Conjurer (18 page)

“I'll ask you to remember that nothing was proven,” Robey fights back.

“Go visit with the patient, sir. Our conversation is concluded.”

Robey rises from his chair, but before quitting the room he turns back to Pliny Earle. “You know my true identity,” he says. “And that of my sister.”

“No, sir. I do not” is the physician's curt reply.

“I'm not a poor man.”

“I have no cause to doubt you.”

“I could … if money were—”

“Sir, I ask you again to leave my chambers. You and I have no more to say to one another. A nurse will escort you to your sister … and remain there with you, according to the patient's specific request.”

“Nothing was proven in a court of law,” Robey insists again.

“Good day, Mr. Robey.”

As if the riot, the pillaging, the mindless destruction of property occurred in far-off Spain or some sodden Belgian seaport rather than mere city blocks from their home, the Durands' house in town is a whir of festive activity. Emily has cast aside her suspicions concerning her husband's motives in proposing to hold a gala supper party and seance and, instead, has embraced his notion fully. More than fully; she's swept up in the plans, transported to the point where her feet feel as if they don't quite make contact with the floor, and her brain all but bursts with imagined song. In the short few days since her perplexing conversation with her husband at their country abode, and in the hurried time prior to that, Emily has convinced herself that she's a person protected from evil and harm. It helps that she's also covertly paid a second visit to Eusapio Paladino's rooms.

Now she hurries through the house, happy, smiling, gloriously reckless and unafraid, while her husband paces somberly through other rooms, listening to her numerous orders to their equally numerous servants, as well as the swift assents that greet the mistress's words. What Emily's insistent voice is demanding and what the household staff is agreeing to, John doesn't know; he has far greater cares than the arrangements of flowers or candied fruit.

He leaves the parlor for the second time, passes from the foyer into the vestibule, walks the length of the drawing room with its stately Corinthian columns, its pilasters, its double hearths and marble surrounds, its pier glasses and the matched Chippendale lowboys that were carved for the Durand family by master cabinetmaker Thomas Affleck—and then restlessly marches to the rear loggia, banging the door open into the cold air, then slamming it shut as he reenters the building. His legs are driven to trudge relentlessly forward; his mind cannot remain quiet. He quits the vestibule for the morning room, leaves that for the dining room, the dining room for the private family stairs; but on the second floor feels no greater relief for his dread and his terror. His distraught footfalls retrace their steps, and he finds himself again in the parlor.

“Oh, there you are,” his wife says. She's sweeping through the entry as she speaks, her silken skirts rolling over the Turkey carpet like a wave covering a sandy beach. Durand notices that the cloth is embroidered and that it shines with threads that look like genuine gold. “I need your advice, John.” Emily's voice rises in flirtatious intimacy, behavior he hasn't witnessed since well before their marriage. John notes the change with surprise but makes no comment.

“Yes, my dear?” he answers stoically.

Beside Emily stands the home's majordomo, a man whose name Durand cannot immediately recall, but who holds in his hand a small ledger in which he inscribes his mistress's slightest wish.

Emily beams up at her husband. “We should take supper after
Signor
Paladino performs, don't you th—?”

“I thought you told me his conjuring was the genuine article?” John interrupts. His voice has a panicky edge that his wife fails to detect. “What I mean to say is …
performing
isn't—”

Emily silences the objection with a playful wave of her hand. “After
Signor
Paladino
communes
with the souls of those departed, we will take our repast—”

“If you've already made up your mind about the evening's schedule, then I can't see what advice you wish me to provide,” John interjects in an equally tight and nervous manner, but Emily merely gazes at him indulgently and continues as if he hadn't spoken:

“In that fashion,
Signor
Paladino can either join us at table or not as he sees fit—”

“Surely he won't sup with us, Emily?” John protests for a second time. His voice has grown louder and more obviously anxious, but again Emily overlooks these clues.

Instead, she ignores her husband's arguments, devoting her attention to the majordomo. “For the first course: Red mullet, clear oxtail soup … It's always appropriate to have a bouillon for those with delicate digestions … also, mock turtle soup and stewed eels. Entrées:
riz de veau au tomates, cotelettes de porc, poulet
, ragout of lobster … Second course: roast turkey, pigeon pie, garnished tongue, saddle of mutton … Third: pheasant, snipes … no, let us have partridges … no, no, wait—grouse. They're much more daring and rustic. Then follow with blancmange, cabinet pudding, a
vol-au-vent
of plums … and a mince pie, do you think, John?” Emily finally turns and gives her husband a polite smile. “Or greengage tartlet?”

“Mince pie would be homier,” he offers in a glum tone. “Besides, at this time of year preserved plums cost a pretty penny—”

“The tartlet, then,” Emily responds serenely. “I want everything to glitter. Us, our home, our acquaintances … Wines, let me see … Well, perhaps I should examine the cellars first. I know we have more than enough champagnes laid by, but as to clarets and hocks, I'm not certain …” She begins to move off, trailing the majordomo behind her, but John's next query arrests the parade:

“How many folk are you expecting for this dinner of yours?” This time Emily cannot ignore the tension in her husband's tone.

“My
dinner, John? I believe it was you who wanted to invite the Roseggers, and—”

“A suggestion, my dear. Only a—”

“
And
Martha Beale.”

“But those guests were … Well, what I mean to say is, Emily, that we needn't put on such a lavish show, need we …? For Martha or the Roseggers or … or the others … It might put folks out, don't you know? As if we were trying to raise ourselves too high—”

Emily interrupts this stumbling performance, but she does so with a beatific expression as if she were explaining the simplest of arithmetic problems to a child. “The table seats thirty, John. So, thirty we shall be—”

“But isn't that too great a number to partake in the … in the conjuring? Didn't the Ilsleys indicate that their—?”

Emily Durand tilts her head to one side. At last, her husband's rambling protests are beginning to register. As she gazes at him, she decides he looks like precisely what he is: a countrified member of the aristocracy who is woefully out of touch with the fashions and customs of the times. “
Signor
Paladino has appeared before theater audiences, my dear. A party of thirty should seem an intimate circle to him.”

“But the Ilsleys—”

“John! When you first suggested this evening's gathering to me, I recall that you specifically mentioned wishing to outshine the Ilsleys. Now I wonder what you meant by those fine words. You begin to sound as though you were concerned with the dinner's expense. Surely that is not the case?”

Durand stands taller and straighter. “Of course not,” he states. “Of course not … The suggestion was simply for a more exclusive circle. I know how much emphasis you place on being the hostess whose invitations are the most highly prized in the city.”

Soothed by this bit of flattery, Emily momentarily softens. “I could, perhaps, reduce the list to eighteen …”

John's square face brightens considerably.

“But that would require eliminating Martha Beale …”

“Ah …”

“And you did specifically request her inclusion in the gathering—”

“I thought we might … might alleviate her gloomy spirits, my dear. That's all … Can we not make the number nineteen, then?”

“You must be in jest, John?”

“An uneven amount. I apologize. Twenty, then … However … However, at the risk of repeating myself, didn't Henrietta Ilsley mention a maximum of twelve spectators?” Durand finds himself sweating profusely. It's an unpleasant sensation.

“I spoke to
Signor
Paladino's assistant personally, John. He assured me that we could invite any number we choose.”

“Ah …”

“Now, we cannot invite Martha and deny the Emmetts and Corstairs—”

“No …”

“Nor the Misses Chichester, nor the illustrious Roseggers whom you're so insistent upon adding to our little circle—”

“Ah …” Durand mops at his wet brow. “Yes … I see … The Roseggers, and so forth …”

“And Miss Beale.” Emily smiles again, her point won. “One would think you were enamored of our wealthy heiress, John. You are such an advocate of her well-being.”

Durand's ruddy complexion darkens considerably. “Such jibes are unpleasant in the extreme, Emily.”

She raises a caustic eyebrow. “Marriage, among such as we, my dear husband, should not be bound by adherence to outmoded rules. We must leave such regimented behavior to those for whom it is prescribed: the lower class of citizenry.”

“Emily! Dear wife! The laws of marriage are the laws of the church.”

“Oh, John, what nonsense you spout!” She returns her focus to the majordomo, who has stood silent and unmoving during this exchange. “We'll be thirty at table tomorrow night, as I previously detailed. Now, let us examine the cellars.” Before leaving, Emily gives her husband one final glance. “Unless you wish to select the vintages yourself, John? As your traditional prerogative in our most traditional family?”

Such is the assemblage convened at Emily's decree: thirty of the city's most prominent residents mingling in the commodious drawing room, while the dining room has been reconfigured according to Eusapio Paladino's specifications. Black velvet hangings cover the household's purple damask; all paintings and mirrors have been draped; the long table swathed in thick black wool; the requisite writing tablets positioned upon it; and the curious musical instruments stationed close by.

It will require a neat sleight-of-hand to reset the stage for an elegant supper party, but this is of no concern to Emily. She and her guests will retire to the withdrawing room following the conjuring and return to dine three-quarters of an hour later in a space transformed by silver, gilt, French porcelains, goblets of crystal, sprays of hothouse flowers, and a continuous round of comestibles, wines, champagnes, and fruit liqueurs.

As was the case at the Ilsleys' home, when the guests are called into the dining room and seated at the shrouded table, all conversation ceases and everyone present looks to the conjurer for inspiration and guidance. Paladino, however, seems to take no notice of the attention. His eyes idly wander the room, gliding over the paneled doors, the silk-cloaked walls, the carpet, the Chinese funerary urns standing upon the glossy wood floors. He doesn't look at Emily's guests. Most significantly, he doesn't look at Emily.

Seated at his side, she feels this withdrawal acutely. She imagined clandestine touches, a furtive caress beneath the all-obscuring table—even stolen minutes upstairs; and the visions filled her with a heedless joy. But he now behaves toward her no differently than toward the other matrons seated at the table.

Emily tries to console herself that her lover's behavior is both wise and sensible, that she not only approves of his coolness but also secretly encourages it; but the truth is that Eusapio's disregard infuriates her. In the silence that envelops the group, Emily finds herself plotting terrible words of revenge, envisions refusing to visit his rooms, witnesses his abject remorse, and finally sees her own ire transformed into tears of forgiveness and release. Almost, she comes full circle back to breathless adoration.

Then, all at once, the silence is broken, and Eusapio says a single word: “Martha,” which he pronounces as the Italian
Marta
. He focuses a level stare upon Lemuel Beale's daughter until both Durands begin to fidget in their chairs.

“
Marta
.” The name is repeated slowly and tenderly. All eyes swivel toward Eusapio and then back to Martha.

“Marta. Ragazza mia.”

“My little girl,” the translator provides.

“Shouldn't we be asking—?” John interjects, but the others gathered around the table hush him with an insistent:

“Shhhh! It may be that Beale is wishing to communicate!”

Then the writing tablets are pushed forward, and a breathless quiet descends upon the crowd. With their eyes only, several of Martha's nearest companions urge her to take the chalk and form a message. She shakes her head in steadfast refusal and draws back while Eusapio, as if pulled by a magnetic force, leans closer to her.

Emily grabs one of the tablets, showily writes upon it, then turns it upside down and places it near her guest of honor. Eusapio seems unaware of the gesture, and after a number of tense and soundless minutes, Emily retrieves the tablet and brushes away her unseen lettering. She feigns an unaffected and world-weary smile although her furious eyes belie the effort.

Then Henrietta Ilsley, so sadly rebuffed at her own séance, attempts to make contact with her departed kindred. But again Eusapio pays no heed; and the minutes tick by, and Henrietta's slate is also wiped clean. Professor Ilsley makes his own foray into the realm of necromancy, but his efforts fall to naught as well. The conjurer only has eyes for Martha Beale.