My life didn’t rush before me. Instead, I could only think, What a terrible mistake. I was going to be crushed beneath the train because of a stumble. Irony was the word that came to mind.
At the last moment strong arms circled my torso, and I was pulled backward with great force. I held on to Isabelle as we were both literally hurled through the air.
We slammed backward into the car we’d been attempting to leave; all of us tumbled in a heap. I landed on top of our rescuer, and Isabelle on top of me. It took several moments to get over the paralysis that came from fear and to sort out our legs and bodies. I managed to slide Isabelle aside and move off our benefactor so he could breathe.
“Ladies, are you okay?”
I turned to thank him, only to find that it was Carlton. “A narrow escape,” I said, trying not to imagine Isabelle dismembered beneath the wheels of the train. While my vivid imagination would work in my favor as a writer of ghost tales, it was not helpful in everyday life.
Isabelle, too, had glimpsed her dire end. “Raissa, you risked your life to keep me from falling, and thank God you came along, Carlton. We both could have died.” She inhaled, visibly shaken. “I didn’t stumble—I was pushed. Someone put a hand on my back and shoved me so that I lost my footing.”
“Pushed?” Carlton asked. “By whom? I was coming down the aisle of the car and could see you through the door window. Raissa was beside you, to the left. No one else was there.”
Isabelle looked as if she might cry. “I don’t care what it looked like. Someone pushed me.”
“All that matters is that Carlton saved us.” I’d found my feet, but my legs suddenly jellied beneath me, and I searched for a place to sit down.
Carlton assisted me to a seat and sat beside me after he’d helped Isabelle to one of the leather benches. “Ladies, you took at least five years off my life. What a scare.”
“I’m telling you, I was pushed,” Isabelle said, two tears tracking down her cheeks. “I’m not careless.”
“Sometimes the train rocks hard to the left or right, and in the process of rebalancing, it can make the couplings snatch.” Carlton leaned over so that he could lift Isabelle’s chin and gaze into her face. “You’re not hurt, are you? Brett would never forgive me for orchestrating this trip if anything happened to either of you.”
“Shaken but unharmed.” She drew her shoulders back and repinned some curls that had come loose.
“And you, Raissa?” Carlton performed the same maneuver on me.
“I’m fine.”
“Good, then. Shall I help you ladies into the next car?”
I wanted to say no, but my pride stopped me. “Of course. I’ll go first.” I stood and approached the door. Every cell in my body cried for me to turn back, but I pushed open the barrier. The clackety-clack of the railcars speeding over the metal made my stomach tighten.
“Let me go first and help.” Carlton stepped across the gap as if it were a minor puddle. When he was on the far side, he handed me across the dizzying tracks. Within a few seconds, I was in the next car.
“I’ll help Isabelle,” he said, leaving me with some privacy.
I proceeded to the water closet—a tiny enclosure with a toilet and sink. With barely enough room to turn around, I splashed cool water on my face to tamp down the heat that fear and anxiety had produced. I had to calm myself and think of the positive. I’d been party to an accident averted, a tragedy that never happened. We could thank our lucky stars that both Carlton and I had such quick reactions.
At last my skin cooled and I stepped out of the WC. For the first time I noticed the occupants of this car, almost a duplicate of the one we rode in. The half-dozen passengers dozed. Except for one. An elderly woman sat facing me, her gaze uncomfortably intense. I glanced at her in a sidelong manner so as not to appear rude. I didn’t recognize her, but judging from her unabashed interest, it seemed she might know me.
I started down the aisle. When I came to her, she lifted one spotted hand from her lap and clutched at the skirt of my summer dress. In a deep monotone, she said, “Take care, Raissa. Robert says to tell you all is not as it seems.”
The words were as effective as a blow, and I sidestepped, almost falling into the lap of a sleeping businessman. “Excuse me,” I said, mortified at my clumsiness. But the shock of the woman’s tone and the fact that she used my name had caught me by surprise.
“Are you hurt?” the businessman asked, polite but disgruntled that I’d shortened his nap.
“No, it’s just that she—” I turned to the woman across the aisle, but the seat was empty. “Did you see the woman there? Older, blue-and-white-dot dress.” I’d seen her clear as a bell.
The man shook his head. “No one’s been in that seat since Mobile. Is this a joke of some kind?”
“No, sir,” I assured him. “She spoke to me . . .” But there was no point arguing about what I’d seen and heard. No one else on the train would know the woman. Or whatever she’d been. I could have sworn she was real, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t real, and she wasn’t human. She’d brought a message from the other side and then vanished.
A harsh possibility entered my mind. Isabelle claimed she’d been pushed as she stepped from car to car. She’d nearly fallen to her death. It made me question how Robert had come to fall from the roof. Had he been pushed by a person or an entity?
The door of the train car opened, and Carlton entered with Isabelle. Her face was white with fear, and she gripped his arm tightly, but she forced a smile as she drew near.
“Raissa?” Carlton took my elbow gently. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine, just unsettled.” I wasn’t ready to share my strange experience with anyone. “I guess I’m still dizzy from nearly falling under the train.”
“That was enough to take the starch out of anyone’s petticoats.” He looked at the seat where the woman had been sitting, and for a moment I wondered if he’d seen her—could possibly still see her. But no, he motioned me to a seat near the door.
“When Isabelle has refreshed herself, we’ll go back to the club car.” He faced me. “Only another forty minutes or so and we’ll be at the station in New Orleans. Tell me what you hope to learn tonight at the séance.”
“If Madam Petalungro is as talented as I’ve come to believe, I hope to witness her communicating with the dead. Maybe she’ll have a message for me.” After the vision of the elderly woman and her warning, I wasn’t certain I was up for more communicating with the departed. Perhaps the whole adventure had been a mistake.
“Any dead in particular?”
The question caught me by surprise. Of course I hoped to speak with Alex, and Robert, too. “My parents, first and foremost. Then my husband. And Robert, if he’s available. I read somewhere, perhaps in a fictional tale, that sometimes it takes the dead a while to be able to return and communicate. It’s an adjustment period for them as well as those who are left behind mourning their loss.”
“Do you think it’s healthy to focus so much on those who’ve died? Life is for the living, as they say.”
His attitude was more curious than judgmental, and I found it a relief to have a frank discussion of the subject. “I think we all have questions about those who’ve died, and sometimes, a bit of communication may give closure.”
“If you could say one thing to your parents, what would it be?”
“You have the gift of asking good questions, Carlton. No wonder you’re a successful lawyer.”
“And you’re adept at dodging the question.” He smiled. “I’m just curious. I lost a brother to drowning when we were both at law school in Tuscaloosa. If I could speak with him, I’d ask him if he forgave me.”
“Forgave you?”
“I was supposed to go with Craig to the river that weekend. Instead, I went home with a young woman I met at the university. We’d fallen in love, and I was taking the serious step of meeting her family. If they approved of me, I planned to ask her to marry
. After Craig . . . I lost her, too.” He looked out the window, and for a moment I saw the young man who’d lost his brother and his intended. We had more in common than I’d ever expected. “I always felt if I’d been with Craig, I could have saved him.”
I touched his cheek lightly to encourage him to look into my eyes. “I don’t know the circumstances, but though you’re very good at rescuing ladies from falling under trains, I’m not certain you can save everyone from misfortune. That’s a lot to put on your shoulders.”
“In the small hours of the morning when the world is quiet, you don’t suffer from guilt? You’re alive, and they’re not.”
Carlton’s questions were acute and dead-on. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I should have been a better correspondent with my husband. I should have told him how I loved him. I’m ashamed that I let shyness hold me back.” I thought of the letters Uncle Brett had shown me, the passion on the page that the writer had shared for Eva. I had loved my husband, but I’d been young and reserved. I should have given him more to hold on to. To die with.
“Your honesty only makes me admire you more,” Carlton said. “You’re good for Brett, and I’m glad you’re in Mobile. I hope you stay.”
“I can’t simply put up in Caoin House and rely on Uncle Brett to support me.”
Carlton laughed, and the mood of our conversation was instantly lightened. “He can easily do that, you know. I doubt you’ll eat more than, say, ten pounds of food a day. I’ll kick in on the clothing fund if it makes you feel better. You’re bold enough to wear the modern styles, and it’s good to have someone in Mobile break new ground for women. I fear our Southern cities are far behind our Northern cousins.”
“You’re an awful man!” But he made me laugh, and I’d come to value laughter above almost any other attribute.
Isabelle joined us. “I’m glad to see you’ve both recovered from the scare of my misstep.” She was still a bit pale, but her color was returning. “Let’s not mention this to Brett. He has enough on his mind.”
I nodded agreement. “Let’s enjoy the evening. I’m looking forward to the Hotel Monteleone. It’s been written up in several magazines that I follow. The photographs are sumptuous.”
“I did a little poking about regarding Madam Madelyn Petalungro.” Isabelle crooked her arm for me to take, an indication she was ready to brave the return journey.
“As did I,” I said. “What she does is terribly exciting. She can actually speak with the spirits and get answers from the dead. Reports about her séances are remarkable. Sometimes tables lift, or bells ring. A story in the Times-Picayune newspaper said she works with a very handsome assistant.”
“Someone is eager,” Carlton said drily.
“Let’s rejoin Brett before he worries.” Isabelle took a breath and straightened her shoulders. “We’ll have time for one more drink before New Orleans. Raissa, you can tell us everything you learned about our famous medium.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Isabelle had given me her sources at the Mobile Commercial Register to find out Madelyn Petalungro’s history, and it was indeed very strange and thrilling. She’d been born into a Romany family in Meridian, Mississippi, the youngest daughter in a long line of women who often inherited the ability to see beyond the veil that separated the living from the dead. “This trait is one of the most valued in the gypsy culture,” I quoted from the article I’d partially memorized. “Even as a child, Madam’s talent was bigger than any her family had ever seen.”
“Hold the train!” Uncle Brett said. “Isabelle looks a tad pale. We need a drink to continue this conversation.”
When the Negro waiter brought setups of Coca-Colas, Uncle Brett added the rum and signaled me to carry on.
Madam’s pedigree was impressive. Her great-grandmother had married into the royal Gypsy bloodline, and Madam grew up with special privilege—private schools, instruction in languages and ancient history, and, finally, she had been sent to Europe to complete her education. She was fluent in six languages. By the time she turned nineteen, she’d toured the major cities of the civilized world.
I grew more excited as I revealed each detail. “Thank you for coming with me, Uncle Brett and Isabelle. And, Carlton, thank you for getting the tickets.”
“Oh, I called my friend Ramona who lives in New Orleans,” Isabelle said. “Madam’s life has been a scandal,” Isabelle said. “She’s had a multitude of lovers. She’s had three children and never been married, and, according to the newspaper, she’s amassed a fortune.”
“Fascinating,” Carlton said in a tone that could either be sarcastic or sincere. “She’s certainly led a life outside the boundaries of polite society. But can she really speak to the dead?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle doesn’t doubt her, and he’s a brilliant man.” I spoke with passionate conviction.
“Yes, he writes about a fictional detective.” Carlton took the sting away with a grin. “We all know he doesn’t make things up.”
I laughed out loud at Carlton’s wickedness, but I wouldn’t be diverted. “The first time Madam saw a spirit, she was six years old. It was at her grandfather’s funeral, and while his body was in the coffin, she saw him standing beside it, very pleased with all of his friends and relatives who came to honor him in death.”
Isabelle inched closer to Uncle Brett, as if she were afraid. “I think if I saw a ghost I would die of fright on the spot.”
“Was she able to speak with the ghost?” Uncle Brett asked. “Could he tell her what it was like, being dead?”
“The articles didn’t go into a lot of detail, but they said she was able to bring messages from the dead to the living. She uses names, and she often knows things she’d have no way of knowing. She’s a confidante of the queen, and there was a long article where she assisted England’s war efforts with information passed from the grave of deceased soldiers.” I had almost depleted my information.
“Most churches frown on this activity,” Carlton said. “I’ve never been religious, but some people think the medium is communicating with the minions of Satan. That demons take on the visage of the dead in an effort to lure innocent souls into their grip.”
“Do you believe that?” Isabelle was stricken.
“I wouldn’t have suggested this trip had I thought we were at risk of losing our immortal souls.” His grin was rakish. “But if we are going to play in the zone between the living and the dead, I thought it prudent that we all know the score.”
“You’re just trying to agitate Isabelle,” I said. “In one article I read, Madam was able to bring comfort to several families. She spoke with some departed children who convinced their grieving parents they were safe and happy. I would think that would be viewed as a good thing by the church, or anyone else who has an ounce of compassion.”
“A very pretty story that I could make up on the spot,” Carlton said.
“But she provided personal details, specific information.”
“I hate to destroy the fun,” Carlton said, “but I have done a bit of research, too. While I think this trip will be helpful to our budding authoress, remember that personal information on those attending a séance can be supplied by a confederate or assistant. Or the person who is being read is a shill. Like the old faith healers who would make the crippled walk and the blind see—they were never crippled or blind, so their miracle healing was a sham.”
“Now, Carlton, this adventure was your idea. Don’t tell me you’re going to put a damper on the whole experience before we even begin?” Brett was a tad annoyed.
“View this like going to a theatrical production. It should be fun, but if you take it seriously, it’s only going to lead to disappointment.” Carlton was enjoying his role as devil’s advocate. “We’ve all lost people we love. I don’t for a minute believe some Gypsy can bring them out of the grave and talk to them. I like a good show, but I don’t want anyone, especially not my friends, getting caught up by a charlatan.”
Isa
belle laughed. “Ramona said the medium addressed those who doubt her in a newspaper interview. She dared them to attend a séance and then say she was a fraud.”
Carlton finished his drink in one long swallow. “I’m eager to see what she has to offer.”
“What would you say if I told you I’d seen a ghost?” Uncle Brett asked.
The question caught Carlton by surprise, but he had a ready answer. “I’d say you’re pulling my leg. I know you go on about unhappy spirits, but to say you’ve actually seen a ghost is a step further.”
“What are you saying?” Isabelle said. “What ghost? Did you see one at Caoin House? I’ve often had the sense that someone has been watching me.”
I had the strongest desire to tell my uncle to stop, but it wasn’t appropriate, so I didn’t speak up. There was no reason he shouldn’t share this information with Isabelle and Carlton, but it felt wrong.
“I’ve seen the ghost of Eva Whitehead.” Uncle Brett was pleased with the sensation he caused. Isabelle drew in a sharp breath, and Carlton looked worried.
“That kind of talk will get you a stay in the loony bin, old man,” Carlton said, passing it off as a joke. “Be careful or you’ll be having the electric cure.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” I rushed to Brett’s defense. The horror tales of convulsive therapy used on those with mental problems made my heart pound. The treatment often failed to bring any results except a loss of memory and sometimes destruction of the personality.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 9