"It was an unsuitable marriage for a young landed gentleman. My grandparents must have been horrified; she was from a small fishing village in County Galway. But Papa loved her deeply and passionately. He never loved anyone like Geileish."
"Geileish," Evangeline said, rolling the unusual name around her tongue.
"It's Gaelic."
"It's beautiful. Go on, Uncle Edmund."
Edmund's shoulders sagged.
"Child birth is a dangerous business, Evangeline. For both the mother and the child. Despite all my family's privileges, our nice house in the country, the doctor and the nurses, my mother did not survive my birth."
"How terrible." Evangeline bit her lip.
"I never had a chance to know her. But Monty had five years with her."
"Did she look like you?"
"More like Monty than me. We have one daguerreotype of her. She was beautiful, a tiny little woman with jet black hair and pale blue eyes. Some people said she was part faery."
"Faery?" Evangeline gasped. "Did she have wings?"
Edmund chuckled.
"I'm not sure about the wings but she enchanted Papa. There were many strange stories about Geileish. According to the rumours, she would roam the countryside barefoot, talking to the wind and singing with the flowers. She had a fiery temper and could turn the milk sour inside the cows."
"Do you believe them?"
Perhaps Geileish was the reason why Evangeline felt the strange power in the cellar. Perhaps magic was in her blood.
"Sometimes people are jealous of true love and will do anything to destroy it." Edmund sighed, taking another swig. "Papa remarried quickly after her death. This time, he married a girl from the right type of family but it was obvious it was not for love. Monty was sent away to school and Papa spent more time in London building his political career. I don't think Papa ever recovered."
"Poor Father. Poor Grandpapa," Evangeline said.
"Monty understands the pain of losing a mother."
"Like me," Evangeline muttered.
"Like you." Edmund nodded.
"Do you know the story of how my mother met my father?"
"That is not a story for me to tell."
Evangeline sighed. It was worth a try but she knew Uncle Edmund was right. This was a story her father needed to tell her. But when? Being patient was such a bore.
"Where is Augie this evening?"
Edmund scratched his ear. "Promise you won't tell?"
Evangeline drew a cross on her chest. "Hope to die."
"He's across the road."
"At Mrs. Picklescott-Smythe's? So late?"
"I told him it wasn't a good idea. But Augie always does as he pleases."
"With Madame Zsoldas?"
"I believe so. He's desperate to attend one of her sessions."
"A séance?"
"Only a meeting of spiritualists, I believe. The group from the Messenger of the Dawn newspaper."
"Has Augie lost someone? He always seems so jolly. When he's not telling me off about my posture."
"We've all lost people. Death is a constant companion in this world."
Evangeline nodded solemnly.
"This conversation is all too maudlin for me." Edmund got to his feet. "I'm off to bed."
Evangeline followed her uncle upstairs and jumped back into her bed. There was a maelstrom of questions in her head, but she shut her eyes tightly. She needed a good night's sleep and all her wits in order to grill Augie in the morning. She must know all about the meeting with Madame Zsoldas.
Chapter 7
After a fitful night's sleep with strange dreams of faery grandmothers and mummies, Evangeline woke early. The sun barely peeking over the east and 56 Collins Street was as quiet as a museum.
Evangeline lifted up her eiderdown and stretched her sleepy limbs.
"Good morning, world," she said with a yawn.
She noticed a tightness in her muscles, probably after her exertion yesterday with the mummy. Her arms and legs were becoming rusty through lack of use. The Professor discouraged Evangeline from cartwheeling down the hallway, and it had been almost a month since her last sparring session with Mei. Evangeline could not allow herself to become complacent. As evident from the soiree, her acrobatic skills could be required at any moment.
"Right!" she said, slipping out of bed and onto the cold floorboards. "Let's begin."
Still in her nightgown, Evangeline leaned back. Reaching over her head, her hands touched the floor behind her with her palms laid down flat. She pushed herself back up to standing and then doubling over from the hips, touched the floor in front of her. She repeated her backwards and forwards stretch three times. Each time easier, as her spine warmed and remembered the moves. She leaned back one more time, placing her palms on the ground and began to scuttle up and down the length of her bedroom, like an upside-down crab.
"That will do for today," she said to herself. "But I will do more tomorrow."
Feeling virtuous, Evangeline moved on to her next activity for the day. The small clock on her mantelpiece showed there was ample time before breakfast to trial her new invention, the coiffure machine.
The coiffure machine would be a revolution for ladies across the world, bringing Evangeline fame and fortune. With the device, every lady would be able to style her own hair at home, quickly and easily, without the aid of a maid.
This morning, Evangeline would be the first test subject, arriving at the breakfast table perfectly groomed with thoroughly fashionable hair. She could not wait to see the delight on Augie's face.
"Here it goes," she said, turning the key on the box.
The mechanism clicked, the cogs whirred and ticked, and her father's leftover hand came to life. The clockwork fingers splayed one by one, as though limbering up before a piano recital. Evangeline turned the first dial, labelled in her own handwriting, to 'plait' and the second dial to 'twist'. She turned around and leaned back, slipping her head into the comfortably cushioned holder and waited for the clockwork fingers to perform their magic.
The fingers deftly twirled the middle section of her hair into a bun, leaving strands free around her face and down her neck.
"Ow," she cried as hair pins fired from the fingers like gun shots, the sharp ends gouging her scalp. She felt her skin gingerly, checking for blood.
"Minor adjustment needed. Reduce the force of the pins." She made a note in her little book by her side. A few teething problems. This was perfectly acceptable in the world of a famous inventress.
The fingers moved on and in a flash plaited up the remaining strands hanging down her neck. Evangeline stroked the long finished braid. It was neat and tight. Another tick for her new machine.
She noticed a funny smell and the brass fingers were growing increasingly warm against her scalp. But Evangeline sat still, waiting for her hairstyle to be complete. She couldn't wait to surprise her family with her fine hair at breakfast. There was a little discomfort but sometimes a lady needed to suffer for her beauty.
"Ouch."
The hand twisted the braid with a powerful jerk.
"Adjust the grip. A little too firm," she noted but the fingers continued to twist and twirl her braid, winding her hair tighter and tighter, pulling her head closer to the heat.
She sniffed, she could smell burning. Was her device singeing rather than styling her hair?
Panic building, Evangeline tried to lean forward but the strong fingers held her back, ripping strands of her hair out by the roots.
"Ow." She squealed.
The scent of scorched hair grew stronger as the brass fingers scorched against her scalp.
"Knickers," Evangeline said.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
"Breakfast."
"Miss Plockton. Help!" Evangeline cried.
The door flew open.
"What on earth? Is this machine attacking you?"
"Turn the switch to 'off' quickly."
"What is this tortu
re device?"
"My coiffure machine. Only a few hiccups. I'll admit it appears to be working a little too well."
"Is it coal-fired? I smell burning."
"It might be me," Evangeline said. "Please help."
The little Scottish woman fiddled with the dials until the hand began to cool and the twisting stopped. Miss Plockton grasped Evangeline's braid. Pulling right and left, Miss Plockton grimaced as she tried to untangle Evangeline, but she was stuck firm in the grasp of the brass fingers.
"Let me get my scissors."
"No," cried Evangeline. "Let's try again, I'm sure we're almost there."
With a heave and a squeal, Evangeline jerked her head forward, wrenching herself free.
"See. No need for scissors. I'm perfectly fine."
Evangeline turned her head to see a chunk of her brown hair stuck in the brass fingers. She reached her hand up, feeling the charred broken ends of her hair and a bald patch of skin.
Evangeline ran to the looking glass to inspect the damage.
"Oh no."
"It can be easily hidden, if you pile it up like this," offered Miss Plockton.
"My hair is ruined." Evangeline sulked.
"No one will notice, Miss Evangeline."
"It will take forever to grow back. I'm half bald!"
"You know what the Lord says about vanity," Miss Plockton tutted.
"You wouldn't understand," Evangeline grumbled as she resorted to old-fashioned methods, twirling her hair into a bun with her own hands and carefully pinning a section to hide the burned patch.
"You look fine. Hurry along. Your eggs will be getting cold."
Evangeline stomped down the stairs after Miss Plockton, her dreams of being a famous inventress thwarted.
Chapter 8
"Can I smell burning?" Augie said as Evangeline slipped into a seat at the breakfast table. "Cook better not be burning my toast."
"Where's Father?" Evangeline changed the subject and patted her bun, checking her bald patch was covered.
"Still upstairs," Edmund said, mashing kippers onto a slice of toast.
"Good. I must hear all about the spiritualist meeting last night, Uncle Augie? Before Father arrives."
"Someone has a big mouth." Augie glanced at Edmund. Miss Plockton scowled, but hovered at the side of the room.
"Was there table rapping and spirits?"
"It was more like a church service than a séance..."
"What blasphemy," Miss Plockton spat under her breath and tugged at her cross.
"Or a lecture. Madame Zsoldas gave a talk about the latest scientific research and the evidence behind spiritualism. I didn't understand half of it but it was riveting stuff. She is quite the orator. Very engrossing and so very intelligent. She was one of the first women to obtain a science degree from the University of Budapest, you know. "
"So, no trances or messages from the dead?" Uncle Edmund teased.
"No, that will happen tonight." Augie wriggled with delight. "I can't wait. My first proper séance."
Evangeline was thoroughly jealous. She took a bite of her scrambled eggs. Miss Plockton was right again. They were a little tepid.
"She is absolutely above board. Cross my heart. She knows so much about spiritualism and the spirit world. We're so lucky to have someone like her, a world renowned expert, here in Melbourne. Her powers are ever so strong."
"Heathens." Miss Plockton tutted, placing a fresh rack of toast onto the table.
"You won't believe what she said. She swore she could see someone sitting by me. Right beside me. The spirit of a man who looked the very spit of me."
"Did you tell her about him?" Uncle Edmund said with disbelief.
"Believe me, I said nothing. I kept my mouth closed all evening. You would have been proud. She just knew. I'm telling you, Edmund. This woman is no fraud..."
"What woman?" The Professor strode through the door in a forest green waistcoat.
"No one," said Augie. "You wouldn't know her."
Augie took a teeny bite of toast.
"You better not be talking about you-know-who," the Professor harrumphed.
Miss Plockton fluttered around the Professor pouring him a large cup of tea.
"I don't understand your animosity against Madame Zsoldas, Monty. You are scientific compatriots."
"How dare you compare her to me." The Professor slammed his fist on the table. Four tea cups jumped into the air, splattering tea on the white tablecloth.
"Many other scientists like yourself take a keen interest in spiritualism. For instance that American fellow. The inventor."
Evangeline and Edmund gasped. The Professor's face flushed from red to purple. Augie was on dangerous territory. Even Evangeline knew better than to mention the name of Hank Buchanan at 56 Collins Street.
"He is just like her. A thief!"
"She is doing admirable work. It's charity."
"Balderdash! I just passed by the window and saw that lawyer, Fortescue Williamson, arriving at the house across the road. As we speak, that woman is probably forcing Mrs. Picklescott-Smythe to change her will. Leaving all her husband's hard-earned fortune to a crystal ball gazer! Then she'll scare her to an early grave by tea-time tomorrow."
"Be reasonable, Monty. You really do have a bee in your bonnet about Madame Zsoldas."
The Professor took a long slurp of tea, sucking the drips from his moustache. He continued in a measured voice.
"It is well documented. There are phenomena which cannot be explained by science. Energy fields which exist but we do not understand. Yet."
Evangeline picked at her lower lip. Perhaps the faint tickle from the mummy was nothing unexplainable, probably normal like static electricity.
"So you agree it is possible to communicate with the dead." Augie stirred his tea.
"I am a man of science, I keep an open mind but I have yet to see solid proof. All I know is this particular woman cannot speak with the dead."
"How do you know? You have one little melee at a town hall debate and suddenly she's a charlatan."
"You want proof? I will prove it to you." The Professor rushed to his feet. "Miss Plockton, please serve my breakfast in my study. I have work to do."
Evangeline took a quiet sip of tea as her father bustled out of the room, Miss Plockton close behind him.
How did the Professor know Madame Zsoldas was truly a crook? What if her powers were real? This could be their chance to speak with the other side and prove the existence of spirits.
"You shouldn't antagonise my brother like that," Edmund said.
"He is the one being unreasonable. Just because Madame Zsoldas made him look silly in front of a room full of people."
Edmund shrugged. "This is his house."
"Perhaps it is time we got a house of our own."
"No," Evangeline exclaimed.
Edmund patted his niece's hand. Augie sat ramrod straight in his chair and defiantly tossed his head.
"I will go tonight. Regardless what your brother says. I must find out if she has a message from my twin brother."
Evangeline pressed her lips together. A séance on Collins Street? This was one show Evangeline could not possibly miss.
Chapter 9
Evangeline rapped lightly on Augie's bedroom door. His door was open and her not-real uncle sat at his writing desk in front of the window, the slate-grey Melbourne sky outside.
"May I speak with you, Uncle Augie?" Evangeline had been rehearsing her speech since breakfast.
"What is it, my dear?" He turned from his letter-writing, placing down his revolver pen. "You're not worried about my spat with your father, are you? We're a pair of stubborn old rams. Don't fret, it will all blow over soon."
"I don't often ask you for anything," Evangeline said.
"True. You are quite the self-sufficient young lady."
"And you are a modern gentleman? In favour of the education of young ladies?"
"To an extent. Only the exceptionally beautif
ul can get away with being complete dimwits."
Evangeline swallowed, plucking up her courage.
"Are you alright?" Augie said with a bemused expression.
Evangeline nodded but she was dumbstruck.
"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?" Augie said, his brow furrowed.
Evangeline shook her head.
"Then what is it? Whilst your company is enchanting, I am rather busy," Augie said, gesturing to his pile of letters. "Every fool and halfwit wants a turn on my stage."
"I was wondering..."
As Edmund said, death was a constant companion of life and ever since the passing of her mother, Evangeline had been fascinated with the thin line between the two worlds. Everyone had a story of lost loved ones and plenty with their own tales of ghosts and spirits. Evangeline's last circus troupe even had its own resident ghost, Claude the French trapeze artist. Claude plunged to his death thirty years earlier in front of a full house. A man of discipline even in death, Claude could be seen maintaining his practice, the seat swinging when no one else was there.
But like her father, Evangeline needed solid proof. She needed to see it with her own eyes. Evangeline breathed in deep and blurted it out.
"...may I accompany you tonight? To the séance with Madame Zsoldas?"
With elevated eyebrows, Augie leaned back in his writing chair, whistling long and low between his teeth.
"Oh, my dear. I don't think that is possible. Your father would never allow it. He'd be terribly angry with me."
"Please. This is the closest I've ever been. A real chance to speak with the dead." Her lip began to tremble.
"It is not the place for an impressionable young lady like yourself. I am sorry."
"A chance to speak with my mother," Evangeline choked. "Speak to her one last time."
"Your father would be livid. Edmund too."
"Don't you want to help me?" Tears ran down her face like raindrops down a window.
"Dear girl. I can't." Augie took hold of Evangeline's shaking hand. "But I understand how you feel. I lost my own twin brother."
The Antics of Evangeline: Collection 1: Mystery and Mayhem in steampunk Melbourne Page 17
