He furrowed his dark blonde brows as he tried to read the doctor’s face but could glean nothing.
“I wrote to my father-in-law while you were recovering. At my cousin’s engagement dinner, he mentioned that his best student went missing a few months earlier. He was a German. I cannot imagine there are many Germans at Oxford.”
“Professor Martin is your— your father-in-law?” he stammered as his mind drifted back to the last day in the museum. Wimpole Street.
“Yes, he is Eliza’s father. He was relieved to hear you were alive and on the mend. He also wanted me to tell you he hopes you will return to finish your studies because you were the best student he has had in a long time.”
Immanuel’s ashen cheeks bloomed with pride as he put his head down and continued to write, hoping the doctor wouldn’t see the smile that refused to leave his lips. Even if his favorite teacher wanted him to come back, could he do it? Could he go back to where it all happened and walk among the ancient buildings that stood silently as he was drugged and carried away?
***
Tapping his pen against James’s desk, Immanuel stared out the window lost in thought. He wanted to write to Professor Martin, but he didn’t know what to say about returning to Oxford. He also wanted to visit Adam Fenice or at least write and thank him for taking him out for the day but wondered if it was too soon. A sooty steamer bounded down the street, flying around pedestrians and other cabs on two wheels. Only when it stopped at the edge of the road in front of the house did Immanuel take notice. From behind the desk, he couldn’t make out the man’s face beneath his top hat as he strode toward the door. In the house below, the doorbell buzzed and one of the Hawthornes bustled to open it. Immanuel lingered in the study, counting the time it would take for his trip downstairs to not look conspicuous. He adjusted his vest and smoothed back a wayward curl, hoping it was Adam.
The foyer was empty by the time he made his way down the stairs, and the house was silent. Had the visitor merely been a patient who came to the wrong door? The floorboards in the parlor whined under the slow tread of boots. Immanuel peeked around the doorway and spotted their guest standing in the harsh light of the hearth. The imposing gentleman had removed his jet top hat to reveal blonde hair much like his own, but it was uncurled and cropped short. His shoulder blades rolled beneath the fabric of his coat as he stretched and passed a gloved hand over his hair.
“Lord Rose, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” James chided as he stood in the doorway between the parlor and the dining room with his arms barred across his chest.
He turned, revealing his ochre eyes and stony features. “I thought we needed to have a little talk about our project.”
The breath hitched in Immanuel’s throat and a tremor rippled through his body. His heart pounded against his ribs as he backed away from the threshold, groping for the banister behind him but never taking his eyes off the man before the flames. That voice had haunted his dreams for months, taunting and degrading him until he was nothing more than a shell that refused to die. His head twitched involuntarily as the clattering blow landed against his cheek with an explosion of pain and wood. The man who had beaten and starved him was in the house.
Immanuel’s breaths came in short spurts as he darted up two flights of stairs and ran into his bedroom. Grabbing the nightstand from beside his bed, he shoved it under the knob and backed away until his hand brushed the cool surface of the wall. He slid down and covered his head with his arms, weeping as the invisible blows replayed in his mind and jolted his body each time a foot or knuckle dug into his ribs. How could James let that monster into the house? How could the person who saved him let his captor in and know him by name?
A panicked thought flitted through his mind. The man could barge in at any moment and find him sitting in the middle of the floor. Immanuel crawled toward his bed, stifling his cries for fear the man two floors below would hear him. He started to slip under the frame when he stopped and scurried toward the dresser. Under the security of the oak frame and thick mattress, Immanuel tried to scrawl out a letter to Adam.
Between hiccupped sobs, he poured out his soul in incoherent blurs of memory. He wanted to tell him about being cornered in the library and waking up in the catacombs, the burning on his back that came with the reek of tobacco, and the moment he felt his heart stop when he gave Emmeline the potion, but the smatterings of sensation seeped from his body and evaporated into the aether before he could commit an entire image to paper. What words could adequately describe what he experienced? He lay with his head against the cool boards and closed his eyes until his exhalations returned to a nearly normal cadence. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he pushed the indecipherable jumble of words away and wrote a simple letter to his only friend.
Dear Adam,
I must speak to you as soon as possible. I need someone to talk to, and the only one I can think of whom I can trust is you. Please come to Wimpole Street or send me your address if you prefer it. I need to tell someone.
Your friend,
Immanuel Winter
He would put it with the other post when it was safe to come out and the man was long gone. For now, he put his head down and curled up with his back resting securely against the plaster. As long as he was in his room, he was safe.
***
“What about our project?”
The nobleman smiled as he drew closer to the lanky doctor, but James merely stared back without flinching. “Why is it taking so long? You have not made any progress in months, and Her Majesty is growing restless.”
“She has been without the man for thirty years. A few more months will not make a difference.”
“You disrespectful little—”
“I had patients to attend to, and the living come before the dead, no matter how powerful they are. Since when were you reduced to the queen’s goon? She can easily send her own messengers to harass me.”
Lord Rose sneered as his eyes trailed back to the fire. His fingers stretched and contracted against the urge to strike the insolent man. “I have my own interests to promote, doctor. We will both profit from the completion of your part of the project, but I have been ready since I was given my charge.”
James arched a brow. “Your predecessor completed the task, not you. Inheriting it is not the same as actually doing it, Alastair.”
He was about to snatch his collar when a familiar dark head peered into the dining room before bounding in with wide eyes. “Lord Rose!”
For fleeting moment, Alastair’s heart quickened with fear. How did she get here? He widened his eyes and dropped to her level as he grasped her arms. “Miss Jardine, is that really you?” He let his mouth slacken and searched her face, not to confirm it was really her but for recognition of her captor. “We— we thought you perished in the fire like your mother.”
The young woman smiled up at him, taking in his handsome face as he stared at her with those brown eyes she still dreamed about. “I was kidnapped, but I escaped and came to Uncle James’s house. Are the other Spiritualists all right? Was anyone else hurt?”
“No, you and your mother were the only fatalities.” Lord Rose allowed his voice to falter as Eliza Hawthorne crept into the edge of his vision. “Everyone will be so pleased to hear you are safe. You should come to the Spiritualist society soon. Your mother would want you to continue your education.”
Emmeline turned to her aunt and pleaded, “May I, Aunt Eliza? I will complete my lessons if you let me go, I promise.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Eliza nodded. “As long you do what I tell you, I will allow you to go and act as your chaperone.”
“Tomorrow then. I will send Thomas with the address later,” Lord Rose smiled as he put the girl’s hand to his sanguine lips and turned to leave with a flourish of his hat and cloak.
Chapter Fifteen:
The Crown
Dr. Eliza Hawthorne watched curiously as her niece stared out the steamer window at Gower Street.
For the first time since she appeared on their doorstep, Emmeline seemed genuinely happy and nearly bouncing with excitement, yet it was as if Emmeline and Immanuel had switched dispositions overnight. At breakfast, she thought maybe he had a relapse of his illness when he didn’t appear after she called him twice to the table. She was about to go up and check on him when he appeared in the doorway dark-circled and ashen. As Emmeline and James read the paper, Immanuel kept his head down and his fork in his hand even if he didn’t eat anything.
“Immanuel, I am going to be giving a lecture at the University College about post-mortem examinations. Would you care to join me?”
He cleared his throat, but when he lifted his head, he was as white as the china. “I would love to, but I do not feel very well. I think I may have over-exerted myself the other day.”
Satisfied with his excuse, the doctor gathered his bag and left before the others finished their breakfast. As Eliza stood to collect the dishes, Immanuel neatly stacked them and carried them into the kitchen. By the time she came in with the rest, he was elbow-deep in the sink.
“Immanuel, you do not have to do that.”
“I want to,” he replied with a weak smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I was wondering if I could have Mr. Fenice’s address. I would like to send him a letter to—,” he paused, biting the edge of his lip with his eyetooth before continuing, “to thank him for showing me around London. It was very kind of him.”
“Of course. I’m certain he will appreciate that.”
With the dishes done and the address in hand, he thanked her in little more than a whisper and darted out. She sighed, wondering if Immanuel’s illness was more than just one of the body. All of the progress of the past two days was gone, but at least he hadn’t retreated behind the typewriter again. Eliza had nearly invited him to come with them for she feared leaving him alone after his rapid spiral into melancholy, but she knew he would refuse anyway.
As the steamer came to a stop, Eliza Hawthorne ran her eyes over the brick façade and empty window boxes before coming to rest on the wrought iron fence. Nothing on the homely exterior indicated that this house was where spirits and souls gathered to be spoken to, where men and women dipped below the veil of death to discover secrets and reunite loved ones for a brief moment. The address on the note Lord Rose sent matched the one on the house, but Eliza told the cabby to wait until they were safely ensconced inside before leaving. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a group of people who believed they could talk to ghosts, but she had assumed the Spiritualist society would have a spectral air rather than appearing as benign as any respectable middle class home. Emmeline flounced ahead and rang the bell, admiring her reflection in the brass numbers of the door as they waited. While her aunt came in her usual subdued, brown gown, Emmeline had donned her best new dress, which was fashioned from a rich violet taffeta, and reminded her of one that had been her mother’s favorite.
When the door swung open, she held her head high, straining to reach her aunt’s height. A plump, white-haired woman with a genial grin and grandmotherly eyes allowed them in and took their coats. The front hall of the Spiritualist society was bedecked in dark wood but brightened with floral wallpaper and matching rugs. The stained glass window on the landing depicted birds and butterflies in flight, and trailing on either side of the stairs were portraits of mediums and benefactors gazing down at visitors from their mosaic of frames. Women’s voices chattered softly somewhere beyond the hall, but Eliza could not make out what they were saying.
“Lord Rose is expecting you,” the housekeeper murmured as she raised the velvet curtain that cordoned off the front parlor from the rest of the house.
“Ah, Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, welcome to the London Spiritualist Society,” Alastair Rose said as he stood behind a table set for tea. “What a pleasure it is to see you both. We never do get the chance to see each other outside of business matters, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Yes, but I so rarely require a medium. Lord Rose, you must send your brother our felicitations on his engagement. I saw the announcement in the morning paper.”
Lord Rose’s face stiffened, but he caught himself and grinned. “I am sure Alexander and Miss Waters will be quite happy together, especially since they will be moving into Eidolic Hall after the wedding.”
Eliza smiled but wasn’t certain if she liked the nobleman. During his rare visits to their home, he was confrontational and coarse, but today he actually seemed to play the part life had assigned to him. Maybe he did have a certain affection for her niece. Emmeline, who was apparently more intimately acquainted with him than the Hawthornes, seemed quite taken with him. She stared into his jacinth eyes and blushed each time he doled out tea or words of praise for her outfit or hat. Even her voice rose to meet Alastair’s questions, taking on a womanly ring while losing its quarrelsome dissonance with every reply.
“Lord Rose,” the doctor’s wife began as she set her tea aside, “I am curious as to what sort of education the Spiritualists have to offer Emmeline. You said her mother would want her to continue, but James and I have little idea as to what Madeline started.”
“The education Lady Jardine began was that of a spiritual nature. I trust that her intellectual education is more than taken care of in your capable hands, but she was raised a Spiritualist. As the daughter of a renowned medium, she is expected to follow in her mother’s footsteps if she is willing to,” he raised his gaze to meet the girl’s large, brown eyes, “embrace her gift.”
“I do!” Emmeline cried a little quicker and louder than she intended. “Mama said I have the same gift as she had, and I want to be as good as she was one day. I want to learn how to help people like she did.”
He continued without acknowledging the young woman’s outburst. “Some of our reasons for wanting to nurture Emmeline’s gifts are selfish. Ever since the Fox sisters admitted to being frauds, we have been trying to ensure that those with natural gifts are encouraged to use them. Emmeline and her mother come from a long line of spiritually precocious women. To begin with, I would like to test her ability to do readings if that is all right with you.”
Eliza Hawthorne nodded, and once they finished their tea and cakes, they were led up the stairs to the floor devoted to performing readings. Each bedroom had been converted into parlors with plenty of tables and chairs to accommodate group séances. They walked past three women huddled around an Ouija board as the planchette darted across the letters at an alarming speed. Going up another set of stairs, Lord Rose unlocked the solitary chamber at the top landing and ushered the women inside. The room had once been a small bedroom but now held only a few chairs, a chaise, and windows blocked off from daylight by heavy curtains.
“Miss Jardine, I would like you to take a seat on the chaise and clear your mind.” As the young woman left her aunt’s side and settled on the red, upholstered fainting couch, the nobleman drew a black, silk scarf from his pocket. “The object I am going to give you to read may be familiar to you, so I am going to blindfold you to make certain you are not influenced by the sight of it.”
Emmeline held her breath as a shiver passed over her at his touch. His hands grazed the back of her neck, setting every nerve on end. As he tied the blindfold, he was so close she could feel his breath graze her neck and smell the distinct spices of his preferred brand of tobacco. Her skin flushed and her pulse quickened at the thought of what he might do next.
“I want you to tell me what you see.”
Lord Rose peeled back her fingers and placed something into her palm. As she ran her fingers over the pointed, adamantine surface, the soft din of women’s voices from below the floorboards and Alastair’s heavy tread disappeared only to be replaced by the keening of women and men calling out over the crackling of flames. Across the blackness of the blindfold, her house with its mansard roof, portico, and window boxes rose between the trees, ablaze like a pyre.
“Where is my daughter? Has anyone seen Emmeline? Emmeline! Emmeline!”
Madeline Jardine ripped her arm from the maid’s grasp and sprinted into the burning house, her crepe dress streaming around her. Flames burst through the windows, devouring the furniture while the walls stubbornly remained. Smoke poured from every orifice, burning her eyes and staining her face and dress with soot, but she pushed through the parlor and into the hall where she last saw her daughter. Lady Jardine’s eyes swept over the floor, searching for any sign of her only child as she tore open each closet and cupboard. She blinked and held her head as the world spun. It was as if the air had been sucked from the atmosphere only to be replaced by the stifling heat. Inching toward the balcony door, something stirred in the distance. Someone in red was standing near the trees only twenty yards away with a bundle in his arms, safe from the biting heat of the fire’s light. He raised his ember gaze from the girl’s lax features to the woman at the window.
“Emmeline!” she called as a wave of relief passed over her, but as Madeline locked eyes with the man, he turned away and disappeared between the oaks. “Wait! Emmeline! Bring her back!”
She tried to open the French door, but the lock had melted. Grabbing a smoldering ottoman, Lady Jardine tossed it into the glass. With the rush of night air, came an inferno. The flames swept in from the curtains and reared up until they engulfed the ceiling and carpet, catching the swath of purple crepe. The glass from the broken window sliced into her feet through her silken slippers, but it didn’t matter. Even with the intense heat creeping up her legs and back, the noblewoman pushed out into the autumnal air of the balcony and cried out for her daughter. The man continued his trek into the darkness as the flames climbed up her strands of ebony hair until her head was alight behind her spiked crown, but her byzantine eyes never left the man in red.
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