by Nina Dreyer
John sighed happily. ‘Ah, she was always like this, our Eilis, wanting to go up against the world. Tilting at windmills.’
Marion drank deeply from her glass. ‘But John, she’ll be heartbroken now. We have to help her, to help poor Liam, to bring him back so Eilis,’ she suppressed a hiccough, ‘can have dinner with him again each night. You know, she sits all alone each night, waiting for him, it’s so melancholy.’
Poor Liam, indeed. ‘Us? Help Liam? Tsk, you’ve got them both wrong. Eilis wants Liam to fight his own battles. She wants him to be a proud rebel. If you try to intervene, she’ll probably challenge you to a duel, too.’
A glimmer of a smile in her eyes. John refilled their glasses. ‘In her heart of hearts, Eilis has always known this would happen. Always longed for it. For her Liam to go down in the history books as a heroic martyr for old Eire’s isle. She’s not going to let either of us persuade her otherwise.’
Marion hiccoughed. ‘So sure? She always did say you can be very persuasive, when you want to.’ She took another gulp of brandy.
‘Oh, really? What else did she say about me?’
Marion tossed her hair to one side and tapped her lip with a fingertip. ‘That you look like an evil stage hypnotist. That you are going to lure me into something.’
‘Me?’ John inclined his head and smiled. ‘Lure you?’
Marion leaned back and unsteadily raised her glass to him. The silk of her gown slipped down a little. John tried not to stare at the turn of her bared shoulder.
‘I’ll have my eye on you, in case you try,’ she said. A slight smile dimpled her cheeks, but John couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.
‘How about this.’ John reached into his pocket, pulled out a brown envelope and slid it towards her. ‘I’ve found somewhere else for you to live. Somewhere safe. It’s unoccupied at the moment. The key is here, with the address.’
She looked from the envelope to him and back again, slowing raising her eyebrows.
John felt himself blushing uncharacteristically. ‘It’s not like that. I don’t pretend to have any,’ he cleared his throat, ‘any claim on you. I just want you to be out of harm’s way. Marion, I will never let them harm you or threaten you again. Never.’
She looked at him for a long moment, her languid gaze slipping from his eyes to his chest and back again. Her face was unreadable.
He felt his pulse thicken in his throat. ‘And I won’t let you rot away in some dingy gaol cell just because of Eilis Hurlihy and her deranged husband. And I’d never, ever forgive myself if you got… hurt…’
She raised herself to her knees and moved closer, her gown sliding over her thighs. ‘Because you need my skills as a medium,’ she said slowly, ‘because we have great work to do with our Salon, and that’s all?’
John shook his head, breath bated, feeling like a dumbstruck schoolboy, his pulse pounding.
Marion raised a hand, grazing her warm fingertips over his jaw, and he felt a white-hot coil tightening in his chest.
She leaned in. Close enough for him to sense the scent of her hair, violets, and the brandy-heat of her hot breath.
‘We shouldn’t,’ he breathed, ‘your reputation…’
She curled her fingers around the back of his neck, fingernails through his hair, and drew him closer. ‘What reputation,’ she whispered, grazing her lips over his. She parted her mouth, and he wrapped his arms around her, knocking over the empty bottle and sliding his hand up her silken back. They tumbled onto the thick rug, her hair spilling over his face and blotting out everything but her breath and her skin and her brandy-sweet smile.
Chapter Eleven
In the dreary gloom of late afternoon, Marion made her way up Dawson Street, buffeted by haunted-looking pedestrians clutching their dripping umbrellas and damp briefcases. Her throat burned with the sour aftertaste of too much brandy from last night. She lowered her face under her hat and tried not to smile too widely, not to have too much of a kick in her step. But that feeling glowed in her, that feeling like she’d been given a golden gift, the gift of having something to smile over. The gift of having laughed again, however briefly. The gift of a few luminous hours by the fire, sheltered deep from all the ugliness of the world.
She stopped in front of a little yellow shop. Her reflection shone faintly in the wide window, one of the few that hadn’t been boarded up. She gazed at the shop’s display of delicate boxes, power-coloured and turquoise and amethyst, trimmed with gold and lined with silk paper. Chocolates. Belgian chocolates.
A small silver bell tinkled above her as she entered the stop. A women behind the counter smiled. Marion glanced around at the displays and breathed in the scents of roasted almonds, powdered sugar and chocolate as dark as sin.
She chose a box the colour of an August twilight, topped with a golden bow. A little reminder of the ordinary world, the safe world, the world that still existed, somewhere far away, without the tramp of soldiers’ boots and the metallic fear gulped down with every breath. Eilis would like this. She’d need this.
Half an hour later, Marion hovered on Eilis’ doorstep, clutching the box of chocolates. She glanced over her shoulder before knocking. The street was deserted. Fog clung among the hedges and birch trees, and glints of fading sunlight gleamed in the upper windows. Rain-slick cobbles shone like silver in the pale light.
The maid opened the door, and Marion followed her into the dark hallway. She’d rehearsed what she would say, fine-tuning each word like a poet. She would tell Eilis gently, kindly. Your husband has been detained. That sounded better than arrested. Yes, detained.
Chinese vases lined the hallways on frail sideboards. Marion felt suddenly afraid of bumping into one, shattering it on the floor. She kept her eyes down, afraid of seeing Liam’s face in a photograph. His face, his tense mouth, the gunmetal glinting. Detained. Merely detained. Deep breaths. Passive voice. Her hands began to feel clammy and cold.
The maid led her through to the winter garden. Eilis sat under the coloured window panels, cutting her Tarot cards and snapping them down on the low enamel table in sharp lines. A soot-grey shawl clung to her shoulders.
She did not look up when Marion walked in. ‘And how long did you stay last night,’ she asked, ‘I imagine you’d a wild night?’ She twirled the long string of pearls around her neck.
‘Wild, no, not wild. I…’
‘Really?’ Eilis smiled archly. ‘I could’ve sworn you’re wearing the same gown. Didn’t have a chance to go home and change, perhaps? I mean, that is your only party gown, isn’t it? Looking a little rumpled now…’
Marion bit her lip and felt heat rising in her face. She glanced nervously around the room. An antique pistol hung above the little fireplace. She’d never really noticed it before. She wondered if it was real.
Eilis glared at her for a long while. Then she opened a small pewter box, took out a cigarette and lit it.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ said Marion, shifting from one foot to the other.
Eilis raised a single perfect eyebrow. ‘Perhaps there are many things that you don’t know about me.’
Marion knotted her fingers. ‘Oh, I brought you this.’ She took out the chocolate box.
Eilis stared at it for a moment before taking it from her. ‘What’s this? Did you think I was sick, to be bringing me sweets? Did you think I was a sick child, wanting sweeties?’ Eilis waved her hand imperiously at the maid, who immediately removed the box.
Marion shifted uncomfortably. ‘Eilis, there is something I need to…’
Eilis glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Well you can stay for a cup of tea, if you must,’ she said, ‘but I’m expecting someone.’ She fixed Marion with her glistening eyes. ‘So what is it you’ve got to say to me?’
Marion rubbed her arm. Eilis clearly didn’t know yet. She sat down on the edge of a chair and pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Eilis, what I have to say to you is very difficult, and I don’t know how to-’
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake,’ Eilis sighed, exhaling smoke. She seemed to relent a little.
The maid returned with the a silver tray. Steam swirled from the blue teapot as she set it down on the table between them.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eilis sighed, ‘believe me, I know it wasn’t your doing that John stole the directorship from me. I suppose the blackguard didn’t even tell you about his plans beforehand?’
Marion took the proffered tea cup from Eilis’ hand. She had to put it down quickly, for fear of breaking it in her tight grip. ‘No, but there’s something else-’
‘Here, I’ve been mortally unfair to you,’ said Eilis, ‘God love you, it’s not really your fault, is it?’ She waved the maid back. ‘Bring Marion’s pretty box back. No, just leave it there on the table. We don’t want your greasy fingerprints all over it.’
The maid shuffled out.
Eilis tugged at the gilt bow and opened the box. The scent of lemon zest, black cocoa and candied cherries mixed with the steam of the teapot.
‘He didn’t tell you anything about his little scheme beforehand, did he?’ Eilis picked out a chocolate from its silk paper nest and bit into it.
‘No,’ Marion said, ‘but listen, there-’
‘So I suppose you’re my boss now.’ Eilis leaned back and licked chocolate off her ring finger. ‘Well, theoretically. Deputy and all. Very grand-sounding, so it is. Not that I see what the Salon needs a bleeding deputy for.’
‘Never mind about the Salon,’ said Marion quickly, ‘everybody acknowledges that you are the finer medium, but it is all,’ she repeated the oft-heard phrase, ‘who you know, not what you know, and-’
‘Now you’re just trying too hard to keep the peace.’ Eilis picked another chocolate from the box and licked its pink sugar dusting with the tip of her tongue. ‘And everybody acknowledges that John only chose you for his lieutenant, his vizier, his vice-regent because he fancies the living daylights out of you.’
Marion’s heart skipped a beat.
‘The head on you. Don’t try to deny it.’ Eilis bit an almond in two. ‘It’s plain for everyone to see. But don’t worry. Nobody is suggesting that you’ve gone and used your feminine wiles on him to get the position. Not yet, at least.’ She looked at Marion for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Here, I’m only messing with you. Drink your tea before it gets cold.’
Marion glanced at her cup. The cream had little white bits in it, floating to the surface. A sick prickle of fear rose in her throat. It was real now. Not just a conversation in the safety of the Salon firelight. She would have to speak up, now. ‘Please, Eilis, I haven’t come to talk about John-’
‘Well, you can decide for yourself what you’re going to do now. I’ve had enough.’
‘What do-’
‘I’m setting up my own,’ Eilis said. She ran a fingertip along the silk at her throat. ‘If this is how the Salon is going to be now, run by bloody John and his simpering friends, then it’s time I was gone. John has a flea-ridden mind, swarming with terrible little ideas burrowing into his brain. You’ll see, soon enough. All this talk about new scientific methods. Tell me,’ she leaned back, twirling her pearls in her fingers, ‘what are his… plans?’
Marion swept a clammy hand over her forehead, a jolt of fear tightening her throat. What if they executed Liam? She glanced at Eilis, imagining her teetering on the brink of widowhood. Neither living nor dead. A widow. Still alive but defined by the dead and beholden to the dead. Marion clattered down the teacup. ‘Will you please listen to me for once,’ she raised her voice, ‘I’m not here to talk about John, I’m here to talk about, about your husband, Liam.’
Eilis narrowed her eyes. ‘What? What’s that supposed-’
A sharp rap on the door.
A tall woman dressed all in brown brushed past the maid and strode into the room on a breath of fog and peat smoke.
‘Oh. Right. Yes. Winifred.’ Eilis rose, looking momentarily flustered. ‘Do come in.’
Winifred looked Eilis up and down and tugged at her brown gloves.
Marion cursed inwardly and glanced at the strange woman. She thought she looked as if she were about to go horseback riding, in her strange tailored coat. So many pockets and buckles.
Winifred waved a hand over the table. ‘Yes, yes, no more time for your card games now, Eilis, I’ve Liz and Mrs. Campion with me now, they’re in the hall with their hats and coats and galoshes.’ She pulled off her gloves and plopped them on the table, then turned to stare at Marion. ‘And who,’ she asked, ‘is that?’
Marion rose and offered her hand. ‘Marion Hahn.’
Winifred gazed at her for a long moment before grasping her hand in a firm, cold grip. ‘Your friend from the coven, yes, yes,’ she said, still shaking Marion’s hand.
‘Salon,’ Eilis corrected.
‘Right. Now, we’ve business to attend to. You there,’ Winifred flicked her fingers at the maid, ‘don’t stand there gawping, go fetch Liz and Mrs. Campion. And more tea. Off with you!’ She sat herself down on the creaking divan and pulled out an offending velvet cushion from underneath her.
Marion clenched her teeth. ‘I should leave.’ Maybe she could return later. Or maybe she could tell Eilis over the telephone…
‘What on earth do you mean,’ asked Winifred, ‘Eilis, what does the girl mean? Of course she’s staying. Any friend of Eilis is a friend of ours too. Isn’t that so, Eilis? Sit yourself down, both of you.’ She narrowed her eyes like a hungry alley cat.
The maid came lumbering back, hauling a heavy wooden tray, and began clattering and rearranging the tea things.
‘I’m not sure Marion wants to be part of this,’ said Eilis airily. ‘And she has her own matters to attend to, so I’m just going to see her out and have a little word with her in private. About private matters.’
Marion opened her mouth to agree.
‘Nonsense!’ Winifred waved a gingerbread biscuit in the air. ‘What private matters could you possibly have that you can’t tell us? As I said, any friend of yours, Eilis, is surely a friend to the cause.’ She stared hard at Eilis. ‘Or so we assume. I know you don’t keep jackeens as friends. You wouldn’t do that, would you now?’
‘Of course not,’ said Eilis coldly.
‘And anyway, how could the poor girl be a jackeen, sure she’s foreign!’ Winifred laughed throatily, pulled out a small case and lit a cigarillo.
Eilis shifted uneasily in her seat and did not meet Marion’s eye.
Two other women appeared at the door. One leaned heavily on a cane and blinked her milky eyes at them. A younger woman, the colour of a damp watercolour painting, supported her arm. The younger woman wore a white shirt collar with a black tie, like a sombre school mistress.
‘Yes, yes, Mrs. Campion, Liz, sit yourselves down.’ Winifred patted the divan.
Mrs. Campion blinked reproachfully. ‘This house is not in order, Eilis,’ she wheezed, ‘your maid is not respectful to her elders. She made me stand in the hall with my wet galoshes on.’
‘I’ll send her off to be trained,’ said Eilis, ‘perhaps at a kennel, if you like?’
‘Now Eilis,’ said Winifred, ‘enough about the maid. Answer me this. I hope you’re not letting any of our secrets slip, with those little cards of yours?’ She waved her hand at the Tarot cards, trailing acrid smoke in the still air.
‘No,’ said Marion quickly, ‘Eilis is the finest clairvoyant in Dublin. She would never dream of betraying anyone’s secrets.’
Eilis glanced at her, widening her eyes and shaking her head slightly.
‘Is that so.’ Winifred leaned back and regarded Marion closely. ‘Perhaps she was giving you a reading, eh? You do look just the sort for it, if you don’t mind me saying. The sort to be having readings of cards and that sort of carry-on. The sort to be having affairs of the heart. Sure that’s foreigners for you.’ She laughed again, coughed, and pounded her chest.
‘To the business at hand,’ said Mrs. Campion in a gravell
y voice, ‘and no more of your banter, Winifred.’
‘It’s not just banter,’ said Winifred, ‘in fairness, here we are again. Eilis keeps all sorts of strange visitors, all hours. Doing her readings, and whatnot. I don’t care for it. Who knows who she’s talking to, who she’s discussing our affairs with, we don’t know who any of her friends are.’
Marion glanced at Eilis. She looked feverish, her mouth pinched.
‘I know who her friends are,’ said Marion. ‘All of her friends. But I’ve never heard of you.’ Winifred turned to her with a look of slow-burning malevolence in her small eyes.
Eilis laid a hand on her arm. ‘Marion is my particular friend, and yes, she is a psychic medium. If you have a problem with that, Winifred, then you have a problem with me.’
‘Unholy nonsense,’ muttered Winifred, ‘it’s not natural, it’s not right-’
‘She’s very brave, too,’ continued Eilis, ‘the other night, she was very nearly accosted and shot by British soldiers. Had to run for her life. Tell me, Winifred, have you ever had to run for your life from British soldiers? No?’
Winifred reddened.
The old woman raised a hand. ‘Tell me, Eilis. Do you trust this woman?’
‘Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of her. Marion would never dream of talking behind my back, or betraying any of my secrets.’ She turned and fixed Marion with a hard stare. ‘Isn’t that right, Marion?’
Marion swallowed and pressed her lips together tightly.
Eilis leaned forward. ‘And if you think, Winifred-’
‘Preposterous, she’s a foreigner, am I expected to sit here and discuss our matters in front of a-’
‘You will all be silent.’ Mrs. Campion knocked the table with a wrinkled hand. ‘We’re all on edge, but don’t be going around sowing seeds of discord among us, Winifred. If Eilis trusts this woman, then fine.’
Winifred snorted and lit another cigarillo.
Eilis coughed pointedly.
Marion glanced from one to the other, trying to pin down this argument in a pattern that made sense.