And before I could stop it, another, much darker thought came. What if Elijah was a walking corpse himself?
CHAPTER TWO
The party around me was a smoky dream. None of it felt real. Not the constriction of my bodice or the poke of my hairpins, not the glittering chandelier or the warm gaslights, and least of all, not the chattering guests.
While our elderly butler, Jeremy, and our young maid, Mary, prepared the drawing room for the séance, the guests and I waited in the parlor. I had successfully deflected old Mr. and Mrs. Moore’s attempts at conversation (discussing church sermons was never my favorite subject, particularly when my nerves were screaming for relief); and fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Cook were wholly occupied by Mrs. Wilcox and my mother.
Meanwhile, the Cooks’ fair-haired daughters, Patience and Mercy—whom I called the Virtue Sisters—were focused on the remaining guests: the beautiful Allison Wilcox and her very rich, very eligible brother, Clarence.
I sat alone on the sofa, avoiding company by feigning a great interest in examining my surroundings.
Mama had drained half our remaining bank account to ensure that our parlor was at the height of All Things Fashionable. The wallpaper had recently been redone; the shelves were littered with peacock feathers, coral shards, and a thousand other knickknacks. The velvet rugs and drapes, recently added for this very occasion, swirled with elaborate patterns.
Mama’s greatest pride was the grand piano. It shone in the light of the gas lamps and told the tale of Fitt taste and wealth. It was no wonder she stood beside it to prattle to the Cooks and Mrs. Wilcox.
By the window, where the dour-faced Moores stood, was the mahogany bookshelf built to house all of Elijah’s theology books. And behind me was the chess table. Our chess table. The one Elijah had gotten so he could teach me to play—and then beat me nearly every day.
My thoughts vanished at the sound of a bubbling laugh.
Through lowered lashes, I peered at Allison Wilcox. She sat in a mauve armchair nearby, and the peach silk of her gown made her pale skin glow and dark hair gleam. In comparison, my own skin looked pasty. Or perhaps Allison’s exceptional beauty came from her obvious joy—she basked in the happy warmth I had envisioned for myself.
Her brother, Clarence, had recently returned to Philadelphia after two years at college, and he lounged elegantly against Allison’s chairback. He was just as handsome as his sister in his perfectly tailored black suit. The Virtue Sisters no doubt agreed with me, for they hovered nearby. Lanky Patience on one side and squat Mercy on the other, giggling at every word he spoke.
At each of Allison’s laughs and smug glances in my direction, I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep jealous tears away—and to keep from hurling the nearest knickknack at her face. I wanted my brother here; I wanted Elijah safe.
Catching my eye, she bounced up and waltzed over to me.
“Where’s your brother?” she asked.
“He’s in New York,” I mumbled. She plunked down on the sofa beside me.
“Yes, I know—your mother already said that.” Allison rolled her eyes. “But why didn’t he come? I thought this party was for him.”
Clarence strolled over and settled beside his sister.
“Yes, well …” I fidgeted with my lavender dress and avoided the pair’s gaze. “I believe he ran into some friends and decided to visit.”
“Do you know the friends?” Clarence asked. He slid out a shiny, golden watch from his waistcoat pocket. After glancing at its face, his eyes flicked to mine.
“No,” I answered. “I do not.”
Clarence was undeniably handsome. The delicate curves of youth still clung to the strong angles of his jaw; and when his eyes met mine, I caught my breath. They were so dark it was as if they sucked up all the light.
I’d never met Clarence before this evening. He was twenty and, with the recent death of his father, had inherited the Wilcox business and immense fortune. Mama had mentioned something about political ambitions as well, but I couldn’t recall.
Though I knew the pair expected me to continue the conversation, I kept my mouth clamped shut. Mama would be horrified at my wasted chance to impress Clarence Wilcox, but I didn’t want to talk about Elijah.
Seconds passed in awkward silence. Clarence’s head swiveled about as he studied the room. Allison eyed me, and I fidgeted with my amethyst earrings—a nervous habit I’d acquired ever since Elijah had given them to me on my thirteenth birthday.
At last Allison sighed and scooted closer. “So, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
I scowled. “Nothing.”
“Humbug!” She narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger. “You don’t want to talk to me, you’ve avoided the other guests, and you haven’t smiled the entire evening.”
“Not now, Allison.” I gave her what I hoped was a pleading expression, but I could feel the muscles in my jaw twitch with anger. Ever since Mrs. Wilcox had unexpectedly, and rather abruptly, befriended Mama three months ago, I had been forced into Allison’s company far more than I wished.
“Allie,” Clarence said wearily, “leave her alone.”
“No.” Allison straightened in her seat and planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you so dour? Be nice to me. It’s not my fault your brother didn’t come home.”
That was too far.
“Enough,” I hissed, grabbing at her. “Shut pan, Allison.”
She leaned out of my reach, but Clarence laid a gloved hand on her arm. “I think you’ve done sufficient harm for one evening, Allie. Go talk to Mother.” He tipped his head toward the other side of the room.
To my astonishment and relief, Allison actually obeyed. For a moment, the heavy plumes of depression cleared from my chest. I could breathe.
“I can’t believe she listened to you.” I turned a wide-eyed gaze on Clarence.
A grin tugged at his lips. “Yes, I imagine I’m the only person she’ll listen to.”
“Well, I’m impressed.” A warmth eased through my body. Despite his perfect features, he was not so difficult to talk to.
“No doubt you’d do the same with your brother.”
“Not precisely.” I smiled ruefully. “To be honest, I don’t take orders well.”
“Then I shall be sure I never give you any.” He winked before whipping out his pocket watch again and glancing at its face.
I arched my eyebrows, and my grin grew wider. “Are you bored?” I teased. “Or do you have some late-night appointment you can’t miss?”
He jerked his head up, and my breath caught. His pupils had grown until there was no iris left.
“Neither. Of course.” He dropped the watch back into his pocket and slouched leisurely against the sofa. He gave an unruffled smile. “So tell me, Miss Fitt, do you know when your brother will return?”
“No.” I wet my lips. “Do you know Elijah?”
He looked off to the right. “I know of your brother.”
“Oh?”
“Of course.” He folded his arms over his chest and returned his gaze to me. “Everyone knows of the Philadelphia Fitts. I even know of you.”
“You mean Allison told you about me.”
His lips twitched. “Certainly.”
I stroked my amethysts and made my expression passive. I didn’t care one whit about her gossip—though I did wish she wouldn’t talk about me to Clarence. I’d prefer if eligible young men learned my faults after meeting me.
He flashed his eyebrows playfully, as if knowing where my thoughts had gone. “You needn’t worry. She’s said nothing unkind. She finds you amusing—she likes to talk, you know?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said flatly. Saying Allison loved to gossip was like saying birds enjoyed flying. It was not so much a hobby as a part of her physiology.
Clarence’s smile expanded, and his eyes crinkled. “Apparently there was an insult you gave her a few days ago, though.... She had to ask me what it meant.”
My face warmed, and I lo
oked away. “I believe I might have called her a spoiled Portia with no concept of mercy.”
He laughed and hit his knee. “That’s right. Portia’s speech on mercy in the final act of The Merchant of Venice. Allie had no idea what you meant.”
“In my defense, she was taunting me—”
“With no mercy?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled, embarrassed he’d heard about it.
“Oh, I have no doubt. One of Allie’s charms is her childish teasing.” He laughed again and shook his head. “Next time, though, I suggest you use less obscure insults. They might hit their mark better.”
I didn’t know if I ought to laugh with him or stammer apologies, but at that precise moment, the subject herself saved me from my confusion. Allison bustled up and glared down at us. “What’s so funny?” she demanded. Clarence only shrugged, putting his hand in his pocket, and shot me a conspiratorial wink.
“Fine,” she said. “Keep your secrets. I don’t care.” She lifted a perfect eyebrow. “Scoot over. I want to sit between you.”
“Take my seat, Allie.” Clarence rose and slung a smooth bow. “If you’ll excuse me.” Then he sauntered away.
“Where is he going?” Allison asked.
I didn’t answer. My attention was focused on Clarence’s hand, in which gleamed the golden pocket watch. He strolled through the parlor door and disappeared.
The minutes ticked past, and Clarence did not reappear. Either something at dinner had disagreed with his digestion or the man had sneaked off for some other purpose. But what?
When I was a child, Father used to say, “My daughter’s biggest vices are curiosity and a fondness for buttered toast.” He was right, of course, and that curiosity was now piqued to its fullest.
Clarence was up to something, and I intended to find out what.
I left Allison on the sofa and crossed to the window, where I slid the velvet curtain aside. The parlor lights glared on the window, so although I could make out a few hazy shapes in the garden—the old cherry tree to the left and the bench beside it—I could distinguish nothing more.
I let the curtain fall back. The séance would begin soon, but I still had enough time to peek outside. I casually strolled across the room, darted through the doorway, and softly closed the door behind me.
I crept down the dim corridor that bisected our house and into the high-ceilinged foyer. Voices, deep and low, permeated the front doorway, and I would wager that one of those speakers was Clarence. My heart picked up speed. I gathered my skirts, tiptoed pass the main staircase, and pressed my ear to the front door.
“Two hundred,” drawled a male voice with a Cockney accent.
Someone sputtered—Clarence. “That’s outrageous.”
“Hmmm. Well,” said the Cockney man, “if you want his word, you’ll ’ave to pay.”
“Yes, yes,” said Clarence. “And have you had any news on Sure Hands?”
“No, but I brought you this. It’s a picture of him—quite old. He’s only a boy in it.”
“But you’re certain the man you saw was he?”
“Aye.”
“All right, then.” There was a rustling sound, like paper being handed over. “Same time tomorrow night,” Clarence added. “I’ll be at the Arch Street Theatre.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, footsteps drummed toward me.
I reeled back. Clarence hadn’t even said good-bye, and now he was coming back inside? The door handle turned, and I scrambled around to flee to the parlor. I only made it four steps.
“Miss Fitt.”
I whirled around. “M-Mr. Wilcox. Hello.” I bobbed a curtsy.
“What the devil are you doing here?” His eyebrows were angled so far down, they practically reached his nose.
“I was l-looking for you.” I gulped. “The entertainment is about to begin.” I glanced at his hand. He held a rolled-up newspaper and, at my gaze, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
Clarence strode through the foyer and peered down his perfect nose at me. “How long have you been standing here?”
“Only a moment.” I fluttered my lashes. I am as innocent as a baby bird, I tried to say with my eyes.
“Really.” He spoke it as a statement, and frowned. “You know, eavesdropping is most unladylike.”
My jaw dropped. “Eavesdropping? I was doing no such thing.”
“No?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Wilcox. And false accusations are most un … most un-manly-like.” The retort was a stuttered failure, but I puffed out my chest anyway. “What were you doing outside?”
“Getting fresh air.”
My eyebrows shot up as if to say “Really?” He squinted at me, and I glowered back.
At last he cleared his throat and donned a tight smile. “Miss Fitt, while I am delighted to have your company at present, I would ask that you keep our current meeting to your—”
Footsteps clicked on the wood floor, and someone bustled into the foyer. Clarence and I jerked our heads around to find Mary, her eyes practically popping out of her skull. She bowed her head, her chestnut bun bouncing with the force of the movement.
Clarence and I sharing an interlude in the hall? How inappropriate, and how very suggestive of an intimacy that did not exist. I was sure Mary salivated at the thought of telling Mama.
Mary looked back up, her lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Your mother sent me to find you. The séance is beginning.”
“Of course. Thank you.” I glanced at Clarence.
He started, and then—as if realizing he was expected to act—he gracefully took my arm and hooked it on his. Together, we marched past the maid and down the corridor toward the drawing room.
“Miss Fitt,” he murmured over the whispers of my skirts and the clack of our heels. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep our conversation in the hall to yourself.”
“Of course,” I said primly. “Though I want some explanation of your behavior.”
“How about a bouquet of roses instead? Or a new hat?”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
He chuckled, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I suppose I am. It always works on Allie.”
“Well, I am most definitely not like Allie.”
He smiled. “Yes, I can see that.” He whisked me into the drawing room.
Mama, who hovered at the room’s center, gave me a look of utter joy. No doubt, like Mary, she assumed my arrival with Clarence suggested a budding intimacy.
My family’s drawing room was as lush and bedecked with patterns as our parlor. At the moment, the sofa and armchairs had been pushed to the walls, and an enormous oval table with eleven seats was in the center of the room, ready for the séance. The table’s polished surface shone from the three candles at its center, which were meant to attract the spirits. There was also a bowl of bread as an offering.
All the other guests were seated. Mrs. Wilcox beside Mama; Allison beside her mother; the Virtue Sisters next, followed by their parents; and finally the Moores. That left two seats vacant and adjacent.
Of course Mama had seated Clarence and me beside each other. Fabulous. The man had caught me eavesdropping, for heaven’s sake, and the last thing I wanted at that precise moment was more time in his company.
Once we were seated, I opened my mouth to beg him for answers, but Mama spoke sooner.
“Let us begin,” she commanded.
She gave me a regal eyebrow arch, and I flashed my brightest, sweetest smile. Clarence adores me.
She stood in front of her seat, and her hands flourished gracefully as she spoke in a low voice. “Tonight we shall try to commune with the spirit world, so let us use our combined energies to call forth the ghosts of our loved ones.”
Since the séances never succeeded in contacting spirits, all of the entertainment was in the presentation. And Mama was an excellent presenter. Shadows billowed from the lone candles and flickered eerily across her face.
&nbs
p; “As is customary,” she continued in a somber tone, “we must hold hands and chant together in order to summon the spirits’ attentions.” She lowered herself gracefully into her chair, her head held high. She extended her arms to grasp at her neighbors’ hands, and soon each person was locked, gloved hand to gloved hand.
“I would like to begin with my dear husband, Henry,” she proclaimed, “and once we have visited with him, we can move to any other spirits you may wish to see.”
A wave of nods moved around the table.
Mama closed her eyes. “Henry, it is your wife, Abigail. I call to you in heaven. Commune with us, Henry, and move among us.”
The guests and I repeated her words and waited, our eyes closed.
The scent of the fresh-bread offering wafted into my nose, and my stomach bubbled with hollow hunger. To fit myself in my corset, I’d had to forego most of my supper. Perhaps I could steal a slice while our guests’ eyes were closed.
Several silent moments passed, and then Mama led everyone in another chant. I wondered who would be the first to tap the table. On the third round of chanting, I decided it should be me.
I lifted my slippered foot as silently as my skirts would allow, and with a gentle thrust, I kicked the table.
“Henry!” Mama exclaimed, her face a dramatic mask of pleasant surprise. “Is that you?”
I kicked twice—two knocks meant “yes.”
Around the table, guests giggled or gasped, though I was certain no one believed it to be real.
“Have you any message for us?” Mama asked.
Someone else knocked once for “no,” and everyone twittered.
“Are you certain there is no message?” Mama pressed. Two knocks this time, and I suspected she’d done the tapping herself.
“Do you miss your wife?” Allison cooed. “Or how about—”
A loud whack resounded in the room and cut her off. It was the heavy, hollow bang of a fist on wood. I stopped breathing. It hadn’t been the wood of the table—I’d felt the vibration through my whole body. It had rattled my bones and my teeth.
Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly - Trilogy) Page 2