The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  The ride to London is long, and the wooden bench is hard and uncomfortable. We should have brought cushions, I realize. We make several stops, the first being Canterbury, which leads to Ashford, then on to Tonbridge, Redhill, Croydon, and finally London. Mother takes out a deck of cards and we play a game of écarté, but neither one of us seems to give it her all.

  After some time, the coastline gives way to green pastures and small rolling hills. A few brown fields and farms dot the landscape, and plumes of chimney smoke billow from solitary homes in the distance. A flock of birds wheels in the sky, and for some reason, a chill creeps across my bones.

  I wake at the sound of the guard’s booming voice. “Charing Cross station! Charing Cross is next!”

  I sit up and knuckle my eyes. “I must have dozed off,” I say, stifling a yawn.

  “We’re almost there,” Mother says. “Next stop.”

  I look through the window. We are crossing a bridge, and to either side, beyond the water, vast expanses of land are spread out, with patches of green here and there. Even from this distance, I can see great thoroughfares, and people as small as insects moving about.

  “London,” I say in amazement.

  The train rumbles into a tunnel, and then there is darkness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SummerHall

  A circular roof of iron and glass looms above us. Late-afternoon light streams in and spills along the station floor. Long walls of brick on either side seem to go on forever.

  I have never seen so many people in one place in my entire life.

  They scurry to and fro, amidst black clouds of smoke belching from the hulking steel trains. Noise and activity is everywhere: the cries from newspaper boys and vendors of every sort, station attendants and passengers disembarking from the trains. It is a constant hum—​a deep, echoing drone that does not let up for one moment.

  “Where to now?” I ask Mother. She looks tired. I can see it in her eyes and the sag of her shoulders.

  “Outside,” she says, and I follow her through a doorway marked EXIT.

  Carriages are everywhere—​lined up at the station terminal and all along the street. Some are fashionable and sleek, pulled by a team of horses, while others are led by only one horse driven by men perched on high seats. Gentlemen in top hats escort ladies in hoop skirts along the broad sidewalks. Mother straightens her shoulders and looks from left to right, as if searching.

  “Mother?” I ask.

  I am interrupted by the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. A stately coach comes to a stop before us. Two fine black horses stamp and snort. The carriage is deep red and highly polished. An open driver’s seat is positioned in the front, and in the back, a hood to protect travelers from poor weather. My mouth opens in astonishment. I look to Mother. We cannot afford a hired coach.

  “It was sent by Balthazar,” she explains with a smile. “He told me to look for his crest painted upon his carriage.”

  Crest? Only the truly wealthy and the gentry bear such signs. I look to the carriage again. Burnished into the gleaming red door is a white raven’s head surrounded by a wreath of golden leaves. The black-booted driver takes the reins in hand and, after doing some sort of fancy knot tying, steps out and stands at attention. He doesn’t speak, but takes off his cap and nods, then helps us into the coach.

  Once inside, I am amazed by the comfort. The seats are black studded leather and highly padded. There is room for only the two of us, but each side has a large window, plus the one in the front, through which we can see our driver. This Balthazar must certainly be wealthy, I imagine, to afford such a luxury. With a flick of the coachman’s reins, we are off. Crowds of pedestrians mob the streets. There is so much to see, I can barely take it in.

  We are on a street called the Strand, which winds its way along the River Thames. I am dazzled by the large buildings and the sights. “This is Charing Cross,” Mother points out, “in the city of Westminster. This will lead us to the West End, where we will meet Balthazar.”

  My eyes are drawn to a large open space. A towering column soars skyward, and two fountains shimmer with water. “Trafalgar Square,” Mother says.

  The name is familiar, and I recall a lesson from my governess. “Nelson’s Column,” I say proudly. “After Admiral Lord Nelson, who defeated the French at the Battle of Trafalgar.”

  “That’s correct, Jess.”

  She called me Jess. Mother hardly ever uses my pet name. For a moment I forget our mission, and marvel at the sights before me. Throughout the square, there are several plinths on which stand statues of men in all their military finery: on horseback, brandishing swords, their faces peering out onto the London streets. There is one magnificient building with giant columns in the front and a dome on top. “The National Gallery,” Mother says. “Father and I often—”

  She stops short.

  “Mother?”

  She sniffles and feigns a smile, then clasps my hand. I feel a deep sorrow for the loss she has suffered.

  Soon, we arrive on a grand street with fashionable shops and large townhouses. The driver slows, and we turn onto a lane off the main road. Set farther back from the street, a large house looms behind a closed gate. Two men are on either side as if standing sentry. To my surprise, they draw open the massive gate and let us pass. Surely this can’t be where Balthazar lives. The house looks fit for royalty. I look to Mother for a moment, but she is quiet. The carriage slowly makes its way up a long drive of brick squares, leading to a house that is truly a wonder to behold. The lawn is manicured to neat perfection, with several topiaries trimmed and clipped into elaborate shapes—​spirals and winding ribbons; stars and a crescent moon. Stone sculptures stand on the grounds, one of them a female form covered in ivy. Tall chimneys spew streams of wood smoke, which I can smell from within the closed coach. Small turrets and brick towers reach for the sky, and diamond-paned windows sparkle in the late-afternoon light. How can one possibly afford such an estate? Now I am really curious to know what this Balthazar is about.

  The horses whinny and snort. Several black-booted men are standing at attention. He has footmen? They approach the carriage and open the doors, then take our bags and lead us into the house. Another man, one whose face looks carved from granite, nods politely. “Welcome to SummerHall,” he greets us. “Please. Follow me if you will.” And with a sweep of his arm, he turns and leads the way inside.

  SummerHall, I muse. How lovely. But then it dawns on me again why we are here.

  Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

  Inside, Mother shoots me a glance. I can’t fully read her expression, but it seems to be one of anxiety paired with curiosity. I try my best to keep my mouth from gaping as I take in the hall. Two giant marble columns stand at either end. I raise my head to look up. Several chandeliers glitter from a ceiling painted with so many colors and patterns that my head spins. All the objects here look as if they belong in a museum. Ornate paintings hang in gilded frames, busts and small statues sit on pedestals. Persian carpets lie underfoot. I could spend an eternity just looking at the things in the hall, but we come to a stop before a set of closed double doors. The butler pushes them inward without so much as a knock. “Mrs. Cora and Miss Jessamine Grace, my lord,” he announces.

  I swallow hard and look to Mother. This man, Balthazar, is a lord? Why didn’t she tell me?

  Strangely, she doesn’t seem impressed at all—​as if meeting aristocracy is something she does at tea every day.

  I’ve never been “presented” before and feel a little embarrassed, but quickly put on my best ladylike charm, a trait I learned from Mother. The room we step into is absolutely spectacular. A fireplace carved from a fine, dark wood is the centerpiece, made all the more impressive by a border of intricate gold-leaf trim. Several tall candelabra are placed in each corner. Everywhere I glance, there is something of interest: a globe resting on a marble pedestal, a round claw-foot table with a display of red and white flowers, and a medieval suit of
armor, silently standing sentry. Most curious of all is a large painting above the hearth of a woman in a sheer gown, running through a forest. Her hair is a lustrous black and gleams in the dark swirls of paint.

  “Her name was Lady Estella,” a voice rings out, and a man steps forward.

  He is tall—​indeed taller than any man I have seen before—​and elegantly dressed. His black waistcoat is finely embroidered in a pattern of dark leaves, with silver buttons of the same motif. White lace peeks from his cuffs; his boots, which are quite fashionable, shine a deep oxblood color. Surely this must be Balthazar, and although I have never met a lord before, he is not what I would have assumed. He seems more dashing than a lord, who I always imagined would be pompous and overbearing and in possession of several chins.

  He holds my gaze as I turn from the painting. “She was a faerie maiden,” he says, “who was in love with a mortal man. But that is a story for another time.”

  He walks toward us with long steps, and I am reminded of a crane wading through tall reeds. The butler closes the double doors behind us.

  Balthazar takes Mother’s gloved hand in his and gently lowers his head to kiss it. “Cora, how good it is to see you again.” His voice is as rich as the Devonshire cream I had at breakfast.

  Mother smiles politely. “Always a pleasure,” she says.

  Balthazar’s eyes rest a bit too long on her. She quickly turns to me. “My daughter, Jessamine Grace.”

  I place my left heel behind my right and dip my knees in a small curtsy, even though I am not sure if it is proper. The rules, manners, and formalities in English society are a menace to behold.

  Balthazar takes my hand also—​the first time a gentleman has ever done so—​and lowers his head to kiss it. I do not think it is appropriate, if I recall my etiquette, but to protest would be impolite. His fingers are long and almost feminine. “’Tis often said that the loveliest of petals bloom from the rarest of flowers,” he says.

  As I try to work out whether this is a compliment, I feel a wave of crimson rising up my neck.

  At dinner, several footmen help us with our seats, and Balthazar takes his place at the head of the table. A man in a double-breasted black waistcoat stands at attention behind him and a little off to the side. He hasn’t blinked once. Mother and I sit opposite each other.

  The footmen serve small dishes from the sideboard. My stomach rumbles from the long ride, and I eat slowly, remembering my manners from The Young Ladies’ Book of Etiquette. The heavy wood table looks fit for a party. Two candelabra with long, burning tapers are placed at either end. The china plates have an unusual pattern—​the same one that was on the coach: a white raven’s head circled by golden leaves.

  The food is wonderful: apple and celery salad, cucumber sandwiches, boiled eggs, and, much to my horror, oysters. I’ve never eaten one before and am somewhat revolted by its shimmery wetness, but when I swallow, I am surprised by its taste: sharp and salty, like the sea itself. A lovely yellow custard comes last and gives a slight crackle when I tap my spoon on its surface.

  Balthazar surely must know why we are really here, yet he keeps the conversation light and full of pleasantries. His movements are so graceful—​even the way he holds his knife and fork is elegant—​that I feel like a complete savage.

  Mother makes no mention of our reason for visiting, but nods and smiles at what seem to be the right moments.

  Finally, after the staff clears away the plates, Balthazar escorts us to the library. I look to Mother. It is usually men who retire to the library after dinner, but we follow our host’s lead. Heavy red draperies cover the tall windows, and a fire burns in the hearth here as well. The man must have one in every room.

  Several instruments are on display, the most prominent being a piano, which is polished to perfection. I am tempted to reach out and finger the keys, although my few lessons would not be enough to attempt a tune. There is also a golden harp, three flutes of varying lengths, and a little drum. Balthazar invites us to make ourselves comfortable. After we are seated, the butler enters with drinks. “M’lady?” he offers. One hand is behind his back, and the other proffers the tray.

  “A digestif,” Balthazar explains. “A sweet lemon cordial.”

  I smile politely and take the small silver glass. Mother takes one as well, but Balthazar does not.

  After the butler closes the door behind him, I raise the glass to my lips. The liquid is sweet and tart and reminds me of something I’ve tasted before but cannot place.

  Balthazar sits in a heavy high-backed chair padded in red leather. He steeples his long fingers together and looks at both of us. He wears several rings, one of which glows blood-red in the firelight. “I received your cable,” he says, eyeing Mother, “and it does indeed seem to be dire news.”

  Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

  He crosses his long legs and turns to me. “Miss Jessamine,” he begins. “This … message. Please, tell me what it said.”

  I know the words by heart, and feel as if I’ve had them in my head for years, waiting to be spoken again. “‘Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”

  “Signed,” Mother adds, “with the letter M.”

  Silence falls among us.

  “So it is true,” Balthazar declares softly.

  “Yes,” Mother answers.

  There is something happening here, I realize, but at the moment I am a clueless bystander.

  “And when you were in the wardrobe,” he continues, “did you hear any voices? A cold breeze? A sense of … dread, perhaps?”

  Apprehension stirs within me at the mention of dread, as if the word itself has settled on my shoulder. “No,” I answer. “Nothing untoward at all.”

  “And the slate was in your possession the whole while?”

  “Yes.” I look to Mother briefly. “I entered the wardrobe with the blank slate and replaced it with one in a hidden panel.”

  I feel like an absolute fraud, which is what I am, after all.

  Mother shifts in her seat. “Balthazar,” she begins, “you do know that my daughter and I operate, shall we say, on suggestion and desire? We do not really work in the realm of spiritualism. In common parlance, it is all a sham.”

  Balthazar raises an arched eyebrow. “How absolutely criminal.”

  Mother’s lips tighten in embarrassment.

  “What does it mean?” I ask. “The rhyme?”

  “That, I do not know,” Balthazar replies, “for I have never heard such a refrain before.”

  Wonderful. We came all this way, and he hasn’t any answers.

  Balthazar unfolds himself and stands up. I am shocked again at how very tall he is. It seems almost unnatural. “I would like to try an experiment,” he suggests. “Please, gather round.”

  Mother and I rise and follow him to the far corner of the room, where a small circular table sits surrounded by three bentwood chairs. Mother and I sit opposite each other. Balthazar, still standing, reaches down to the edge of the table and pulls the brass knob of a drawer, which slides open with a creak. I look on curiously.

  He takes out several items and places them on the table: a sheet of cream-colored parchment, a quill and inkwell, and a leather case. After a lingering gaze at both of us—​for dramatic effect only, it seems—​he clicks open the hinges of the case and draws something out.

  “A spirit board,” I whisper. Mother and I have used these before, but never one so fine. It seems to be made of rosewood. The sun and moon are at the top left and right, and the alphabet is stamped below in burnished gold.

  “Indeed,” Balthazar confirms. “One that has many uses.” He withdraws another object from the case. It is a planchette, a heart-shaped piece of wood used with a spirit board to receive messages from the other side.

  Mother eyes the table. “Balthazar,” she starts. “I told you we do not really—”

  “Please,” he interrupts. “Indulge me, Cora. Just for a moment.�
�� He smiles, showing perfect white teeth. It’s odd to hear a gentleman address Mother with such familiarity.

  Mother lets out a small sigh, and Balthazar finally sits, facing the both of us. He nudges the planchette toward me with two fingers.

  Why is he giving this to me?

  He reaches for the quill and dips it into the inkwell. He then begins to write on the parchment, and his forehead wrinkles in concentration. Try as I might, I cannot read the words, for they are as small and as cramped as bird tracks. The only sound is the quill tip rasping on paper. After a moment he purses his lips and blows on the wet ink, then folds the parchment lengthwise and slides it toward Mother.

  “Miss Jessamine,” he begins, turning to me, “if you would be so kind as to look at me and concentrate. Place your fingers on the planchette.”

  I take a breath and place my fingertips lightly on the polished wood object. The room is growing a little too warm for my comfort, and I wish more than anything to relieve myself of petticoats.

  “Now,” he says, “I want you to think of what I just wrote on that parchment. Let your thoughts drift and focus on mine.”

  I exhale and hope that the dampness I feel on my face is not showing. Mother has always said it is unseemly for a lady to sweat.

  I stare at Balthazar, feeling a little taken aback. I’ve done this before with our clients, but knowing it was all a ruse made it easier, something that helped me play the part. This is entirely different. Am I supposed to look into his mind?

  I will myself not to look away—​although I am quite embarrassed, for we are sitting rather close to each other—​and continue to gaze into his eyes. I focus on his thoughts, just as he has asked. I don’t really know what I am doing, but I concentrate on his face. Suddenly my fingertips tingle, and the planchette seems to move of its own accord. To the left, now right, now left again. There is a pause in the tingling, but just as suddenly, I feel it again, running up and down my arms. I try to stay focused and, resisting the urge to look down, continue to stare at Balthazar. My heart races. My pulse quickens. My hands float around the board, accompanied by the scrape of the planchette. Mother’s breathing sounds as loud as a trumpeting elephant. Balthazar watches with an expression of fascination.