“I liked being Madame Bastien,” her mother continued. “Madame Bastien was kind and helpful. The countess is such a haughty woman. Cool and distant. And the turban makes my head ache.”
“You do not have to wear the turban if you don’t want to.” Violet drew her shawl closer about her shoulders and turned from the windows.
Her mother sat in the warmest chair in the house, pulled next to the white porcelain stove. A knitted shawl wrapped her upper body, and she’d laid another over her knees. It was true that Celine easily took sick, and also that she must keep warm and well, because she was the real draw of their show.
“Why do I have to be the countess at all?” Celine asked fretfully. “It is difficult to remember to speak with a Russian accent all the time. They don’t come to see me because I’m a countess, or Russian, or whatever you’re having me be this time. They come for my gift.”
“I know,” Violet said.
Her mother was amazing. Her trances were real, Celine having no memory of what went on in most of them. She’d speak in a variety of voices, from the child who was her spirit guide, to men and women from all walks of life and all nationalities. Violet had never been able to decide whether the spirits truly spoke through her mother or whether she was simply an extremely gifted mimic. All in all, people came to see Celine perform, and even the most skeptical left entranced by her.
“Then why the costumes?” Celine asked.
“To attract punters,” Violet explained patiently. “They’ve not heard of us here. Once they’re inside the theatre, then they understand why you are special, and they’ll tell everyone they know. But we have to have a hook to make them come in the first place.”
“Jacobi always used to say that,” Celine said. “Tiresome man.”
“He was right.” Whatever Violet thought of Jacobi now, he had understood the importance of showmanship. “You must admit that we did very, very well in London as the Bastiens, the frail mother and her daughter, her guide.”
“The guide part is real, you know. I rely on you, dear Violet.”
Her mother did. Any thought that Violet would leave her—to travel, to be a wife, to do anything—was met with terror and weeping. Celine needed her Violet. How could she survive otherwise?
But while Celine was a slave to her weak health and her gift, she could also be keen-minded and strong as an ox when she wanted something.
“I still don’t understand why we had to leave London,” Celine said again. “We’d have found a way to come up with the rent. We had another performance at the end of the week.”
Violet didn’t answer. Neither she nor Mary had told Celine what had happened with Daniel Mackenzie, or the true reason they’d fled in the night.
Violet hadn’t seen any mention of Mr. Mackenzie in the newspapers here, but the French papers didn’t always take much notice of what went on in England. The few English newspapers she’d glimpsed had not screamed out about his death. For the most part, though, Violet was avoiding English newspapers, to preserve the fiction that she and Celine spoke little English. Even here, inside the boardinghouse, they spoke only French.
The story for the stage Violet had wrought was that Celine—now Countess Melikova, a widow—had been forced to flee Russia when her gift for clairvoyance was deemed too dangerous. She’d left the splendor of her late husband’s manor house for a peripatetic existence in France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, giving readings and séances for coin.
Violet was now Princess Ivanova, the countess’s deceased best friend’s daughter. Princess Ivanova had left a string of broken hearts behind her from Saint Petersburg to Budapest, and had been forced out of Russia because four men had fought to the death over her. She’d been told never to return. The princess and the countess had agreed to travel and live together, and here they were.
Violet and her mother had used the personas once before, in Italy, where they had worked well—at least, until the winter had turned unusually bitter, sending tourists home. Violet and her mother had moved to a milder climate then and transformed themselves into Romany women.
Violet turned to the window again to avoid her mother’s continuing questions about why they’d left London. Violet had relived the dreadful moment in the dining room of the London townhouse again and again—her fear clearing to reveal Daniel giving her a look of confusion before he fell to the floor.
He alone of the gentlemen that night had been kind to her. He’d discovered Violet’s secrets, but instead of being outraged and exposing her, he’d laughed and been interested.
And the kisses . . . Violet remembered the smoke on Daniel’s breath, the touch of his lips. His gentle kiss in the upstairs room had awakened fires in her—fires, not fear. For the first time in her life, Violet had kissed a man without terror.
Why, why then had she struck him when he’d tried again in the dining room? She wished she could be transported back to that moment, wished she could change her split-second decision. In the new scenario, her hand would never have landed on the vase, and she’d not have swung it, not seen his blood . . .
Violet had left him on a doorstep like unwanted trash. A man, a human being, and Violet had left him alone, ready pickings for any thief.
The kind doctor or a constable must have found him, Violet told herself once again. Found Daniel, found out who he was, sent him home to his family.
Violet’s breath caught on a sob. She didn’t want him to be dead. She wanted that night back, to slow down with him and get to know him, to hear his warm laughter one more time.
The police would be investigating what had happened. They’d learn that Mr. Mackenzie had been to the house Violet and her mother rented. Violet had been right to flee, or else she, Celine, and Mary might be in a prison cell right now.
As always, Violet had done what she’d had to do. She couldn’t take it back, and she had to move on. She and her mother would perform, they’d count the takings, and they’d survive. That was Violet’s life.
Her tedious, empty life.
Marseille.
Daniel stared down at the note he received from Ian a few days after he’d sought his uncle’s help. The thick sheet of writing paper bore the one word in careful script, nothing more.
“Could you be more specific?” Daniel said to the air.
“Sir?” Simon appeared from the back parlor, which held two-thirds of a motorcar and not much else. He’d been helping Daniel reseat the pistons. Daniel had wiped his hands and come out to answer the door, finding a delivery boy with the note.
“Never mind,” Daniel said to Simon. “My uncle Ian can be so very cryptic. If he says they’re in Marseille, they’re in Marseille. Fancy a trip to the south of France, Simon?”
Simon looked doubtful. “Never been, sir.”
“Your chance to go now. I need to send off some telegrams. Kill a few birds with one stone.”
Simon didn’t answer, having, in the last few days, come to realize that Daniel talked a mile a minute in several different directions and didn’t always expect a reply.
Even as Daniel readied himself to go, looking regretfully at the motorcar before shutting the parlor door, he wondered why he should bother. Violette’s volatile reaction to his kisses meant she wanted nothing to do with him. The fact that she or someone in her household had carried him out and left him on the street reinforced that fact.
Then came the memory of Violette in the curve of Daniel’s arm, her lips puckering around the black cigarette. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of her red mouth. She’d tasted of honey, smoke, and desire. One sip of her had made Daniel want more, and more.
In the dining room, Daniel had wanted to kiss her again, then lift her to the table, pull their clothing aside, and lose himself inside her. Something in his heart had craved her, and it craved her still.
Who was Violette Bastien, and where the devil was she?
Marseille, Ian’s note said. “Pack me some clean shirts, Simon,” Daniel called, fold
ing the note and tucking it into his pocket. “When I get back from the telegraph office, we’re off to France.”
The concert hall was nearly full. Violet liked to see bodies in every seat, because theatre owners sometimes demanded a larger percentage of the take if they didn’t fill the hall. But it wasn’t bad tonight. Theirs was a new show, and the bored expatriates and wealthy French of Marseille wanted novelty.
The lights went down and the curtain opened on their simple tableau. Violet’s mother sat on a curved rococo-revival chair, her back straight, the train of her old-fashioned black bombazine gown trickling to the floor. At the last minute, she’d declared she would wear the turban after all, and its shimmering brocade shone against her graying black hair.
Next to Celine was a table holding an empty glass and a pitcher of water, and Violet was walking to the table as the curtain opened. Violet had dressed in a fashionable dove gray gown, covering her face with a sheer black veil that hung to her waist. In addition, she’d donned a blond wig so that wisps of pale hair occasionally curled below the veil. The wig itched a bit, but the fine, fair hair completed the illusion.
In the advertising for the show—and the word of mouth Mary had begun—it was hinted that Violet must keep her face hidden, because one glimpse of her incredible beauty drove even the calmest gentleman insane. Violet was highly aware of the men in the first two rows contorting themselves to try to look under her veil.
The chandeliers above the audience had been dimmed, and gaslights glowed at the edge of the stage, illuminating Violet and her mother. The smell of packed bodies, wool, and perfume rose like a wall in front of them.
Violet poured her mother a glass of water, keeping her movements graceful, then she looked out at the audience and said, “The countess will open the paths to the spirit world. She must use all her concentration to do this, and so you will confine your questions to me. I will listen to your petitions and decide who she has the greatest chance to reach.”
Violet scanned the audience as she spoke, dividing them into categories—true believers, watchful skeptics, and those who’d come here to be entertained. As usual, only a few hands went up at first, one or two hopeful, one or two from gentlemen obviously out to catch Violet and her mother in a trick.
Violet nodded at one of the hopefuls, a middle-aged woman in black. Violet held up her hand before the woman had spoken more than a few words. “It is difficult, I know,” Violet said, twisting her French to sound as though someone from Saint Petersburg spoke it. “He went too soon, long before his time. In battle, was it?”
The woman nodded, looking surprised. Poor thing. Violet had seen the lady’s bleak expression, coupled with the lock of hair in a brooch on her chest next to an insignia denoting an officer in the French army. She’d lost a son in some colonial war, either in Africa or Asia.
“He was so very far away,” Violet said. “I am sorry.”
The woman’s face crumpled, and Violet’s heart ached for her. There were those who claimed Violet and her mother played upon the grieving to take their money, and Violet didn’t always disagree, but at the same time, she knew that what she and her mother did brought some comfort. This woman, for instance, wanted to make certain her son was all right. He likely had died in much pain, in a distant land, and his mother hadn’t been able to hold his hand when he went. Mothers who had lost sons or daughters had the most haunted looks of all.
Not natural, Violet thought with anger. Mothers shouldn’t lose their children. She thought about Daniel, and pictured the bleak look in his father’s eyes when the news was brought to him.
Violet forced herself to turn from the edge of the stage and continue. “Countess?”
“Yes.” Celine lifted a handkerchief to dab away real tears of sympathy. “I will find him.”
The hall went quiet. Celine closed her eyes, rested her hands on her lap, and went into her trance.
Violet watched her closely, ready to assist at any sign of illness or faintness. Sometimes her mother could render herself unconscious—once, she’d fallen from her chair and struck her head before Violet could catch her, and had bled profusely.
“The veil,” her mother murmured, her breath coming rapidly. “It is parting. I see light, I see . . . ah.”
Celine trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice took on a high-pitched, childlike tone—her spirit guide, Adelaide, a Parisian child of ten. “Do not worry, Madame. I will find him. He is here, and so lonely.”
The mother’s cry rang out from the audience. The young woman sitting next to her—a stranger from the way she’d kept herself as distant as the seats allowed—now patted the woman’s arm comfortingly.
Celine spoke again. This time, her voice was deep, the Russian accent gone, her French flawless, but provincial. From the coast, in a town not far from here, Violet guessed.
“Maman, are you there?”
The woman sprang to her feet, handkerchief clutched to her breast. “Jules? Jules, is it you?”
Celine remained silent until Violet turned and said to Celine in her halting accent, “She wishes to know whether this is her son.”
“Maman,” came the answer in relief, spoken through Celine’s mouth. “I am here, Maman. Do not cry, I beg of you.”
“You are all right? She said you were lonely.”
Violet conveyed the question, and Celine answered. “Lonely for you, Maman. I am worried for you, now that you are alone.”
“I am fine. Really, my darling. I have my friends, and they care for me. But what about you? I can’t bear thinking of you, lying alone . . .”
“The form in the grave is but clay. I have left it far behind and crossed over. Papa is here, and little . . . little . . .”
“Brigitte? Brigitte is with you?”
The hope in the woman’s voice broke Violet’s heart. Celine, she knew, would firmly believe she spoke to the dead soldier called Jules, but Celine was also using the trick—whether consciously or not—of getting the client to supply information they didn’t have.
“Yes, Brigitte is here. She misses you.”
“And I miss her. Tell her that her maman misses her so much. And you, Jules. But you are happy, that is good. One day we will all be together.”
Statements like this always worried Violet, but the woman looked healthy and possibly was too staunch a Catholic to contemplate suicide. She also looked very relieved to learn that her family was all together in the afterlife. If they were taking care of one another, she wouldn’t have to worry about them.
“I must go, Maman. The veil is thin. You have my love . . . my love.” The voice drifted away, and the childlike voice returned. “He has gone.”
The woman sat down, tears on her face. The young woman next to her, less of a stranger now, put her arm around the woman’s shoulders.
The crowd was more eager now to petition Celine to contact those dear to them. Violet sifted through the requests, granting one to a man who needed to apologize to his sister, another to a scared-looking young woman who asked her mother whether she should stay with her stepfather who beat her. The first man’s sister accepted the apology with gracefulness. The second woman’s mother, when contacted, agreed that the stepfather had always been a brute, and the young woman was not obligated to live with him.
The audience grew more excited, happier with every person able to speak to their loved ones and learn answers.
They needed this, Violet had realized long ago. Religious leaders or social rules could not let some people find comfort or relieve guilt, and so they came to Violet’s mother, who gave them what they sought. Celine congratulated herself on her gift, and Violet had long ago decided to go along with it. Violet might not believe, but her mother did, and so did all these people. If Celine could relieve their pain, who was Violet to stand in the way?
Remain detached, Jacobi had always said. You are the messenger, the conduit, not their mentor or friend.
Well, Jacobi had known all about detachment, hadn’t he?
Violet shivered. She gave the signal for Mary to let down the rigging high above the stage, which they’d set into place beforehand. Violet always prepared little phosphorus-coated balls to dance on strings above her mother or above the seats if the proceedings lagged a bit. She didn’t need to as much tonight, but the tangible evidence of the “veil” never ceased to delight.
As Mary let down the cascade of balls on their wires, heads swiveled upward, people pointed, and some even applauded. The questions had died down, but now a new voice broke through, in English, but with the accent of the Highland Scots.
“So, tell me, Mademoiselle,” the man said, his words tinged with a hint of laughter. “Do ye believe in ghosts?”
Chapter 8
Daniel Mackenzie stood on the floor just below the stage, upright, whole, and definitely not dead.
His gaze pinned Violet into place, and though he didn’t smile, the twinkle in his dark amber eyes held impudence. He wore a suit similar to the one he’d had on the night she’d met him—black coat, ivory waistcoat, Mackenzie plaid kilt. His hair was neatly combed, his face newly shaved, his gloves in place. Violet couldn’t help thinking he’d looked better disheveled, with his hair sticking out and his strong hands uncovered.
Violet realized several frozen heartbeats of silence had gone by, and the audience, Daniel, and her mother awaited her answer.
Her returning breath nearly choked her. “When the veil parts,” she said hoarsely, remembering at the last moment to speak French with a Russian accent, “all manner of things may come through.”
The audience murmured their agreement. Daniel regarded Violet with eyes full of mischief, the sparkle in them rivaling the brightest of the glowing balls above them.
“Ye don’t say. I couldn’t ask a question of me dear old mum, could I? Gone these twenty-four years or so?”
Violet kept staring at him. What was he doing? Daniel had gone hard with anger when Mortimer had suggested she contact his mother in front of the gentlemen in the London house. What was he up to now?
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