The Spiritualist (13 page)

John looked at me calmly. “If you sell anything, you’ll be arrested.”

“I—I don’t believe this. You can’t mean this!”

They were quiet. Paul, still leaning against the mantel, sipped slowly at his bourbon.

“You can’t mean this. You know I didn’t kill Peter—” I turned desperately to Paul. “Please, you know I had nothing to do with it.”

Paul looked away, but John said, “You must admit it looks suspicious, Evelyn. Peter writing a will that leaves everything to you, that disinherits his own brothers and sisters, the family he loved…”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Perhaps not. Even so, we’ll contest the will.”

“But I was his wife.”

“If you choose to fight us, it could be most unpleasant for you. Look where you came from, Evelyn. Count yourself lucky for the three years Peter gave you, and move on.”

Everything I had believed about the Athertons and their acceptance of me had been a lie. I felt as if I were drowning. “I don’t believe this.”

“You should believe it,” Penny said, as if she were discussing the weather, and not the destruction of my life.

“I need a lawyer,” I said.

“I expect you’ll have some trouble with that,” John said. “As well liked as Peter was, I’m afraid there’s no one in town who would defend you as a suspect in his murder.”

“I want Benjamin Rampling.”

“Peter’s partner?” John laughed. “My God, do you really think he’ll take your side in this, Evelyn? Against us? Defending the woman accused of murdering his partner? Perhaps there’s someone in Boston. Or Philadelphia. Though how you can pay them I’ve no idea.”

“You can’t mean to leave me with nothing?”

“Not nothing. Penny’s going to stay here for a while. She’ll be taking inventory. In the time before you’re arrested, you’ll live in the comfort to which you’ve become accustomed.” John laid the paper back upon the pile on the table. “I’ll leave this here for you to read.”

John motioned to Pamela. “Come, my dear. There’s nothing more to be done here.”

My sister-in-law rose in a cloud of perfume and black silk. She gave me a look that was malicious in its feigned sympathy. “Please cooperate, Evelyn. You don’t want this to become a war. It will do you no good.”

John escorted her from the parlor. Penny rose to see them out. Paul did nothing. He made no move from where he stood and merely watched them go.

Bitterly, I said, “What are you waiting for, Paul? Have you something else to wound me with?”

He set his glass on the mantel. To my surprise, he came to me, taking Penny’s seat beside me on the settee. In a low voice, he said, “Only this. I told you I admired you, Evelyn.” He squeezed my arm gently. “I don’t think you killed my brother,” he said in a rush, glancing to the doorway, as if he feared Penny’s imminent return.

I felt a flare of hope. “Then you’ll help me find a lawyer? You’ll talk to Ben?”

“I only meant should you survive this, I’d offer you my protection.”

Warily, I said, “What do you mean?”

“I can rent you a little house. Perhaps on Sixth Avenue.” He licked his lips and swallowed and leaned close. I felt his breath against my cheek. “I could visit you there. I could take care of you.”

I recoiled. He was asking me to become his mistress. Icily, I said, “I am your brother’s widow. Not a whore.”

His face twisted. What was so like Peter became like a vile caricature instead. “You’ll end up in the Bowery, Evelyn,” he snapped at me. “Or worse.”

“It would hardly be worse than what you’re proposing.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if he were trying to gain control. He rose in one fluid motion. “As you wish. I won’t repeat my offer, as it offends you so. But neither will I rescind it. Should you find you wish to accept it after all—you must come to me.” He smiled, so like Peter, and yet colder than Peter had ever been. He inclined his head in a small bow. “I’ll see myself out.”

T
he next week was wretched beyond imagining. The betrayal of Peter’s family was devastating. To find them my enemies so suddenly was unfathomable—how had I not seen that they suffered me merely on Peter’s account, that they cared nothing for me otherwise?

It only made my loss more complete, and that loss fed my nightmares, which had grown worse. When I did sleep, which was rare enough—mostly naps in the middle of the afternoon, when my weariness forced me to withdraw from the bitter chore of watching Penny compile her “inventory”—my dreams were little more than relived memories. I found myself walking again with Peter in Battery Park, listening to his proposal; feeling reassured as he smiled when I faced his mother for the first time; watching him wince and laugh at some knickknack I’d chosen.
“Not that, Evie. It’s just flash. You’ve too great a love for the gaudy… .”
I would wake with his voice in my ear, his tender tease, smiling for that tiny space of a moment before I remembered he was gone, and the memory melted into hopeless pain and fear. How was it possible he was no longer in this world? How could it be that I would never see him come through the door again?

I forgot all Peter’s faults, all the things he’d done that excluded me, that wounded me, the absences that had grown more and more frequent. In the end he had done what he could to see I was taken care of. Despite the family that had sired him, Peter had been a caring man—what had happened to him was more than a crime; it was a terrible injustice. Though I knew it crucial that I somehow find a lawyer, I found myself waiting instead for some word from Benjamin. Regardless of John’s words, I could not believe that Ben would forsake me so easily, though as the days passed, and I heard nothing from him, the evidence for his rejection grew more convincing. He sent no calling card, no flowers, not a single note of sympathy or condolence. I had no idea if he was even back in the city, but surely the office would have informed him of Peter’s death by now. How difficult would it have been to send word from Albany?

I’d lost him as well as Peter, and I was surprised at how much that saddened and hurt me. This last year, since Ben had come into Peter’s life, and therefore mine, I had grown to rely on him more than I’d realized. Though he was a newcomer to New York society, as I was, he’d moved easily within it. I’d been part of it longer, but Ben’s inclusion was seamless. How many times had it been left to Ben to ease me through some prickly faux pas because Peter was busy elsewhere? How often had we laughed together over some ridiculous pretension of the upper ten when Peter failed to see the humor of it? To think that he had not felt the same toward me was hard to bear.

But I was not friendless. There were still those in New York who would support me. Irene Cushing, for one. Surely she knew of an attorney who could help me.

First, I must somehow get through Peter’s funeral. The Athertons had used their influence to have his body released for burial despite the investigation into his murder, and I began to dread the thought of going, of seeing Benjamin there and knowing he was no longer my friend. I wished, frankly, that it not be necessary for me to attend, and it didn’t help that I knew Peter’s family felt the same way.

I prepared for the funeral as if I were going into battle. My life was falling apart around me, yet I knew that appearances were all: the appearance of restrained grief, of dignified, refined despair, and most important, the appearance of holding one’s head up, and not discomfiting one’s guests. As Peter’s mother’s death had been only six months ago, there was no need to dye any gowns—I already had a ready supply of black and the somber colors of half mourning. The taffeta I’d worn to her funeral was still stylish, the skirts properly wide, the fashion acceptably demure. With it I wore a hat and veil. My jet earrings, and the locket that held a few strands of Peter’s hair, were my only jewelry.

Pamela and Penny had arranged everything. They had ignored whatever I had to say about the funeral, and so it was I found the chapel of Grace Church full of cascades of japonica and lilies, which Peter had hated, instead of the yellow tea roses he’d loved, the pews joined by obscenely and ornately ruffled drapings of black crape, and the most horrible, mournful music I’d ever heard, instead of the sweeter hymns he had favored.

The coffin held the place of honor at the altar. It was made of rosewood and covered with more long-stemmed, leaning lilies that dusted the polished wood with their pollen. I had arrived early, with the rest of the family, and was seated in the front pew with them. The funeral was well attended. Peter had been liked, and the Athertons were, of course, one of the most important society families in the city. I didn’t think anyone invited would dare to stay away. Ben was nowhere to be seen. It surprised me greatly and confused me. Where was he? Why had he stayed away? It made me more uneasy than I was already.

I kept my eyes straight ahead—on the coffin, on the reverend. The rest of the family gathered tightly together, as turned away from me as they could be while in such close proximity. How different this was from the last funeral I’d attended, for Peter’s mother. It seemed another lifetime ago, not simply six short months. I’d been in the midst of the family then—Penny had leaned on my shoulder, I remembered, dabbing her eyes with her black lace handkerchief while Peter held tightly to my hand, and Pam gave me a weak and tearful smile from her place farther down the pew. I had been so truly an Atherton, and they had been so solicitous—well, why not? They owed their mother’s comfort those last days to me. It had not been long before her decline that I’d nursed my father, and so the care of Peter’s mother had seemed second nature. Who else had brushed Elizabeth Atherton’s hair, and washed her, and given her spoonfuls of broth and laudanum to ease her pain? Who had read to her for hours at a time, until my voice was hoarse with the strain? Not her daughters, who recoiled from the task.
“But you’re so good at it, Evelyn, and I simply haven’t the patience for it.” “Mama’s always thought me far too rough… .”

But I had done those things out of a sense of belonging, as much an Atherton as one born to the name. I had thought I would be an Atherton forever.

How wrong I’d been. The funeral, more than any other event of the last days, lent the end of my life as an Atherton a terrible irrevocability. With every moment of the painfully long and horrible service, it seemed the world beyond my veil receded a little bit more. I was alone now. Every action of Peter’s family made that more clear: how they looked away and whispered among themselves, the coldness of their demeanor toward me, their thinly veiled sufferance.

By the time the service ended, my head was pounding and my eyes burning. I rose with the others, stumbling a little against the pew, and followed Peter’s family to the reception line. We stood near the coffin, and one by one, Peter’s mourners made their progression. Rose Reid and her husband, Henry, approached Paul first. I heard their words, their solicitous “How sorry we are for your loss,” and Paul’s murmured “Thank you for coming.”

Then to Pamela and John. A clasped hand, a kissed cheek. “Oh, Pam, how heartbroken you must be!” and on to Penny, who received the same. I straightened, ready to greet them. I held out my gloved hand—

And Rose and Henry Reid sailed past me as if I were invisible.

The cut stunned me. For a moment I thought they hadn’t seen me, that it couldn’t have been intended. I’d been to their supper only a few weeks ago. Rose and I were friends. But she did not look back at me, and in hurt shock I realized it had been deliberate. I was too taken aback to realize what it truly meant. Not until I forced a pleasant look upon my face, and turned to the next people in line: Elizabeth and Donald DeGroon.

Not until they too spoke to Peter’s family and ignored me.

I could have managed a single snub. Perhaps even two. But one after another, the people I had come to think of as my friends refused to acknowledge me, and I could do nothing but stand there and pretend not to be bothered by it, though my face felt as if it might crack from the strain. I waited in vain for some friendly face, for Irene Cushing, or any of Peter’s friends from the circle, but apparently they had not come. I told myself not to cry, not to give them the satisfaction of seeing they had affected me, but the tears came to my eyes nonetheless, and it became a matter of trying to keep them from falling and hoping that no one could see them glistening through my veil. How did they do it? I wondered. How did they work so easily and efficiently in tandem without seemingly saying a word to one another? Was it in the air, somehow? Was it like electricity, passing through everything, some invisible web that never broke but only bound them more tightly together and left me more firmly outside?

I should have expected it. In retrospect, I should have known by the bouquets of flowers that no longer came, the lack of calling cards or visitors. But I had been blinded by my fear and my grief. I hadn’t seen that my bereavement did the shunning for society. Properly secluded as I was, no one had to question where they stood or what they believed about my guilt or innocence; no one had to take sides. They could avoid me with impunity and call it respect for the grieving. Until today.

And then I saw a splash of color at the back of the church, along with the bustle of several men attending to a single woman. Dorothy Bennett.

She was wearing—incredibly—white, with such a profusion of fringe and lace and ribbons that it looked as if she wore a christening gown. Her attendants were dressed in coats of many hues, among them Michel Jourdain, whose frock coat was a lovely deep blue, with a vest of shot silk that glimmered like sunlight on water, his hair loose and looking almost red where the sunlight came through a stained-glass window to shine upon it.