The Spiritualist (3 page)

Michel said, “Shall we?” and motioned to the table, and they hurried to it like ants to a much anticipated picnic. Then he turned to me. In a low voice, he said, “As our special guest, I’d be honored if you would sit beside me.”

There wasn’t a society event I’d ever attended that seated husbands next to wives, and usually I would not have hesitated. But Peter’s mood was so strange that I looked uncertainly at him. “Well, I—”

“Yes, of course,” he said, releasing me, though he was frowning, and he said nothing more as Michel led me to the table.

“We must have positive and negative influences, alternating, as in electricity,” Michel said, and I noticed that the others were arranging themselves so—alternately, male, female. He pulled out a chair for me, and as I sat, he took the one beside, with Dorothy on his other side, and Peter next to her. Benjamin sat across from us. Grace Dudley went around the room, turning the gas down until it was nothing but a faint glow about the perimeter, and most of the light came from the candles on the table. Michel leaned close and said, “Is there someone in the spirit world you wish to contact?”

I laughed. “Me? No. No one.”

“A pity. It would help.”

“How so?”

“The spirits sense hesitation. Any unwillingness to believe—”

“I’ve promised not to be a doubter tonight, Mr. Jourdain.”

He said nothing, only looked at me so thoughtfully I had to turn away, and then he said, “Very well. Let’s begin.”

He motioned to the candles, and those on either side of the table blew them out. I had not realized how blazing their light had been until it was gone. Now the room was in shadow but for the soft glowing gaslight. My uneasiness returned, though I knew that this was only a show; there was nothing true in it.

“You must take your gloves off,
Madame
,” Michel whispered to me, and when I looked at him in surprise, he explained, “The energy must flow through us, with no impediment, eh?”

When I looked around the table I saw that everyone was taking hands, and no one wore gloves. It seemed indecent, but when I caught Peter’s glance, he nodded curtly, and I peeled mine off, though they fit so tightly it took some doing. Then Robert Dudley, who sat on my other side, took my hand. To touch strangers like this—skin on skin—was not done, and I found it uncomfortably intimate, though it was vaguely titillating as well. The atmosphere felt charged with anticipation, like the air before a lightning storm, and when Michel Jourdain took my other hand, I jumped—it seemed I felt that charge leap between us. He grasped my bare fingers tightly, and pressed his arm against mine in a fashion that was far too familiar.

He said, “Let us pray for divine guidance in our search tonight.”

In the time it took me to understand him, there was a rustle of movement; the others bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Their lips moved silently in prayer. I bowed my head with them.

Then Dorothy began to sing, and gradually, one by one, the others joined in. Though I knew the tune—it was a familiar hymn—I didn’t recognize the words.

The moment it was over, Sarah Grimm began another hymn, and so it went, the others singing and me staying silent, for at least three more songs. I glanced over at Michel Jourdain. He was not singing. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had gone deep and even, almost as if he were asleep. But there was a strange alertness about him as well, as if he were aware of everything around him.

The songs ended. Jacob Colville said, “Dear God, who watches over everything in each sphere, watch over us tonight, and bless our communications. Amen.”

Michel Jourdain’s fingers twitched. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused and glassy, like those of lecturers I’d seen in mesmeric trance, though his voice was strong and vibrant.

“In the name of Almighty God, I pray the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton to communicate with me.”

I’d expected more elaborate exaltations, more showiness. Such directness caught me off guard. In my imaginings of spirit circles, I’d pictured them more like P. T. Barnum’s entertainments, with his dramatic pronouncements:
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we view the impossible! The undeniable proof of the afterlife! Watch, as the spirit appears!”

The others were so quiet I could hear the soft hiss of gas, the rustle of a skirt, breathing. The air went taut with waiting.

But there was nothing.

Michel Jourdain said, “Almighty God, permit the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton to come to me.”

Again, silence. Then one of the gaslights went out.

I jumped, startled despite myself. Michel went rigid. His fingers flattened on mine as if to hold me in place. “Is that a spirit come to talk with me?”

Silence.

“Answer me if you be a spirit.”

Another light went out. Now I was amused—here was what I’d expected. The drama of the unknown, the showmanship of the trick. I was not my father’s daughter for nothing. I found myself searching the darkness for Michel’s confederate. Then I reminded myself of why I was here, of my promise to Peter, and I schooled my expression into one of fascinated interest and tried to see my husband’s face in the dark.

He, like the others, wore an expression that was eerily blank in the half-light. I felt their collective expectation swell like a wave.

“Is this the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton?”

I was ready this time for a light to go out.

RAP RAP RAP.

I jumped again, and Dudley’s hand gripped mine so tightly it hurt. The raps seemed to shake the walls. The sound was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Three raps for yes,” Dudley whispered to me. “The spirit of Peter’s mother is among us.”

I felt a reluctant admiration for Michel Jourdain’s skill. He was craftier than I’d expected. Even I couldn’t see the strings.

“Mama?” Peter’s voice, supplicating and soft, like a child’s. “Mama, are you there?”

I waited for the raps. Instead, there was silence. Then I saw a light—no, three of them. Three small balls of light that hovered on the edge of the room. I stared at them, trying to see beyond to any movement in the darkness, but I could see nothing. The balls moved closer, growing brighter, and then one flew so quickly at the table that I jerked back. It slowed and hovered just above the surface, and then it bounced against it with such a sharp rap that the table vibrated into my fingers.

I was so busy watching it that I was unnerved when Michel spoke, and my admiration turned to startled respect.

“I’m here, my dear,” he said, and his voice was feminine and low, not his at all. There was no trace of an accent. When I looked at him, he seemed to change. A softening of his face, a wilting… whatever it was, he seemed no longer to be himself. He tilted his head as a woman does when she’s pleased. The transformation was stunning. He was a man, and one with a very masculine presence, and yet at that moment, he seemed as much a woman as I knew myself to be.

Rapping, table tilting, musical instruments flying through the air, and the ephemeral touch of spirit hands… these things I’d thought to see. But I’d never expected anything like this. I looked around the table, at the rapt attention of the others. I did not blame them for being fooled—had I been less inclined to doubt, I might have believed him myself.

“Mama,” Peter said. “I’ve brought Evelyn. Do you see her?”

“Indeed. I can feel her touch upon my hand.”

He had captured Elizabeth Atherton’s imperiousness perfectly, that superiority that had colored her voice even to her last hours, when she had leaned helplessly upon my arm, disliking that she needed me, yet unable not to. How had he known that? Had he occasion to see her before her death? Michel Jourdain and Elizabeth Atherton would hardly have moved in the same circles, but perhaps during one of her Reform Society’s fashionable tours to the Five Points, or some downtrodden but morally elevating mission—

“You must say hello to her, Evie,” Peter said quietly.

How desperate he was that I believe. Feeling foolish, I said, “Mother Atherton?”

“You must speak up, Evelyn. There is such a fog between us. How hard it is for me to hear you.”

“She’s come to see if you’re happy, Mama,” Peter said.

“Happy? Yes, indeed. There is no pain here, my dear. I am unencumbered at last.”

Eagerly, Peter said, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do, Mama.”

“You are my dear, good son.”

“Everything.”

“Continue to do as Michel directs you, my dear. He is my servant.”

“I will. I will.”

“Might I touch you, my dear? Just once, before I go… .”

Peter said, “Yes. Yes, please”—and leaned forward, as if he could will her to materialize before him. Just as he did, the ball of light rose from the table, becoming brighter until it settled just over Peter’s shoulder. He turned, as if to greet it, and it moved with agonizing slowness until it touched him. His face lit with a smile. “Mother, I can feel you.”

But as he reached up to touch it, the ball lifted beyond his reach, and then it danced in the air for a moment, beguiling us with its movement before it fell to the edge of the table between Peter and Dorothy. It hit with a sharp, percussive rap. And then, suddenly, there was another flare of light, and a loud crack that hurt my ears, and then a splintering sound in the wall beyond. Michel jerked back, his hand pulled from mine.

“What was that?” Peter shouted.

I smelled something smoky and acrid.

“Grace, turn on the lights!”

There was the sound of footsteps, and then the gaslight went up, so bright after the darkness that for a moment I was blinded. Then I saw Peter race over to the wall, wrenching a painting from its hook to examine it. I was confused; I had no idea what was happening, or what he was doing. Not until Dorothy said, “Is that a hole in the wall?”

Peter looked up uneasily. “And in the painting. Someone’s shot a pistol.”

“A pistol?” Dudley said from beside me. “Why would the spirits do that?”

Michel frowned as he rose and walked to where Peter stood. He reached into his pocket and took out a penknife, which he worked into the wall, probing until he’d pried the ball from the plaster. It fell, round and bright, into his hand, and he rolled it between his fingers. “A real ball, eh?”

“Meant for who?” Benjamin asked.

“For Michel,” Peter said grimly.

Dorothy made a sound of dismay.

Michel looked at her quickly. “Never fear,
ma chère.
” He held up his hand. “You see? I’m untouched.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Peter asked.

“Why do you think it was meant for Jourdain?” Ben asked.

“Look where it lodged. It could’ve been you it was meant for. Or Dorothy. My God, one of you could have been killed.”

I looked at my husband in horror. What had seemed a harmless trick, a show, had taken a terrible turn. “It’s from a pocket pistol,” Peter said. “Who among us has such a gun?”

“No doubt we all do, as you well know,” Jacob Colville said impatiently. “I’ll warrant even Sarah has one.”

Sarah nodded, trembling. “My father gave it to me. I’ve never had occasion to use it.”

“Perhaps someone was standing at the edges of the room—or behind the curtains,” Wilson Maull suggested, rushing to investigate.

Robert Dudley said, “Sit down, Maull. If they were there, they are surely gone now. And who else is in the house but us, and Dorothy’s servants?”

“They’ve been with me for years.” Dorothy’s voice was shaking.

“Enough of this,” Michel said. He pocketed the ball neatly and strode to Dorothy, settling his hands on her shoulders, as if to steady her. “No doubt it was an accident, eh? Someone had a primed pistol and it went off.”

“What if it wasn’t an accident?” Peter asked in a low voice.

“We’re all friends here, aren’t we? The only new one among us is your wife.” Michel’s glance came to me. “What of it,
Madame
? Did you mean to murder me tonight?”

“Why would I want to kill you?” I asked in surprise.

“What a preposterous idea,” Peter said.

“You see?” Michel shrugged. “Best to forget it, eh?”

Sarah looked uncertain. “Perhaps we should call the police.”

“Whatever for?” Jacob Colville asked with a snort. “D’you really expect them to do anything at all without a bribe—or without exposing us to ridicule? I’ve enough trouble trying to persuade my family this is no passing fancy; I hardly need police gossip to make matters worse. I’ve my position to maintain. As does Dudley.”

“Jacob’s right. No police.” Dorothy spoke firmly, glancing up at Michel and reaching to grab his hand.

“It was just a misfire, then—are we all agreed?” Michel asked. When no one protested, he said, “We should all go home and get some rest.”

Our hostess was visibly shaking and so pale I thought she might swoon. I rose and went to my husband, taking his arm. “Perhaps we should go,” I said quietly.

“Yes,” Peter said. “Perhaps we should.” He called out to Benjamin, “Ben, let’s get our things and take our leave.”

The two of them went to find Lambert, and I waited, leaning down to look at the hole in the wall, a nearly direct hit through the printed center of a drooping yellow tea rose.

“I hope you don’t let this frighten you away,
Madame
.”

Michel’s voice was behind me; I jumped. When I glanced back I saw that Dorothy’s nurses were helping her from the room. He was standing quite close, and when I turned to face him, he didn’t back away. “You don’t seem the least bit worried. You aren’t afraid the bullet was meant for you?”

“
Non
. Who here means me harm?”

“How can you be so certain?”

“You’re the only one here I don’t know,
Madame
. Should I not trust you? Your husband is here quite often. Perhaps you’ve grown tired of being lonely.”