say?”

  “I was miserable. He’s a fool, but if he came for me… Please, dear heart—”

  “Just a few more weeks,” Michel said.

  “It’s too long.”

  “Is this all you want?” He raised his hands, gesturing around the room in frustration. “Only this? You’d ask for no more? Chère, we can leave here with everything—or nothing. Which seems better to you?”

  “It wouldn’t be with nothing. We’d have each other.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m staying. Stay with me or not, as you like.”

  Her desperation was terrible. To leave without him, or to stay and risk everything. I felt her struggle. He walked away from her to where his clothes hung on a hook. His indifference chilled the room.

  With a little cry, she ran to him. She grabbed him about the waist, forcing him to turn around, kissing his chest, his throat. “I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say. Whatever you want. Please, Michel, I’m so sorry. What should I wear? The dressing gown again?”

  His smile was cold and calculated. “For a group of women? Non, chère, tonight you must be as respectable as my wife.”

  I WOKE, AND it was deep in the night, so dark I could see nothing. Had I not heard Michel’s deep, even breathing beside me, I would not have known where I was, or even who I was. The dream left a lingering taste, one too sour to simply swallow or spit away.

  I remembered the words in the spirit writing—To accept is to know. To know is to understand—and Michel’s advice: trust your instincts. And those instincts told me that if I found what had happened between Adele and Michel, I would discover the truth about Peter.

  I turned my head on the pillow to look at Michel. He was sleeping on his stomach, one arm thrown over my hips, as if he meant to imprison me even in his sleep.

  The desperation Adele had felt in the dream did not leave me for a long time, nor did the coldness of his smile.

  24

  __

  A VERY OLD SCARF

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1857

  Late the next morning, Kitty brought word that Dorothy wished to see me, along with a note that had come from Benjamin.

  When she was gone, I drew back into my bedroom and stood at the fire, fingering the note, remembering Ben’s distress, and his anger that I might be keeping things from him. Then I noticed the stationery, which was printed with the law firm’s name and address. This was an official missive. What new revelation would there be about my case this morning? And why had he not come to tell me himself?

  My mouth was dry as I slit the envelope with my fingernail and opened the note. The writing was pinched and difficult to read—I had never seen Ben’s handwriting before that I could remember, and I assumed this must be it, though it seemed at odds with his generous nature, and then, when I read the first words, I realized two things: he had penned it hastily, and it had little to do with my case.

  My dear Evelyn,

  Forgive my hurry—I’m on the way to a hearing—but I must talk with you this afternoon. I will call on you near one—it would please me greatly if you could meet with me, and if we could speak privately and candidly with each other. I am very worried for you, and disturbed at what is obviously Jourdain’s growing influence. In short, I think it best that we find you other lodgings. I will speak to Judge Denham and Hall about it today.

  With affection,

  Ben

  I stared down at the writing in dismay. I should never have told him the mediumship was not in my control. In a burst of irritation, I threw the letter into the fire and watched it burn. He would be here at one. I had that long to think of a way to relieve his suspicions, to convince him I should stay here. How was I to save myself if I did not have access to Michel? How could I possibly leave now?

  The paper curled to ashes, and Dorothy waited for me, so I hurried out of my room and down the hall. Last night’s visit of her sons had left her crying, and I had no real hope that I hadn’t sent her into the same distress she’d experienced with their first visit. But neither had she called for Michel last night—early that morning, he’d returned to his room, but to save us from servants’ gossip, not because Dorothy had sent for him.

  I was relieved when I saw her smiling. She was sitting up in bed, and the curtains were open to let in the light, her cap tied neatly about her plump face. I could smell the faint taint of laudanum about her—no doubt Michel had dosed her well, though she did not seem the worse for it.

  “Good morning, child,” she said as I went to the usual chair. “I hope you slept well.”

  “It looks as if you did,” I told her.

  “They were with me,” she said simply. “You are a miracle,

  Evelyn.”

  “I’m glad I could comfort you.”

  “You did more than that.” She reached for a bundle that lay at her side, half hidden by the coverlet, and pulled it into her lap. It was a gray wool scarf, unraveling and stiff with what looked like mildew, and when she lifted it I could smell the mold and the dust. But she held it reverently in her hands, teary-eyed. “I sent Charley to find it this morning. Do you know what it is?”

  “It looks to be a very old scarf.”

  “You don’t remember what my boy said last night?”

  It took a moment for me to remember and then it came to me like a distant memory.

  “He told me to look for this scarf,” Dorothy went on, and I was startled. I had just begun to believe my visions might be true, and this material proof of them shocked me into silence. I told myself it was just a scarf, but the sight of it raised a strange and frightening conviction within me.

  Dorothy didn’t lift her gaze from it; she twisted a loose, crinkled strand of yarn about her finger. “When Everett died, so soon after Johnny, I couldn’t bear to go into the schoolroom. I just locked the door and walked away. I kept thinking I’d go there someday, but I never did, and then I got to be so old and feeble—such an old woman. Ah, well, you see how impossible it would be now.”

  She sighed. I said nothing, waiting.

  “I made Johnny this scarf. I wasn’t much of a knitter, and he never liked it. Too itchy, he used to say. But I made him wear it, and then one day, he said he lost it. Oh, I was so angry with him. I’d taken such trouble with it too—look here, see these tassels?” She held it out to me. “Took me all day to knot the dratted things, and then I didn’t do it right, so the damn thing kept coming apart. But I was determined that he wear it. I repaired and repaired it. Stupid, isn’t it? I could’ve bought a hundred cashmere ones, and he would’ve liked them better.”

  “When I was young,” I confided, “my mother used to embroider handkerchiefs for me. But she was never content to just make borders or fancy corners
. She turned them into tapestry—there was so much thread on them I couldn’t use them.” I smiled, remembering, and then melancholy came over me. “There was a time later when I would have given anything for her to make me one of those handkerchiefs.”

  Dorothy nodded. “You see how it is, then, child. But you know, I’d forgotten all about the scarf until last night. It took Charley a couple hours to find it—it was shoved into the windowsill—there was a crack in the pane that one of the boys must have made and was trying to hide from me.”

  “No doubt they felt guilty over it,” I offered. What else could I say?

  “Oh, it wasn’t the crack that mattered. It was what was on the scarf.” She reached over to the bedside table, curving her gnarled fingers about something. “It was this.”

  She opened her hand to me, and lying on her palm was a brooch. It was obviously old, and quite expensive gold filigree, beautifully done, surrounding a huge square-cut emerald bordered with small diamonds. The stones were dulled from their years trapped within a molding scarf, but it would be a stunning piece once cleaned.

  “It was my mother’s. Johnny loved it. He would sit there sometimes while I dressed and beg me to put it on, and then he would say: ‘Mama, it looks like mysteries in there,’ and he would lean close, as if he could peer inside it.” Dorothy shook her head, laughing a little. “He was the most inventive child.”

  “Why was it with the scarf?”

  “It went missing one day. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Of course, I thought Johnny had taken it, but he denied it over and over again.” She sighed. “Of course he had. He’d pinned it to the scarf and forgot all about it, I suppose. Until you called him from the spheres.” She looked up at me and held out the brooch. “I want you to have it, Evelyn.”

  For a moment, I thought I hadn’t heard her correctly. I stared down at the jewel in her hand. “You can’t mean that. It was your mother’s. It’s no doubt worth a fortune.”

  “It’s worth a great deal, yes. But what you’ve brought me is priceless. The boys want you to have it. Why else would they have sent the message?”

  I shook my head. “I owe you so much already. I can’t possibly—”

  “Child, I’ve lived a long time. I don’t care anymore for material things, and I want to reward you. You could use it too, I think. It’d be yours alone. You can keep it or sell it, as you wish. I expect you could live on it for a year if you had to.”

  How potent her words were. I stared at the emerald, and suddenly I felt a great hunger for it, for the security it offered. “What’s wrong with charging for such a service, hmmm?”

  “If you don’t take it, it’ll only go to Michel when I’m gone,” Dorothy said.

  I reached out. The piece still held the warmth of her hand as I took it into mine. Even through the grime, the diamonds bordering the emerald seemed to glimmer.

  “If the Athertons keep on with their suit against you, you’ll need more than that brooch,” Dorothy said.

  I glanced up at her. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, speculative, as if she were trying to take my measure.

  “I can reward you handsomely, Evelyn, if you keep bringing my boys to me.”

  “What about Michel?”

  “He won’t want to share. But there’s enough for both of you.”

  To say he wouldn’t want to share was an understatement. He would be angry, and I had the sense that Dorothy not only knew that, but she was also deliberately making it so. I felt the work of her jealousy in this; she wanted to put a wedge between Michel and me.

  I fingered the stone, rubbing at the dirt with the ball of my thumb. It raised an oily shine. The Athertons were trying to take everything from me, and I knew with desperate longing how easily Dorothy’s money could change that. My life could be returned to me. Another thought intruded, a small and niggling seed of an idea that bloomed quickly into possibility. Would the Athertons be so quick to prosecute if I were Dorothy Bennett’s heir? If Dorothy began to depend on me more than Michel, perhaps I could convince her that she no longer required him. I needed protection, and Dorothy needed someone to leave a fortune to. Why shouldn’t it be me?

  “As you wish,” I said finally. “You must know I’m your servant.”

  “That’s fine, child. That’s good.” She leaned her head back against the pillow, yanking at the blankets as she did so.

  I tucked the jewel into my pocket and rose, taking the blanket from her hands, pulling it into place, tucking it securely around her. “What a pity it is you didn’t have a daughter to care for you.”

  “You’re like a daughter to me.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly try to be. All you need do is call, and I’ll come. I’ll bring your sons whenever you wish it. But you may have to convince Michel of the benefit. I suppose he feels they’ve abandoned him for me.”

  She opened her eyes again, frowning. “He’s said nothing like that.”

  “I could be wrong. But… it’s nothing, I suppose.”

  “What’s nothing?”

  “I think he feels they overstimulate you. I’m afraid that if you told him how generous you were to me, it might give him another reason to stop their coming.”

  She twisted her hand to grip my fingers. “Well then, we mustn’t tell him.”

  I hesitated. “Are you certain?”

  “Good Lord, yes! I don’t want anything to come between me and my boys. You come to me when I call, child. You leave Michel to me. I haven’t signed those adoption papers yet, and he knows it.”

  I smiled. “It will be our secret.”

  I FELT NICELY smug when I left Dorothy’s room, and the brooch was a reassuring weight in my pocket. But my smugness lasted only a moment, because as I stepped into the hallway, I saw that Michel’s bedroom door was open, and I heard him talking to one of the menservants. My body responded to his voice with a quick anticipation, a pull that was nearly irresistible. I could hardly be smug when he had this power over me.

  The things I’d discussed with Dorothy were dangerous; I’d been plotting against him, and I knew that if he discovered it, he would try to stop me. The question was how. I retreated quickly to my room, but once I was there, I felt strange, light-headed and dizzy. I grabbed onto something—a chair—to steady myself as I felt the press from the other side; the bright light of day dimmed before my eyes. I heard her voice: Listen to me. I’ve come to save you, and I felt her flooding into me, taking over my thoughts and my pulse.

  I was back in that boardinghouse room, and she was watching Michel from where she lay on the bed, and he on the end of it, writing feverishly with the nub of a pencil on the back of a broadside page, his sharply planed face too thin, taut with concentration, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

  “Her family’s wealthy,” he was saying. “One of the oldest in New York City. Knickerbockers. And she married a Brahman.” He made a sound, an amused snort. “A royal marriage of sorts.”

  Adele yawned. “What’s a Knickerbocker?”

  “Her sister lost two sons.”

  “Her sister? Does she live in Boston too?”

  “She lost them to cholera and scarlet fever. Or diphtheria. Mon dieu, which is it?”

  “Does it matter? She’ll be amazed that you knew them to be dead at all.”

  He lifted his head to glare at her. “Do you say these things to annoy me, chère, or because you’re truly stupid?”

  She plunged out of bed, throwing herself at him so the paper crumpled and the pencil fell to the floor, and he had to catch her or be borne to the floor himself. “Why are you so mean to me? I hate it here, you know I do! Every day I expect to hear him knock on the door. I thought I saw him in the market—”

  “It could’ve been anyone.”

  “He looked so angry! I can’t go back to him. I won’t! He hates me.”

  “I thought you said he loved you.”

  “He loves me, he hates me—oh, it’s miserable! He’s not a man. He’s not like you… . Can’t we ju
st go now? You promised me France!”

  “France takes money,” he said coldly.

  “He’ll take me away. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

  He seemed to soften at her words. “Oui.”

  “Then let’s go. We can find rich grieving women somewhere else.”

  “Where else, chère? To leave, we need money, eh? Or a patron. We’ve neither. This is our best chance.”

  “I don’t need all this.” She grabbed the paper from between them and crumpled it into a ball, which she pitched across the room. “The spirits come to me. You said so yourself. I hear their voices—”

  “Oui.”

  “I heard Milo Grau’s wife. And the Hawking child.”

  “After I told you about them,” he pointed out. “Would you have heard them if I didn’t tell you what to listen for?”

  “You told me nothing about Ian.”

  “Your own son,” he said patiently. “Who knew him better than you?”

  She went very still upon his lap. “I could hear their voices without all your notes. They come to me.”

  “Would you care to try it, chère? In the middle of a circle, when they’re all waiting to hear rapping from a loved one’s spirit? Would you choose to leave it to chance?”

  She pushed away from him, landing on the floor as gracefully as a cat. She paced to where she’d thrown the crumpled broadside and picked it up from the floor. “You doubt me?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not I do. You won’t throw away the paper.”

  She marched to the chamber pot and lifted the lid. She threw the paper into it with a smile of satisfaction. “Really?”