Silent Echoes

by Carla Jablonski

  That was Lucy’s cue to go into her trance.

  “Hello? Are you there?” Lucy called out. She waited, her breath held, hoping, yearning, straining for a response. Again, just as she had the last week, she felt some door open, experienced a rush of air, thought she heard a murmur, a “what?” or a “no” or an anguished “oh no.” She knew she was connecting to something not of this world, making contact with what spiritualists called “the other side.” Of that she had no doubt. She had complete certainty of her reach, but she had no control over the response.

  To her crushing disappointment, that was all. The spirit wouldn’t talk to her. Lucy had to resort to the rehearsed routine, using bits and pieces from their two conversations.

  “Can you hear me?” Lucy said, giving the spirit one last chance. When there was still no response, she rapped the table with the stick. As usual, a gasp circulated around the room.

  “Spirit, is that you?”

  One rap.

  “Is there anyone here you would like to speak with?”

  Two raps.

  Lucy sensed equal parts disappointment and relief in the crowd. That was usual—people only thought they wanted to contact their dear departed.

  “Perhaps your words will be instructive to the assembly gathered here. Will you speak through me?”

  One rap.

  Lucy made her body go limp, her eyes rolling up in her head. Then she remembered the handsome face in the front row. She arranged herself in a more ladylike position and blinked, settling finally on a slightly vacant but dewy expression.

  “I wish we’d stayed in Brooklyn,” Lucy said, giving her voice an airy, breathy sound. “I don’t like all the tall buildings in Manhattan. They make me feel so small.” She paused, letting the words settle over the audience. “I miss Brooklyn,” Lucy said, repeating the spirit’s words from their second conversation. “I know Manhattan and Brooklyn are the same city, but they feel so different.”

  Murmurs rolled through the room like a fog. “Is she talking about the annexation of Brooklyn?” a male voice asked. “It’s really going to happen?”

  “Hush,” a woman scolded.

  “It takes forever to get back out to see my old friends in Brooklyn,” Lucy said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hate going under the water in the subway. Is that silly?”

  “What?” someone in the audience blurted. “A ‘subway’ to Brooklyn?”

  “I guess I should study,” Lucy continued, still imitating the spirit. “You’re in school?” she then asked in her own voice.

  “Of course! I want to get into a good college and then go on for a PhD. I’m going to be a physicist and work in a lab. Or maybe an engineer. Or just do research. I like research.” Lucy giggled, just as the spirit had. She tried to convey the excitement in the spirit’s voice about the future, even though the poor creature hadn’t lived long enough to fulfill any of her hopes. “I want to go to MIT. Or Columbia. Or Yale.”

  Now there were whispers, gasps—even a few laughs.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anyone here the spirit would like to communicate with?” Colonel Phillips interjected.

  Lucy startled hearing her father’s voice. She’d been concentrating so hard on remembering the spirit’s exact words, on her performance, that she hadn’t thought about the impact what she was saying might have on the audience. She must have gone too far with talk of attending those colleges. A girl going to school with boys—shocking.

  Lucy nodded, showing her father that she understood that she needed to get back to the routine. “Is there anyone here tonight you might give a message to?” she asked in her own voice.

  “Tell Laura Saunders that her son rests comfortably with me. Tell Michael Cunningham his father has forgiven him—he knows for what; we don’t need to mention anything of their quarrel here. Tell Mrs. Van Wyck that we are grateful for the opportunities she has provided and that I am looking out for her dear Amelia. She is a delightful, happy child.”

  Lucy slumped. The session was over.

  The gas lamps were relighted, and Colonel Phillips stood beside Lucy. “Did I do well, Father?” she asked tremulously. “Were spirits among us?”

  “Yes, my dear. And now, my friends, please join us for refreshments in the outer room.”

  Colonel Phillips helped Lucy stand. She allowed her eyes to linger a moment on the handsome young gentleman in the front row. When he smiled, she dropped her gaze but couldn’t stop her own smile from spreading across her face.

  Colonel Phillips and Lucy joined Mrs. Van Wyck near the refreshments table. After each séance the guests were offered champagne and petit fours and an opportunity to speak to Lucy. Colonel Phillips guarded these exchanges carefully: the intention was to identify a possible source of income, additional sponsors, and potential news to relate from the “other side.” It was not an opportunity to ask Lucy loaded questions or try to worm a free reading out of her. But he didn’t have to worry. Lucy was equally adept at deflecting suspicion or attempts to get something for nothing.

  Usually Lucy resented the receiving line, finding it terribly dull, an unwelcome chore. Not tonight. She scanned the crowd, searching for the two good-looking young men, particularly the golden-haired one.

  There he was. Heading her way, flanked by his friend. She watched, puzzled, as his approach was delayed several times by people stopping to greet him.

  He walked right past her and took Mrs. Van Wyck’s hand. “Mrs. Van Wyck, what a pleasure to see you. You’re looking well.”

  “Bryce Cavanagh, so glad you could attend,” Mrs. Van Wyck gushed. “I am sorry that neither of your parents could make it.”

  “I don’t think this is really their cup of tea, do you?” he replied with a wry smile. “They’re so much less…experimental than you are.”

  Mrs. Van Wyck blushed at what she was certain was a compliment; Lucy wasn’t as sure.

  “I’d like to present Alan Wordsworth,” he said, indicating the young man beside him.

  Lucy forced herself not to look at Bryce, battling her indignation that he was ignoring her. Instead she smiled at people waiting to speak with her.

  “Thank you so much for including me in your delightful evening, Mrs. Van Wyck,” Alan said. He glanced at Lucy and added, “It was quite charming.”

  “Now you’re being coy, Alan,” Bryce said with a laugh. “What you mean to say is that the medium was quite charming.”

  Lucy felt her cheeks grow warm, but she hid her feelings better than Alan. His face flushed scarlet, a few shades lighter than his reddish brown hair. “I—I…” he stammered.

  Bryce clapped a hand on his friend’s back. “Sorry to have let the cat out of the bag, Alan.” He grinned at Lucy. “Mrs. Van Wyck, would you do the honors?”

  Mrs. Van Wyck smiled, her little eyes twinkling. “Of course,” she said. “Lucy, Colonel Phillips, I’d like to present Bryce Cavanagh. He is the son of my dear friends Betsy and William Cavanagh and has recently graduated from Harvard. Bryce, please meet Colonel Phillips and his daughter, Lucy, of the Georgia and Kentucky Phillipses.”

  “And this stuttering fool is my friend Alan,” Bryce said. “We were at Harvard together, but he graduated before I did. He’s so smart he was there on full scholarship, though you’d never know it right now.” He took Lucy’s hand and kissed it. “He may be a fool, but he has an excellent eye. You are very lovely.”

  Lucy tingled to her toes, but she kept her face neutral, as if impossibly handsome college men complimented her every day. His lips hovered above her hand, his eyes burning into hers. She refused to back down from the gaze.

  “We are delighted to make your acquaintance,” Colonel Phillips said, breaking the moment between Bryce and Lucy. She was grateful for her father’s interruption. From what she had observed at Mrs. Van Wyck’s soirees, young ladies of good breeding did not hold staring contests with young men. “Are you one of the Cavanaghs of Washington Square?”

  Bryce released Lucy’s hand. “The
very same.”

  Lucy’s knees wobbled beneath her. So Bryce wasn’t just gorgeous; he was also astonishingly wealthy. Luckily, layers of petticoats covered her shaky legs.

  “I’ll enjoy seeing your parents tomorrow night at the dinner,” Mrs. Van Wyck said. “They’re hosting a party to reintroduce Bryce to New York, now that he’s graduated and returned from summering in Newport,” she explained to Colonel Phillips and Lucy.

  “You should come too,” Bryce told Lucy. His dark eyes flicked to Colonel Phillips. “With your father, of course.”

  Lucy looked up at her father, willing him to say yes. She had no reason to worry—he would never turn down a chance to enter the heady world inhabited by the Cavanaghs.

  “We’d be delighted,” Colonel Phillips answered. “Lucy has lived a sheltered life, and it would be an opportunity to introduce her to some appropriate people. As long as it isn’t an imposition on your parents…?”

  “Not at all,” Bryce said. “What are two more guests in that huge house? Tomorrow at nine, then.” With that he vanished out the door.

  “Terribly nice to meet you,” Alan mumbled, then took off after Bryce.

  My, oh, my, was all Lucy could think.

  If Mrs. Van Wyck was an example of what it would be like to have a mother, Lucy was glad she didn’t have one.

  Will she ever stop fussing? Lucy thought as she endured one more inspection by Mrs. Van Wyck.

  “Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Van Wyck gushed. “To think that Bryce Cavanagh specifically asked for you to come to the party. What a coup it would be for you to make such a match. And that your first meeting happened under my roof—and I made the introduction!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Van Wyck.” Lucy rearranged the flowers her benefactress had just rather ungently pinned in her hair. She’d heard quite enough on this subject from her father already—she was beginning to feel like a prize cow being brought to a county fair.

  “Are the ladies ready?” Colonel Phillips asked, striding into the room, gripping a brand-new derby. His pomaded hair gleamed, and his new suit was nearly as shiny. He paced the room, twirling the hat in his hands.

  Lucy watched him wander from the window, to the mirror, to the settee, to the credenza, fiddling with his buttons and hat. She was fascinated—she’d never seen her father nervous before.

  They rode the few blocks to Washington Square, joining a crowd of identical shining black carriages. The clip-clops of the horses’ hooves echoed noisily on the cobblestones, the full moon nearly making the gas lamps at the corners and in front of the door unnecessary. As Mrs. Van Wyck chattered about other parties she’d attended at the Cavanaghs’, Lucy took in every detail: the elegant liverymen opening the carriage doors, helping down the ladies who lifted the hems of their furs and velvet cloaks. Peering through the glass of the carriage, she felt as if she were watching a marvelous magic lantern slide show. She’d always imagined herself stepping into those magical scenes, and now she was about to do just that. The sounds of the horses stomping and snorting, the men calling to each other as they tipped their hats, helped her know it was real.

  Hats. Lucy glanced at the scene outside the carriage window, then at her father’s derby. All the other men wore tall top hats. His coat was wrong too—the lapels too broad, the cloth thinner, brighter than the subdued heavy wools entering the mansion. Her father was the approximation of a gentleman, not the real thing.

  She licked her lips, which seemed suddenly to have gone dry. Her hand trembled slightly as her father helped her down from the carriage. She did her best to calm herself as they approached the looming mansion.

  Once inside, Lucy fiddled with the ribbons of her cloak, sweat beading on her upper lip. This dress simply cannot be wrong.

  Lucy couldn’t delay handing over her cloak one more minute. Mrs. Van Wyck had already been relieved of her evening coat, and she and Colonel Phillips stood waiting. If I am embarrassed tonight, I will never forgive them, she thought, practically flinging her coat at the waiting housemaid. She straightened her back, held up her chin, and took in a deep breath to prepare herself for whatever lay ahead.

  She had been so focused on her concern about her dress that she hadn’t even noticed the extraordinary entryway: the soaring ceiling with a painted mural, the alcoves adorned with bronze statues, the marble floor. Mrs. Van Wyck was wealthy, but this! This was a home for royalty. Did real people live like this?

  Bryce Cavanagh does, she reminded herself.

  A uniformed servant ushered them into a ballroom where dozens of round, linen-covered tables had been set up. At the far end an orchestra played and a few couples danced. “The Cavanaghs decided on a casual dance,” the servant explained. “There will be no entrance into dinner, so please feel free to go in.”

  “This is a small party,” Mrs. Van Wyck commented. “About fifty, I’d guess. Very exclusive. Usually the Cavanaghs host several hundred.” She squeezed Lucy’s arm, her excitement for Lucy making her giggle like a schoolgirl.

  Lucy nodded mutely as she observed the partygoers milling about. She absently slipped out of Mrs. Van Wyck’s grip and stepped deeper into the vast room. As far as she could tell, there was nothing amiss with her outfit. In fact, judging by the turning heads, the questioning glances, and the occasional glares as they wound their way to their table, Lucy assumed she looked as beautiful as her father claimed.

  At the table, Lucy saw that little cards were set at each place. Her pulse raced slightly.

  “Mrs. Van Wyck,” Colonel Philips said, pulling out a chair, “how thoughtful that they put you on my right side and Lucy to my left.” He smiled pointedly at Lucy. She walked quickly to her place, and a servant pulled out her chair.

  Mrs. Van Wyck reached for the place card at the setting beside her. “‘Miss Carlyle,’” she read. “That will be nice. I haven’t seen her since the first séance. Who’s beside you, Lucy?”

  Lucy stared at the place card at the next setting, uncertain. Should she pick it up and then claim the handwriting was too difficult to read?

  “Hello again,” a deep voice said.

  Lucy looked up to see Alan Wordsworth standing above her.

  “Good evening,” Lucy replied as he settled into the chair beside her. Her sense of relief lasted only a moment. Had Alan been seated at her table because he had specifically asked for her company? Could Bryce have only invited her to make Alan happy? They were college friends, after all. What had Bryce said? That Alan was there as a scholarship student. That meant he hadn’t been able to pay.

  “Everyone looks so beautiful,” Lucy said, using the comment as an excuse to look around the room for Bryce. She spotted him at a table near the orchestra, flanked by an older couple she assumed were his parents. He leaned back against his chair in a languid pose, a bored look on his handsome face.

  Lucy watched as Bryce’s eyes roamed the room. She willed them to turn toward her, vowing that if he looked at her, she wouldn’t look away. Dark eyes found her. She smiled very slowly, determined not to let those eyes go, to keep his unwavering focus.

  They held the gaze across the room for longer than Lucy imagined possible; then Bryce’s father said something that made Bryce turn away.

  The connection broken, Lucy felt herself relax.

  “Isn’t that so, child?” Mrs. Van Wyck said.

  “Lucy?” Colonel Phillips added somewhat sharply.

  “I—I suppose so,” Lucy guessed.

  Mrs. Van Wyck laughed. “Don’t be so modest, dear.” She turned to Miss Carlyle. “You were at the séance. Tell them how marvelous it was!”

  “Not if it will embarrass Miss Phillips,” Miss Carlyle protested.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Lucy assured the rotund Miss Carlyle, relieved to have re-entered the conversation so easily. She recognized the couple across from her as also having been at the first séance. Hannigan? No, Holden. The gentleman with the enormous whiskers was new to her, and the other, younger couple was also unfamiliar.

 
“I’ve been to séances before,” Miss Carlyle said, “but Miss Phillips was quite different from any medium I’d ever seen.”

  The whiskered gentleman’s eyes widened beneath his extravagant eyebrows. “You are that Miss Phillips?”

  The unfamiliar woman observed Lucy with new interest. “Why, I’ve heard of you! You’re the one who predicted the election.”

  Lucy smiled. “I had no idea I was doing such a thing. All I cared about was relating the spirit’s words faithfully.”

  The woman turned to her companion. “I told you about her, Horace. Mabel Farnsworth had heard from Gloria Buren that this girl could speak to spirits!”

  Horace peered at Lucy through his pince-nez glasses. “Well, well, if the old commodore were still alive, I bet he’d be first in line!”

  “Commodore?” Lucy asked.

  “Commodore Vanderbilt,” Colonel Phillips explained. That was a name Lucy recognized—he had been one of the wealthiest men in New York. “He always said he did so well in the market by consulting with the spirits.”

  “And can you help us acquire such wealth, young lady?” Horace asked.

  Miss Carlyle laughed. “You don’t need any more wealth, Horace. Your family already owns half of Fifth Avenue!”

  Horace grinned. “But that isn’t the same as owning it all, now, is it?”

  “Some of us are more interested in the spiritual possibilities than the financial gain,” Mrs. Van Wyck scolded.

  “All those spiritualists have their heads in the clouds,” Horace argued. “I’m interested in nuts-and-bolts reality.” He tipped his head at Lucy and added, “No offense, young lady.”

  Lucy only smiled: she knew that at this table, Horace’s opinion was that of the minority. Her father had trained her to recognize when she had an audience enraptured. This was just such a moment.