Heaven Made (9 page)

Alice sighed and seemed to droop where she was sitting. "I
know you don’t believe me, Mama. But Papa really does come and talk to me.
Maybe if we visit Madame Lou she can prove it to you. Can I take my cake up to
our room?"

Sabrina knew she shouldn’t let her, but she nodded her
assent and watched as Alice wrapped the cake in a linen napkin and disappeared
up the back stairs to their suite.

What in the world was she to do? Her employer imagined he
was seeing ghosts, and her daughter was talking to the dead. Suddenly, a visit
to the mysterious Madame Lou no longer seemed like such a bad idea.

Chapter Six

"Will you be needing the motorcar, Mr. Northcliffe?"
Mr. Roland asked, handing Ford his Homberg hat and greatcoat.

"No, thank you Roland. I need to clear my head."
Ford pulled on his leather gloves and contemplated the walking stick that Mr.
Roland held out to him before taking it. "I’ll be at my club if anyone
needs me."

Ford almost laughed at that, as if anyone in his household
had ever needed him. It was he who did the needing at Northcliffe Manor. And
tonight what he needed was a stiff drink. His feet automatically took him the
eight blocks to his club as he considered the events that had just occurred.
What had he seen? He was certain that a girl of indeterminate age maybe nine,
but perhaps as old as twelve, with long dark hair, had been running down the
hallway. She’d worn a nightgown that flowed behind her in a decidedly
phantom-like fashion.

Of course a ghost was out of the question. They simply
didn’t exist. Ford was a man of science and all learned men knew that anything
that wasn’t measurable was therefore not viable and subsequently, did not
exist. But if it wasn’t an apparition, what in God’s name was it? If it hadn’t
appeared to look exactly like his little sister right before she succumbed to
the Russian flu, he wouldn’t even be having this conversation with himself. But
at first glance he’d thought it was Piper, and that was what was making him so
skeptical of his own beliefs. Certainly science had no explanation for what he
had just witnessed. The only other logical explanation was that there was a
child in his home who looked exactly like his little sister. But that was
preposterous. There were no children in his home. If there were, he would have
known about it before now, wouldn’t he?

He had no cousins that he knew of, and no nieces that could
exist since Piper had been his only sibling. None of his servants had children
that young. Mrs. Dixon had a son, but he was in his twenties and had joined the
Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve several years ago. Mr. Roland had two daughters,
but they were both married with children of their own. Maybe that was it, maybe
one of Mr. Roland’s grandchildren was visiting? But no, Ford thought,
remembering that Roland had told him they were still babies. They couldn’t be running
around the house looking like nine year olds. Besides, Mr. Roland would have
informed him if his family was visiting. He always had in the past, anyway.

The more Ford thought about it, the more he realized that
there must be some logical explanation for what he had seen. But for the life
of him, he just couldn’t figure out what it might be. He knew one thing though,
he was more determined than ever to find a cure for the disease that had taken
little Piper from him and his mother at too young an age.

Arriving at the club, Ford absently handed his outer wear to
a footman standing just inside the entryway and made his way to the reading
room.

"Brandy, please," he said to another footman. He
sat down in one of the wingback chairs and stared pensively into the fire.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost." The Earl of
Suffolk always did have a way with words.

"Mind your own business," Ford said in what he
hoped was an unfriendly tone. The last thing he needed right now were questions
from the very bored and too curious Earl.

"Struck a nerve, eh?" Lord Suffolk asked, sitting
down anyway. "I thought you were a man of science, Northcliffe? You don’t
go for that spirit nonsense, do you?"

"Of course not," Ford answered, hoping he appeared
properly offended. "I thought it was just an expression, anyway."

O’Neill didn’t look convinced. "There have been some
strange reports lately. The Ton is fascinated with the stuff, you know. The
young misses talk of nothing else lately. I keep hearing them chatter about a
Madame Lou, or some such nonsense. Seems she is telling fortunes from a tearoom
on the north end of town. Tottenham, I believe. Ridiculous, of course, but you
know how young ladies are. Or maybe you don’t. You haven’t exactly been out
much lately, have you?"

O’Neill’s observation was not really a question. Ford
couldn’t deny his lack of sociability lately, either. But wasn’t it just
perfect that all of society was enthralled with ghosts just as he was actually
seeing them? At least his timing was impeccable.

"No, but that’s about to change. I’ve hired a woman to
take care of those sorts of things. I’ll be having a dinner party soon. I
think," Ford said, but his mind wandered off almost immediately.

Had he really seen Piper tonight? The apparition seemed so
real, so substantial, not like he’d always imagined a ghost might be. In his
musings, a ghost was wraithlike, not solid and three dimensional.

"Am I invited?" O’Neill asked, raising one elegant
black eyebrow.

"What?" Ford said, too distracted now to follow
the discussion. "Invited to what?"

"Really, Northcliffe, if you can’t keep up with the
conversation, then you should at least pretend to read the newspaper or something,"
O’Neill grunted with amusement. "Or if you really have seen a ghost, you
must tell me all about it."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Ford said, crossing his
legs and reaching for the
Times.
"The scientific world clearly
proves there are no such things as ghosts and goblins. Apparitions are simply
the result of charlatans out to bilk anyone naïve enough to believe, out of
their funds. Especially the young misses, as you so eloquently put it, out of
their pin money."

"So then, as a man of science, how do you explain the
various bumps in the night?" O’Neill reached for his half empty glass of
brandy and swirled it unconsciously before taking a sip. "After all, we
are living in the twentieth century now, and yet this business of psychics and
spirits is more popular than ever. I hate to admit it, but after George Markham
married the delectable Miss Annabelle Smithers, all based upon the whim of a
fortune teller, or so they say, I’m beginning to have my doubts about science
in general."

"Are you mad?" Ford asked, quickly thrusting the
paper aside and signaling the footman to bring him some more brandy. "That’s
just a coincidence. Absolutely no basis in fact or reason. I can’t believe you,
of all people, would fall victim to the wild imaginings of some love-struck
couple. Fortune teller, indeed. Preposterous, I tell you."

"That’s all well and fine, and I’d be on your side in a
heartbeat," O’Neill said, pausing dramatically now. "If it weren’t
for Lord Berkshire and Lady Eleanor Callum. Once again, they claim that some
dead ancestor brought them together through very mystical means."

"What is going on in this town?" Ford asked
rhetorically, then took a long drink as if that might help him to understand the
lunacy of the ton. "Hasn’t anyone heard of the empirical method? Good God,
O’Neill, you can’t really be serious about this."

"Easy there, Mr. Scientist. I know you don’t believe
any of this spooks and spirits stuff, but it is what everyone who is anyone is
talking about." Lord Suffolk was laughing at him. "I just wanted to
make sure you’ll be prepared for it when you have this dinner of yours. You
wouldn’t want to insult your guests, would you?"

"I’ll just have to make certain not to invite anyone
silly enough to discuss fortune telling in public." Ford nursed his brandy
as if it were mother’s milk. "And another thing, if all this magic talk
was real, wouldn’t people be lined up in droves to pick ponies and such
nonsense? I do believe that the ton is suffering from the greatest case of mass
ennui that I have ever heard of. People should have other interests besides
soirées and gambling."

"Like you, old friend?" O’Neill asked, finishing
his drink.

"Well, yes," Ford said, thoughtfully. "If
more people endeavored to seek knowledge and answers to real maladies, then the
world would be free of disease and suffering. Speaking of which, I think I’m
really close to a big discovery. I’ve been working on this experiment with
white mice and I’ve been able to extend their mortality beyond the normal scope
of the disease."

"Fascinating," O’Neill said, but he didn’t sound
interested at all. And then he rolled his eyes for emphasis. "Really,
Northcliffe. How in the world do you plan on keeping your guests awake with
that kind of talk?"

Ford frowned at his companion. Unfortunately, Lord Suffolk
was quite right. Normal people had absolutely no interest in science unless it
was in regards to telephones and electricity. Real science, where one
endeavored to find something that, as of yet, did not exist, was considered
boring to the general public. Even something as vital as finding a cure for
influenza. It was only a select group of doctors and scientists who could even
contemplate how imperative such a venture was. More important to himself
because Piper had died from the disease and he was determined to find a cure if
it was the last thing he did.

"Well, what are the gentry talking about at dinner
parties?" Ford asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Glad you asked, Northcliffe," O’Neill said,
lighting a fine cigar. "As I was saying, everyone is talking about ghosts
and psychics. Although if you ask me, the really inexplicable thing is these
marriages popping up all over town. For some reason I think there is a
connection."

"You must be joking."

"No, I’m completely serious." Lord Suffolk took a
couple of puffs and sat forward in his chair. "There have been three or
four chaps shackled in the last year and all of them had some sort of
mysterious happenings going on at the time."

Ford grunted and sat back in his chair. No wonder he hadn’t
been social for the last year. Besides it being in bad form since Mother’s
sickness and passing, the activities of the upper class were simply ridiculous.

"I know as a scientist you don’t believe any of this,
and frankly as a moderately intelligent man, I think there must be some other,
more logical explanation. But for the life of me, I haven’t figured out what it
is yet. That’s why I’ve finally decided that I need someone even more skeptical
than I to help me reason out what the real story is."

"All right," Ford agreed. "Tell me exactly
what you know." Ford was eager to set his mind to something besides the
current goings on in his own home.

"Good man," O’Neill said, smiling and pulling his
chair closer. "So, poor George just happened to end up needing a companion
for his mother when she went on her trip to the continent. He hired this young
miss who turns out to be a gentlewoman down on her luck. Her father died and
left everything to her stepbrother who didn’t think it was his responsibility
to see her married off, or so goes the gossip. So George hires her, falls right
in love and follows her and his mother to Paris. She tells him that a tea lady
had told her fortune and said she would find her true love in France."

"That’s just a coincidence," Ford snorted.

"Ahh, but is it?" O’Neill’s eyebrow went up again.
"I wouldn’t have thought anything of it either if I hadn’t heard another
story just a month later.

"Berkshire is walking down Tottenham Road and stops
outside a tearoom to straighten his cravat in the window. He looks inside,
wondering if he should stop and get a few ounces of bergamot. There is an old
crone inside and she motions him inside. He goes in, and once there she pulls
out a deck of tarot cards and starts telling him about his past and his future,
and that his dead father is contacting her. Then she says old Berkshire is
communicating with her to tell his son that he needs to go to a certain address
where he’ll find his one true love. Of course Berkshire doesn’t believe it at
first, but then he starts to wonder how she knew so much about him, things he’s
never told anyone, and decides he’d better check out the address."

O’Neill stopped telling his story as a footman refilled
their drinks. He waited for the servant to leave them before continuing.

"So he gets to this address in Grosvenor Square, a very
fine address but a house he’s never visited, and knocks. The butler looks him
up and down and asks if he’s Lord Berkshire!"

"But how did the butler know who he was?" Ford was
beginning to get interested in the story now.

"Oh, yes, that’s the curious part." O’Neill rubbed
his hands together and leaned even closer to Ford so no one could eavesdrop. "He
asked the same thing, and do you know what the butler said?"

"No," Ford asked, impatiently. "What did the
damn butler say?"

"So now you’re curious about all the ghosts and such
nonsense." Lord Suffolk had to chuckle and rub it in a bit.

"I didn’t say I believed any of it." Ford tried
not to be cross at his friend. "I just wonder how it all gets to such a
frenzy among the less educated."

"Well," O’Neill continued, obviously not bothered
by Ford’s skepticism. "The butler said, ‘Lady Eleanor told me you’d be
arriving any day now. It seems that her little brother has been talking to
their mother about the two of you at length.’"

"Well, that’s not so very strange." Ford was
almost disappointed with the story now. "Her mother probably already knew
that Berkshire was eligible and was planning on setting the two of them up at
some party."