by Ami McKay
Strolling around the salon, the women appraised their surroundings, with Judith glancing frequently at the door for sign of Beatrice.
Marietta soon turned her attention to the spiritoscope. “Is this the contraption the girl is to use? It looks like an outdated telegraph machine.”
“What an astute observation,” Adelaide said, motioning for Quinn to join them.
“Indeed,” he chimed in. “That’s exactly what inspired it. I’d be happy to explain how it works.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Marietta replied. “I expect all to be revealed in the doing.”
“If all goes according to plan,” Quinn replied.
Adelaide kept quiet, thinking it might be best to let Marietta’s remarks go unchallenged. She’d warned Quinn that Mrs. Stevens wasn’t driven by emotion, but rather a constant state of waiting to be impressed.
But Judith couldn’t leave well enough alone. “I, for one, think it’s rather ingenious.”
Mr. Dashley slipped his arm around his wife and gave her a quick affectionate squeeze.
Seeing this small act of kindness pass between the pair inspired Adelaide to stick up for Quinn. Tucking her arm through his she declared, “As do I.”
Eleanor and Beatrice entered the hotel lobby at ten to eight. Taking in the extravagant decor, from the marble floors to the fluted columns to the gilded mirrors that lined the corridors, Beatrice now understood why her old classmate Joseph Wheeler had said the place made him nervous. All the same, she was eager to try her hand at the spiritoscope again. She hoped this time her mother’s spirit might stay a while longer. Based on what she could remember of her dream (thus far, very little), she felt it might be possible, even probable. From time to time brief flashes of what she’d seen were triggered by mundane things—the sound of Eleanor or Adelaide’s voice speaking a certain word, or the scent of woodsmoke in the air when the wind was from the west. Among the foggy images in her brain, she’d seen her mother’s face, tender, yet fleeting. Clinging to that memory she’d made up her mind to do whatever it took to see her mother again. If it meant she had to endure a thousand experiments and meet a thousand ghosts, then so be it.
“This way,” Eleanor said, motioning to the front desk.
As Beatrice followed, she was overcome by the feeling that she was being watched. The scents of furniture oil and lye soap stuck in the back of her throat. The sound of a young woman’s laughter rang in her ears. When she turned to try to find the source, she spotted a pair of scrubber girls nearby, pointing at her and whispering. She watched with amazement as they passed in front of her, their bodies effortlessly gliding through a wall of solid marble.
A gentleman in an ill-fitting suit was at the desk in front of them. Waiting for the night manager to assist him, he swayed side to side, softly, almost imperceptibly, talking to himself.
Thinking he, too, might be a ghost, Beatrice reached out and touched the sleeve of his coat. Finding it real, she drew her hand back and looked to see if Eleanor had noticed her indiscretion. Happily, she hadn’t.
At last, the manager looked up from a ledger on the desk and addressed the gentleman. “I’m sorry, Mr. Guiteau. Senator Conkling is unable to meet you tonight.”
“It’s important I speak with him,” the man insisted. “Election Day is just a month away.”
“Perhaps you can come back tomorrow? I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you today.”
Disgruntled, Mr. Guiteau left the desk, swearing under his breath.
Beatrice watched him as he skulked away. One by one, shadowy figures came up from the floor beneath his feet and wrapped themselves around him. He seemed completely unaware of their presence, and they seemed frightfully determined to stay put. Unsettled, she quickly looked away.
“Who’s next?” the night manager asked, eyes on Eleanor, silently judging her attire. Verdict, unimpressed.
“Miss Dunn and Miss St. Clair for Mrs. Stevens, please,” Eleanor replied.
Licking the end of his thumb, he turned the page of the ledger and scanned it for their names. “Ah yes, there you are,” he said with a surprised smile. “Just one moment and I’ll get a bellhop to accompany you to the salon.” Ducking back to a small office behind the desk he pulled the cord on a distant bell.
Suddenly feeling dizzy and sick, Beatrice reached for Eleanor’s hand to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” Eleanor asked.
“I think so,” Beatrice answered, hoping her queasiness would soon pass.
“You don’t have to do this,” Eleanor said. “We can send our regrets. No one will think any less of you, especially if you’re unwell.”
“I’m fine now. Really,” Beatrice said, standing straight and smoothing her skirts.
Eleanor could see that Beatrice was struggling, but didn’t quite know how to help her through it. Her thoughts turned to Lucy Newland standing on the balcony at Liberty’s torch and the helpless feeling that’d come over her when Lucy had insisted she could take care of things on her own. That feeling had become far too familiar as of late.
A bellhop in a red wool jacket and cap appeared beside the desk. “Follow me,” he said.
Beatrice spotted the table holding the spiritoscope as soon as she entered the room. It was just as it’d been in Dr. Brody’s study, only now there were several chairs facing it, as if she were expected to put on a show. Adelaide had told her ahead of time who would be in attendance, but she hadn’t met either Mr. Dashley or the formidable Marietta Stevens before, and her nerves flared again. Then Judith Dashley rushed across the room to greet her, taking her by the arm. “You look lovely this evening,” she said, “and quite sophisticated too. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dashley,” Beatrice said, not feeling sophisticated at all. She was wearing a dress in a beautiful shade of blue, borrowed from Adelaide. It had required a fair bit of corset tightening to fit her into it and it made her feel like an imposter rather than fashionable. Eleanor had tried to veto the gown, but Beatrice had decided it was best to give in to Adelaide’s kindness. She didn’t want her to think she was ungrateful.
“Come meet my husband,” Judith said, leading Beatrice across the room. “Alden, dear,” she called to Mr. Dashley, “here is our darling Miss Dunn.”
Beatrice nodded and smiled and tried to look serene.
“Mr. Dashley is here tonight as a representative of the Unknown Philosophers,” Judith explained. “But he also has a great interest in hearing from our darling boy.”
“Of course,” Beatrice said, wishing she could promise them Billy would appear. She, too, hoped for his return. She’d liked his sweet face. “He favours you,” she said to Alden, without considering how strange her words might sound.
“Pardon?” Mr. Dashley said.
“He has your eyes,” Beatrice said. “I saw his face quite clearly during his visitation.”
Mr. Dashley stammered, “What a nice sentiment.”
“And so true!” Judith exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how many times I made the same observation when Billy was alive.”
Next came Mrs. Stevens. Adelaide had described her as “a discerning woman who could dictate the course of our future” but had neglected to mention her formidable stature and intimidating stare. Thankfully the introduction was a brief affair, a simple exchange of names then a cut to the chase.
“Shall we dispense with small talk, Miss Dunn, and get things underway?”
Adelaide ushered Beatrice to the table where Dr. Brody was waiting to help her settle into her chair. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” she said. “Everyone here wishes you well.”
Eleanor, who’d been staying out of the way, now came to Beatrice’s side and whispered in her ear, “Don’t hesitate to bring things to a halt should anything give you pause. If you need my help, I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said with a nervous smile.
Handing Adelaide the silk blind to tie over Beatrice�
�s eyes, Dr. Brody gave the girl a few final instructions. “We’ll proceed the same as we did before. After I blindfold you, we’ll take our seats. Adelaide will record any movement of the needle and I’ll keep my eyes on the board. You may disengage from the spiritoscope at any time. All clear?”
“Yes, Dr. Brody.”
Adelaide gently draped the silk scarf over Beatrice’s eyes, pulled it taut and tied it in place.
“Are you ready, Miss Dunn?” Dr. Brody asked, taking his seat.
“Yes,” Beatrice answered, taking a deep breath.
“You may place your hands on the board whenever you’d like to begin,” Brody said.
Fingertips to the wood, Beatrice waited for a spirit to approach. From what she’d witnessed in the lobby, there were indeed a few ghosts lurking about the hotel. But several seconds passed and nothing moved, nothing came near. A minute on, she and the board remained still.
She heard a stray cough from Mr. Dashley, an impatient sigh from Mrs. Stevens, the restless tap of Adelaide’s foot. She could also feel all eyes upon her, from Eleanor’s warm, supportive gaze to Judith’s pleading stare.
Should she say something? she wondered. Extend an invitation? “Hello?” she faintly whispered. “Are you here?”
Just as she was about to give up, she felt a tug at her skirt beneath the table.
“Hello, Billy,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come.” Even blindfolded, she could see the boy in her mind’s eye.
Judith reached for Alden’s hand and excitedly whispered, “That’s him. Our boy is here.”
Alden responded with a measured nod.
Marietta rolled her eyes in disbelief and shifted in her seat.
Quinn looked concerned. Clearly there was a spirit present. Why wasn’t it using the spiritoscope to communicate?
Adelaide glanced at Eleanor.
Eleanor mouthed the word, “Wait.”
“Why don’t you come out and see my new toy?” Beatrice suggested. “We can play a little game.”
Billy frowned and shook his head.
“It’s easy,” Beatrice urged. “All you have to do is place your hands on mine, then make the needle spin to spell the things you wish to say.”
“I can’t,” Billy insisted.
“Why not?” Beatrice asked.
“I can’t make words,” Billy replied.
Beatrice thought for a moment. “You mean you can’t spell?”
Everyone laughed, except Mrs. Stevens.
Dr. Brody hurriedly wrote, In future, must consider likelihood of spirit’s ability to spell.
Caring more for Billy’s feelings than for making the machine work, Beatrice tried to coax the boy out of hiding. “Why don’t you come out from there and give me a proper hello.”
Once again, Billy shook his head.
“What’s the matter?” Beatrice asked. “Can’t you see who’s here?”
Pulling his cap over his eyes he said, “Don’t tell them where I am.”
“Don’t tell who where you are?” Beatrice asked, thinking the boy would surely want to see his parents.
“The Marys,” Billy whispered, then disappeared.
With that, the same laughter Beatrice had heard in the lobby sounded again, this time ringing loudly in her ears. The overpowering smell of lye soap filled the air. The two scrubber girls were there, with several more by their side. Circling around Beatrice they flew up to the ceiling to hide in the chandeliers. The crystal fobs that hung off the lights tinkled and chimed in sympathy with their flight.
“What’s happening?” Judith whispered to Adelaide, eyes wide.
“Shh,” Adelaide replied, finger to her lips.
The board under Beatrice’s hands grew hot to the touch, so hot she thought her fingertips might burn. Snatching her hands off the board, she felt a violent push against her shoulders. She smelled smoke, felt the searing heat of a fire at her back. Darkness surrounded her. There was no escape.
“Beatrice?” Eleanor softly called. “Are you all right?”
As she opened her mouth to speak, a scrubber girl clasped her hand around her throat, forcing words to come forth that weren’t hers. “I am not she,” a raspy voice sounded, that of a young woman with an Irish lilt. “I am one of many. Mrs. Stevens knows who I am. She saw me in life. She gazed upon me in death. She knows the secret my body kept. She alone can make it right. She must set in stone what should’ve been in life.”
While everyone else sat stunned at these developments, Eleanor quickly moved to Beatrice’s side. She feared for the girl’s well-being should the spirit persist. None was so still as Marietta Stevens.
Head bowed, shoulders slumped, Beatrice began to sing.
The Marys have gone rotten,
Dead and forgotten.
Lying in their beds
With their eyes wide open.
The chill hand of death,
Stole them in the night,
As they danced in afire
That burned too bright.
The chair Beatrice was sitting on began to teeter and shake.
“Beatrice,” Eleanor called, trying to steady the girl, “can you hear me?”
Dr. Brody leapt to his feet and came to her aid.
“We can’t leave!” Beatrice cried, the voice inhabiting her body now changed to a chorus of desperate wails. “We can’t get out!”
Taking a silver charm from her pocket, Eleanor pressed it into Beatrice’s hand. “Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, Witch of Domrémy, come to our aid, defend this girl.”
“Help us!” Beatrice whimpered, her skin turning red, hair singeing at the ends. “We can’t breathe!”
The smell of smoke filled the room. The chandeliers began to chime and sway.
Not knowing what else to do, Alden took his wife’s hand.
The pear seeds in the phial around Adelaide’s neck began to rattle.
Marietta put her hand to her mouth and shook her head.
“Send your angels to protect her,” Eleanor implored, “guide her soul to the fore.”
Falling into Eleanor’s arms, Beatrice gasped for air.
“Beatrice,” Eleanor cried, pulling the blindfold loose. “Are you with us?”
Adelaide abandoned her post and rushed to Beatrice’s side. Together they held the girl’s hands, waiting for her to reply.
“Beatrice,” Adelaide whispered, “are you here?”
Eyelids fluttering, Beatrice answered, “I never left.”
With that, the needle on the spiritoscope began to move.
Mrs. Stevens watched with astonishment as it spelled out the words M-A-R-Y D-O-N-N-E-L-L-Y A-N-D C-H-I-L-D.
There is a sort of Witchcrafts in those things, whereto the Temptations of the Devil would inveigle us. To worship the Devil is Witchcraft, and under that notion was our Lord urged unto sin. We are told in 1 Samuel 15:23, “Rebellion is as the sin of Witchcraft.” When the Devil would have us to sin, he would have us to do the things which the forlorn Witches use to do. Perhaps there are few persons, ever allured by the Devil unto an Explicit Covenant with himself. If any among ourselves be so, my counsel is, that you hunt the Devil from you, with such words as the Psalmist had, “Be gone, Depart from me, ye evil doers, for I will keep the commandments of my God.”
—Rev. Cotton Mather, On Witchcraft
The Preacher’s Confession.
REVEREND FRANCIS TOWNSEND was crouched in front of the fireplace in his study, stirring hot coals with an iron poker. He’d hoped the mundane chore might help stir his thoughts as well, but the mesmerizing glow of the fire had the opposite effect. Taking his pipe from his pocket, he tapped a clump of ash from its bowl onto the hearth, then proceeded to fill it with a pinch of fresh tobacco. Perhaps a few hearty draws on the pipe’s stem would clear his mind. Sticking a straw in the fire until it caught light, he brought its glowing end to the bowl and puffed hard.
Checking his watch he saw that it was half past eight. He was supposed to have his weekly sermon written b
y nine so he could hand the pages over to Sister Piddock. She, in turn, would then choose the appropriate hymns and readings for the Sunday service. That was the arrangement they’d made when he’d first taken the post at the Church of the Good Shepherd just over a year ago, and he’d grudgingly stuck to it. It was that, or choose the hymns himself and take the chance that Sister Piddock, who was also the church organist, might hit a string of sour notes leading up to his homily. Better safe than sorry. The music set the tone for his words, and his words set the stage for the salvation of his flock. Although he was sure the congregation could afford a more accomplished musician, he couldn’t afford to lose Sister Piddock’s support. Her appearance might be plain, to put it kindly, but her convictions were unshakable. She was obedient to her husband, strong in her faith, and quick to eschew anything that was meant to tempt the weaker sex away from home and family. She especially abhorred the current fashion for ladies to congregate in cafés and teahouses, indulging in idleness and gossip. Childless, she spent her days in the service of the Lord and the Reverend—looking after his vestments, polishing the offering plates, and keeping him informed of those members of the congregation who were in need of his special guidance.
It’d been at Sister Piddock’s urging that Townsend had been offered his current position. After hearing him preach at her father’s meetinghouse in Utica, she’d asked her husband and several upstanding members of the congregation to consider bringing him to New York. He’d delivered one sermon, “Fidelity to the Word, the Only Shield against the Devil’s Malignity,” and they’d offered him the job. “We’ve been praying for a true leader,” Sister Piddock had cried, “and clearly God has answered our pleas by delivering you to us.” (The previous pastor had been released from his duties after it was discovered he’d taken up the habit of visiting various gambling dens on Saturday nights.)
Reverend Townsend had felt it was the hand of divine Providence, as if he had been called to play a part in some grand holy plan. His grandfather, the Reverend Deodat Townsend, had always insisted that Francis was destined for great things, even when, for a short time in his youth, he’d been drawn to fisticuffs and rum. It was his grandfather who’d advised his father to send him to the seminary in Andover, and it was there Francis had learned not only of theology but of his family’s storied past.