“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Shoes.”
I looked down at my bare toes. I hadn’t even remembered my stockings. If I’d been a duchess’s daughter, it would have been shocking. As it was only me, and it was early in the morning, it was barely surprising. Not that I thought for one moment that Xavier would have seen it that way. I made a sound of frustration and whirled around, dashing back up the stairs to my bedroom. Colin’s laughter followed me the entire way.
By the time I’d reached the door to the parlor, with my shoes properly in place, I was awake enough to care that my hair was escaping its pins again. I stuffed it back in, scraping my scalp until every thick curl was ruthlessly secured.
Xavier stood up when I entered. “Miss Willoughby, pray forgive the early intrusion.”
“Not at all,” my mother said before I could reply. She stood up as well, a steely glint in her eye. I peered into her cup, wondering if it was filled with lukewarm tea or sherry. “Do excuse me,” she added.
She swept out of the room, leaving the door open. Technically, we ought to have had a chaperone, even for a morning visit over tea, but Mother was hoping Xavier would offer for me. She wasn’t above unsubtly maneuvering us all to fall in line with her wishes. Besides, I supposed it wasn’t entirely risqué with the door open and servants rushing back and forth. I’d seen elevated social mamas do far worse in the name of securing a husband for their daughters. An elderly, gray-curled grandmother once tripped an eligible bachelor on his way to the gaming table so he would fall at her granddaughter’s satin-slippered feet. Instead he’d landed on a footman and broken his arm.
“Miss Willoughby?”
I turned my attention back to Xavier with a start. His brown eyes were warm and focused entirely on my face. “I’m sorry … yes?”
“Are you quite well?”
“Certainly.” I fought back a blush. Had I been staring blankly at the hideous cabbage rose wallpaper?
“I shouldn’t like to be forward, but I wanted a chance to see you.”
“That’s very kind of you.” I didn’t know what else to say. “More tea, Mr. Trethewey?” I filled his cup and passed him the sugar bowl. He smiled, stirred, and tapped the edge of his spoon on the rim of his cup precisely three times.
“I hope you’ll save me a dance at the ball this week?”
“Of course.”
“And I should like you to meet my parents,” he said. “They’ll be arriving later today.”
I swallowed nervously. “Thank you. I should be happy to meet them.” In fact, I wanted nothing less. They’d know right away that I wasn’t good enough for him.
He stood and came over to my chair, reaching for my hand. I’d forgotten my gloves again. The leather of his glove was soft and warm on my bare skin. He was always dressed impeccably and properly, no matter the hour. I stood up and we were very close.
“Mr. Trethewey?”
“Violet,” he exclaimed, even though we hadn’t yet given each other leave to use our first names. He lifted my hand to his mouth. No man had ever been this close to me before, and certainly none had ever taken my ungloved hand in his. Except for Colin, but that had been to push my fingers into the jam pot.
Xavier kissed those same fingers. It sent tingles up my arm.
“Violet, you must know …” He shook his head. “Forgive me. Forgive me,” he said again, seemingly startled by his own behavior. It happened so fast, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t even have time to reply before he bowed and rushed out of the parlor.
“Violet,” my mother snapped. “Do stop squirming.”
I wondered what else, exactly, I was expected to do with my petticoats up over my head and my mother and Marjorie crouched at my feet like goblins. Marjorie’s mouth was full of pins. Mother tightened the rope around my thigh.
“Ouch,” I complained.
“It needs to be secure,” she insisted.
I grabbed onto the back of the settee so I wouldn’t topple. “But I also need to be able to feel my legs so I can walk,” I muttered. “It’ll be rather obvious if I limp into the parlor.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “A little cooperation, if you please.”
“Is this really necessary?” I shifted, trying to ease the chafing of the fireplace bellows now strapped to my leg. It was heavy and cumbersome. At home Marjorie stood outside in the hallway with the bellows, pumping air into a small hole in the wall, positioned just so. We didn’t have that luxury at the moment.
“Yes,” she said, checking the knots. She was beautiful in a black silk gown with white silk orchids along the frilled ruchings. Crystal beads glittered in her hair. I’d stolen those beads from a box outside a shop being fumigated for rats.
I knew from experience that there was a certain kind of beauty that made people shut their eyes to everything else. Mother had it in spades, and she assured me that I had it too; I only needed to learn to use it. I didn’t think dragging my numb leg behind me would be a particularly good start.
“I should think you would be a little more enthusiastic, Violet. I am trying to secure you a good future. Or would you rather sew hats for fine ladies until your fingers bleed? Personally, I don’t think you’d care for it.”
She liked to lecture me that I was too soft, made that way by her hard work. It was virtually unheard of for a pregnant maid to return to London and make a better life for herself, but as it turned out, Mother had quite the talent for telling mourners exactly what they wanted to hear. And being in a state of perpetual half mourning lent her an air of gentility. Most Spiritualists preferred white for funerals; after all, they held it as one of their most important tenets that death, being just another journey, was nothing to be feared.
White, however, did nothing for Mother’s complexion.
She was at her best with her pale skin delicately bordered with black silk. The contrived air of mourning was meant to curtail too many questions since my father wasn’t actually dead. Though I suppose he might well be; I had no way of knowing since I wasn’t exactly sure who he was in the first place. Nevertheless, she wore black silks and velvets and delicate cameos. And the only reason she hadn’t forced me into a fictional half mourning too was because lavender made me look like week-old mutton.
And despite what one might say about her, she was clever and could read people’s mannerisms the way I read novels. There was nothing so useful, as she was fond of saying, as knowing exactly what a man or a rich old lady with more gold than family needed to hear.
Or nothing so useful, apparently, as being able to gracefully glide about the parlor with a pair of bellows tied to your leg. I didn’t think they taught this particular skill at the finishing schools.
These kinds of tricks, along with Miss Hartington’s dying kindness, were the only reason we were able to live nearer to Mayfair than the East End, where we belonged. If we walked from our new house we could see the peerage promenade through Hyde Park on chestnut bays. It was also how we became able to afford gilded mirrors and two new gowns in the most current fashion, with flounces and a matching bonnet trimmed with red roses. I loved those new dresses. I’d never had one before now that wasn’t several years outdated and already worn at the seams.
But I still hated how we took advantage of people sunk so deep into their grief that any natural skepticism was lost. The curiosity seekers didn’t bother me as much. It was the experience they wanted, along with the cachet of having sat hand to hand with a born sensitive. They seemed to care little for evidence of any kind once they saw my mother, all beautiful dark curls and eyes like warm chocolate.
I sincerely hoped these sitters fell into that safe category.
It wasn’t long before Marjorie finished pinning the inside layer of my petticoats so that they wouldn’t catch and bunch around the bellows. Then she shook out my skirts. Mother stepped back, eyeing me carefully.
“Very good,” she approved finally. “Now take a t
urn about the room.”
The first step sent me sprawling across the carpet. I landed hard on my elbow and knocked the breath from my lungs for a moment.
Mother sighed irritably. “Violet, a little effort, if you please.”
“Are you all right, miss?” Marjorie asked, helping me to my feet.
“She’s fine.” Mother waved her hand dismissively. “Try again.”
By the third time across the sitting room I was walking more like a debutante and less like a wounded hippopotamus. I was feeling rather pleased with my efforts until Colin came in.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
I sighed. Mother scowled. “Try harder, Violet.”
Colin met my eyes steadily before turning to my mother. “Lord Jasper is asking for you,” he said. “Why doesn’t Violet stay here a little longer and practice?” He was trying to give me some time to myself. He knew how flustered I got before a sitting, never mind one at Rosefield with my mother breathing fire down my neck.
“Very well.” Mother smoothed her already perfect hair back. She paused before sailing out of the room like a glossy ship.
“No mistakes now,” she warned us all.
CHAPTER 4
Even though Colin and I had searched every inch of it, the parlor was still intimidating with its velvet cushions and gold candlesticks. Lord Jasper was already sitting at the round table in the corner, his cane with its handle shaped like the head of a silver swan propped beside him. His hair was a shock of white, barely tamed into a queue with a matching white beard, closely trimmed. As he was our host, the etiquette books I’d studied said I should greet him first. Instead, I plopped down into the nearest chair. It was more awkward than I would have thought, because my left knee didn’t bend properly alongside the bellows. I fixed one of those awful, excruciatingly polite smiles on my face. Elizabeth joined me, drinking from a glass of lemonade.
“What took you so long?” she whispered. “My mother’s been trying to get me to flirt with Xavier even though I told her he was courting you.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have any experience with this sort of thing. I liked him, of course. There was nothing to dislike. He was perfectly amiable. Elizabeth and I both looked in his direction. He was standing with Frederic, his blond hair neatly swept back. He looked at ease, perfectly comfortable with his surroundings and his place in them. I rather envied him for that. He caught us staring at him and smiled, offering us a small bow from across the room. I blushed.
Elizabeth held back a laugh but only barely. “Have you met his parents yet?”
I shook my head. “No, have they arrived?”
“That’s his mother by the fern terrarium.”
I glanced over and nearly groaned. She was dressed to the very pinnacle of fashion in blue silk with a lace-trimmed apron striped in a paler blue. Sapphires glittered on every possible expanse of skin and in her piled and scented hair. She was elegant and sophisticated.
“She’s going to hate me,” I muttered. “Even before I spill something on her.”
“Oh, pish. They’ll love you. Anyway, they’re in trade. It’s not like they can look down their nose at you because you aren’t an earl’s daughter,” she said, even though her own mother looked down at me that way, knowing full well we didn’t have the background to be associating with Lord Jasper and his ilk. The fact that he would invite families in trade was tolerated because of their combined wealth, but his inviting a medium and her daughter to a house party with the peerage was considered quite eccentric and worthy of prolonged gossip. He was very modern by all accounts. And since we were invited for scientific inquiry and entertainment, certain allowances were made.
Elizabeth’s smile was wicked. “Mrs. Trethewey cares about two things and two things only: fame and fortune. Right now, your mother is providing a fantastic amount of fame, so you have nothing to worry about.”
If only that were true.
Still, Elizabeth was always so jolly, she nearly made me forget why we were sitting there in the first place, until Lord Jasper rose and cleared his throat. The conversations died and everyone turned toward him.
“Shall we begin?” he asked. “Mrs. Willoughby?”
Mother was already seated at the cherrywood table. She smiled as if he were a king offering her a crown. She treated most wealthy men to that smile, but Lord Jasper especially. He was the reason behind most of the expensive cameos she wore and the silver candlesticks on our table at home. More important, he eagerly believed in her gifts and considered himself her most devoted patron and protector.
As the guests seated themselves, Colin busied himself with turning down all of the gaslights. It needed no explanations that a medium worked best in near darkness; where would any of us be without the suitable atmosphere? One of the candles was lit and placed on the mantel. A very small fire burned in the grate, reduced mostly to smoking embers. I took advantage of the shadows to hide my ungainly walk to the table.
Besides Lord Jasper there was Mrs. Aberworthy and her daughter. Miss Elaine Aberworthy wore a dress in a most unfortunate shade of lime green, edged with pink ribbons. My eyes watered just to look at her. She giggled into her gloved hand. Elaine never stopped giggling. There was another gentleman, Mr. Hughes, and his wife, who had the pale cheeks of the recently devastated. I had seen them all last week at one of the lectures Mother dragged us to. On her other side sat a girl, about my age, with reddish blond curls. Her dress seemed very white in the gloom. The coals sparked behind her, like fireflies.
“Violet, there you are,” Mother said pointedly. “Sit down. It doesn’t do to keep the spirits waiting.” She motioned to the chair in which the girl sat. There were no other empty spots at the table.
I halted, confused.
“Violet, do sit down.” Mother’s tone went sharp at my hesitation.
“I’ll need a chair,” I murmured, hoping Colin would bring one for me. I would never hear the end of it if I attempted to drag one across the faded carpet myself, even though I was perfectly capable. “I can’t very well sit there. We won’t both fit.”
The girl’s eyes widened when I nodded toward her. That was when I noticed the bruises around her throat and her wrists and the way she was dripping onto the carpet. Water ran from her long hair and her wet bodice, which clung to her, and there were dusky blue smudges under her eyes. She was as pale as jasmine petals. I could smell mud and fish and the thick, cloying perfume of lilies.
A heavy silence stretched between the sitters. Everyone watched me eagerly. I took a step backward before I could stop myself. Something wasn’t right.
“That chair is empty,” my mother said evenly.
I felt suddenly light-headed and foolish.
“But … the girl …” Surely a waterlogged girl with bracelets of bruises couldn’t be ignored like a wallflower. She stood out. And not just because of the smell.
I must be coming down with a touch of the ague.
Or suffering the effects of bad beef.
Surely that was it. I wasn’t sure which was preferable: hallucinations or illness or an actual psychical encounter.
I chose bad beef.
“A little girl?” Mrs. Hughes squeaked, interrupting my inner turmoil. She clutched at her damp handkerchief. “Oh, it’s my little Rose. Isn’t it, Mr. Hughes?” She turned pleadingly toward her husband.
In the time it took for me to glance at her and then back again, the chair was empty. Not even a water spot on the cushion remained. No one complained about the aroma of trout.
I didn’t know what to do. I had to resist the urge to look under the table linen to see if she was hiding there. It seemed like a fine plan, actually; perhaps she could make room for me. My corset stays began to feel too tight. Lord Jasper looked at me sharply. Elaine giggled. It was high-pitched, like a goose at market. Mrs. Trethewey stared at me.
“If Rose is here, we must begin straightaway,” Mother proclaimed. I sank into the chair, feeling a chill creep up the back of my neck.
Colin turned down the last light and we sat in shadows, the room quiet except for the ticking of the mantel clock and the wild runaway horse that was my heart. I clenched my fists and took a deep a breath. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I fell into hysterics. I did consider a false swoon and a long recuperation in the privacy of my bedroom, but Mother would never allow me to disrupt the evening for the other sitters. And she was likely to tell them I was suffering from the traditional malady that heralded psychical gifts.
Thank you, but no.
I already felt suffocated by the attention. I didn’t know how Mother could love it the way she did. She sang the usual songs and I lowered my head to avoid the curious glances. Colin’s stare dug into my shoulders.
We joined hands. Mother’s palm was cool and firm. Mrs. Hughes, on my other side, had damp and trembling fingers. Mother began to sway slightly. I knew the exact choreography of the evening. The candle flickered once and extinguished, taking with it the last of the reliable lighting. No one remembered it had been down to the last of the melting wax or had seen Colin replace the long taper with the worn nub. The fire fell in on itself in a shower of sparks, accented with Borax powder, which we’d discovered burned with a very dramatic yellow-green. Elaine gave a small shriek, followed by another giggle.
Mother continued to sway. There was a sharp crack, followed by several more that were nearly drowned out in a flurry of whispers. No one saw Colin stretch his neck in the way that always caused a popping sound. I nudged the paper packet with the toe of my boot. Gravity did the rest.
The table moved once, twice.
There were gasps, excited murmurs.
“The spirits are indeed here,” Mother announced. “And they are eager to speak with us.”
I squeezed my knees together slowly.
“A cold wind, Mr. Hughes!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. “A cold wind around my ankles, do you feel it?”
There were murmurs of assent. Lord Jasper’s sister looked suspicious but intrigued. I tried not to ruffle up Mrs. Trethewey’s skirts.
Haunting Violet Page 4
