by Mary Hooper
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s where an object connected with the person on the Other Side materialises; a certain cigar that a man used to smoke, perhaps, or a child’s toy, even a musical instrument.’
‘Surely not!’
George nodded, amused, and Velvet wondered if she sounded silly and unsophisticated. She’d make an effort to be a bit more worldly, she vowed.
‘But why does Madame have to be in the dark?’ she asked.
‘Because spirits are shy creatures, insubstantial beings who come and go as they wish. They seem to find it easier to appear before Madame in the darkness.’ He hesitated, then continued, ‘Occasionally, it’s said, spirits may actually appear to other people – people in the audience.’
In spite of her vow just a moment before, Velvet could not but stare at him in amazement. ‘They appear? And everyone can see them? Are they ghosts? Where do they come from?’
‘No one knows exactly,’ George said. ‘What happens is that during the séance some sort of substance – they call it ectoplasm – comes from the medium’s body and forms itself into the shape of the spirit’s last manifestation on earth.’
Velvet looked at him, shocked and rather alarmed. ‘Does it? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘It’s a talent that, at the moment, only a few mediums possess.’
‘And does Madame . . . ?’
‘Not currently, although she believes her skills will shortly be developed enough for her to do this. She’s already adept at so many other things.’
‘Oh,’ Velvet breathed, quite awestruck. She looked inside the cabinet, patted a pillow on the chair and half expected to see something rise up from it. ‘May I ask how long you’ve been working with Madame?’
‘Several years,’ George said. ‘I’ll tell you my story sometime.’ He looked at Velvet, raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Velvet felt her stomach turn right over and she asked quickly, ‘Do you ever receive messages?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no one close to me in the spirit world. An uncle once came through, but I hardly remembered who he was in life and he had nothing in particular to say to me anyway.’
‘My mother and father are both d— in spirit.’
‘Then you may get a message,’ said George. ‘Although during an evening session Madame has so many messages for her paying clients that, unless a message for you or I were very compelling, she wouldn’t have time to receive it.’
‘I see,’ Velvet said, and didn’t add that she didn’t really want one . . . that she would be terrified if she got any messages from her father. She asked instead, ‘How do people hear of Madame? Does she advertise?’
‘Only when we first arrived in London,’ George said. ‘After that, it was word of mouth – ladies are informed of her talents by their friends and they in turn tell others. We get all the swells, you know.’
‘And does everyone receive messages?’
‘Most of them,’ George said. ‘It’s what they come for. But if for some reason their relative doesn’t come through and they have a special question for them – perhaps a daughter wants to ask her father if she should marry a certain man, for instance – then Madame will see them privately.’
Velvet nodded. It seemed a good system.
‘As long as they can afford it, of course,’ George added. ‘We’re at the top end of the market and Madame’s time is very valuable.’
Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Mrs Lilac’
‘Do be seated, Mrs Lilac,’ Madame Savoya said. ‘I believe you’ve already met my assistant, George?’
Mrs Lilac nodded. A lady in her late sixties, she wore a long dark coat and veiled hat. Under the coat, the glimmer of several rows of pearls could be seen and there was a large gold-and-diamond brooch in the shape of a flower pinned on her lapel. Mrs Lilac seemed somewhat nervous and Madame took pains to put her at ease.
‘George will attend us today and be present at any subsequent sessions. This will enable him to take a record of everything conveyed by the spirits,’ she said. She added gently, ‘You do understand that for the purposes of confidentiality – both yours and mine – your name will not be recorded in these notes?’ Upon her client nodding, she continued, ‘I identify all my clients according to the colour of their aura. Yours, dear madam, is pale mauve, a rather pretty lilac, signifying that you will soon be able to come out of mourning.’
Mrs Lilac managed to smile.
‘George attends us with his notepad because I find that my clients are sometimes so overwhelmed by what they hear from the spirits that they arrive home to find they’ve forgotten much of what has been said.’ Mrs Lilac nodded and Madame went on, ‘One more thing: could I ask you to always use my private entrance at the side of the building? You’ll find that the stairs lead straight up here to my private apartments.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Lilac. She looked around her apprehensively, although everything seemed perfectly pleasant and ordinary. No ghosts lurked behind statues, there were no eerie noises and no shadowy shapes forming in the alcoves.
‘I believe your mother was in touch with you at one of my evening gatherings?’ When Mrs Lilac nodded tremulously once again, Madame added, ‘You must forgive me if I can’t remember the details. So many spirits, so many people . . .’
‘Yes, my mother came through,’ Mrs Lilac said. ‘She told me that I mustn’t come out of mourning clothes for a wedding I was invited to, but I should attend in unrelieved black crêpe. She also said that she had not forgiven me for . . . for . . .’ Here Mrs Lilac stopped and bit her lip.
Madame took Mrs Lilac’s hand. ‘No need to elaborate. The spirits will let me know anything I need to.’
George smiled. ‘Excuse me for saying so, Mrs Lilac, but Madame’s reputation is second to none. You can place yourself in her hands unreservedly; you may trust her implicitly.’
Mrs Lilac seemed to gain strength.
‘Your mother was of a good age,’ Madame said. ‘Over ninety?’
‘Ninety-three,’ Mrs Lilac said, ‘and she’d lived with me since she was seventy.’
Madame nodded. ‘What a dutiful daughter you’ve been.’
Mrs Lilac didn’t reply to this, but looked nervously at George, who patted her arm and gave her a reassuring smile.
‘It is time,’ Madame said. She gazed upwards and closed her eyes.
The three figures sat immobile for some moments, whilst Madame’s breathing grew stronger and more laboured and the Honiton lace fichu at the bodice of her gown rose and fell.
After two or three minutes, Madame said in a deep female voice quite unlike her own, ‘I am here! I have come.’
‘Mother?’ Mrs Lilac cried, her hand to her mouth. ‘Mother dearest . . .’
‘Really, Esther,’ said the deep voice. ‘I hope you haven’t called me back for some trivial matter.’
‘No, I . . . I merely wanted reassurance that you’re quite content,’ Mrs Lilac said, trembling all over.
There came a snort from Madame – or the one who was occupying her body.
‘I trust and pray,’ Mrs Lilac began nervously, ‘that you’ve quite forgiven me for placing you in Runnymede.’ There came no reply from her mother so she went on in a rush, ‘I just didn’t feel I could cope any longer, you see. I tried and tried, but I could hardly lift you, and you weren’t eating and then when you began waking and walking around the house at all hours of the night, I was at my wits’ end.’
‘To think you couldn’t cope with one old lady. Pish!’
‘I decided that you’d be better off in Runnymede with proper care and a nurse on call every moment of the day and night.’
‘You wanted to be rid of me, you mean.’
‘Mother, no!’
‘Most daughters would consider it a privilege to care for their dear mamas; a repayment of the care that their mother had lavished on them as children.’
‘But I couldn’t manage on my own
at home,’ Mrs Lilac said, wringing her hands. ‘Even with Wilson helping me, I couldn’t manage. Oh, do you forgive me, Mother? May I have your blessing?’
‘I may forgive you,’ came the answer, somewhat petulantly. ‘I haven’t decided yet. Next time you come, we’ll speak of it again.’
‘But are you content there?’ Mrs Lilac asked, peering at the space around Madame Savoya as if her mother might be standing behind her. ‘What’s it like? Have you met Father?’
‘Questions, questions!’ came the querulous voice. ‘I see you’re wearing my diamond flower and my pearls.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Tricking yourself out in my things when I’m hardly cold in my coffin! Anyway, pearls are unlucky – pearls symbolise tears.’
‘Shall I wear your emeralds next time, then?’
‘You should take care if you do!’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Jewels set up a strong magnetism which may call you to the Other Side before your time.’
‘Oh dear!’ Mrs Lilac said, clutching at her necklace.
‘Besides, such fripperies mean nothing at all. It is the light from one’s soul that’s important.’
‘I’ll try and remember that, Mother,’ Mrs Lilac said humbly.
Madame sighed, and her head suddenly fell on to her chest as if she couldn’t hold it up any longer.
‘Mother!’ Mrs Lilac cried. ‘Don’t go yet, please.’
However, the voice did not come again and Madame seemed to fall into a deep sleep, so after a few moments, George put his notepad to one side, led Mrs Lilac out of Madame’s sitting room and accompanied her down the private stairway. She was dabbing at her eyes, quite overwhelmed.
‘Is that really true about the magnetism?’ she asked George.
George inclined his head. ‘I believe it is. I’ve heard such things before.’
‘Really, fancy Mother being so unconcerned about her jewellery as to refer to it as fripperies. They were all she ever loved before – one heard nothing from her but talk of her emeralds and sapphires, and how she had a ruby which was twice as large as one owned by the queen. She lived for her jewels.’
‘On the Other Side, you see, there are no possessions and no wealth,’ George explained. ‘People undergo a sea change.’
‘I suppose they must do,’ said Mrs Lilac. ‘Oh, but it was wonderful to speak to Mother! Will Madame sit for me again?’
‘I’m certain she will,’ George said, ‘although I’m sure you appreciate that these private sessions are very tiring for Madame. She won’t be able to do any other work for several days now.’
‘I understand, and I bless the dear woman’s heart!’ Mrs Lilac hesitated and then dropped her voice slightly, although there was no one else around to overhear. ‘I am, by the way, willing to pay a considerable amount of money for the privilege of speaking to Mother again.’
George nodded.
‘I need assurance that I’m forgiven by her . . . that she’s happy on the Other Side.’
‘Of course,’ George said. ‘I’m sure Madame will be pleased to help you in any way she can.’
Chapter Seven
In Which Velvet Shops with Madame, and Is in Attendance at a Dark Circle
‘What do you think, Velvet?’ Madame Savoya asked, holding the dove-grey gown in front of herself. ‘Isn’t it quite the nicest day dress you’ve ever seen?’
‘It is, Madame!’ Velvet said with enthusiasm. Such beautiful material, she thought: the front tucked and folded with two rows of pearly-grey buttons and the cuffs prinked around with smocking. They were in Marshall and Snelgrove, one of the well-appointed new stores which sold dresses ready-made to take away, and Madame had been trying on outfits all morning. ‘It’ll look lovely with your white fur collar and muff. And perhaps, in the warmer weather, you could wear some lace around the neck instead.’
‘Perfect!’ Madame said, smiling at Velvet. ‘I knew I could trust your judgement. You have quite the best dress sense of any young woman I know. How I bless the day you picked up my box of laundry.’
Velvet blushed, pleased. She had been working for Madame for only two weeks but (owing, she thought, to Madame’s convivial manner, her generosity and her charm) it felt much longer.
She had, it seemed, come upon the good luck presaged by finding the silver horseshoe in her Christmas pudding. Why, not only had she a charming little room of her own and the most interesting job in the world, but she and Madame got on so well that, though she would never have dared voice such an opinion, they seemed more like friends than employer and maid. As for the bliss of being under the same roof as George, taking meals and working alongside him – well, what girl could ask for more? They had already become good friends and this, she thought, was the very best basis for a relationship. Now this was established, Velvet was anxious to reach the next stage and spent a considerable amount of time imagining herself in his arms, sharing a passionate kiss in the quiet hall, perhaps, or whispering endearments as they passed on the stairs. George didn’t know about any of this, of course, and Velvet was trying hard to keep it that way – at least until he had made it plain how he felt about her. Until then, she thought that one girl in the house making a giddy fool of herself was quite enough.
Madame nodded to the shop girl to confirm that she would be buying the dress. ‘Please have it delivered with the other garments and I’ll try them all on at home, then return any that need alterations.’
The shop girl bobbed a curtsey. ‘Yes, Madame.’
Velvet smiled at the girl as she rose. What a lovely job; working amidst taffetas, silks and precious fabrics, helping ladies to look their best. Working for Madame was the perfect job, she decided, but this must come a close second.
‘And what else can I see?’ Madame swept across the floor of the shop, touching fabrics, standing back to take in the overall look of something, rejecting those orange and yellow shades which did not suit her, and finally lifting from the rail a close-fitting, emerald-green dress with a small draped bustle and matching jacket. ‘What do you think of this, Velvet?’
Velvet studied the outfit. ‘Oh, it’s very smart,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think the colour is quite right for you, Madame. It’s a little too strong. The colour would wear you, rather than you wear it.’
‘Oh, how wise!’ Madame said. ‘You really were wasted in that laundry, Velvet.’ She deliberated a moment. ‘Well, in that case, as I like this outfit very much and am determined to buy it, you shall have it instead.’
Velvet could not speak for a moment, she was so overwhelmed. Then she said, ‘I would not dream of . . . I mean, it would take me so long to pay you back, I really could not . . .’
‘It’ll be a gift, of course,’ Madame said. ‘If you’re to be my assistant, then you must be dressed accordingly. I’ve already looked through some of my gowns from last season which can be altered to fit you, but I want you to have something new and very fashionable, too.’
Velvet fought down the urge to fling her arms around Madame. Never before had someone been so generous and acted so kindly towards her. Never, indeed, had she had a new gown of her very own, one which hadn’t been worn by at least two people before. She gave Madame a little curtsey. ‘I am very grateful, Madame,’ she said, ‘and will endeavour to be the best maid – or assistant,’ she corrected (as Madame seemed to be about to object to the first word), ‘that anyone could want.’
‘I’m perfectly sure that you will,’ Madame replied.
After ordering the green gown in Velvet’s size, they carried on shopping, going next to Harrods in Knightsbridge, as Madame had a wish to ride on the marvellous moving staircase which had lately been installed. They managed this very well, certainly having no need of the tot of brandy which the Harrods assistant was offering to those ladies rendered faint by the experience.
It had been quite the most splendid day of her life, Velvet decided later. And didn’t her new name fit her new life so well?
Kitty would never have experienced such things. Kitty would never have had an emerald-green gown bought for her, or ridden on a moving staircase, or become someone’s assistant. Kitty would still be living in a squalid room at the beck and call of the cold-hearted and bitter man who had been her father . . . But perhaps if Kitty had been a better daughter, then that father would still be alive, she thought suddenly, and felt horror and guilt creeping over her, almost overwhelming the pleasure of the day.
Another few days passed, during which there was Madame’s little dog, Emile, to exercise, Madame’s extensive wardrobe to take care of, her hair to arrange, her silk stockings and personal laundry to attend to, her breakfast and lunch to take up, her bedroom to tidy and her appointment book to keep. Velvet might have been daunted by any of these things, but George was always on hand to offer advice and guidance.
George had been with Madame for a good while. ‘She rescued me from the gutter,’ he told Velvet starkly. ‘I would have starved if it hadn’t been for her.’
‘What were you doing back then?’ Velvet asked.
‘I had a raree-show,’ George replied.
Velvet smiled back sympathetically, knowing that at one time nearly every street entertainer in London had had a raree-show: a set of pictures concealed inside a box mounted on a stick. For a small sum, a ha’penny or two, the customer was allowed to look through a peephole in the box to see a prospect of Venice, a succession of pictures of scantily clad women or a panorama of scenes from foreign lands.
‘Did you not make a fair living from it?’
‘I did at first,’ George replied, ‘but then the box was rained upon a few times, the pictures became shabby and torn, and it seemed that every other beggar in town had a peep show. Eventually I got down to my last penny and then I lost that, too.’ He shrugged. ‘I was at my very lowest and hadn’t eaten for several days when Madame came across me. I had literally fainted in the gutter.’
