The Spiritualist (29 page)

“I’ve done some reading on it since we last met,” Dudley announced. He unwound the scarf from his neck and took off his top hat, handing them both to a waiting Lambert. “The
Spiritual Telegraph
, you know, has been most helpful. And I spoke to Mrs. Hardinge. In her time at the Conference, she’s helped develop several new mediums. Thankfully, we have a stable company from which to embark. Mrs. Hardinge says it requires careful preparation under a skilled and benevolent eye.”

“We’ve Michel for that,” his wife said.

Dudley looked at me. “One must discipline the mind to harness the spirits without enslaving them—or allowing oneself to be enslaved.”

I nodded sympathetically, but I was perspiring, and it had nothing to do with the warmth of the rooms. I cast a glance at Benjamin. He had come in only moments before the others, and there had been no time for anything more than his hasty and whispered “You can do this, Evelyn.”

When Wilson Maull and Jacob Colville arrived, we adjourned to the upstairs parlor where Dorothy waited—already seated at the table. Again, they passed around the liqueur, but this time I drank none. I was too suspicious of it now.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Ben said, drawing near. He touched my shoulder reassuringly and said in a low voice, “Remember what I told you: the key is in
listening.
”

“Yes, ” I said, then leaned close to his ear to say, “I had a ‘lesson’ with Michel yesterday.”

His eyes flared in interest. “Oh? And how was it?”

“He’s very good.”

“Yes, he is,” he agreed. “But you aren’t fooled by him. And you’ve a weapon he knows nothing of.”

“A weapon?”

“Me.” He smiled. “I am on your side, remember. Your confederate.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Just hold to your purpose. Dorothy’s the one you must impress.”

I felt better at his words and the warmth in his eyes, but then Dorothy called me, and when I went over to her, she took my arm, pulling me down to hear. “Michel said your lesson went well, child. You’re a good girl. You let him lead you.”

She looked across the room to him, and despite myself I followed her gaze and saw Michel was watching us. His expression was closely veiled, and my nervousness returned as Dorothy called for us to begin, and everyone made their way to the table. I sat in my accustomed place beside him.

Michel took my hand. “You look pale.”

I swallowed—agitated already—and looked away. “Shall we begin?”

Robert Dudley took my other hand. The lights were lowered.

Michel said, “Tonight we’ll attempt to see if the spirits truly do speak through
Madame
Atherton, and to that end,
Madame
, you must empty your mind.”

“A passive mind, remember, Evelyn,” Dudley said.

“Just so,” Michel agreed. “I’ll call them. When they’ve arrived,
Madame
might take over.”

I looked to Benjamin. His gaze was intent, reassuring.

I closed my eyes and the prayers began, the singing, the invocations. Michel finally spoke to call the spirits. His hand opened slightly; the tips of his fingers caressed mine.

“Almighty God, let us talk with the spirits tonight.”

I kept my eyes closed; I felt the tension of the others as the silence grew.

“Is there a spirit present?” Michel asked.

His fingers stroked my hand, and I was too tired to protest. I was unthinking, cocooned, numbed. Moments passed.

“If there is a spirit present, would it answer me?”

His words were like buzzing in my ear, quiet at first, and then slowly the buzzing grew until I could no longer hear his words, until the sound filled my head, louder and louder until I felt I couldn’t stand it another moment, until I nearly opened my eyes to ask what it was, and to make it stop—but I couldn’t make myself open my eyes. I was so tired. Why was no one talking about that sound?

Then, just when it became unbearable, it changed. It became a whisper, drawing me toward it, beckoning, pulling me. It was like falling into a dream.
Come… .

But I couldn’t move to follow it, and then there was a clatter, a sudden movement, and I felt a pressure beneath my hands, lifting them.

I heard Michel speaking, garbled, nonsensical talk. He stirred beside me. His speech became a kind of chant inside my head, a song I could almost recognize. I’d heard it before. I knew it.
A Creole song about a nun longing for love…

Finally, he was silent, and I opened my eyes.

They were all staring at me as if I’d gone mad.

I realized two things: the circle had been broken, though I hadn’t been conscious of releasing anyone’s hand, and I was holding a pen so tightly my fingers cramped around it.

I looked down in confusion. Before me was a bottle of ink, an open notebook whose page was filled with a nearly indecipherable scrawl. My hand was smudged with ink; there were blots and stains everywhere, as if someone had been writing very fast, meaning to get thoughts down before they leapt away. With a sick dread, I realized that someone had been me.

Robert Dudley said, “Evelyn? Are you back with us?”

I dropped the pen so quickly it sent ink flying, and I backed away from the table. But when I tried to rise, my head spun and I crashed back down again, too dizzy to move.

“Is she all right?” Sarah’s voice seemed to echo as if it came from a very far place.

“Evelyn?” Benjamin’s voice was equally distant. “Evelyn, are you all right?”

“Anyone can see she’s not.” Dorothy now, brittle and loud. “Get her to a sofa.”

Hands were on me, lifting me, and I tried to struggle away. “I’m fine. I’m fine. If I could just—” But the truth was, I did not feel fine. I wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere, and so I stopped fighting them. I let them carry me to the settee. When I tried to open my eyes, the dim light seared into my head. I closed them again in pain.

“We went too fast.” Jacob’s voice was a murmur.

“No one suspected she would do this,” Grace Dudley protested.

Benjamin said from beside me, “Good God, can’t you see she’s done in? She should be in bed.”

I tried to protest, but no one was listening, and I was so tired. It was easier just to let them do as they would. It was easier to fall into darkness.

P
ETER WAS WAITING
for me in my dreams, his skin cold and clammy when he touched me. River water dripped upon my face as he leaned over me.
“You know he’s lying, Evie.”
He was so intent, almost vehement.
“He’s trying to fool you. He’s trying to fool everyone—”

I lurched awake. It took me a moment to remember where I was, and what had happened. It came back to me slowly: I had done spirit writing, and I had swooned. I didn’t understand. I’d had nothing to drink; I’d refused the liqueur. I’d eaten nothing. If Michel had somehow caused it, I didn’t see how. But what else could explain it? It had felt so real, but it could not be, could it? If it had been a hallucination, then the delusion was so overwhelming I must indeed be mad—but I could not think that. I refused to think it.

It was simply that I was exhausted. Lack of sleep could do this to a person, couldn’t it? I hadn’t slept a full night through since before Peter had died, and that, along with the strain of the upcoming trial, and the effort of my pretense, left me exhausted. I felt myself slowly unraveling, and I was afraid, and all I could think was that I must try to understand what was happening to me before I ended up like my mother.

Perhaps there was something in the words I’d written, some clue, some way to divine the truth of how it had been accomplished. There must be a rational explanation. Michel had mesmerized me; the writing was not mine; something. Once I saw it, I would know. I was certain of it. It was
not
madness.

I climbed from bed and pulled on my dressing gown, driven by the compulsion to see the words, by my hope of an answer.

I went to the door and pressed against it, listening. I had no idea what time it was, or how long I’d slept, but the hallway was silent, and it felt late. I opened the door, stepping out, shutting it quietly behind me. It was very dark, and a bit cold—I had grown used to Dorothy’s jungle temperatures, and the central heating had been banked for the night. I gathered my dressing gown more tightly about me and went as quickly and quietly as I could to the stairs. I meant to go to the second-floor parlor first, to see if the notebook had been left there. If it had not… if it had not I did not want to think about where it might be.

I grabbed the banister and tried to make out the stairs in the darkness. Cautiously I felt for the step.

The door to Dorothy’s room opened.

I froze, holding my breath, cursing inwardly when I saw him come out. I had some notion that if I were still enough, quiet enough, he would not see me in the darkness, even though I was only a few feet away.

But, of course, he was canny, almost preternaturally so. I wasn’t surprised when he stopped, when he turned toward me, when he said, “Looking for something,
chère
?”

Nervously, I said, “I—I was hungry. I thought I’d go to the kitchen—”

He took a few steps and put both hands on the railing opposite from the one I clutched. “A good idea. Perhaps I’ll join you.”

I noticed he wore a dressing gown, and that his feet were bare, his hair loose. It was only then that I registered where he had come from. Dorothy’s room. In repulsed dismay, I said, “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your assignation.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the door. “She’s asleep now.”

“Won’t she miss you when she wakes?”

“Jealous,
chère
?”

I ignored him and began going down the stairs.

He was beside me in a moment. “Having nightmares again? Spirits haunting you in your dreams?”

Steadfastly, I kept going.

“What do they say to you, these spirits? Do they tell you how to get an old woman to trust you? How to pretend to hear their voices so you can write their words?”

I stopped, turning on the stair to face him. “I leave such manipulations to you.”

“How clever you are. I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t see it, though I should have after what you said at our lesson. Spirit writing… ah, very smart. To say what you want without taking the blame—how could a woman think such things, after all? It isn’t you who plants doubts against me; it’s the spirits who malign me—”

“It’s not so very hard to do,” I snapped. “Given that you deserve to be maligned.”

“You would take from a dying woman her last comfort?”

“If that comfort were a lie, yes.”

“And then what? What does it leave her?”

“Isn’t it enough not to be thought a fool?”

He shrugged. “Not everyone cares what others think.”

“Maybe not. But I must live within the world of those who do.”

“Even if it blinds you?”

“Blinds me? To what?”

“To the lie of your own life.”

“What can you possibly know of my life?”

He leaned close. We were in darkness, but his expression was plain to me: the sharp caginess, the small, mean smile. “Look at where you are,
chère
, the things that are left you. Do you think he didn’t plan all this?”

It was not what I had expected. In bewilderment, I said, “Who? Plan what?”

“Your husband. He left you the house, knowing his family would oppose it. Do you really think he didn’t plan on leaving you destitute?”

Ben had said much the same thing, but that Peter meant to disinherit his family, not to leave me with nothing. The idea was horrible. Its very meanness was so unsettling I couldn’t fathom it. “Of course he didn’t. The house is worth a great deal of money. He left me everything.”

“What’d you do to him, Evie, hmmm? How did you disappoint him?”

“I never disappointed him. I was the wife he wanted—”

“But he resented you.” Michel’s voice was only a whisper. “In a way, he even hated you. You loved him and he didn’t return your love. With your eyes you never let him forget it. Do you think that didn’t fester?”

“That’s not true.” I pushed past him, and he stopped my flight with a hand on my arm. For a moment, we stood, staring at each other, and I thought he would kiss me, and I was stunned by a terrible longing—

But he only said, in a voice so low I could hear it only because of our proximity, “If you’re really seeking the truth, you need to see him for who he was, Evie. Just as you need to see yourself. And me.”

“I see you clearly enough.”

“You think I murdered Peter.”

“Didn’t you?” I twisted away from him. “You have Dorothy wrapped around your finger. My God, you’re even her… her—” I swallowed, unable to say the word. “Peter was going to spoil everything. It’s a great deal of money to lose.”

“I think you’ve been blind a long time,
chère.
I’m wondering, when will you open your eyes?”

“You speak in riddles, and I’m not some mad old woman to fall for them—”

A door opened. Both Michel and I went still on the stair. From above came the creak of a footstep, a quiet “Mr. Jourdain, sir? Is that you?”

Michel said, “I’m here—what is it?”

“It’s Mrs. Bennett, sir. She’s awake again, and calling for you. She’s in a bad way.”

“I’m coming.” Michel glanced at me, and then he was moving quickly again up the stairs. I heard him murmur something to the nurse, and the two of them went into Dorothy’s room. I heard the door click shut.

I stood there on the stair, shaken and angry, strangely disappointed that he was gone, and dismayed that I felt so. I was truly losing my mind to be so affected by him, to believe anything he said at all. I nearly raced down the remaining stairs to the closed doors of the second-floor parlor. I pushed them open and went inside, closing them again behind me.

The room was dark and full of shadows. The drapes were open, and though there was no moon, the streetlamps on Fifth Avenue lent a dim and unearthly glow. As I moved toward the table, I thought I saw a movement at the corner of my eye, and I stopped, gasping, until I realized it was the statuary looming like men in the pale darkness. I was alone except for the ghosts of the spirits who visited us here, the lingering echo of their visits. What seemed benign and amusing during the circle suddenly felt creepy and a bit threatening.