Conjurer (20 page)

“More cake, Miss Beale? Or would you care to sample some of my ratafias? I make them myself.”

Martha can hear a note of mutiny in this last statement, but Mrs. Rosegger's bland expression registers only wifely responsibility; and her husband makes no comment of either approval or disapproval of her sojourns in her kitchen.

With the plight of the city's poor exhausted or eliminated as a subject, Rosegger then expresses his formal sympathies for her father's death. “But it's not certain he is dead, sir,” Martha counters softly, at which observation her host rises abruptly from his fancifully carved and brocaded chair and strides to a window, where he stands, hands clasped behind him, regarding the little traffic on the street. “It's winter, Miss Beale; surely there can be no hope of surviving a fall in the river” is what he says while Martha screws up her courage to pose another question. She avoids looking in Owen Simms's direction as she speaks.

“Do you know of any enemies my father might possess, sir? Someone … someone who would wish him ill … Perhaps even murder him—?”

“Goodness, Martha!” Simms protests. “Have we not had enough of this unfortunate chat before now?”

But Martha hasn't finished. “I'm asking you, Mr. Rosegger, because of what Mr. Simms tells me of your stature in the community.”

“Why don't you pose the question to your father's confidential secretary then, Miss Beale?”

“I already have …”

“But you don't trust the response?” Rosegger laughs his dismissive laugh again.

“That's not my meaning, sir—”

“No?”

Martha is growing increasingly flustered. “I'm not here to discuss Mr. Simms, sir.”

Rosegger eyes her with his shrewd and mocking stare; his wife remains focused wholly on her tea tray.

“You and my father are two men of affairs, sir—”

“And as such we engender our share of envy, Miss Beale.” He produces another laugh; then the sound abruptly vanishes. “I suppose there have been those who wished me dead and gone. There will probably be more. I cannot describe your father's situation unless it were the mirror image of my own.”

“A rumor, perhaps—”

“Martha, come, my dear,” Simms interposes, but their host's domineering voice cancels even Simms's objections.

“I do not indulge in gossip, Miss Beale. And I would suggest you do not, either.” Then he turns to the door. “Mr. Simms, shall we leave the ladies to their own devices? I have some excellent port laid by.”

But Martha cannot let Rosegger go. “Can my father have been in debt, sir?”

“Anyone who trades in commodities is in debt at one time or another, Miss Beale—”

“I mean in serious debt,” Martha interrupts.

“My suggestion, madam, is that you consult with someone closer to home.”

Then the door to the drawing room opens; Simms exits with their host, and Martha and Mrs. Rosegger are left with a cold draft where once stood the lady's husband.

In his absence, Mrs. Rosegger begins tidying away the tea things, devoting so much attention to her chores that it seems she cannot both speak and act. Taking the cup from Martha's hand, she suddenly leans close. “I believe you've met Thomas Kelman,” she murmurs, then adds a hasty “Listen to him” before continuing in a louder and more public voice. “Shall I show my children to you, Miss Beale? While my husband visits with Mr. Simms? My young ones are their mother's pride and joy.”

Dreaming or Awake

M
ARTHA'S DREAMS THAT NIGHT ARE
tortured. She revisits the scene of her mother's deathbed, where she sees adult faces floating above her through the gloom. Their features are as bland as milk pudding, pasty white and utterly unrecognizable; the words they speak have no more meaning than the wind rushing down a chimney. She wanders among these tall, moving forms as if she, and not her mother, were the ghost. She asks a question, tugs at a sleeve, but no one responds, and so she stands apart, staring at the surface of a table, at a silver tray with a glass and spoon resting upon it. The contents of the glass are cloudy and pale. Martha, the child, thinks it looks like snow, if snow were liquid. She lifts the spoon to put it to her lips, but a large, angry hand snatches it away; then the spoon and the glass also disappear.

Next the dream shifts; she's still a child, but dressed in bed attire—a flannelette gown without a woolen wrapper—and standing in the night-dark hallway of her home. There's a solitary candle lit at the far end, but this small version of herself is too frightened of unseen demons to reach the safety of its orange glow. She hears a lady crying out; the sound makes Martha want to run toward the voice and offer aid, but she's far too terrified to move. Instead, she begins to cry, weeping with a noise that sounds like a puppy whimpering. A hand touches her shoulder; another takes her arm, and all at once she can't move, cannot run away, and the hands move to her chest, covering her mouth until she feels she can no longer breathe. She gasps, tries to shake free, but the constraining fingers only grip her tighter. She's so very young and helpless, and the person holding her so large.

Martha awakes from this nightmare, panting. The noise of her own fear follows her from sleep into consciousness. Her pillow is wet with tears. For a long moment, she believes that she's still a young girl escaping from a faceless foe.

Then the door to her bedroom opens a crack, and the light from the hallway knifes yellowly in. “Martha, are you quite well? I was passing in the hall and heard you cry out.”

Still lying on her back and staring at the lace canopy above her head, Martha finds herself caught between the vivid reality of her dream and a peculiarly trance-like wakefulness; and so she answers with an automatic “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Simms … But I must ask you to leave my chambers … It's not appropriate that—”

Instead of complying with her wishes, however, he moves toward her bed and the bellpull that will summon her maid. “You're agitated, Martha. Let me ring for your servant. She can prepare a sleeping draught.”

“No,” Martha orders before he can reach her. “I won't have you awaken her.” She pulls herself upright and drags the coverlet up to her throat. It seems wrong indeed that she can't convince Owen Simms to quit her rooms. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I ask you again to leave. I'm sure it's very late.”

“Sometime after two, I believe.”

She looks at Simms more closely. “You're wearing one of Father's dressing gowns.”

“It's very similar to one of his, Martha. Your father kindly had it made for me by his own tailor. You're observant to notice how alike the two garments are … Now, let me summon your servant so that you can get a peaceful night's slumber.”

“I won't have the household disturbed because I had a foolish nightmare, Mr. Simms. I'm quite well, I assure you, but you must go away. It's not appropriate that you remain with me at this hour.”

“Nonsense, my dear. I've known you since you were a girl. I'm as close to a family member as any you might have.”

“I have no family except my father.” Martha frowns, remembering pieces of her dream. “Have I, Mr. Simms …? I seem to recall a lady—”

“Your mother, I presume—”

“No, not my mother … another lady … Did my mother have a sister, Mr. Simms? Or my father?”

“If you had female relatives, Martha, don't you think your father would have introduced you to them? Or male family members, for that matter?”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Of course it does.” He smiles benignly down at her. “Do you imagine your father purposely withheld aunts and uncles and cousins who could have lightened his own burdens as a parent?”

Martha doesn't reply. She pictures the twin parts of her dream, but this illusory fiction is no match for Owen Simm's logic.

“There,” his calm voice continues, “you see? It only takes a modicum of common sense to provide solutions to all our queries—whether large or small. There were no uncles or aunts, no young cousins with whom you could play, my dear; instead, your father provided his singular care and support. And that was ample indeed …” Simms pauses. “Now, Martha, I will do as you request and leave you to return to your slumbers as you can, but before I do, I have a request to make. It's a serious one, and I want you to consider well before responding.”

Martha's heart thuds in her chest. For a horrible moment, she imagines Owen Simms is about to ask her hand in marriage, but the notion is so absurd she quickly casts it aside. “What is it, Mr. Simms?”

“Take as much time as you wish before making your decision, but know also that I will continue to press my case—”

“Yes, Mr. Simms?” Again Martha experiences a hard thump that feels like panic. Again she reminds herself that the furthest thing from Owen Simms's thoughts is a union with his master's daughter.

“Your father, dear Martha, has been missing for some time—”

“Sixteen days.”

“Yes, quite so. Sixteen days. I realize that what I'm about to say may seem to disregard the delicacy of your emotions … but in fact, it is to those very sensibilities that I appeal.”

Oh!
Martha thinks.
Oh, no! I was correct in my unlikely conjecture, after all! What should I do? What can I do?
“Mr. Simms,” she begins, “I believe I know the request you wish to make of me.”

Owen Simms lays his head on one side while he continues to gaze down at her. “Ah, then you're as wise as your father. It is he—as well as you—that I'm considering when I make my suggestion. He would not wish us to continue in this vague and ambiguous mode forever—”

“Pray, Mr. Simms, let us talk no more of this, but say a peaceable good night to one another.”

Owen Simms stands still and tall. “And so you agree that we declare your father drowned and so proceed with an announcement and funeral service?”

“What?” Martha is so astonished at these words that her body leaps in surprise.

“You told me you understood the nature of my request …”

“Yes … Yes … So I did …”

“Then we will proceed as I suggest? And place the household in an appropriate state of mourning?”

“Mr. Simms, I beg of you. Let us discuss this in the light of day—”

“You cannot stave off the inevitable forever, Martha.”

“Good night, Mr. Simms.”

“Mine is not an unreasonable recommendation, my dear. And you will, I know, take some measure of solace when you finally acknowledge your loss.”

“Tomorrow, Mr. Simms. We will continue this discussion tomorrow after we have breakfasted.”

But the next morning, Martha doesn't arise until well after Owen Simms has left her father's house, and when she's finally eaten and dressed, and prepared herself to consider Simms's advice—or steeled herself to cease avoiding it—her maid comes running up the stairs. There's a man downstairs, and he's insistent upon seeing her at once. He's in the foyer, and the footman cannot get him to budge.

Martha continues the task of affixing a brooch to her bodice, although her hands have begun to shake. Her mind pictures Thomas Kelman waiting below, and a smile begins to flicker around the corners of her mouth. When the smile grows, she dispatches it, instead attempting to mirror the type of cool gaze she imagines Emily Durand displaying in such a situation. But, studying and adjusting this haughty expression in the looking glass, Martha inadvertently stabs herself with the brooch's pin. In a pique, she yanks off the offending piece of jewelry and throws it back in the box; then she all but runs out of her room and down the stairs. The bright smile remains despite her loftiest intentions.

It's not Kelman who has been admitted, however; it's Eusapio Paladino's assistant. “Forgive my intrusion, Miss Beale,” he wheezes. “My master is outside in a carriage. He's most anxious to speak with you in private.”

Martha is stunned into silence.
What can the conjurer possibly want from me?
she asks herself, but can find no answer. “I'm afraid that's impossible—” she begins.

“You will not be alone. I will remain with you—to translate.”

Martha lifts her jaw as she's seen her father do in circumstances not to his liking. “Your master is welcome to join you here in my home.” She steps back half a pace as if to precede him into the drawing room.

“He refuses to enter this abode, Miss Beale. I'm afraid he has some horror of it. I beseech you … Please … It's a matter of urgency.”

“But I am—”

“Please, Miss Beale. There's a lady—” He checks his speech.

“A lady?”

“In a vision.”

“Is it me …?
Marta
… dead … as your master said the other evening?”

The assistant only shakes his unwieldy head. “And there is something about your father also.”

At this news Martha's sense of decorum starts to desert her. “
Signor
Paladino has information concerning my father?”

“Please, Miss Beale. My master will require only a little of your time.”

Martha considers the request. Previously, she would have declined, and her reasons would have been obvious to those who knew her history: Lemuel Beale's daughter didn't travel unchaperoned in the company of two strange men; Lemuel Beale's daughter never accepted any invitation of which her father did not previously approve; in fact, Lemuel Beale's daughter rarely left her home, and when she did, it was most habitually in his company.

“I will fetch my cloak,” she says.

The hired carriage speeds out of the city, jouncing from the cobbled byways onto the stone-strewn dirt lanes of the countryside. Martha bumps from side to side, asking herself with growing apprehension whether her decision to join the mesmerist was wise. A lifetime of being the circumspect and prudent daughter has been tossed to the winds, and she's beginning to sorely regret her newfound temerity. All this while, Eusapio Paladino crushes close, alternately moaning, sighing, and conversing at an erratic tempo that sometimes gushes a tumult of words and sometimes sounds as halting and painful as a child's tremulous stammer. She assumes he's speaking to his assistant in Italian.