The Spiritualist (18 page)

“And leave me to myself if she doesn’t?”

“You hardly seem in need of a companion.”

“You think not?” He made an expression of feigned hurt. “Is it my lack of necessity that makes you say that, or your lack of desire to dine with me?”

“I owe Dorothy a great deal,” I said. “So I would make the sacrifice for her. But truly, I doubt I could be an interesting dinner companion tonight.”

“Perhaps you should leave that verdict to me, eh?” He smiled and crossed the room to where I stood.

I had managed him at a distance, but when he was close, he was really quite overwhelming. I was aware of him in a way that unsettled me, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he knew it. If we were to live in the same house together, I must find a way to come to terms with him—at least until I found some evidence of his guilt, or the lack of it. For now, it seemed, simple friendliness—and wariness—was easiest. I gave him a small smile. “As you wish then. But I doubt I can entertain you.”

The moment I said the words, I realized that nothing about Michel Jourdain was destined to be simple. The smile that crossed his face was provocative and knowing. “
Madame
, Dorothy’s feeling that you can entertain me, as you say, is one of the reasons you’re here. She worries that I’ve no one to talk with. She’s very much the invalid,
ma pauvre chère
. Abed all day. I visit her when she’s awake, but she fears I might become bored.”

“Perhaps you should do some reading. I saw the library down the hall.”

“
Oui
. Books’re fine ways to pass the time. But Dorothy gets these notions in her head. Ah,
Madame
, I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m afraid I won’t have much time to be convivial. Surely Dorothy knows I’ve a trial to prepare for.”

“So I reminded her. Sometimes, her potions”—he touched his temple with a slender, ringed finger—“she doesn’t always think clearly. I had to remind her of the Doctrine of Affinities.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”

“Swedenborg told us that everything in the spirit world corresponds to the same thing in the material one. It’s true for men and women as well. We all have a spiritual affinity,
oui
? Someone who understands our soul.”

I frowned at him. “What has that to do with it?”

“Well, any companion won’t do, eh? One tends to know, doesn’t one, whether there’s an affinity? I confess I’m not interested anymore in wasting time with those who don’t… understand. To find the right companion, well, it’s worth waiting for. But I’m sure you found that to be so yourself.”

I stared at him blankly.

“In your marriage,” he explained.

“Oh. Yes.”

His gaze was too intimate, as if he knew something I didn’t. He held out his arm, crooking his elbow. “Will you come to supper,
Madame
Atherton, and entertain me?”

It would be churlish now to refuse. I took his arm and allowed him to lead me from the bedroom and down the stairs.

The dining room was warm and inviting, with its gold-flocked red wallpaper and a fire burning in the grate. A sideboard held china tureens and silver platters and a vase filled with bold red dahlias and white roses—fresh flowers in the dead of winter, a luxury I had never thought to take advantage of even when I could, so bred was I to frugality. A rosewood table gleamed in the gaslight, one end set elaborately for three, decorated with an ornately cast bronze epergne that overflowed with apples and greenery. Jeweled rings held gold damask napkins; thick beeswax candles flickered, scenting the room with their honeyed fragrance, sending dancing shadows across the walls.

“Ah, how fortunate we are,” Michel said. “It seems Dorothy will join us after all.” He motioned for me to take the seat on Dorothy’s right, as he took the left. There was wine already decanted and ready to pour, and this he did without asking if I would have any, and then lifted his glass to me. “To success,
Madame
, in finding the true villain in Peter’s murder.”

His words took me aback; for a moment I thought he knew why I was here, and then I realized he could not know, that it was what anyone might say. I took a sip and said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Dorothy?”

He shook his head. “Sometimes her intentions change, eh?

She asks us to start without her.”

“Oh, but—”

“Please,
Madame
. She would be troubled to know you waited.”

I clenched the stem of my wineglass and said as casually as I could, “How well you seem to know her. And yet, you met such a short time ago.”

“Not so short,” he said. “We met last June.”

“In Boston?”

“Oui.”

“Peter said it was Dorothy’s sister who brought you and

Dorothy together?” Michel took another sip of wine. “You know my history well.” “Only that part of it. How did you meet Sally Bayley?” “She’d heard of me and asked me to come. She’s dedicated her life to investigating spirits. It was she who first asked me to contact Dorothy’s sons.”

“And when you did, Dorothy brought you to New York?”

He inclined his head modestly. “
Oui
. She invited me to stay with her here. It gave her such comfort, I couldn’t refuse.” “What about Peter? When did you first meet him?”

“Soon after his mother died, I believe. It was… in August, I think.”

“How long did it take to contact his mother?”

Michel smiled. “So many questions!”

I could not smile back. “Forgive me. It’s just that… Peter was murdered. I feel there’s so much I must know.”

“
Oui
, of course. I’m happy to help you any way I can.” I watched him carefully in an attempt to measure his sincerity as he drained his wine and poured another glass, and then poured more into my own.

“What did Peter wish to know from her?” I asked.

“That she was happy, of course.”

“And was she?”

“
Oui
. But she was troubled.”

“Why?”

Michel looked at me. “Because of you,
Madame
.”

“She wished better for her son,” I murmured.

He said, “All mamas are like that, eh? What matters is that Peter loved you more.”

“Than his mother?” I laughed bitterly. “No.”

“He married you, didn’t he? Either he loved you,
Madame
, or you bewitched him.”

The words held an uncomfortable familiarity. I thought of the Athertons, the will. “Bewitched him? Who told you that?”

“No one. But where men and women are concerned, there’re only the two ways, eh? He said he loved you. It seemed true to me.”

But his smile seemed feigned—or perhaps it was simply that I saw through it.

Just then, I heard a commotion in the hall, and I looked up to see Dorothy entering, supported by three of her attendants.

“Ah, Evelyn, child! I was told you’d arrived—how glad I am to see you!”

Michel rose, hurrying over to her, and one of the nurses relin-quished his position so that Michel might take her arm. The moment he did, I saw again an incredible transformation—it was as if she regained her strength, as if the years and pain dropped away. She waved away the others and let Michel alone guide her to her seat at the head of the table.

She sat in a flurry of exhalations and fussy reorderings, and then she gripped Michel’s arm and said, “Thank you, dear boy,” with such heartfelt gratitude that it was faintly embarrassing to watch. He smiled at her and took his seat.

“
Madame
Atherton and I were just toasting to success,” he said.

“Oh yes, oh yes.” Dorothy reached for her own wineglass, which Michel had already filled. “I hear Benjamin’s got things well in hand—how happy I was to hear of his involvement.”

“I’m grateful for yours,” I said quietly. “What you’ve done for me, Dorothy—I can hardly repay it.”

“I don’t need repayment. To let such stupidity stand, well, it isn’t in my nature.” She reached over to pat my hand. “You know, child, in some ways you remind me of me. Oh, I was born a Van Rycker, and I married a Bennett, but I never had much patience for all these airs everyone puts on. You’d think Caroline Astor didn’t use a chamber pot like other people. It’s why I don’t pay any attention to their talk. They’d gossip about dust if given the chance. You think I don’t hear what they say about me and Michel?” She looked to Michel, as if she were waiting for him to approve of what she’d said, and when he took her hand, she tittered like a girl in the throes of calf-love.

The maid brought in a tureen and began to ladle a lovely smooth and fragrant turtle soup into our bowls. Once it was steaming before us, and the servant was gone again, Dorothy said to Michel, “When should we make another effort to reach Peter’s spirit?”

“As soon as
Madame
Atherton wishes.”

“I thought you told me it would avail me nothing.” When he looked at me in question, I explained, “You said Peter wouldn’t remember, that he would have moved on.”

“
Non
. I said I hoped he’d moved on.”

Dorothy said, “I know he’s found joy and peace, child. But that doesn’t mean his spirit won’t help you. The spirits have so much knowledge. They understand the meaning of life in ways we can’t hope to. They want to help us.”

“If they can,” Michel amended.

“When I think of your poor father’s visit to our circle, and how much he wanted to reassure you…” Dorothy sighed. “I wonder how long he’d been searching for a way to contact you before Michel came along and provided the path? When did your father join the spirit world, Evelyn?”

“A year ago. He and my mother died of the cholera.”

“Cholera?” She seemed to pale. “How terrible you must have felt not to be able to go to them.”

“Oh, I went to them,” I said softly. “I insisted upon nursing them, though Peter didn’t like it.”

Dorothy frowned. “Thank God you escaped it.”

“I didn’t escape it. I survived it.”

Her spoon dropped with a clank into her bowl. “You caught it? You survived it? How?”

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes became suddenly watery. She picked up her napkin and dabbed at them, and Michel leaned over solicitously, saying, “It’s no cause for sadness.”

She nodded and tried to smile. “It’s what took my oldest boy, Everett, you know. Cholera. Terrible thing. Horrible. He’s at peace now, of course, but I hadn’t the heart to ask his spirit if he’d been in pain.” Her gaze was suddenly sharp. “Were you in pain?”

“I was feverish, mostly. I’m afraid I don’t remember much of it.”

My words seemed to comfort her. She sagged a little in her chair and grasped Michel’s hand convulsively. “I shouldn’t care, you know. He’s in a better place. He’s happy, but… ah, it’s silly. Pardon a silly old woman, will you, child?”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” I soothed. “Had I a child, I wouldn’t want him to die in pain, no matter how lovely the spheres beyond are.”

“I miss them terribly, you know—seeing they’re happy helps but doesn’t ease the days without them. That’s why I’m so grateful for Michel.”

“Ssshhh,
ma chère
,” he said. “You know I won’t leave you.”

“I know.” She nodded, and then again, more vigorously, as if his words strengthened some inner resolve. “I know you won’t. Especially not now.” She gave him a coy and flirtatious look—coming from such an old woman, it made my skin crawl. But Michel showed no such revulsion. As if I weren’t at the table, he leaned close to her—I could not tell if he whispered in her ear or nuzzled it; all I saw was the way she flushed and giggled and turned to kiss him fully on the mouth. She lingered overlong, not simply a friendly kiss, and I thought of what Ben had said about Michel’s manipulation of Dorothy and his influence over her purse.
“I don’t know what’s going on in that household, or how he’s controlling Dorothy… .”
No, perhaps Ben did not know, but I was beginning to understand, and I was sickened by it.

I pushed my bowl away, no longer hungry. Dorothy drew back from Michel and looked at me as if she’d forgotten I was there, and then she motioned to the girl standing near the dining room door. “Bella, bring the lamb, please.” To me, she said, “Thursday night, we’ll call a circle. We’ll find Peter’s spirit, my dear. Michel will find him.”

As the maid brought the rest of the courses, I watched him. He did not cough once during dinner, which I found to be faintly ominous, and he ate heartily, though with a casual grace that bespoke entitlement. I saw how Dorothy seemed mesmerized by him. I watched how he served her, how he controlled even what she ate, and I marveled at how comfortable he was, like a man without secrets. He was so good at manipulating her; there was not a seam that showed. He maneuvered everything to get what he wanted—even the maids seemed to race to do his bidding.

And then, suddenly and uncomfortably, I realized that I too was only here because he wanted me to be. How easily he could have convinced Dorothy to leave me to my fate. A single word from him, and I would be in the Tombs now.

The thought was troubling. I didn’t think Michel Jourdain was in the habit of being altruistic—whatever he did, he did for his benefit, of that I had no doubt. So what benefit was my being here to him? If he had killed Peter, why not just leave me in the Tombs to hang—as long as I took the blame, no one would come looking for the real culprit. And if he had not killed Peter… I didn’t fool myself into thinking he had some noble motive in helping me. I was here for a reason, and somehow I had already played into his hands.

T
hat night, I had the dream again. I was in the spirit circle, but it was very dark, and the only light in the room was a halo about the table, a dim glow like the press of street-lamps against the night. I could not see where the light was coming from, but we were bathed in it, and there was nothing beyond but darkness. I felt the touch of Michel’s hand on mine, his fingers pressed flat, almost caressing, as if to soothe me, and then he began to chant in a language I didn’t understand—French, I thought, as it slipped over me. I felt his breath on my skin, and it was seductive and strange and seemed to say,
Close your eyes and dream of me
, and I felt myself swaying, relaxing.