The Spiritualist (33 page)

He paused, but his eyes never left mine. Just as I began to feel uncomfortable beneath his gaze, he said, “I’d feel sorry for you,
chère
, if your situation weren’t so much your own doing. All that ambition and faculty, and no idea what to do.”

I was taken aback and unsettled at the truth he saw. “Don’t you see what you could be, Evie? Are you the rabbit after all? And all this time I thought there was a wolf within you.”

“I don’t want to be your kind of wolf,” I said.

He laughed. His hand, so near my shoulder, moved to my collarbone. I was safe beneath the heavy ruching of bombazine. I should not have felt his warmth, though I did. His voice was slow and urgent as he said, “But you already are my kind of wolf. Ah, we could be something together,
chère
. Why not try?”

He was looking at me as if he knew me, and I knew too what an illusion that was. I was not what he thought I was. I did not want what he offered.

I pulled away, rising abruptly. “That’s not who I am,” I said, and my voice was breathless enough that it seemed to give the lie to my words.

He only smiled, but it was cold and mocking.

“Go and hide, then, little rabbit,” he said.

W
e were in the second-floor parlor, and Benjamin had drawn me away from the others on the pretext of needing a drink. We stood by the sideboard while the others talked among themselves, waiting for the circle to begin.

I hesitated, my hand upon the crystal stopper of the decanter. My anxiety over tonight’s circle had grown as the hour for it approached. I was afraid. I had no idea what would happen. “I can’t do the voices.”

“Then do the writing again,” he said. “But remember your task; Dorothy’s what’s important now. The more support she shows you, the more freedom you have to search. Those adoption papers must be found.”

I twisted out the stopper. It was the green liqueur, and I restoppered it quickly, still uncertain, and reached for the brandy instead, pouring it into a glass, handing it to him. The tips of our fingers touched. I thought he lingered for a moment before he pulled away. The wavering gaslight shimmered on the fine fabric of his brown frock coat and shone in his eyes.

The urge to tell him the truth about the spirit words and my fears was nearly overwhelming. “Ben—”

“Perhaps you could do something with the writing that might lead Dorothy to say where the papers are kept.” Ben sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “Yes, that might be the best idea.”

The moment was gone already. “I don’t know. I could try.”

“Well, see what feels best to you. Will you use the lever?”

I glanced past him, to where Michel sat near Dorothy on the sofa. He was watching us. Softly, I said, “I think so.”

Ben took another sip of his brandy and set it on the sideboard. “I’ll follow your lead then. Together, we can make this work.”

Michel rose. He clapped his hands together, calling us all to attention. Benjamin glanced over his shoulder and then said to me, “I’m certain you can make this seem real enough.” He took my arm, pulling me for a moment close into his side. His lips brushed my hair as he whispered, “You aren’t alone, Evie.”

He led me to the table as the others were taking their seats. Michel was at his place; Benjamin surrendered me with a smile. “I trust you to take care of her, Jourdain.”

Michel’s answering smile was thin. “She seems to do well enough on her own.”

As I sat, Michel leaned close. “You can do so much better,
chère
.”

When I turned to glare at him, he was leaning back in his chair, his expression bland.

Dudley said, “You’re our leader, Jourdain. How do we ask the spirits to come to Evelyn?”

They all turned to him, rapt as subjects before a beloved king. I noted Dorothy’s expression especially—it was alert and expectant, as if she had no doubt that Michel would do as she’d asked and lead me seamlessly into mediumship.

Michel steepled his fingers. “Women’s muscles are weak, but their nerves are very sensitive. It’s what makes them prone to illness and madness, eh?—but it also makes them good mediums. Passivity. Susceptibility. Impressionability. To call the spirits means you must empty your mind to them.
Madame
Atherton must find the thing that calms her enough to allow her to do that.”

“How is she to know what that is?” Wilson Maull complained.

“For me, it’s the songs. For others”—Michel shrugged—“some close their eyes and pray, some merely ask the spirits to come, others think of peaceful scenes, like a forest in springtime.
Madame
will find her own way, I’m certain, as she did the other night.”

The lights were lowered. We took hands. Jacob Colville began a prayer. His voice was loud and forceful. Michel bent his head to mine. Beneath the prayer, he murmured, “Shall we see what you can truly do,
chère
? Listen to me, eh? Don’t think. You’re nothing, no one. Only a vessel.” His words were a chant; his thumb began a slow, relentless stroking upon my hand. I wanted him to stop, but the touch was like an opiate; I felt myself falling into it.

He whispered, “Close your eyes.”

I obeyed him. This was the act Benjamin expected from me. The spirits were supposed to possess me. I must make it look real. The others began to sing.

Michel continued. “You want filling as a glass needs water. Your mind is empty. Your thoughts are not your own.”

As he spoke, it was as if a fog filled me, an inexorable, seeking mist that obscured my own thoughts, making my skin sensitive to every movement in the air. I felt as if I would soon fall deeply asleep, and I told myself to stretch out my foot, to find the lever. It was time for the rapping to start. I needed to make the sound.

But I couldn’t move. I felt electrified, strangely glowing, receptive. I heard my pulse, and then that pulse began to change—no longer a constant, steady beat, but that buzzing I’d known before, that sound that grew until I nearly screamed at it to stop, and then, suddenly, it bent and changed again, no longer a buzz but a voice that whispered in my ear—no, not in my ear, in my head. A voice inside my head. A voice disembodied and strange that said,
Are you listening?

I heard myself say, “Yes,” but my own voice was far away too; it came to me as a wind through a narrow street—everywhere and yet concentrated. The other voice answered,
Surrender to me
, and I felt myself open up, and the voice seemed to grow inside me, to beat in my own heart and fill my lungs, and I felt myself arch to meet it.

It flowed through me, and the things it said were not words, but some knowing that seemed to seep into my muscles and bones. I saw images in my head: a woman, with brown hair and vibrantly dark eyes. She told me to watch, though she didn’t speak the words, I simply knew them, and then she stepped aside, and I saw two boys, both in short pants, scampering down a riverbank, racing each other, one screaming: “You said you’d wait for me!” while the other yelled back, “I did not! You’re too slow!”

They dashed down the bank, raising the brown mulch of fallen leaves rotting into dirt, stumbling over bushes, and then they were jumping from the bank into the river, an eddied pool close to the shore and deep, with fishes watching from the bottom, and flies hovering lazily overhead, and they broke the silence and the laziness, and the fish shimmied away, and the flies. Two dark heads went under, and then emerged, one at a time, both laughing, splashing, and then there was a voice from the bank, calling, “You boys! Your papa’s going to have your heads—and mine too!—for getting your clothes all muddy.” But she was laughing as she came, and she wore a big straw hat with poppies on it, and carried a basket, which she set down on the edge of the river. “Don’t tell him, but I brought cherry tarts.” She sat down beside the basket, and leaned forward, watching them play, and the summer was peaceful and contented, the threat of punishment very far away… .

Then suddenly, the image was gone, and the haze dissipated, and I felt myself move again into my body. I felt my lungs fill, and they were mine again. I opened my eyes, blinking, and the room spun, whirling about me like a carousel, and my head felt so heavy I could not keep it upright.

And then there was nothing at all.

I
JERKED AWAKE
at a noxious, acrid smell to find myself lying on the chaise against the wall. My head was pounding, and my mouth was dry. The others were crowded around me. Sarah held a bottle of smelling salts in her hand. “There she is,” she said with satisfaction.

“Don’t crowd her.” Jacob motioned for the others to step back. “Give her some air. What she’s been through is taxing.”

“Yes, of course,” Grace said. She leaned down, touching my arm before she backed away. “How exhausted you must be, Evelyn. But so very, very blessed.”

“She has such a rare gift,” Wilson Maull said reverently. His expression was uncomfortably worshipful.

Benjamin sat beside me. His expression was a study in concern, though I thought his eyes were gleaming oddly. “Evie, my dear—”

“I’m fine,” I said. I tried to sit up, and then lay back again when my temples throbbed.

Benjamin said, “You’re better than fine. You are simply the most brilliant woman alive.”

“I was successful then? Where’s the spirit writing?”

There was silence. I saw Robert Dudley glance at his wife, and in confusion I looked at Benjamin. “What did I write?”

“Don’t you remember, Evie?” he said quickly. “You called the spirits of Dorothy’s sons.”

I frowned and tried again to sit up, searching the room for Dorothy, for Michel. They were nowhere to be seen. “Dorothy’s sons?”

“Let me speak with her a moment,” Benjamin said to the others.

“Of course,” said Jacob, and they drew respectfully away.

“Where’s Dorothy?” I asked. “Where’s Michel?”

Benjamin glanced at the rest, waiting until they were talking among themselves before he said quietly, “As you can imagine, Dorothy was very moved. Jourdain’s taken her to bed.”

“I don’t wonder,” I said acidly.

He gave me a warning glance.

I heard snippets of conversation from the others.

“
Did you ever see such thing…”

“Michel never…”

“. . . a miracle.”

“You should have seen Jourdain’s face. He went white as Dorothy when you began to speak in Johnny’s voice. How
did
you do it? You sounded just like a little boy.”

I stared at him in stunned surprise. “I did?”

“How did you know about that day? Did Dorothy tell you of it? Then again, I suppose every child has a summer memory of swimming in the river. It was a masterstroke, Evie.”

I closed my eyes, suddenly too tired to try to explain, either to myself or to him. How could I? What could I say to this man who believed I was in control of this? That I’d heard a voice in my head I didn’t recognize? I’d seen a woman who brought me the memory? That I didn’t remember speaking? My head was pounding.

“I’m so tired,” I said.

“Of course.” He kissed me gently on the forehead. I felt him back away and rise from the chaise. I heard him say to the others, “She’s quite done in. But what a find she is! She may be one of the most talented mediums of her time!”

“We should present her to Mrs. Hardinge,” said someone else—Jacob, I thought.

“Perhaps we should wait before we do that,” Grace counseled. “Until we’ve held another circle or two. Just to be certain.”

Benjamin said, “I agree. Another attempt is what we need.”

“Will this help, do you think, with her trial?” Sarah’s voice was full of concern.

“Will it help?” Benjamin was vibrant; I heard his smile. “Oh, my dear Miss Grimm, I don’t see how it can’t. If she can contact the spirits of Dorothy’s sons—”

“They were so elusive until Michel found them!”

“Yes indeed, but Evelyn brought them so easily! How long can it be before Peter’s spirit decides to make an appearance?”

The others laughed, congratulating themselves, and I grew tight with anxiety and turned my head away, saying weakly, “Leave me be. Please leave me,” throwing my hand over my eyes to keep the gaslight from pulsing against my eyelids. Soon, their talk turned faint, like music playing at a ball when the conversation was too scintillating to dance.

I
WOKE TO
a noise. It took me a moment to realize that I’d fallen asleep on the chaise, and that I was still in the parlor. The lights had been turned low, and I lay in shadow, though I heard footsteps, a
swooshing
sound that had me turning my head. My companions had obeyed me better than I’d intended and gone. The sound I heard was that of Agnes, the maid, cleaning the room. I had no idea what time it was, only that it was late.

I lifted my head, and then, when it didn’t spin or ache, I raised myself up. The maid started, whirling around, her hand to her chest. “Oh, Mrs. Atherton, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Don’t fret, please,” I said. “There’s no harm done.”

The boning of my corset cut into my skin, as did the ribs of my crinoline, and I was stiff from the strange position I’d been forced to lie in. My chignon was slipping. I drew out the pins one by one, gathering them in my hand and letting my thick hair fall to my waist. I laid them on the small rococo table by the chaise. And then, exhausted and aching, I rose and made my way from the parlor and up the stairs.

The lights in the hall were lit, though the house was quiet and full of that strangeness that came with late night and exhaustion and illness, with people still about, maids cleaning after an evening gathering, nurses tending—the sounds hushed, like mice scurrying over carpet, where one was aware more that there was a presence when there should not be, movement when stillness was the rule.