by Lisa Tuttle
So, I called out to them, my lips near the keyhole, and told them that I must be quick, but I had information to share. Then, as clearly but as economically as I could, I explained that I had discovered the reason for our captivity.
I could feel their combined surprise in a sort of disturbance of the air; then Miss Jessop’s voice: “You do not mean that he has no power of his own? But how can that be? Why, the things we have seen him do!”
“He did those things by drawing on your power,” I replied. “Bear that in mind. You—we—are the ones with the power. His only power is to sense it in others—and steal it. He has tricked you into thinking that he is more powerful than you, when in fact—”
“But that cannot be.” It was one of the De Beauvoir girls who objected in her clear, high voice. “Mr. Chase is very powerful—quite terrifyingly so. And as a mesmerist—”
I interrupted her. “He has some skill as a hypnotist, I don’t deny it. But a hypnotist is only as powerful as you allow him to be. I want you all to know this, so you can guard against it. You can resist him—we all have the ability to resist. Think of this: He covets your power. And because your power is greater than his, you will be able to refuse him.”
One of the young ladies would have objected, but I cut her off. “There is no time to argue. Think about it, please. Don’t be negative…Don’t be too ready to give in to him. And it may be that all together we will be his match—more than his match! That may be why he keeps us apart. Now, tell me quickly. What has become of Monsieur Ribaud?”
Miss Jessop had not heard of him, and it took the sisters a few seconds to recall the name of the young French medium they had once met. I had not really expected that they would know…Even if he had not adopted the “divide and conquer” system, Mr. Chase would hardly have lodged a young man in the same room with three ladies.
Probably he was somewhere else in the house, perhaps held under greater restraint—chained to a wall or bound and gagged. I prayed his confinement was not so dreadful, but at this reminder of my own experience at the hands of the Cossack, I made haste to end our risky conversation, urging them all to remember what I had said and not to give up hope.
“You’re not helpless. Remember that.”
Yet even as I tried to sound encouraging, in truth, I felt far from hopeful. Where was Mr. Jesperson? I had put all my faith in him, and yet, after three days, still he had not managed to rescue us.
I was not very good company for Signora Gallo that day, spending most of my time locked within my own mind. I tried to send myself, in thought, to the house in Gower Street. The rooms were so familiar to me already—so well loved—that I could easily conjure them up in imagination.
But I could not convince myself that what I saw was anything more than my imagining. And even if I did somehow appear, like a ghost, before the astonished eyes of my partner or his mother, what good would that do? They knew I had been abducted, and Mr. Jesperson could easily guess by whom. Because I did not know where I was imprisoned, I could not give them the address.
By now he should have found me. If free, I was sure I could have done it, tracing the trail of gossip from Lady Florence to a letting agent and to the front door. Or he might have followed Chase, or questioned Mrs. Chase—I still wondered if she meant to warn me. And there was Arthur Creevey—Mr. Jesperson might have hypnotized him and found the knowledge buried in the mind of the somnambulist. Had my friend truly failed on every score? Why was I still a prisoner?
The conclusion I came to was grim.
Unable to believe he had not managed to discover where Chase had stashed his prisoners, I could only presume my friend was unable to act upon his knowledge, either because he had been taken prisoner himself, or because some even worse fate had befallen him.
A wave of hopelessness washed over me.
Chapter 27
The Stage Is Set
Late the next day, as Fiorella and I sat playing another round of scissors, paper, stone in an attempt to beguile away the hours, I was distantly aware of a carriage stopping outside, and said, “Perhaps Mr. Chase has finally deigned to call upon us.”
She grinned and winked at me. “Oh, now you have the clairvoyance!”
Although I had spoken more in hope than expectation, there soon came sounds from elsewhere in the house that indicated an arrival. When they were followed by the unmistakable creaking of the stairs, I knew my casual remark had been proved true.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, as if inviting our admiration, his arms piled with boxes. Then, fixing his eyes upon mine, he said, “Miss Lane, I have brought you new clothes. Please be so good as to prepare yourself to go out, and do so as swiftly as you are able. I shall return for you in a quarter of an hour.”
Depositing the boxes at the foot of my bed, he backed out of the room and locked us in again.
“None for me?” Signora Gallo was quicker than I to approach the boxes, and I hurried to join her as she began to open them and pull out everything packed so carefully in tissue paper inside.
They were all—undergarments, stockings, dress, coat, shoes—of the finest quality and could have been made to measure for me. Mr. Chase must have had a good eye for the female form—unless he had simply plucked my measurements from my thoughts. Although I shivered uneasily at his presumption and hated the power he held over me, I will confess I also took a certain pleasure in these new clothes. It was a relief to get out of my well-worn nightgown and a positive delight to exchange it for such fashionable and well-made attire.
Fiorella helped me with the fastenings, all the while grumbling under her breath because she had been overlooked. I felt a flash of fear then: After the dullness of captivity, I was excited by the prospect of change, but the fact that I was being taken and my companion left behind made me apprehensive.
I had just finished lacing up the soft, kid-leather shoes when I heard the sound of the key in the lock, and then Mr. Chase appeared, carrying a hatbox. This he gave me along with a paper of hairpins.
“Ten minutes will, I hope, be sufficient for you to arrange your coiffure?”
What a relief it was to be able to put up my hair again. Then, finally, I stopped feeling like an invalid. The hat was modish, except for an exceptionally long and heavy veil. I was still struggling to fold it back—an impossible task with no hatpins at my disposal—when Mr. Chase returned.
Fiorella immediately demanded to know what was happening: Where was he taking Miss Lane? Why must she stay behind? Where were the nice new clothes for her?
He ignored her, his attention focused on me as he made a sound of disapproval.
“You must wear the veil down,” he said. “Arrange it better than that. Your face must not be seen.” As he spoke, I felt the faintest brush of his will against mine, and I hastened to obey, rather than have him force me.
He gave a smile of satisfaction. “That’s right. Now we may go.”
“You take me, too!” cried Fiorella, and she rushed toward the door.
His smile disappeared, his face went blank, and I saw poor little Fiorella lifted off her feet before she was pushed by an invisible force across the room.
“Oh!” I cried out in horror, and turned—tried to turn—but all my muscles seized up and I could not move.
I could only move my eyes. I looked at Mr. Chase. His gaze in return was dark and penetrating, and I had the horrible fancy that he sent some tiny sliver of himself, sliding along the path of our shared gaze, directly into my soul, from where he would now and forever control my every move. I tried to resist, but the harder I fought, the more firmly I was held. I felt his wordless, profound pleasure as he forced me to turn away from him and walk down the stairs without looking back.
Fiorella! I cried within myself. I am sorry!
I heard him pause to lock the door while I continued to descend. He took his time about following me, satisfied that he had nothing to worry about, no fear that I could do anything that was not his will.
; I could not break free. I could only do what he wanted me to do. It was impossible to flee. My body was bound to him so tightly it might have been another limb. Inside, I was screaming, but I am quite sure that even if anyone could have seen my face beneath the heavy veil, none of my distress would have been visible.
A carriage was waiting outside the door, but because Mr. Chase bowed my head and kept my gaze fixed on my feet in their pretty new shoes as he helped me climb inside, I saw little of it.
“There you are, my dear,” he murmured. “Quite comfortable, I hope?”
From this I guessed he meant for the coachman to believe I was his wife, which suggested the driver knew him; probably he was in the employ of Lord Bennington. A little hope flared up in me at the thought that I need only do something unexpected to catch the man’s attention and make him suspicious—if I could make a noise, jerk my chin up, flail about…anything at all to surprise him, give him something to gossip about, and allow it to reach receptive ears…
But it was worse than useless. The more I struggled to do something—anything!—the more tightly I felt the viselike grip of his will; by the time I was settled on the seat inside, well out of the driver’s sight, I felt as if there were bands of iron around my chest. I could only draw breath by giving up the fight.
Seated beside me as the carriage rattled off, Mr. Chase said not a word, but I could feel his self-satisfaction as strongly as if he’d bellowed his triumph to the skies. He had made his point. I could not hope to prevail against his will, for his strength was greater than mine.
But it was not his power Mr. Chase was exerting; it was mine. He was making me fight against myself.
I suddenly remembered a little souvenir Mr. Jesperson had brought back from China. I had noticed it lying on a bookshelf, a primitive tube woven from dried rushes.
“It’s a finger trap,” he’d said. “Put one finger in each end. Now try to pull it off.”
When you pulled, the woven bands tightened. The harder one pulled, the more tightly the fingers were trapped.
“They’re also known as Chinese handcuffs,” he had said.
It would have to be a very ignorant, or wildly terrified, captive who was unable to work out how to escape, I’d thought. Obviously, if pulling tightened, then the opposite action would relax the bands. Instead of pulling and tensing, one must relax, pushing the fingers into the tube until it loosened.
“Sometimes, in order to win, one must surrender” was the morsel of wisdom represented by this simple toy, and the reason my friend kept it in view.
Every instinct in me warred against the idea of giving in and submitting to Mr. Chase. To pretend to submit was one thing; actually to give up all resistance was anathema.
But pretending to relax had not released me from the finger trap. Edith Jesperson had not pretended to give in when her son—or I—attacked. She had done something else: She had used my own force against me by deflecting it, by stepping aside while I charged ahead expecting resistance that was not there.
And just as Edith had used my own force against me, so did Mr. Chase. I imagined I was fighting against him, but I was fighting against myself. Just as when I struggled in the bonds of the Chinese handcuffs, my own actions trapped me.
The carriage stopped. Looking out of the window, I saw we were in a narrow alleyway, where there was a door and a lighted sign with the words STAGE DOOR above it.
Of course. Despite counting the days of my imprisonment, I had forgotten that this was the night when the celebrated physical medium Christopher Clement Chase was to appear on the stage of the Alhambra. Now I knew he intended to use me to ensure his success.
He opened the door and got out, then turned back to me, his hand extended to take mine. I could feel his will working; he had exerted himself to take control, too cautious to entrust me with even the small amount of autonomy involved in getting out of the carriage without any fuss.
I moved as he wished me to; took his hand and allowed him to assist me as I climbed down from the carriage. I did not exert myself with any futile struggle, but nor was I his puppet. I climbed down. Yes, I did his bidding, but it was my choice to do so. He did not force my limbs to move. I knew what he wished me to do, and I did it myself. A fine distinction, you may think, as the result was the same, but I felt the difference—whereas I think he did not. He was used to meeting my resistance and drawing power from it: the power by which he made me dance to his tune. That was not happening now, yet I think he was unaware of any change. He knew only that what he wanted to happen was happening.
Later, when I had more time to think about it, I concluded that he was more concerned with outcome than process, and that his understanding of his own powers might be scarcely any more sophisticated than Signora Gallo’s. He had a suspicious nature, but as long as he got the results he expected, he could be fooled.
So I went on pretending to be his slave and hoped I was not only fooling myself.
A powerfully built young man had been lounging against the wall beside the stage door, but he straightened up and touched his cap respectfully as we approached.
“Afternoon, Mr. Chase, sir!”
“Good afternoon, Rolly. Everything all right?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Anyone been sniffing around, asking questions, trying to get in?”
“No, sir, nobody. But I’d ’ave sent ’em off with a flea in their ear if they ’ad! I’ve got me orders, and I don’t let nobody in, ’cept they’re with you.”
“Excellent. Good work. I have brought my wife”—he squeezed my arm, a familiarity I was compelled to accept—“to have a look at the set. We’ll probably leave by the front…I hope Dave has been as good a guard there as you have back here.”
Although he professed himself gratified, Mr. Chase did not seem entirely pleased to hear that no one had come by asking questions, although it may be that I was attributing my own emotions to him, so closely bound were we. I did feel a flash of disappointment so strong it was close to despair, wondering again what had happened to Mr. Jesperson.
“You are disconcertingly silent,” said Mr. Chase after we had entered the building.
“Did you wish me to speak?”
He gave a soft snort, then directed me with a slight touch to my elbow to turn along a narrow corridor. “When did a man’s wishes count when it came to women’s conversation?”
“Good conversation is inspired by congenial company.”
“Oh, ho! You’re not so submissive as you’d like to appear.”
I stopped in the chilly, dimly lit space and faced him. “You seem to wish to have me appear to be your wife.” Struggling a bit to fold back the veil, I gave up and pulled off the hat entirely.
He chuckled. “A bit of misdirection, just in case. In future, you may travel with me openly.”
I shuddered. “No, thank you.”
His smile curdled. “I can make you beg.”
I dropped my eyes and bowed my head, hoping to disarm him with a show of submission. “I know.”
It was enough. I felt his mood lift at this proof of my defeat. “Come along,” he said, more kindly. “Let me show you our stage set.”
We proceeded through the nether regions of the theatre, and then he led me onto the great stage of the Alhambra. I had been inside, in the audience, only once or twice before; I remembered a seat far back in the stalls where I had once sat with my sister and our parents watching a ballet.
“Look upon my works,” Mr. Chase declaimed. Then, in a more conversational tone: “Look upon these painted gods—you won’t have another chance to see them as the audience will, and they are worth the price of admission.”
I followed the grand sweep of his arm with my gaze. The stage setting was presumably meant to represent an ancient Greek temple, a sequence of classical pillars painted brilliant white, with a backdrop suggestive of dark blue sky, rocks, a hillside above the sea. But the most striking thing about the whole ensemble were the six towering statu
es of ancient gods and goddesses, brightly painted, each one probably twenty feet high: Artemis, Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, Hermes, and Zeus.
“My helpers,” he said, with his sly smile, fixing me again with his gaze, and I understood: The wood and plaster statues were hollow and would provide the necessary hiding place for the kidnapped mediums. That must have been the purpose of the spirit cabinet in the drawing room. His wife would have been hidden inside, near enough for him to feed upon her power.
It took no imaginative leap to recognize which among the Olympian crowd was mine; as my gaze swept across their garishly painted faces, I guessed that the twins, Artemis and Apollo, would be allotted to Amelia and Bedelia De Beauvoir; wise Athena would hold Miss Jessop: Hermes, that quicksilver trickster, was for Signora Gallo: and bearded Zeus—the only one of the figures who appeared unambiguously masculine—must be meant for Monsieur Ribaud.
“The audience will be encouraged to imagine that these ancient gods are working through me, giving me their powers.”
“Spirits of the dead not impressive enough?”
“Don’t be catty, Miss Lane. We shall have spirits, too. But this is a bit different—appropriate, as I am different from the average run of psychic mediums. I am sorry you won’t be able to watch my show…but you have your part to play behind the scenes, your very important contribution to make.” He paused to fish his watch from its pocket, and after he had consulted it, snapped it shut. “Charming though I always find your company, we must part for a little while. I must finish my preparations. And you must take your place, Aphrodite.”
Pinning me with his gaze, he made a showman’s sweeping gesture at the towering figure of the goddess I had been named after, and as he gestured, it moved. I flinched, thinking it was about to topple over onto us, but then felt foolish, for it was not falling but opening.
