A moment later, with her garden toolbox hooked over her arm, Izzie started down the path that led around the back of the building where the shed was.
“Wait! Izzie!”
Lawks. It sounded like Clara. Two women hustled toward her from the direction of the carriage. Was it? Izzie set the box down and rushed toward them.
“Clara?” Izzie cried.
As Izzie got closer, she saw that the other woman was Hannah, or at least she guessed it was from Euphora’s descriptions of Clara’s blond friend. She threw her arms around Clara and held her tight a long joyous moment, but as she held Clara she felt her sister seemed too slender, too frail. She could practically feel her ribs through all their clothing. There was no flesh at all on her.
“Are you visiting? You didn’t write me,” Izzie said.
“No—we’re staying. That is, if it’s all right with you and Mac?”
“Yes. Yes. Lawks. Yes. Oh my, Clara, yes.” Izzie turned to Hannah. “And you’re Hannah. You’re welcome, too.” She reached for Hannah.
As Izzie received the warm clasp of Hannah’s two hands, she noticed the shape of Hannah’s dress draped over a large belly.
“There are three of us,” Clara’s lips grew taut, her brow pinched. “Is it all right?”
From the quiver in Clara’s voice, Izzie sensed her sister was weary, even afraid.
“Of course. We have plenty of room and plenty to do.” Izzie beamed at them as hard as she could, but Clara’s expression stayed worried and pinched and she was very pale.
“Come on. Let’s go find Euphora. She’s in the kitchen. She’ll be ecstatic that you are here.” Izzie linked arms with Clara to lead her back toward the front entrance.
Izzie began to chatter cheerfully about how she had just been making a garden and how Clara would have counted the tulip bulbs if she had been there. But while Izzie spoke, she became aware that Clara– whose arm felt boney interlocked with her own fleshy forearm–was almost dragging behind her. Then, even as Izzie was happily describing which bedchamber the girls could stay in, her mind was racing ahead. Clara might not stay very long.
Some part of her beautiful sister had disappeared. Was there a way to get her back? Clara had seen and done things Izzie couldn’t imagine. Why was she so skinny and pale? And how could Clara ever want to stay in a Water-Cure Institute after a fancy, fast life in New York City with champagne and theatre and gorgeous dresses? Izzie turned to catch Clara’s eye, to see if she could find a hint of what was to come, but Clara’s thin face was pointed down toward the path. Izzie glanced over her shoulder at Hannah, whose blond hair had the soft pink of sunset on it.
Was that a slight, hopeful gleam in Hannah’s blue eyes? Perhaps Clara would stay because of her friend and the child. That child of Hannah’s won’t be born for a few months and then there will be an infant to care for. Clara would stay a good long while for that. Wouldn’t she?
Trying to slow her thoughts, Izzie inhaled deeply. She shouldn’t let herself leap so far ahead with notions about what Clara would do or wouldn’t do. She was here. She was here. Squeezing Clara’s arm as tightly as she could, she led the girls into the Institute, their new home, and directly to the kitchen.
When she drew open the heavy kitchen door, she called, “Euphora! Come see what I’ve got.”
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my fine writer friends who gave me the gift of their insights while I developed The Spirit Room’s story and characters — Daniel Becker, Stacey Bennetts, Sherry Brummel, April Caron, Lynn Dixon, Michelle Furtado, Florine Gingerich, Gabrielle Herkert, Betsy Herring, Ed Ratcliffe, Carla Saulter, and Harold Taw. Also, thank you to Pam Goodfellow and Skye Moody for inspiring and guiding me. A special thank you to Barbara Bailey, Thatcher Bailey, and Phil Kovacevich who provided me with many “writer retreat” days and nights, as well as delicious sustenance, at Chevy Chase Beach Cabins in Port Townsend. And thank you, of course, to Margaret, my beloved, who has always believed in, and supported, me.
Hundreds of places, references and resources provided me with the detail and inspiration for this novel. I am particularly grateful to the Rochester Public Library and the Geneva Historical Society for use of their archives and collections and to the following authors for their excellent non-fiction work about women in the 19th century: Barbara Goldsmith, Other Powers, The Age of Suffrage, Spiritualism, and the Scandalous Victoria Woodhull, Alfred A. Knopf, 1998; Christine Stansell, City of Women, Sex and Class in New York 1789-1860, University of Illinois Press, 1987; and Janet Farrell Brodie, Contraception and Abortion in 19th-Century America, Cornell University Press, 1994.
A mid-19th century work, New York by Gas-Light and Other Urban Sketches, University of California Press, reprinted 1990, by George G. Foster, a reporter for the New York Tribune, was invaluable for its detailed portrayal of New York life during the era.
About the Author
The Spirit Room is Marschel Paul’s first novel. Born in New York City, she lived the first part of her life in Pennsylvania, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and New York. Though she is still a Yankee at heart, she currently lives in Seattle with her beloved partner.
www.marschelpaul.com
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